Memories

In Bits &
Pieces
Dedicated to
Professor William R Robinson &
Professor Howard Zinn

Authored by Anthony St. John

anthony.st.john1944@gmail.com
www.scribd.com/thewordwarrior
researchgate.net/profle/anthony_st_john
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 PROEM

I, too, once risked being left to bob alone on some emotive boundless main
in the company of hundreds and hundreds of thousands of pieces of
psychic residue—abandoned in the wash, thrashed to and fro by the waves,
and just about drowned in the despairing feeling that I would never again
be able to skim on the surface of this extension infnite in measure. I am
unquenchable and I continue to function and fare well. I triumphed. I am
an unheard of Winner. I am set poised on the frst-place podium—trophy
less but with my hands raised high to the sky in exultation—and I bask, not
bashfully, in the abundance of my Victory.

It was never ever a congruous progression. At times, the outcome of the

play was determined by killer shots which slapped me against the wall, and
on other occasions, I was sliced into a spin that gingerly tossed me, as if I
were foating, towards the huge concrete slab to score still another point in
favor of The Game. I had all to do to keep myself between the foul lines of
my sanity. And when I rebounded, I frequently touched the chalk or even
skirted a touch beyond the fringes. I bounced off the wall into Asia, then
back to North America, right after that to South America, and fnally, I
fancy, to Europe. My body and mind are etched with blotches, both real
and imaginary, of use to me in reminding myself of my eccentric past. I feel
content. I am proud.

CHAPTER ONE

It all began when I was about fve years old. Just before 1950. I was
returning in a car with fve young girls, all sisters, in their teens, in their
early twenties. Am I correct in thinking that one of the girls was called
Loretta? And another Pat? That one had dark hair? That another had
reddish tresses? These memories are vague, and so the details of them are
not well defned for me now. Nevertheless, I do remember that we had
whiled away the day together at Jones Beach, Long Island and that the
return trip to 310 Devoe Street in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn,
New York, where we all lived in the apartment house my grandfather from
the Old Union of Soviet Socialists Republics and his friends had built with
their own hands, was long and snarled with heavy traffc.

This event is one of the most portentous for me, and being lodged in my
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very being for all these years as a prominent part of me, and fxed there to
make me think of it again and again, I am sure it has tended a tremendous
ingredient in the formation of my multiplex life. The experience is beautiful
and serves to allow me to feel happy with myself when I think of it—and I
do, when I feel obligated to do so.

I was in the back seat of the car with three of the misses who were
babysitting for my mother. The girls were all modestly dressed and wore
pants or shifts over their drying bathing suits. Their lightweight summer
wear, colorful blouses or tee-shirts, let me view their anatomy with intense
interest, and I remember peeking at the depression between one of the
girls' breasts—which had been made visible by her wearing of a loosely-
ftted shirt top—and taking peeps to take in more of this lass sitting closest
to the window on the right side in the rear of what was, I can only guess
now, a Ford automobile. Or, was it a Chevrolet?

I was fascinated by the mounds of fesh protruding from the chests of these
girl-women. I counted ten “lumps” under the cotton clothing covering the
bosoms of the sisters. I would never have dared to make an effort to touch
these enormous, marshmallowy-like protrusions which I did not even know
incorporated—on their tips—protuberances, lactiferous ducts of the girls'
mammary glands, which opened and from which their milk would one day
be drawn to nurture baby girls and baby boys. I know not why I did not
make real this cogent want. The wish to do so, however, was obsessively in
embedded in my boyish desire, and in the years to come would torment me
excruciatingly. My day would come, but I had to wait for it. I sank back
down into the seat of the car, into a sort of puerile puzzlement. I was too
green indeed to murmur the smooth, silver-tongued word “Why?”

Overwhelmed in the simplemindedness of my callow singularity, there was

nothing for me to do but absorb the sensory voluptuousness of which spun
around me lodged there in the back part of that Ford—or Chevy. Women's
breasts and pretty dresses and wavy hair were not the only impressions that
landed ingratiatingly on my organ of thought left there to commingle
ultimately with a lifelong peppering of imprecise feelings which, in toto,
would constitute that what I am.

For instance, there were scents to get a whiff of. Suntan lotions. Lipsticks.
Deodorants. Nail polish. Makeup. The odor that swelled out from an
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opened handbag. Chewing gum. Hair that had been shampooed at the
showers along the beach. Perfume? I can't remember. But I do recall, later
in life, I could be strolling down a street in Caracas or Rome and if a
woman passed me by, buzzing away and leaving me in the downdraft of her
perfume or makeup foundation, a precise fragrance, I could be drawn back
twenty, or even thirty, years to a place in time and to a woman I desired and
loved. I could see her face and easily summon up the surroundings of a
room, a restaurant where we shared the joy of being together.

As we traveled home to Brooklyn, a myriad of aromas were fanned about

my face, from all directions. From time to time, they coalesced to create
one unique trail of a pleasant air that swept through my nostrils and
stimulated me into a goofy self satisfaction. Otherwise, one outstanding
redolence, perhaps a maquillage or a sticky aerosol used to hold hair in
place, would impress me and I would download this aroma into my
personal cornucopia where it rested with the many others—gleeful
reminders to me of the distinctions possessed, I assumed, by whichever
member of the gentle sex, the second sex.

A n d Music!!! To this day, I possess almost perfect images of the radio's

speaker with a chromed grill protecting it and the two black knobs fanking
it: one for tuning and the other for volume/on/off. Under one knob there
was a metal ring that could be manipulated to control the tone varying it
from high to low. The antenna was on the left side fender of the car and
through it a hodgepodge of popular Music waved through the car to the
merriment of all of us. One girl snapped her fngers. Another kept time to
the Music by tapping her foot. A couple of sisters sang. One clapped to the
beat. When a song faded away, the girl in the “shotgun” seat immediately
turned the tuning knob searching to come up with another hit record for us
to sing and hum within our ecstasy which was enclosed in the close
quarters of an automobile and not in the open space of, for example, a
dance foor. I cannot construct a list of the songs I heard that evening
coming home from the cool beach and then fowing happily into the
sweltering streets of Brooklyn. It surely was not the rock n' roll era. In
those days Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Frankie Lane, Tony Bennett,
Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Louis Armstrong, and a host of other post-
World War II musical phenomena held sway in the recording industry.
And today, when I hear the Music of these Hall-of-Famers, I wonder if it
was their songs we had enjoyed in that car returning to 310 Devoe Street on
a sultry summer's night. 3
Music would continue to offer me incredible moments of pleasure and
relief. I am fortunate, I believe, that I have such a vast gamut of musical
preferences: classical, cumbia, salsa, rock n' roll, Gregorian chant, jazz,
opera, folk, even, I am almost embarrassed to say, military marches! I take
for granted that if I had to select one musical score to tote with me to a
deserted island where I would be left alone for the rest of my life, it would
be Beethoven's Seventh Symphony—or, maybe, his Konzert für Klavier und
Orchester Number 1 C-dur op. 15. When I come home, the frst thing I do is
turn on the classical Music radio station—even before taking my coat off. I
go to sleep listening to Music on my SONY clock radio that turns off
automatically after 59 minutes. I carry a miniature portable FM radio with
me constantly.

Jerking home, with the shifting of gears, to Brooklyn in the congested

beach traffc and earnestly yearning that I could remain forever in the
bosom of my fve-member sisterhood—all of whom I thralled at my beck
and call—it would have been preposterous to think that I could ever have
roused in my mind the idea that Woman and Music would come to be such
an integral component of my essence and abide in my psyche for the rest of
my life. There was no way for me to guess my forthcoming, and I
unquestionably could not even have rationalized, at my tender age, that I,
too, would one day fourish to be as complete as were the fve girls with me
in the car. I was a boy being bombarded by bevies of empirical impressions
which I was powerless to categorize or interpret.

Not capable of ordering these contrasting elements in any logical sequence,

I must surmise that they have tarried in my intellect so forcefully, and at a
point in time far after their apprehension, simply because they were the
frst, the most pristine of my sense experiences. Imagine the shock that
would come to me when I learned that one of the world's greatest
philosophers, Immanuel Kant, on falling in love with a miss, composed a
list of her merits and demerits, counted them, found one fault more than
her virtues and then, categorically!, refused to marry her! Or, what if my
ears would have heard and perceived, at the angelic ffth year of my life,
these words of a macho Roman philosopher written more than two
thousand years ago: “There are two beautiful days a woman gives to a man:
the day she marries him and the day he carries her to the cemetery.” Or,
what would I have thought, if I could have, of this thought of Jean-Jacques
Rousseau: “Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.” Or, would I
envision the day when I gathered that I could juggle my sense experiences,
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weigh them, and then come to an estimation of their certitude! That I
would carry forever with me these words of David Hume, whose birthday,
26 April 1771, along with Ludwig van Beethoven's, 16 December 1770, I
celebrate every year—inveterate and inspiring something said: Knowledge
is the assurance arising from the comparison of ideas.

The way home was closing the more on Williamsburg. The mademoiselles
were fretting about the swelter, foreseeing doing something more
tantalizing after, and trying their best to make the time fash by faster.
Naturally, I was delighted with the delay. Nothing in this world had been
before more pleasing to me than being now with my fve young unmarried
women. I had it in my heart to stay in saecula saeculorum in this
serendipitous state. I was bent upon nailing this splendid time to the wall—
to keep it there. I selfshly sought to pickle myself in the juices of this
thrilling companionship trusting that it would be conserved for my eternity.

