The Odyssey of Art O’Hara

CHAPTER 1

H E WAS DRAGGED from a blank, heavy sleep by the rings. He thought at first that he was on his ship, that it was the alarm of general quarters which had forced him awake. But presently he realized where he was and what the tinkling sound actually signified, and yet his heart continued to hammer as he groped within the room’s darkness. His hand finally located and fumbled with the telephone.

Hello! he answered thickly, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Yeah, thanks. I’m awake.

A steady tone hummed in his ear, and the telephone continued to ring.

Hello? he repeated. "Hello!"

He switched on a small shaded lamp and stared at the handset beneath the glow. His eyes winced against the brightness, and his face formed a contracted mass of confusion and irritation. Slowly, he turned his gaze to the wall at the head of the bed. The brownish wallpaper was patterned to resemble natural wood grain, but it was torn or peeling at several points so that the ugliness of bare wall was left exposed. Opposite the wall, in the room next door, the telephone’s ringing continued. Art replaced his own phone onto its cradle and then collapsed like a felled tree. The impact against the mattress triggered a series of squeaks, loud but fast fading. He had not bothered to switch off the lamp. The beating of his heart was returning to normal, but now the room was spinning.

What time is it? he asked aloud from out a mouth that was mashed to one side. His watch was at his back, lying on the opposite nightstand, but he did not take the trouble to roll over and consult it. Despite the interfering glow of lamplight, a star was visible near the window’s upper-left corner. He was having difficulty keeping the star’s flickering light steady before his eyes.

Gotta still be early, he assured himself, allowing his eyelids to sink.

He perceived an aroma of perfume and his hand reached back, exploring the space next to him, feeling beneath sheets for some trace of warmth, another’s warmth. But then he remembered. In the haze of his mind’s eye, he could see the woman again as she was preparing to go. With the aid of a pocket mirror she touched up a decent looking, thirty-something face. From the open door, she said, Stay safe, sailor. His reply from the bed was a half-wave/half-salute while a cigarette burned between two fingers of the same hand. Take it easy, he called, but by then the door was already closed. Earlier she had mentioned having a kid brother in the navy, so her parting words might have been sincere enough.

Or not. Art could not even be sure that she had a kid brother in the navy. Such was the nature of commerce with streetwalkers.

Years ago his father had told him about loose women in general, prostitutes in particular, warning him that they were often diseased and always no good and that they were only after his money. They hunt for suckers, he had said, and the fools, who fall for them, even for a romp, lose something every time. But it always struck Art that neither the money he made nor the money they sought amounted to much anyway. Moreover, what he received in return seemed worth the price, even at the risk of contracting a disease, some of the time, at any rate.

Like last night, he thought as a sluggish, lopsided smile spread upon his face. That was worth it. Yes, sir, that was nice. She was a good scout.

But the smile faded and he knew that he should not linger in this place for a minute more. Should get up and get back, he thought. I did what I set out to do so let’s get up now and get back.

The telephone went on ringing, and Art reached up to swat a palm against the wall. Aw, pick it up, willya! he hollered but to no avail. Moreover, the effort seemed to intensify his attack of bed spins. It came to him that a bottle of whiskey was lying somewhere about, and though a few swallows would surely have had a beneficial effect, he decided to stay put and wait for the world to stop whirling on its own. It’ll quit, he assured himself. Always does.

By the time he woke up again, the telephone’s ringing had ceased. Now it was a Duke Ellington number that could be heard. The music’s bouncy, lively strains came through the wall muffled but audible.

Art rolled onto his back, away from a shaft of sunlight pouring in through the window. The lamp on the nightstand was still glowing, faint and useless in the natural brightness. Though the room was no longer spinning, the motion of airborne dust specks affected him in comparably adverse ways. He closed his eyes. Duke Ellington and his famous orchestra summoned memories—of dances, of women—which Art allowed to dissipate like a bittersweet dream only sparsely recalled. The music faded and he heard, without interest, a partially muted news report:

The militarists of Japan… since the capture of Guam… ongoing refusal to negotiate… their culpability… unconditional surrender… a Gallup poll indicates…

He was in the act of reaching for a packet of cigarettes when, like a blow to the stomach, like a kick from the hoof of a horse, panic struck.

GOD ! he shouted, fighting to escape the sheets that entangled him.

The jumper and trousers of his liberty uniform were draped over the back of a chair. He snatched them up, one after the other, and was inside of them within seconds. Seated on the floor, he drew on black socks and black leather shoes, muttering to himself through grit teeth, Nice going, moron.

He exited the room and dashed along a corridor. His feet pounded against a thin crimson carpet, and he had the sense that he was shaking the whole building. Near the corridor’s end the carpet became slick tile. Art braked from his run, calling for the elevator while still in the act of skidding toward it. He stood there, panting and waiting. After a while he could hear jolting metallic responses from the depths of the shaft seven floors below. Then nothing seemed to happen. He slapped and kicked at the doors before opting for the stairway where he might at least maintain an illusion of progress.