Maybe about an hour before getting to our destination—my sunburnt skin

and beginning-to-growl stomach had levied on me an end-of-the-day
drowsiness and I had perched my head on the top of the front seat—that
inamorata, closest to the window (was her name Pat?), took me into her
arms and laid my boyishness on the cushioning of her bosom! I limped in
the tenderness of her geniality. Her smells enveloped me right off. I was
wrapped in that feld of vim that emanated from her fesh and blood, and as
tickled pink as a piglet in a pigpen, I curled up cozily and every once in a
while switched the position of my head in order to fnd an even softer place
amongst her doughy front, or to sample the texture—to see if it was equal
to the other portions—of another part of her two breasts. Never once did
the desire to quaff upon her cross my mind. I did not seek nutrients.
Feeding was the last thing on my mind. I craved emotional contentment,
and I was flling myself up with barrows of it. There was nothing that could
have made me happier than this sensation of proximity to a woman. I could
not doze off.

I knew we were at home when we passed the rectory of St Nicholas church

and then turned to the right at the corner where the church stood
staunchly. I looked up to see the gray steeple. There was a wrought iron
picket fence bordering the church and which was extended from the corner
and ended where the property line of our apartment building had been set
during its foundation. A piercing, steely church. Snug, spongy bosoms. I
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was carried to bed. There, someone caressed my forehead and I fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Behind our “handcrafted” three-storied Brooklyn apartment building, there

was a small area open to the sky adjacent to the St Nicholas church and
convent, and from which I can recollect seeing my grandmother cultivating
tomatoes, radishes, and mint in a vegetable garden—her life's pride and
joy. There was a high, once-painted pine fence, propped up by a low
concrete wall, that compartmentalized our realty from that of the Diocese of
Brooklyn's. Slits between the enclosure's planking offered me the
opportunity to reconnoitre still another mysterious terrain on the
impalpable landscape of feminineness—subject matter that was engrossing
me more and more and bewildering me even further.

One day I pussyfooted to the barricade, rotated my gray matter to see if

anyone was watching me, hopped up, and fxed my eyes upon a
congregation of ten or twelve Dominican nuns some of whom were
frolicking away tossing among them, to then fro, a soccer-sized ball. What
fascinated me right off was the fact that these young nuns were not only
veilless, their bandeaux, coifs, guimpes, rosary beads, and cinctures had
been removed and I could observe that their heads were shaven to their
skulls exactly as were those of Jewish prisoners in World War II Nazi
concentration camps. Here was a collection of romping young ladies, their
heads almost bald, failing at a ball and giving the impression to me that
they were a dance troupe of ghosts with salt and pepper tops. The older
sisters kept swellheadedly to their dress code and were fully clad with their
regulation black veils and gigantic rosary beads hanging at their sides
anchored to a thick, black military-like belt. The only skin of them that I
could make out was hands and faces. Naturally, I opted to study the bare
white arms, faces, crania, and ears of the rosy-cheeked, schoolgirlish Brides
of Christ. My eyes rolled over their chest areas and mustering my benign
bias for Eros, with the most intense visual scanning of each and every one
of these theologically married maidens, I failed to see any amassments
which corresponded to those of my fve sister friends—who lived directly
above my apartment—so I subsequently concluded, syllogistically, that
their fronts were just as fzzled as my own. (Was it possible I could have
cogitated erroneously at that butter-like age that I too one day might sprout
a pair of teats? I just don't know.)
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I as yet cannot understand, to this day, why someone could depersonalize
himself or herself so much so that a grand part of their essence would come
undone, come erased on behalf of some fag or doxy. Whether
contemplating the persuasion of a soldier in uniform or an Afghan woman
ensconced behind her burka, I am impuissant to perceive the way of
thinking that underpins this demeanor.

Sitting in the shade on a long bench in the convent's cloister with the other
completely dressed canonical doyennes—all of them stoically scrutinizing
the comportment of the younger free-for-allers—there held sway the
pudgy, self possessed Sister Charlotte who, in the very near future, was to
come to mark a notch on me that would keep me company all my life. Still
today I do not know if I should hate her or love her for leveling on my small
fry being such a grossness of mind that precluded any respect for delicacy
or discrimination. (I usually give her the beneft of the doubt.)

The astonishing episode transpired when I was about seven or eight and a
student in the St Nicholas's grammar school. Sister Charlotte is standing
over my shoulder in class. She detects en error, I think in mathematics, in
my copy book. All of a sudden she makes a fst, extends the knuckle of her
right index fnger as if it were a missile coming out of some silo in the
Midwestern United States, and with that warhead knocks on my head her
dismay—but with a smile! I think the whole world has caved in on me. I
forget that I had made a mistake in my copy book and think that I have
committed some atrocious crime, a transgression which caused Sister
Charlotte to express her grinning ire. A sin for which there is no
absolution. For the time of my brief existence I had until then glided on the
fortuitous, happy-go-lucky lifestyle of a somewhat intelligent straggler
looking all the while at the breasts of female members of the human race.
Sister Charlotte had no bosom as far as I could see. I speculated that she
was a woman. She had to be. She had a woman's name. I was despondent
and had not the mettle to tolerate her hostility towards me. I was,
additionally, confused because she beamed when she “clobbered” me. I did
everything to keep myself from bawling out in front of my classmates, the
insult being so never ending. I was furious I believe for the frst time in my
life. I was unable to recognize the emotions that had ripped out from far
below my inner being. I was desolate. The scene became so wretchedly
exaggerated my parents were called in for a powwow.

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When I look back to this tragic, for me, affair I still possess misgivings
about it. On the one hand, I can chaff at Sister Charlotte for being a rude,
cruel individual bent on expressing her autocratic point of view without
taking into consideration the susceptibilities of others. But who knows?
Perhaps she, too, was having teething problems with her own life. But, I
have to admit that she might have been trying to toughen up the dreamer of
sorts that I was and wishing, in good faith, to do a good deed on my behalf.
I cannot guess what were her motivations and, after all these years, this
skepticism I carry with me about her has helped make of me a doubter,
someone who frequently shilly-shallies. At times this is a virtue; but, on
other occasions it works against my best interests.

One particular something that happened in this regard comes right now to
mind. When I was an artillery forward observer in Vietnam and held a
position of authority (a license to kill mutineering soldiers), I was brought
to an agonizing moral fork in the road that froze my mind in the agony of
indecision. My FO party was assigned a recon sergeant and a telephone
operator, and I had all to do to keep Paul and Ed under my charge.
Discipline, the lack of it, was a severe problem for offcers during the
Vietnam “War.” I could not keep Paul and Ed separated fve meters from
each other on the battlefeld as was required by Army regulations. I ordered
them. I screamed at them. I begged them. I reasoned with them. No go. I
gave up. The two of them just looked me straight in the eye one day
and asked me, very politely, to just stop bothering them! And I did! In
another Army era I would have been obliged to court-martial them straight
away. Or, give them an Article 15. Vietnam changed soldiering enormously
—so much so that a volunteer army was formed to try to eliminate the Paul
and Ed problem and others similar to it.

I cannot brag about the fact that Paul was blinded and Ed was killed, shot
in the forehead, during an enemy contact, and I cannot even claim that they
would be alive today if they had obeyed me and had kept their fve-meter
distances. I can admit that Ed was suicide prone. Always volunteering—
against my expressed wishes and orders—to act as point man for our
infantry company to which we had been assigned. And one day he
confessed to me that he was not going to return to the United States. I
asked him why. He wouldn't say. But his spooky revelation made me wary
of him and I questioned his motives recurrently. I suppose Sister Charlotte
would have boxed Paul and Ed's ears for them had she had had them under
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her command.

In Vietnam I, too, acted without success, the way Sister Charlotte

performed with me in grammar school. (Did Sister Charlotte triumph in my
regard?) And I suppose Paul and Ed hated me as much as I detested Sister
Charlotte at times. I operated vigorously with Paul and Ed trying to get
them to conform, to think logically about something they had no desire to
take on seriously: their very lives, and more signifcantly, the fesh and
bloods of the one-hundred and twenty-fve grunts our artillery fre was
delegated to protect. At times, I was enraged with them because they did
not respect the rules and regulations of the Army design that I myself
loathed. I kept explaining to them that we had to make the best of a diffcult
combination of circumstances, and that when we got home we could write
to our congressmen and tell them The Truth about the Vietnam”War.”
They looked at me as if they thought I were mad. These kids had come to
Vietnam with their bags flled with personal injustices they had sustained in
the past and heaps of recriminations they wanted to actualize in the future.
They could have cared less about the Vietnamese people and especially the
United States' offcer corps that they despised with a purple passion. These
younglings were social, economic problems, and they belonged in summer
camp—not United States' Army camp. They needed help and war was not
going to do them any good.

I could have even sympathized with Ed: If he wanted to risk his life that
was his business. He also had the right to kill himself. But because his
actions had put the lives of other soldiers in jeopardy, I had to oppose him
at the start of every one of his daredevil exploits. It was a lost battle for me.
Ed was just too onerous to deal complacently with. For me, he was a
greater ordeal than the enemy itself. I was more disgusted than I was
remorseful when I heard he had been shot three times in the head with an
AK-47—another KIA. It crossed my mind that had I court-martialed him he
at least would have been alive that day. But then I thought of his “hump” to
death: Ed wanted to die. That was his wish. His death wish. (I thought
about Sister Charlotte and I hoped she had not viewed me as suicidal.)

I had absolutely no success with Paul and Ed just as the United States
government had no hit in trying to convince its soldiers to go along with its
unscrupulous police action in Vietnam. Sister Charlotte had made a
doubter of me—for sure. She also imparted to me the thought that not all
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women—and I believed she was one even if I could not see her lumps—
were so caring and physically affectionate with me as were my “harem” of
fve Irish-Catholic sisters. Sister Charlotte was the frst to make obvious to
me the fact that women could be physically powerful and maintain a
position of emotional strength in a social order that was not always
equitable and benevolent with them. Women could be killers, too. They
could hit. In the Game of Love they could be more deadly than “Charlie.” A
contact with the enemy will last for minutes, days, maybe weeks. But a love
story might go on for years drawing out one's emotional and physical
stamina all the more.