The steps of the stairwell provided limited traction for his shoes, yet he often risked bounding over several at a time. Last night’s alcohol sloshed about his belly, and he could feel sweat exuding from his pores. Sickness loomed, most acutely when he realized that he had left his watch in the room. The other items—the bottle of whiskey, the cigarettes, and the Zippo lighter—were replaceable; but he cursed the loss of his watch.

Thanks for the wake-up, Mac! he shouted while rushing through the lobby of the Marcus Brooks Hotel (known to servicemen as the Poor Man’s Biltmore). The clerk whom he hailed was on a telephone behind the check-in desk, a finger arrested while engaged in dialing. The faces of guests and employees turned to look at Art. You better hope I reach my ship on time!

He burst through twin doors, stopping abruptly on a steeply inclined sidewalk. His face whipped from side to side as the smell of exhaust fumes and the noise of San Francisco traffic enveloped him. The white hat, which crowned the backside of his head, seemed to remain in place in defiance of gravity. Opposite an unbroken row of parked cars, moving vehicles passed in both directions, uphill and down.

He began loping downhill, with the flow of traffic. He wove through pedestrians and scanned about for a taxi, but soon he was constrained to stop. Leaning an arm upon the bulging headlight of an old Essex, he emptied at least some portion of his belly’s contents into the gutter. People slowed to stare. He wiped at his mouth with a handkerchief and staggered on, damp eyed, pale, and humiliated.

The call of a siren echoed confusedly among the crowds of surrounding high-rises. It occurred to him to be on the lookout for squad cars or motorcycles

as well as for taxis. A sympathetic cop might be willing to give a sailor a break and transport him, perhaps race him, siren wailing, to his ship.

He had been on the move only a short while more when a vehicle overtook him, slowing with a series of rough, jarring motions. Art glanced that way and saw an elderly man inside of an elderly pickup truck. He was hunched and leaning Art’s way, looking at him through the open window of the passenger’s door. A car behind the truck, being forced to slow, bleated its horn.

Need a lift somewheres, friend? the man called.

Art darted between two parked vehicles and out into the street, leaping onto the running board while the truck was still in motion. It was moving slow, but when it was brought to a complete stop, it threw Art to the asphalt. Snatching up his hat, he hurried back to the truck. Inside, he slammed shut the door. His neckerchief was in disarray, and the hat was returned to his head, cockeyed.

Thanks, sir, he said with a pant.

Well, it looks like you’re in a hurry, the man observed. Where to?

Hoover’s Point, Art answered. My ship’s getting under way this morning!

What time you got to be there? the man asked, opening a pocket watch he had retrieved from out of his shirt. The vehicle, which had sounded its horn, now switched lanes and drove past, its driver shaking a fist at the halted truck.

Supposed to have been there before sunup, Art answered, still out of breath.

In fact he had been AWOL for the last ten or twelve hours.

Oh, the driver of the truck replied, looking up from the watch. While wrinkling his nose he noted the sun’s glare, just then ricocheting off the windows of a skyscraper. Oh, he added, politely refraining from further comment. He put away the watch and shifted gears. "Well, let’s get you to Hooper… Hooper what?"

"Point! Art answered. Hoover’s Point."

Hoover’s Point, the man repeated back. But you’ll be needing to guide me. I’m just visiting here, you see. Don’t know my way around so good.

Art directed the man to a right turn at the next intersection.

The driver of the truck was probably in his late sixties or early seventies. A beard grew from his face like a gray and white bush, and his calloused hands were spotted with black marks. He was wearing a suit, which appeared to be more or less formal though its color was a faded, light gray, and the fabric was threadbare at the knees and elbows. A Stetson hat, awash with sweat stains, was placed on the seat between the old man and his passenger.

I’m from Sacto, said the old man, making conversation. Thereabouts anyway. How about you?

Left, sir, Art said, and hiccupped, at the next street.

The turn seemed to demand of the driver all of his concentration. Afterward, he said, I say, how about you, young fella? From whereabouts you hail?

Nevada…, Sparks.

Nevada! Well, how about that! Got me a baby sister lives there.

That so? Art asked. He was pressing a foot to the bare metal of the floor as if to help the truck pick up speed.

She and Tex went back home yesterday.

You don’t say.

Tex is her husband. Name’s Tex but he’s from North Dakota. Bismarck, North Dakota. Never been to Texas in his life. He laughed over this absurdity. Yes, sir! A sister in Reno, a brother in Frisco.

Swell, sir, Art replied.

Well, no, the man corrected mildly, it’s not so swell.