There were other domineering women I would soon come to identify with
in my social circles. It was fascinating for me to discover more “specimens”
of them. There were all kinds of shapes and colors of them. My own mother
was a nurses' supervisor and had had many years' experience as an
obstetrics-gynecology specialist. She was overly self-confdent and forever
intrusive. A cousin of hers was a principal in the New York City public
school system. She was imperious and had a reputation for managing her
school with the aplomb of a brigadier general. Still another was an
administratrix in New York City Hall and she held a master's degree in
administration. She was “respected” for her subtleness and if you crossed
her she would make you regret it—sooner or later. (“Don't get mad—get
even!”) One of them told me that if ever I was to be interviewed by a
psychiatrist and he or she asked me to talk about my childhood, I should
tell him or her that my childhood had been very diffcult—for my parents!
Similar to what once presidential candidate Al Gore's mother always told
him to do: Smile! Relax!! Attack!!! These individuals must have
undergone terrible ordeals in their lives to want, so resoundingly, that their
kindred, in kind, become hard and fast as they were. The message was
clearly, succinctly imparted to me: When the going gets tough, the tough
get going. Imagine...the little shaver that I was—always on the hunt for big
bosoms—was under the thumb of Jungle Queens out to feed me high
protein food to ward off the evils of the bush people! I swear to you, my
dear reader, I never asked to come into this beau monde.

It is crucial to remark that I was circumvented by strong-willed women who

—and I did not realize this at the time—were exceptions to the rules of the
1950s when men were the editors of women's magazines and a housewife
was considered mentally deranged if she rebelled against doing her
10
housework. (I thank the stars above for giving us Simone de Beauvoir and
Betty Friedan.) My home was always in disarray. I remember my mother
going out the door more than she came home through it. Mother was
always doing her best to accommodate the Roman Catholic church by
having as many children as she could—even if this spiritual virtue put an
almost unbearable economic stress on her family. She had to go out to
work, but it was for a good cause. For Jesus and the Virgin Mary, my
mother was at the ready to take up arms, to wiggle and waggle her way for
the Holy See. She was clever. She got her way—a lot. She could enter a
crowded room and loom over everyone in less than fve minutes. She knew
what she wanted and was deft at getting it—for the good of her Roman
Catholic family. Can you picture my mother meeting up with Sister
Charlotte whom I accused of banging me on the head? Sister Charlotte
ignored me for the rest of her life. I never knew why until I thought about it
today (26 August 2003) writing these sentences!

It came as quite a shock to me later in life when I had to face the heart-
rendering certainty that in my ambience women were as downtrodden as
many minority group members were themselves. I was deeply saddened by
this because I had always wished that all of us—men and women—could
enjoy our lives and truly subscribe to that self-evident truth in the United
States' Declaration of Independence: “All men and women are created
equal.” I was also all the more cheerless to have knowledge of the details
that few women had the pluck—as did many of my kin—to confront, head
on, the sexual, political, and economic discrimination inficted upon them
—millions and millions of them!—exploited in every state of the United
States of America, and in Africa, Asia, South America, and Europe. I have
never stopped attempting to encourage women friends to study, and when
it was possible, I favored women over men keeping in mind the simple idea
that if we accomplished our dealings together on a ffty-ffty supposition,
our community would prosper the more for being exceptionally intelligent
and politically more democratic. Do you think I am being too idealistic?
Don't! Do you know what expression my mother tossed my way the most
frequently during my upbringing? “Keep your big fat mouth shut!”

So, there I was, at such a tender age, looking for lumps under the blouses
and tank shirts of girls and women, truckling in the tutelage of Dominican
nuns dressed in black and white medieval garb, and trampled under foot by
well-meaning Amazons—all of whom claimed they knew what was best for
11
me. How could I miss the boat? There was a Board of Women Directresses
planning my education, my diet, my free time, my spiritual time, my school
time, my...my...future! Everything was being blueprinted for me! I was to
join in the success of the wisdom of the Past passed down to me through
the seers and seeresses whose ethical and spiritual insights were to be
promulgated for me by forthright women with and without lumps. I had all
to do to keep myself from becoming confused—and I didn't. I think most of
us have toleration fuses in our brains which help us to live our lives within
the limits of propriety.

Still about this same time there cropped up another stimulus that was to
have far-reaching effects on my life in the years to come. The Roman
Catholic church. Everyone with whom I had contact with in my until then
short life, appeared to relinquish titanic and unspeakable impregnabilities
to the Church and they all, not just those religiously infuenced, kowtowed
in such a natural way to Holy Mother Church; therefore, I just had to be
brought up to come along for the ride and ape what was going on around
me. If the ripened ones about me plunged in with a somberness that
purlstitched them to the Roman Catholic church and carried them to the
edge of fanaticism, I, to boot, was not going to be omitted from this
religious fairy tale, this spectacle of new experiences for me.

I “said” my frst mass at 310 Devoe Street when I was seven or eight years
old, and my next-door neighbor and friend Jerry (Gerry?), served as my
altar boy. Later, we switched impersonations and he “said” his frst mass.
We used a varied assortment of articles we saw the priests in our parish
church, St Nicholas, employ when they “said” mass. We made use of candy
wafers as communion hosts which Jerry and I changed into the Body of
Jesus Christ. A wine glass functioned as a chalice and Coca-Cola was
transubstantiated into the Blood of Jesus Christ. My father's scarf (stole)
was hung over my shoulders at the back of my neck to show that I could
offciate. We utilized women's gowns and bathrobes (chasuble and alb). We
made birettas out of black art paper...a dictionary was our missal...oil and
vinegar utensils were our cruets...a saucer was our paten...one of mother's
rings was our bishop's ring...We laughed when we dismissed our imaginary
congregation parodying the Latin phrase, Dominus vobiscum, with “Dominic,
go frisk them!”

Other boys and girls played on the sidewalks or in the street in front of us.
12
We wished one day we might “hear” their confessions and save them from
the red hot fres of an interminable Hell. I had no qualms about not being
outside with those “ruffans” because it had been embedded in my brain
that one day I would offer those sinners (“I hate, Lord, those who hate
you!”) a service that would connect them to a higher and mightier afterlife
full of happiness and reward in a Paradise made in the image of God
Himself. If you have read Erich Fromm's psychoanalysis of Adolf Hitler,
you, my dear reader, will see there that the German Chancellor and Führer
had not reveled in the delusions of grandeur I had when he had had my
age.

When I held the “host” in my hands and touched the chalice with Christ's
“blood” in it, goose bumps popped out all over me. I could not wait to enter
the seminary my mother and her outft had chosen for me to attend when I
reached the age of twelve. I wanted so fervently to change real hosts and
real vin santo into the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ. I could only make
believe, for now, that I was a priest. I spent long periods in the joy of
knowing I had been “touched on the shoulder by God” to minister to Him
as one of His personal servants, and I took my vocation very seriously.
Unlike Bertrand Russell, I did not contemplate killing myself at the
crushable age of fve because I could not see clear to believe in a Supreme
Being. I was living in a Roman Catholic dream world that promised me a
blissful, useful life and I was enjoying every minute of it.