A silence followed that was pregnant with significance. Both driver and passenger bounced and vibrated as the truck passed over tracks and other rough areas of road. Art would have allowed the matter to drop, but evidently the man felt compelled to explain his meaning.

Frisco brother just died, see. That’s why I’m here.

Sorry to hear that, Art said.

Kind of you to say so.

Not at all, Art said, pressing his foot harder against the floor.

But it gratifies me to report to you, son, that his bags were packed. He glanced gravely Art’s way. They’s not so many tears when such a soul passes.

Art nodded cautious and slow, looking away.

With each bump in the road it seemed that the truck might fall to rusted pieces. There were cracks in the seat’s upholstery within which springs and wads of stuffing were visible. The back window had a crack that resembled the strands of a giant orb web. Along a steep grade the vehicle moved at a crawl, and downhill was little better. The old man had a tendency to grind the gears and to punctuate any progress that was made with hard, back and forth jerks. He waited for pedestrians to cross the streets, at times before they were poised to do so. Folks got the right-a-way, I always say, he commented, unperturbed by the honking of horns from cars at the rear. For a block or more he followed a cable car despite a steep downhill grade and an abundance of room to pass. Along the grade, the old man’s truck was actually passed by people on bicycles, and at this point, Art requested that he be less fussy and speed things up a bit. I don’t mean to be rude, he added. I’m grateful and all but…

Hold on, young fella, the old man replied. You don’t want I should break the law. We’ll getchya there on time, the Good Lord willin’.

Suddenly taxis were everywhere, and while the truck was stopped at a light, Art wondered if he should bail out and flag one down. He had decided to do so when the light turned green and then there followed a stretch of steady progress along several miles of highway.

Art sat slack and helpless in the seat, closing his eyes as wind came in through the open window and pounded against his face. Though the month was July, the weather was cool. The driver spared him any more dialogue, and the breeze may have forestalled another bout of sickness. After a minute Art opened his eyes and saw road signs and billboards going by with a backward motion. Farther off, to the right of the curving highway, there was a hilly region upon which homes were fixed in dense groupings; to the left was the bay. Ships, large and small, were dispersed about the water. Two or three vessels might have been Art’s own, already underway.

He had learned the bad news on the previous day while he and a friend were at the after section of the main deck. They were hiding from work and smoking cigarettes when a noise of static indicated that the ship’s PA had been activated. The skipper’s voice followed, coming on to address his crew. A new assignment had been ordered, he said. Contrary to expectation, the Atwood would not be going to sea in two weeks or in one week but on the very next morning (the precise time had yet to be settled). I’m sure you can guess what that means, the skipper added. His voice over the general announcing system was both stern and sympathetic. From this point on, liberty is cancelled. That is all.

A collective moan erupted throughout the ship; and Art’s friend, Mark Giorgi, contributed some groans and gripes of his own. But Art only smiled, lying back on the deck.

What, Mark said, noting his friend’s lack of concern, king of the liberty hogs had no plans for the night?

Oh, I had plans, Art answered, placing his white hat upon his face. The hat covered his eyes and nose in such a way that his mouth was left free to smoke. And I plan to keep ’em.

Says you.

Okay, Art replied agreeably.

After a moment, Mark said, All right, I’ll bite. Keep ’em, how?

That’s confidential, brother.

Long before, in preparation for such a crisis, Art had stashed away a stolen work uniform. The denim shirt and dungarees, a size too large for his smallish frame, were to be worn over his more snugly fitting navy blues (the authorized uniform of a sailor on liberty). In this guise, just after dark, he stood in a line of several dozen other men who had mustered for a trash detail. With a load of garbage in his arms, Art shuffled forward with the line. Each man saluted the officer of the deck, requesting permission to leave the ship. Art’s turn came, and he hugged the can of garbage in one arm while rendering salute with the other.

Request permission to leave the ship, sir! he said. He managed to convey strain in his voice without overdoing it.

Permission granted, the OOD muttered, returning the salute and already attentive to the next man in line.

Several dumpsters were available, but Art deposited his load in the one which was farthest away from the wharf. No one else came with him. Next, setting the can down, he stooped to one knee and pretended to tie a shoe. With minimal head movement he looked about. The area was dimly lit with a lone street light. He could see several men loitering about, but no one appeared to pay him notice. Whispering a one-two-three, he slipped off into concealment behind the dumpster. There he shed the extra clothes, bundled them up, and left them in the dumpster.

He moved along the byways and back alleys of the navy yard, avoiding lights wherever possible. For fear of being shot, he had rejected the idea of climbing the fence even though passage through the main gate had its own inherent dangers. But the marine guard waved him past, and the few officers he had come upon returned his salute without stopping him to ask questions. He was soon walking alongside the highway, hitchhiking his way into the city, to Mason Street and Eddie Street. There, amid crowds of revelers, he had successfully evaded the shore patrol