I will never be able to know how many times the word “Catholic” formed
on my lips, and I will never be able to count how many Roman Catholic
people crossed the path that my life was following when I was a boy. I had
been born in a Roman Catholic hospital...I delivered to Catholic homes the
Catholic newspaper, The Tablet...I sold the Catholic monthly magazine, The
Catholic Digest, outside St Nicholas Church on Sunday mornings...I went to
summer camp managed by Catholic members of the Catholic Youth
Organization...my doctor was Catholic...my dentist was Catholic...John, the
butcher, was Catholic and his sons went to Catholic schools...when I came
home from a trip to my uncle's home in the suburbs of Chicago, my mother
asked me right off if the friends I had met there were Catholics...I initialed
“J.M.J.” (“Jesus, Mary, Joseph”) at the top of every page I wrote on in every
Catholic school I had attended...I watched Bishop Fulton J Sheen's
Catholic television program every Tuesday evening not understanding ever
what he was sermonizing about but always wishing to grow up to be like
13
him—so Jesuitically sure of himself...my mother and father's friends were
all Catholics and they talked about their Catholic friends...the sex manual
in my parents' bedroom, where I sneaked to read it, had been written by a
Roman Catholic psychiatrist who advocated a birth control method
dependent on continence during the period of female ovulation...I ate fsh
on Friday because I was a Catholic...I said a prayer for the dead and blessed
myself when I passed a Catholic cemetery...I bought Roman Catholic raffe
tickets...all the books I had read were Catholic and imprimatur and nihil
obstat were stamped on their title pages...many of the names of the
Catholic authors of these Catholic books were tagged with “SJ,” “OFM,”
and “OP.”...Catholic nuns and priests dined at my home...my mother
chauffeured Catholic nuns to their Catholic doctors and Catholic
dentists...my scoutmaster was Catholic...drunken Catholic World War II
veterans drank green beer in our kitchen in the early morning hours...my
barber was an Italian Catholic...I would never have been given permission
to work for Irish Catholic William F Buckley, Jr's National Review had he
been a Jew...my tonsils were extracted in a Catholic hospital and Catholic
nuns nursed me...our 1953 Chevrolet was blessed and sprinkled with
Catholic holy water...the calendar in our kitchen was decked out with saints
and their feast days...we had a poor box in our home to collect money for
foreign missionaries...under the rear-view mirror of our Chevy a plastic
Jesus, with a magnet under Him, stood frm and fast and His right hand
was upped with His blessing...a St Christopher's medal was attached to the
sun visor...my father's boss was Catholic...when I left the seminary I was
told I would attend a Catholic university—or else...I went to parties with
Catholic boys and Catholic girls...my favorite baseball player was Brooklyn
Dodgers' frst baseman, Gil Hodges, a Catholic...my parents dreamed of a
trip to Europe to see the Pope and his cathedrals...I went to Irish-Catholic
wakes where everyone was drinking Irish whisky...we stopped at Catholic
churches along the highways we traveled on...when away in a hotel, the frst
question my mother asked the receptionist after registration was: “Where
can we hear mass on Sunday?”...no room in my home did not possess a
Catholic statue or Catholic crucifx or Catholic holy picture...my
grandmother from the Soviet Union gave us sips of vodka from bottles
blessed by her Orthodox Catholic parish priest...I carried wooden rosary
beads, “blessed by the Pope,” wherever I went...I stopped what I was doing
at high noon to say three Hail, Marys for the Angelus...when I served mass
in real churches, I wished someday I would be able to say my own masses,
and I carefully studied the routines of all priests...I confessed my sins at
14
least once a week...I got my Catholic throat blessed every year on St Blaise's
Day...each Ash Wednesday I went to school with a gray-black spot on my
forehead...I worked cleaning altar rails and altar steps and bronze fower
pots and other Catholic accruements in the St Thomas Apostle
(Woodhaven, Queens) sacristy and one day, when a nun dropped a 24-hour
glass vigil candle on the foor and screamed “SHIT !!!” I ran home, in a
state of shock, anxious to tell my mother what the Dominican nun had
blurted out in church...I flched unconsecrated hosts, ate them by the
handfuls, and washed them down with what was left at the bottoms of
discarded vin santo bottles. I said the Catholic “grace” before meals to thank
God for what had been put on the plate in front of me...our insurance agent
was Catholic...the man who mended my shoes was Catholic...I went on
summer vacations to my relatives' homes scattered about the United States
and and went to their Roman Catholic churches on Sundays...I went to see
flms only after checking out, in The Tablet, whether or not they were
permitted for me to view...I took home Catholicly-blessed palms on Palm
Sunday...I had sport shirts with the names of Catholic universities printed
on them...when I served Catholic funeral masses, I listened to the Dies Irae
sang so sadly in the choir loft...I put extra charcoals in the thurible so that
the church would fll up with billows of smoke from Catholicly-blessed
incense...I knew well the smells of nuns and their freshly-starched Catholic
habits and their soapy skins...I knew the sounds of their huge black rosary
beads rattling as they walked...I knew, too, the blackness of Catholic priests
—their black cars, their black bags, their black hats, their black socks, their
black suits, their black pens, their black pipes, their black luggage...I smiled
when I saw “black” priests turned into “green” priests in the Army...I made
three-day Roman Catholic retreats far from my home...I bought Catholic
birthday gifts for my friends...I collected holy pictures and could not wait to
go to another wake and add to my collection—just as other kids collected
baseball cards...when I watched the NBA basketball games on TV, I looked
for those players who had attended Catholic universities...my mother
always pointed out to me who the Catholic actors and actresses were on TV
or in the movies...books with Catholic themes were on our bookshelves at
home...I wore something green on St Patrick's Day every year...we had
plastic holy water founts nailed to the entrances to our bedrooms at
home...Catholic music, Catholic games, Catholic clubs, Catholic liquors,
Catholic boxes for the poor...Catholic jokes...Catholic prayer
books...Catholic bibles...Catholic policemen...Catholic fremen...Catholic
mailmen...Catholic funeral parlors...Catholic plays...Catholic
15
flms...CATHOLIC! CATHOLIC!! CATHOLIC!!!

It was within this bizarre social setting that I germinated from the age of
fve and twelve when I would enter the Diocese of Brooklyn's preparatory
seminary. During this spell, I performed as a marionette and was
manipulated above by three strings attached to me. The frst force was a
sensual, quasi sexual, one. It was my pining for emotional gratifcation in
the arms of a woman, cuddled on her lumps. This unrequited cherishing
pressed me to hanker for it the more. The second energy that tugged at me
was the embodiment of womankind as an exacting, abstract element
profcient enough to be courageous—even despotic. And, thirdly, the
Roman Catholic church yanked itself at me by offering an inexhaustible
reservoir of medieval chimeras that kept me “excommunicated” from a
“normal” dayspring of life—for better, for worse. My role in this puppet
show was more than passive. I went along for the ride. I believed
everything, I believed nothing. I gloated over my new experiences. I kept
my eyes on the bosoms of women, I was an indentured servant at the beck
and call of the whims of assiduous females, and I could elude reality in the
comfort of the rituals of a superannuated supremacy. My days of
daydreaming were about to be torn asunder.

CHAPTER THREE

Very much prior to my admission to the Diocese of Brooklyn's minor

seminary, my mother had shrewdly befriended the chaplain of St
Catherine's Hospital, (where I was born) in Brooklyn where she nursed,
and when Monsignor Molloy later became Superintendent of Schools for
the Diocese of Brooklyn, my acceptance to Cathedral Prep school was a
shoe-in. I cannot call to mind asking to go to Cathedral Preparatory, and I
cannot retrace harboring any resentment when I was informed I would be
attending that “tute.” I was simply used to following instructions. The
seriousness of becoming a priest was now upon me, and if it had been
decided that I would attend an English military prep school, I am sure I
would have abided by the solicitation of my mother and, sometimes, father
who appeared most of the time to be overshadowed by my mother's Roman
Catholic “enthusiasm.” I did not realize it at the time that my mother was
more interested in my vocation than my education. She had an eye for
having a priest in the family. And so what if I did not yen, in the fnal
analysis, to become a priest? She had an answer for that, too. Going to the
16
minor seminary would offer me a great Roman Catholic education from
which I could ease myself out of whenever—preferably at graduation!—I so
determined. My mother and her clique of female family advisers were
getting their way with the nonchalant, accepting little me! For the time
being. I still had no notion of the meaning of the word rebellion that never
even had fowed into my consciousness. “Yours is not to question why,
yours is but to do or die.” One quote my mother, a veritable fountainhead
of short pithy statements, frequently fred off my way.

Bubble gum to perfume? Not even the reverse of that. I had already
wallowed in the bouquet of women, and I knew the stale malodors of nuns.
The fne fve sisters had sprayed me with the essences that they had applied
to themselves to perk their worlds up—those of whom encompassed them.
Their balms are with me today and foat about in my imagination. I smell a
woman the way dogs sniff at dried turds and urine: my senses are charged
instinctively. Even the fetors of nuns, “women” who have married Jesus
Christ, with their marsiglia soaps on their faces and hands and the starches
which have stiffened their habits, provoke my nervous system. A “liturgical”
smell, detergent that goes back centuries. The smooth, silky skin of women
and the chapped, make-up-less bark of nuns. This was part of the empirical
knowledge of life I toted with me when I entered unfappably the minor
seminary of the Diocese of Brooklyn.

Again smells. If when I took a sniff in the company of the fne fve sisters, I
enjoyed an onslaught of sensorial pleasantries, being within an eyelash of
Roman Catholic priests placed at my senses' disposal the stenches of stale
beer, wine, whisky, and cigarette, pipe, and cigar tobaccos. I was often
appalled by their bodily odors. I could not believe how yukky I found it to
have a priest lean over me to correct the geometry theorem I had
incorrectly written, or to change the dative case of a Latin noun to the
accusative, or to fick the pages of my Liber Usualis while I day dreamt
beyond the window in choral class. I think back, too, to see their cassocks'
sleeves frequently sprinkled with white chalk dust, and so anything, edging
closer to my nostrils, from them, did not spark in me the same sensational
reactions I had experienced with the girls in the back seat of their Buick—
or was it a Ford? Some of the priests, who often lost their patience with me,
accidentally spit upon me when they raised their voices and directed their
diatribes at me. It was not always smooth sailing for them—nor for me. I
was never struck by a priest, but I had heard stories of Franciscan brothers
17
and Christian brothers using violence against their recalcitrant students.
Imagine if the priests who taught me had known I was forever on the
lookout for lumps on women! Or, worse, that I had told my mother he had
struck me!

About colors I can only say this: when a Dominican nun swooped down to
my side she came at me with a yellowish-white bandeau and habit. Her face
and hands were also white. What was black, her veil, was at her back
invisible to me. Freud propounded that white is the color of purity,
virginity, and innocence. Dominican nuns remain a white blur to me now.
Priests, on the other hand, dart to my mind in black: the color of mourning,
death, fascism, and anarchy. From top to bottom, they were decked out in
black. Their shoes, socks, bags, prayer books, pens, ad infnitum. (They tell
me that in convents and monasteries in Spain, nuns and priests wash
themselves with dyed black soaps!) Only the faces and hands of priests were
feshy white to me—if they were not red from red wine and other alcoholic
substances.

But as previously another excitement was to invade the sinews of my psyche

through my medium frame consisting of fesh and bones and mostly life-
giving liquids. (A love of my life, a Venezuelan ophthalmologist, explained
to me one late morning as we lolled together in bed, in each other's arms
looking up at the pine trees in Central Florida, that the eye is formed of
mostly gelatine-like protein! Incredible! Protect your eyes. You only have
two of them!) My mother and father had decided to change residence and
go to live in Woodhaven, Queens where Donald Trump's father was
making a fortune building residences for people seeking to climb up the
social ladder. Indeed to go to the minor seminary in Brooklyn, I had to take
two subway trains: an elevated one which I entered at the Woodhaven
Boulevard station, and a subway that I caught, I think, at, could it be, the
Atlantic Avenue stop? In any case, I got off at the Clinton-Washington
destination in Brooklyn and thereafter walked a couple of hundred meters
to the priests' school.

One of the most surpassing belief adventures of my life was to travel on the
New York City Transit Authority system! With twelve years of age furrowed
on my being, I rushed into these subway cars when their doors emptied
into their sides, and with me I carried two or three books under each arm
and clutched my brown lunch bag usually between my left index and
18
middle fngers. I did not possess a school bag because, at that time, it was
not “cool” to do so. My books were covered, shielded with plastic-coated
paper upon which had been embossed in light-blue lettering, at the books
backs, this: CATHEDRAL PREPARATORY. On the front was the insignia
of the school which naturally incorporated a Latin phrase or two which
now do not come back to me. I can declare without any hesitation that I
was at that time proud to show off the fact that I, too, was a matriculant at
CATHEDRAL PREP. (I had belonged to no other!) Other kids identifed
themselves by boasting, with the book covers of their schools, in different
colors and designs, the names of the educational institutions to which they
had been affliated. Our book covers were our status symbols, and they
heralded to one and all a segment of our economic, social, and even
political preferences.

So what! For me a subway car was a collection of colors, smells, faces,

clothing energies...you name it! People from all walks of life populated my
“El” in the morning. Women, men, kids, rich, poor, clean, and dirty.
Members of ethnic groups, who spoke the almost two-hundred languages
heard in New York on any given day, were well represented and their faces
contributed a welcome ingredient to the huge minestrone soup to which we
all donated the best harvest of our mostly gentile traditions. It was a
brightening time for me. We were all individuals yet we were New Yorkers.
No one dared to shrill the chauvinism of their native land in this hugeous
hodgepodge of humanity that was also the home of the United Nations.
Executives read their folded The Wall Street Journals, university students
scanned their The New York Times's, construction workers fed off their The
Daily News....Everyone, who was not seated, stood erect in his or her pride
and enduring force. It was a marvelous hiatus for the United States of
America: the McCarthy insanity was slowly dissipating, rock n' roll was
boiling underneath and would soon overfow, explode to encourage a
nation to enjoy itself and spawn; color television and the birth control pill
and the tranquilizer were on their way; and, a young man and his wife and
two children would soon occupy The White House and JFK, in his
inaugural address, would stimulate me inordinately with these words of,
probably, Ted Sorensen: “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask
what you can do for your country.”

You know that when you enter a subway/underground carriage in any part
of the world there is a precise malodor: probably a blend of plastic and
19
rubber components in the foor tiles and the chewing gum affxed to them.
If the wagon is flled with people, you can inhale their body odors,
perfumes, leather bags, and dry cleaning chemicals all of which mix with
the soot and dankness of the tunnel through which the train is scurrying. I
have breathed in these nasal affairs in New York, Chicago, Caracas,
Munich, Milan, and Rome. You can entertain yourself on your jaunt by
counting the numbers of fragrances that foat about you. Of course, you can
also examine the many sumptuous colors of the clothes of individuals
roaming with you if you have not chosen to mesmerize yourself in a book,
magazine, or newspaper.

In Spring and Summer I was very much happy in the subway because it
was then that women wore light garments that enabled me to view their
lumps with an acuity which was not available to me in Autumn and Winter
when heavy attire obscured the bosoms of the señoras y señoritas populating
the New York City Transit Authority's public vehicles. It was simply
wonderful for me to look at women. I never ogled them with the hope of
invading their privacy, naturally. Before fxing my eyes on the breasts of a
certain female character, I scrutinized the angle at which her head and eyes
were predetermined, and if she changed position or caught on that I was
looking at her, I quickly cocked my eye another way—out of respect.

I eyed lumps for so long on my train excursions to the seminary that I often
forgot to review the Latin vocabulary or French literature passage I had
took to heart the night before, and it did not phase me one iota that most of
the other students on the train were using their time to bone up on some
school material they had to prepare for their classes. Lumps held my
interest more than anything else, and I wished I could have received a
diploma in Lump Watching—I felt so profcient at it.

The fact of the matter is that Lump Watching could be brought to the level
of an art. When an in-coming train slowed to a stop in a station, I scanned
the inside to see where most women were positioned. When I set foot into
the subway car, I knew already in what direction I was to proceed, and
while walking that way, I conjured up the best spot that would give me the
most propitious vista for Lump Watching. I never sat in a seat which
directly faced a woman I wanted to lump watch. That would be too
embarrassing for both of us. I did so, however, at times I was wearing a hat
with a visor that I could lower with my head just enough to block my eyes
20
and hers without losing sight of the lumps. But, on a bus that hit potholes,
this did not prove to be practical. The most effcient manner, I have learnt
through the years, is to come close to a seated woman, while standing, and
use the window in front to fake looking out of it when and if the lady turns
to see if she is being observed. Perhaps others have invented systems
indeed more profcient than my own.

It is almost ffty years now that I refect back to the day I mustered the
courage, enough of it, to speak some words to Denise on the subway line
that took me to the Clinton-Washington station. (It had to be that line
because I see a dark tunnel outside the window while I am talking to D.) It
was winter and D wore thick clothing. I had seen her many times before
but it was her face that drew my attention to her. In the time she had
occupied my consideration, I had never had the chance to see the size of
her lumps. She had one of the most beautiful of faces with the cutest smile
to go with it. Black hair. Maybe freckles. I cannot speculate that I would
consider her as beautiful today as I had ffty years ago. I literally went crazy
for her, and I spent evenings lying in bed dreaming about her before falling
off to sleep.

Now I remember something about D! On her Navy blue sweater there was
an emblem that identifed her school. Could it have been All Saints? It
surely was Roman Catholic; I would not have had, in those days, the
slightest interest in a girl of another faith. We were about thirteen or
fourteen. Oh, yes, her hair was cropped rather short. Her eyes were blue
and shined with her intelligence, good health, and kindness. D looked
strong and very much self-possessed—qualities I admire in a woman...those
my mother and her female relatives were loaded up with oodles of. D, for
some strange reason, traveled mostly by herself, and very often if I saw her
—and I looked for her every day when the train pulled into my station—she
would be seated reading some book or reviewing a lesson she was
responsible for for that day. I would do some Lump Watching also,
naturally. But for a good part of the traveling time I expended going to
Cathedral Preparatory, I focused on the face of D just wishing I had the
courage to go to her and start up a conversation. Not only was I super shy, I
could not think of anything to say to her in order to strike up a
conversation. I assumed she would not be interested in someone studying
for the priesthood. D was so beautiful to me that I candidly deducted that
some handsome, rich guy was what she would be interested in. I never
21
thought D might be looking for companionship, too. And from me. That
she could have an interest in me. This, a weakness in my will, obviously
exacerbated my squeamishness and it would not be me the one to initiate a
conversation with her—it would be her!

I stepped into an El train one morning, my eyes trained on some buxom

woman I had premeditatedly prepared to zoom to, when low and behold! D
and I bumped into each other by chance! I could have had a heart attack,
and I felt the blood rush to my head. My face must have been scarlet red. I
cannot recall either what she said or what I muttered. I am persuaded to
believe I acted the fool in her company. She was amiable, confdent of
herself and maybe, I surmised, she was used to having boys embarrass
themselves in front of her. Her Navy blue school garb blocked any view I
could make out of her lumps, but on another occasion, I can report without
hesitation, when I eyed her at a side position, I could ascertain
unequivocally that her lumps were not fat as one girl's I once knew were—
she suffered from anorexia nervosa—and that D's breasts bulged so much
as to reveal that she possessed a busty bust. Her jet-black hair was cropped
short—saintly like. Similar to St Joan of Arc's mane just before they burnt
her at the stake. Her dark blue shoes complemented her apparel. The book
she was scrutinizing was mantled with her academy's shades, that same hue
of blue. Blue denotes fdelity and I dreamt of D for a long time everlastingly
faithful to me and wrapped in her arms as I some time back had been
cuddled returning home to Williamsburg from Jones Beach. (It is obvious I
had not yet read, in Stendhal's The Life of Henry Brulard, this: “When
you're in love with a woman, you must ask yourself: What do I want to do
with her?”) What impressed me further about D was the fact that her hands
were magnifcently manicured—but without nail polish. That would have
been prohibited by 1950's Roman Catholic prudishness. Thick black
eyebrows stretched out the contour of her visage and highlighted her
crystal-clear blue eyes. A capolavoro! D's esse tarried in the caverns of my
mneme, and I am almost unshaken to firt with the idea that if I happed to
come upon her today, I would acknowledge her—in her gorgeousness—in a
fash.

Now to the part you have been waiting for, my dear reader: my downfall
into a Weltschmerz, a sentimental melancholy over the state of the world
and my own being. That which was to swing me into intense periods of
depression and anxiety which would intermittingly last for years to come
22
and occasionally reappear to haunt me even when I might be writing. A
traumatic episode which many might cast off as growing up pains—
something we all must suffer through when we are stepping out into the
world in the early days of our adolescence.

I had met D two or three more times on the El, and when we changed to
take the subway, we walked together down a long series of fights of stairs
the steps of which were made of iron—the escalator was almost always too
crowded to wait to take—and when I exited at the Clinton-Washington
station, D remained for her station that was further on down the dark,
tunnel line. I was very shy and cumbersome, shuffed my feet in D's
presence, and I am sure she thought I was rather dull. I could not begin an
interesting enough conversation to please her, or still better, impress her;
yet, for some reason I think she had taken a liking to me. My soft spot for D
was similar to an experience I was to duplicate with another girl, still more
beautiful than D, later in my life. I just could not imagine that she could
have had a romantic inclination towards me, and when I found out years
later from a friend of hers who told me the girl was indeed very fond of me,
I almost choked, and I wished I could have gone back in Time knowing
very well that I could not have. Another experience like this comes to mind:
Having been such a pest for the United States Army when I served (1967-
1968) in Vietnam, I could not believe my eyes when I received a letter (26
October 1971) from the Department of Army, Offce of the Adjutant
General, United States Army Reserve Components Personnel and
Administration Center, informing me that I had been selected for promotion
to captain! For years after I thought someone in the Army had had an
exaggerated sense of humor.

Two or three days after the last time I was ever to talk to D again, I was in
some class when a message was given to my instructor who, in turn,
announced to me that the rector of Cathedral Preparatory wanted to see me
immediately in his offce. I was stunned. Everyone in the room turned his
head to me astonished, too. To be called to the rector's offce was one of
the most unusual things that could befall a seminarian. I could not rha
psodize anything I had done mischievously, so I hazarded a guess that I was
going to be chastised for my academic performance—which had not been
brilliant—and then guessed at for what reason I could have been
summoned to the administrative hub of the school. My gut tensed. The
rector: He was called The Great White Father, Charles Mulrooney, very
23
tall, gray-whitish hair. I sang Gregorian chants, with the other members of
the Cathedral student body, when Charles Mulrooney was consecrated to
the rank of auxiliary bishop of the Diocese of Brooklyn. He was a mythical
character at Cathedral and to the Roman Catholic colony in Brooklyn—at
least the Irish-American Roman Catholics. Soft-spoken and unfinching, he
reminded me of a general (was his name John Hughes?) deputy commander
at Fort Sill, Oklahoma where I graduated from the United States Artillery
& Missile School in 1966.

Our graduating class of artillery offcers had been invited to a formal dinner
hosted by the general, and having a good view from one of the tables right
up front and near the head table where the general and some of his staff
had been positioned, I noticed the general signal to one of the servicemen,
who was waiting tables, pointing his index fnger to an empty wine glass in
front of him. Then I watched a buck private scurry with a wine bottle,
wrapped in a linen cloth, to fll the general's glass wine chalice. I was very
impressed. Not a word had been spoken. Unutterable authority.

The Great White Father possessed this cold, silent sovereignty. He could
snap his fngers to invoke the dominion that the Roman Catholic church
had possessed for centuries until the end of the twentieth century. Bishop
Mulrooney walked in power and people kowtowed in his presence. Just as
Carlos Andrés Pérez, once president of the Republic of Venezuela, I saw
bowed to by his aides and honchos. I had been speaking with a minister of
the government of Venezuela in a reception hosted by the president when
President Pérez pointed to the two of us wanting to seek the attention of
the minister with whom he wished to speak. When I told the minister he
was being paged, he shoved his Old Parr whisky glass into my hand, and
beat a direct path to the side of the president. (Carlos Andrés Pérez, an
often ruthless leader in a merciless country, should be remembered for his
remarkable speech, “A New Economic Order Is Essential for World Peace,”
delivered before the United Nations' General Assembly, 16 November 1976.
Guess who wrote it. Not me!)

The Great White Father told me to shut the door behind me. During the
eight years of Roman Catholic education I was to subscribe to under the
tutelage of priests, this “close the door behind you” was to become so
frequent, I began to call, to myself, these priests “close the door behind
you” priests. The vast majority of them had Irish names just as Bishop
24
Mulrooney had had.

There was a folder on the rector's desk and when I was seated, he opened
it. Have you ever seen the interrogation of a suspect in a police station?
Father Mulrooney, then not still a bishop, went right to the point—without
any courteousnesses. He told me that it had been reported to him that I had
been seen talking to a girl on the subway on my way to the Clinton-
Washington station. Was this true? Yes. What did you talk about? Schools.
Books we had been studying. Sports programs. Do you know that you are
not supposed to talk to women? No. If you are going to become a priest you
must remember that you cannot have any type of a relationship with a
woman. That includes social ties. Do you understand? I don't want to have
to call you in again into this offce. You can go now. Yes, father. Out the
door I went.

I slumped away in a stupor. I could not master my mind to wring from it an

account of what had come about in the short, stabbing third degree in front
of The Great White Father. I was gashed indelibly. I was amiss—culpable
for something I could not fathom that was considered shameful. I had no
cerebral helping hand to give me the sturdiness to screen myself from
contact with this devastating intrusion. I was incompetent to ascertain that
my life had been excessively sheltered, that at the age of thirteen (or
fourteen?) I had no interior reserves to ward off, by myself, onslaughts from
beyond; in fact, I was a piece of driftwood bobbing on the turbulent waves
of a feisty sea. I had no friends to confde in. My mother, when I informed
her of this ravaging adventure, told me to “obey the rector, he knows best!”
I did not know what books to read to seek advice. If I was to confess, I
could not think of the sin I had committed. I did not even possess the good
sense to realize that this horrible event would also pass one day into the
nothingness that it really was. No comfort. No disentanglement. No hope.
Only despair. I felt irrevocably alone. From that moment on, my emotional
timber was inexplicably remolded.

It was child's play to cancel D from my midst. Instead of boarding the El on

the last car where she usually traveled, I moseyed the entire length of the
station's narrow platform and entered the front car. When I changed to go
downstairs to catch the subway, I waited a good while and took the train
that came after D's. I never saw D again in my life, but her kindness and
alertness are qualities I admire, especially in women, and which I keep with
25
me in the deepest recesses of my spirit. I often wondered then who might
be kissing D. Not me.

Lumps were something I very well knew adorned women and always having
been an afcionado of them, it was not simple to dismiss them just as I had
eliminated D from my aspect. I had been looking at lumps for years; I had
only spoken to D three or four times. Lumps were more forcefully
imprinted on my mind. D was one of the few women I had ever conversed
with—outside of my everyday home and family social circle. I set it in my
head to speak exclusively with men and other boys from then on. I held it
in my reasoning that I could cross out lumps just by not looking at women.
And that is just what I did!

When I left my house at 8721 90th Street, Woodhaven, Queens, I set in

motion my stoic habit of inclining my head towards the ground—clasping
my hands behind my back in the same manner Beethoven and other
romantics had done in their time—when females approached me. I became
so domesticated looking to the bottom, I very soon was inventing games to
keep myself from laying my eyes on lumps. I counted the fssures that
separated the concrete slabs on the sidewalks in my neighborhood. The
cracks that existed from the front stoop of my house to the butcher's, to the
foot of the stairs at the El station, to the bakery, to the candy store, to the
barber's, to the delicatessen.... When on the El, I summed up the black
wads of gum stuck to the squares of the linoleum foors, and I numbered
the poles and the hand rests and the telephone numbers on the
advertisements spread throughout the train along its ceiling borders. I
suspect a psychoanalyst would have thought I was a bit daffy doing these
usances, but I must reveal I enjoyed a good amount of satisfaction from
being able to put to memory all these seemingly useless statistics. When I
pass through my mind that disposition I once had, I deduce that it was no
more weird than learning the declension of res, rei, re, rem, et cetera, in a
class for Latin, a language I was never ever going to use again in my life.
These mental gymnastics, I am sure, are benefcial, and if one day I begin to
forget things, I am going to crank up another memorization program to
keep myself from getting Alzheimer's disease or, worse, being put in an old
folks' cage.

I am frmly of the opinion that I had had success in putting women out of
my immediate vision, but I do not want to give the reader the notion that
26
my achievement was all-encompassing. On the contrary. There were cases
when I had to confront female family members many of whom also lugged
around with them prodigious lumps. Or, I could be watching television. In
the late 1950s it was not effortless to see women's breasts excessively
“exposed” on TV, but not nude, so the temptation, although there, was not
overwhelmingly strong for me. (I am suddenly reminded at this juncture
that in Venezuela and Italy I had heard over and over and over again that
North Americans are prudish, puritanical individuals, and the fact that, for
many, Elvis Presley performed from the waist up on that famous The Ed
Sullivan Show presentation in New York—an instance that strangely
popped up frequently when talking with my Venezuelan and Italian friends
—is proof of the pudding. I knew one individual who was there that night
in the Sullivan audience, and as it was explained to me by him, the camera
“shot” Elvis from his midsection up because the stage foor was
embarrassingly covered with bras, panties, roses, and hotel room keys! I
personally witnessed such a marvel in the Tamanaco Hotel in Caracas
where one of my favorite singers of all time, José Luis Rodriguez,
experienced the same reaction when rather passionate Latin women,
married and not, sought to express their most deep-seated libidinous
desires in public and before an indeed very handsome man with a stunning
romantic voice.)

Yet, the boob tube tantalization was there. Scenes in bikini-clad women on
the beach, bra commercials, Abbie Lane, Jane Russell, and even Marilyn
Monroe, who I thought was so cute, forced me to leave the room and pick
up a Latin grammar or trigonometry book. Otherwise, I might have had to
go to a store for my mother, and there perhaps I would come upon a
woman clerk wearing a tight sweater or t-shirt. This could prove to be a
formidable test. In any case, I made an heroic effort to avoid running my
eyes over women, and I earned my wings most of the time even when
people viewed my behavior as being bizarre.

It did not take me long to understand that the most carefree part to
excluding women from my presence was when I had to erase them from my
physical inhabitancy. But what was I to do when, especially at night, I was
alone and these lovely creatures, heavily laden with Brobdingnagian lumps,
“infltrated” my brain and appeared there, in all their splendor, to remind
me of themselves? I was fabbergasted at these ever-so-frequent intrusions.
Women were welded within me. At night, I had dreams about them. When
27
I walked I could see projected on the thick slices of concrete their images
that I passed over. If I was reading a novel, they burst forth among the
characters between the covers of my book. When the lights were out in my
room, they stood out even clearer in my memory and stoked the fres of my
imagination as I envisioned them dressed and undressed, in bright and
dark colors, with long and short hair styles. With lumps that sagged and
lumps that stood frm, statuesque.... I cannot think back to when the idea
that I had had to expunge these “impure thoughts” in a confessional
became known to me in the guise of an obligation as it was similarly
required of each and every Roman Catholic; but, obviously more so for me,
who held the rank of seminarian. In the seminary confessions were
Wednesday afternoons for my class.

I did not want to confess my impure thoughts to one of my seminary

teachers—I was too embarrassed—so I did so Saturday afternoons in my
parish church, St Thomas the Apostle in Woodhaven. There, I hoped, the
priests would not recognize that I was a seminarian. My confessions went
like this: “I disobeyed my mother fve times; I disobeyed my father three
times; I lied two times; I said bad words six times; and, I had impure
thoughts thirty times.” Impure thoughts might have reached a whoopee
seventy or eighty times in one week depending on the time I had had to
think about lumps. I kept a small, spiral notebook which fipped over, and
in it I recorded my impure thoughts. I affxed IT (Impure Thoughts) to the
cover of the little pad and I remember keeping it a secret. (“Idleness is the
Devil's workshop” was a prized axiom of my mother.) The disparity of the
penances doled out to me never failed to perplex me. If I had had ffty
impure thoughts in one week, I might receive a rosary to say to gain
absolution; then, seven days later, I could obtain three Hail Marys to recite
for having lulled over seventy-fve impure thoughts! What was going on? A
Franciscan friar—I had been informed early on in my confessional career
that Franciscans were generally more lenient in “The Box” than, say, Jesuits
–once told me that God acts in strange ways in the confessional!

I went along with this lump-and-confessions-of-them asymmetry into the

last of the four years of Cathedral Preparatory study and the year I would
cave in—after shedding many tears which fnally convinced my adamant
mother—and leave the preparation for the priesthood. It was not a simple
task for me. What had become the last straw for me in determining the
outcome of this onerous decision was my stint as a helper in the St Thomas
28
the Apostle rectory. Two conficts would carry me, heavy-heartedly, to the
very well thought out and often heatedly-debated ultimate conclusion.

In the priests' home I came to see how the men of the cloth lived,
functioned in everyday life, and I did not fnd it in myself to appreciate
much the ambience within which the four parish priests and their pastor, a
monsignor, black-clad souls I was employed to assist, circulated. My work
required of me a host of simple performances: I answered the door and
called that priest the visitor wished to consult with; I responded to the
telephone; I delivered drinks and snacks to the suites where the clerics
resided; and, I did odds and ends jobs and errands for whomever needed
my services. The St Thomas the Apostle parish was one of the wealthiest in
the diocese, and the members of the clergy assigned to it enjoyed an
opulent lifestyle that at frst stunned me. Becoming a celebrant for God
meant taking the vows of obedience, chastity, and poverty, and in the
church's house for prelates I saw nothing but ease and comfort—a good life
more well designed than the tremendous majority of the parishioners
themselves who bequeathed their funds to sustain the really voluptuous
modus vivendi of the ecclesiastics vowed to poverty in the lavishness of St
Thomas the Apostle's manse.

What I remember most of all was the two refrigerators in the hallway
adjacent to the offce where I studied when not replying to the phone or
door. One of the fridges was crammed with fruits and candies and other
victuals. The other fridge was jampacked with beers, sodas, wines, and
other beverages. Both fridges glowed with numerous colors sparkling off
bottles and cans and plastic wrappings. I, too, had free access to this dearth
of nourishment which had nothing to do with the out of this world kitchen
area.

The “prophets'” rooms were splendid and and all of them had
airconditioning, giant television sets, stereos, and furniture which was
stupendously elegant. None of the priests wanted. All physical amenities
were at their disposal, and I guessed they had more than they could do
with. My notion of the gist of the word “poverty” was something a great deal
far removed from this, and when one evening the cigar-chomping
monsignor called me into his spectacularly endowed suite and asked me if I
had ever seen a check for $25,000 (the payment for one of the St Thomas
the Apostle's fuel bills), I walked home that evening not just dejected, but
29
appallingly befuddled about what the fights of my imagination, apropose
being a priest, in point of fact, were not “my” actuality that I had come in
contact with watching priests exist in their practicalities. The two were not
in any way congruent, and from that day on I was disenchanted enough to
conjure that the priestly kick was not one appropriate to my taste. Yet, I
was still not convinced enough to pronounce a formal, imperative
acquiescence because, quite simply, I lacked the sanction of my exceedingly
devout mother and her Roman Catholic entourage. Poor me.

The next yank at my midsection which would abet my exit from the
seminary and take the edge off this almost unbearable burden, was Jean,
the Polish live-in cook. My mini airconditioned offce was on the opposite
side of the rectory's kitchen—the farthest possible away from the well-
equipped and extraordinarily up-to-date cookery I had ever laid my eyes on.
At frst it was fne to be called into the cook room, to be told to fulfll some
errand or other, to see not only the buxom Jean, but also to take in all the
colorful paraphernalia which constituted the lively, roasty toasty
atmosphere of this hearth with blends aplenty in the air. I cannot testify as
to how profcient a chefess Jean was, but she must have had a great culinary
dexterity because she was always receiving compliments after dinner, and
the treats of baked goods she had on hand—there was always something
baking in the oven—surely was exceptionally appetizing for my taste buds.
There were pies, cakes, cookies, buns, cheesecakes, cupcakes. You name it!
Jean was as much an excellent baker as she was a cordon bleu. I heard it
once said that she was the bishop's favorite in the diocese, and he often
came not only to discuss parish business, but to also enjoy the latest
culinary concoction Jean had just dreamt up. On Saturdays and Sundays,
visiting priests came to the rectory to help out with Saturday confessions
and Sunday masses which were cranked up for the weekend's liturgical
happenings, and they, too, happily arrived to imbibe Jean's delicacies.

The fact that Jean's lumps were so grandiose—I often wondered if the pull
of them caused her pain in her back—probably was that which eliminated
any theoretical or philosophical debates I held in my mind concerning my
pressing besotting: To be or not to be a priest? Jean's lumps were so
tantalizing to me—she was not shy about them and one would have thought
she should not have been living as she did in a rectory—that I often
returned red-faced to my offce with my penis as erect as a baseball bat.
The majority of my impure thoughts, for months, related to the humongous
30
mounds of fesh that embraced Jean's breasts. I remember now her hair. It
was short and curly. Her eyes were sparkling blue. She was quite attractive,
not beautiful, rather short and tending to the plump side. She was, I would
learn later in my life, an overly sensuous, experienced woman who enjoyed
men enough to know that she did not want to be married to any one of
them. I cannot imagine that she had had sexual relationships with the
parish's heterosexual priests, but I do remember that the pastor's secretary,
who was about his age and had had no womanly scruples when
surrounding herself with priests, stayed with him late into the night, and I
once saw her drive off with the monsignor, he who was dressed in civilian
cloths, in his big, black Oldsmobile sedan to spend two weeks together in
Florida. I was obviously kept out of the know, but being so excessively
stimulated to know The Truth about things, my curiosity always got the
best of me and provoked me to delve further into the thick of things. Why
this toadyish approach to women? You could not talk to them in the
seminary, but you could go on a vacation with one! You could not marry
them, but you could joke and firt with one in a rectory kitchen. Why
should I be denied the opportunity to be in love with a woman, to live with
a woman? What did the Roman Catholic church have against women? Jean
was too vivacious, too womanly for me to want to turn thumbs down on the
idea of women: to put out of my physical existence, to erase from my
mental faculties.

Every time I went to review her lumps, I wanted to jump into their
cushiness and delve into the being of this luscious creature oozing to touch
and to be touched in return and representing for me the idea of a universal
womanhood. Again, I was frustrated to the point of despair, and because
the intensity of my emptiness gnawed at me much more coercively than it
ever did before, I went to my mother screaming, crying, and demanding
severance from this dungeon that was keeping me from beneftting from
women. The nurse, sharp to the symptoms of a sick psyche, caved in.

CHAPTER FOUR

My grandfather, who had been born on the German-French border and

possessed exceptionally vehement political tenets—he was an arch-
conservative—sculptured my civic mentality with dexterity, and employed
the best chisels to carve away with precision those folds which might have
led me to think freely and dispassionately. Most of his indoctrination went
31
on while I was in the seminary and only then opening up to become
knowledgeable about a world flled with social and historical theories all
unfedged to me. His political proclivities incorporated Roman Catholic
religious ideals, and he was a subscriber to Father Couglin's (the Irish-
American Roman Catholic political priest and frebrand) factional
movement and the massive amounts of buttoned-up literature that the the
sect sent out in the mails to proselytize and propagandize for its cause. FDR
was anathema to his, my, circle. So were liberals, civil rights' workers,
socialists, Marxists, Democrats, and communists. The hard right was the
solution to all the United States' diffculties, and “gramps” raised his voice
with passion and uttered tough guy threats that an impressionable soul,
such as I was, would better have been spared. The Republican party was
the one to rally around in my family and it remains so today. For some
reason there is the urge to be politically brutal, and my relatives have anted
up their children for one North American war after another always seeking
“spiritual” succor for their feelings of hatred from some priest in some
Rman Catholic church in some part of the DisUnited States of America.
And they have always been assuaged—it appears.

When I graduated from the seminary, I was sixteen years old. Too young to
go to the university. It was decided that I work for a year before resuming
any study. In those days I was carrying around with me a copy of Barry
Goldwater's The Conscience of a Conservative, and I recall underlining, with a
ruler and red ballpoint pen, the salient principles set out in this tome. I
cannot say who put that book into my hands, but I can guess who: my
grandfather. And who suggested that I call William F Buckley, Jr's National
Review to see if I could get a job before setting off to university the
following year, 1962, in the Fall? I called NR and landed employment on my
frst try out! Off I went for twelve months to 150 East 35 th Street working as
a circulation and correspondence assistant and a 16-17-year-old “go for.” Of
course, anything would have been better than counting cracks in the
sidewalk to avoid looking at women—I still, naturally, kept on confessing
my impure thoughts; and, in many ways I rather enjoyed myself brushing
shoulders with eminent conservatives such as Barry AuH²0, John Tower,
Eddie Rickenbacher, Jr, James Burnham, Robert Welch, Ernest van den
Haag, General Edwin Walker, Charles Edison, William A Rusher (WAR!),
L. Brent Bozell, Frank Meyer, and other “philosophers of the Right and,
above all, the effervescent bankroller of NR, Wm F Buckley, Jr himself.

32
My days at NR were the beginning of a new way of life for me. I could look
at lumps on the subway to my heart's delight and could fnally approach
members of the opposite sex—actually speak to women!—after having tried
to avoid them for years. When I was not alphabetizing index cards or name
plates incised for the subscriptions to NR which fowed through the
Address-o-Graph machine at publication time, or out buying lunches for
the offce, I talked—really had a conversation!—with Marge, Vera, and Pat,
Irish-American Roman Catholic offce workers who took a liking to me and
did all they could to understand my eccentricities and awkwardnesses.
Marge taught me the names of the different perfumes she wore; Vera, a very
pretty lass (she spoke with an Irish brogue) made light with me; and, Pat, a
Bronx Irish-Catholic (BIC), cute as anyone (D?) I could imagine, always had
a smile for me off the puff of her Salem cigarette.

Most of the NR staff had Irish surnames, but I remember three Italian-
Americans who toiled with us: Joanne was the switchboard operator-
receptionist; Joanne Peroni (I cannot verify whether or not she was a
member of the famous beer Peroni family of Italy later bought by the
Japanese) wrote letters, as I did, to disgruntled NR readers and, Eddie
Capano who today serves as NR's publisher, let us constantly know how
great Frank Sinatra was, and teased Vera to the point of vulgarity. I
recollect a nervous, chain-smoking Dennis Smith who later wrote a best-
selling book about the New York City Fire Department that he had joined
after leaving NR. Richard Friel, “Richie,” was a friend to me. So was Ed
McGuire the fasted name-plate incisor at NR. Gertrude Vogt, who was
WFB,Jr's personal secretary, was very polite and effcient. Rose Flynn, NR's
accountant, was pretty and out-going. Others I think I can bring to mind
are not present in my memory at the moment.

For a while I labored in the eye of The North American Conservative

Hurricane, but at that time (1961-1962) conservatism did not revel in the
bluster it boasts of today; yet, the seeds of it, planted then with care in very
fertile earth, were thought of to one day blossom into a vibrant political
harvest—which it did eventual. North American conservatives had to chew
on their growing pains and accommodate themselves to the protocol of the
Democratic party reign that the country had longed for after the horrible
McCarthy spasm that had shaken the DisUnited States at its foundations.
(WFB, Jr, poor soul, still does not want to believe this!) Citizens were
restless and clamored for something more refreshing than Ike and Mamie
33
Eisenhower who not only nourished the dull post-World War Two political
and economic regime of a well-entrenched oligarchy, euphemistically called
The Establishment. They actually looked like some of the pillars which
held up the Georgian architectural marvels in the corrupt capital of the
DisUnited States. Eisenhower was fading out of the North American
political personifcation. Wanting to embrace something more delightful
and enervating, happy-go-lucky citizens took to color televisions, swallowed
birth control pills against the wishes of authoritarian bishops and priests,
gyrated relentlessly to The Twist, created a new style of Music that would
ring out all over the world, and took to their hearts and minds The Beatles
who, too, spoke out against another sort of repression, a monarchial
establishment. The tranquilizer had only come into existence in the early
1950s—not very much time before. The North American people were
busting at their seams and popping pills to calm themselves.

But not at National Review. There, political oddballs with Roman Catholic
ethical credentials, huffed and puffed at the nation's “letting go.” Most of us
who drudged at NR were a good part still part or whole Irish-Americans.
Elvis Presley was considered a pagan by them, and people taking birth
control pills and not the “rhythm” method of contraception were looked
down on in dismay—or worse. Everything Roman Catholic at NR was “in.”
Roman Catholic jokes and the names of Roman Catholic parishes, where
NR worker devotees attended mass on Sundays in their neighborhoods,
were topics of discussion. We were free on Good Fridays. Some employees
went to mass with WFB, Jr and his sister, Priscilla who never, like most of
us, ate fsh on Fridays. The annual Christmas party was held in WFB, Jr's
Stamford, Connecticut estate, Wallack's Point, and that, too, had a
Christian theme or two injected into it: the playing of Handel's Messiah in
the candlelit drawing rooms of the Buckleys' family mansion. As Fidel
Castro was, WFB, Jr, too, had been educated by Jesuit priests. (Stendhal:
“Herein lies the crowning achievement of a Jesuitical education: the
formation of a habit of paying no attention to those things which are clearer
than daylight.”) and he possessed that Roman Catholic air about him which
oozed with a strong-willed confdence in something he never could see or
understand. He had faith! Credence enough to support the Vatican in its
efforts to bamboozle money from United States' taxpayers to fght a fake
cold war against a Soviet threat whose power was disproportionately
overesteemed. And he defended his actions for his holy war, which
enrolled the efforts of the lunatic Senator Joe McCarthy, by writing a book,
34
McCarthy and His Enemies. The Roman Catholic Christmas in Stamford,
Connecticut was a solemn occasion for the editors , writers, and staff
members of NR, and these fervent ones would one day come again to imbue
their spirits tremendously within the halls of the White House during the
Reagan, Bush One, and Bush Two national moral crusades this time hostile
to one-sixth of the world's population.

Conservatives were brooded over, at that time in DisUnited States' history,

as sentimental kooks. Knowing that we, in the offce, all had some small
part in this national debate, we did our best not to take ourselves seriously
because we knew others truly did not. So there was a pleasant, low-keyed
atmosphere in our desire to stick together understanding we were a
“persecuted” minority. We did our best to act normal just as a disabled
person is wont to do. (I attended a lecture in 1975 delivered by Maynard
Mack at the University of Florida claiming how differentiated people
[conservatives in those days!] crave for consideration as ordinary human
beings do. There is always unease and uncertainty in the mind of any
differentiated person as to how large his or her difference is going to be
made to appear by the actions of those around him or her. When the
differentiated person comes forward to the world he or she is careful to be
situation conscious, withheld. It is not the responsibility of society to
understand the differentiated person, but rather the differentiated person
who must tolerate society! They have to put disturbed people at ease, and
they can be superior in this role. Success is traditionally a most
unpardonable fault among those who have failed.) The vagrancies of the
conservative movement in the early 1960s were peculiar indeed, but they
were also sowing the seeds for for a coming kick up stream beginning with
that political half-wit Richard M Nixon. Conservatives begged for war, for
increases in military spending, and hard nose politics. Not one from NR
that I can think of served in the Vietnam “War,” but they begged for its
aggrandizement. Christopher Buckley, WFB, Jr's son, said this decades
after the Vietnam “War” fasco: “I wish I could have served in Vietnam.”
Further, the neo-conservative front had naturally opted to fght at the
Christian side of Bush One (1991 Iraqi War) and Bush Two's (2003 Iraqi
War) push to “democratize” the Arab world. WFB, Jr and his editors at NR
and the tyros they had sucked into the conservative movement continue to
pound their war drums as always. A victory in Arabia will fll the coffers of
Bush and Buckley's families' already flled-to-the-brim petroleum dynasties.

35
The few girls in the NR offce being, therefore, clouded out by self-
righteous windbags and visiting political science professors and media
types attempting to duel with the quick-witted WFB, Jr. He had debated
Jean-Paul Sartre at Oxford. Pretenders to WFB, Jr's throne had no choice
but to be anything but fun-loving—it was a nasty fght to outdo WFB, Jr,
and not even Gore Vidal or Norman Mailer could come away from a WFB,
Jr row without having some of their blood spilt.

NR was a “thick” place for all twenty-or-so of us. No mini skirts or revealing
bust lines. The ladies wore as much make-up as Mamie Eisenhower. In this
cornball atmosphere there was a keen sense of duty and dedication to the
conservative cause and everyone's “hero,” WFB, Jr. There was a certain
satisfaction being in the conservative limelight even if everyone else
thought of us as being queer ducks.

About sex at NR, I only can remember that Pat had the most lovely legs,
and when I went to confer with her at her desk, I eyed her thighs with
pleasure because they, as she sat in her swivel chair, were more visible than
when she was standing since her skirt pulled up a good bit in the sitting
position. I think it was a this stage of my life that I seriously started to study
ladies' legs and that angle formed by the parting of them, and Pat was the
frst to introduce me to this really special place—naturally, inadvertently. I
also had erotic dreams about her. I wondered if it were more exciting
kissing a girl who smoked, as Pat did. I recall dreaming about holding her
in my arms and kissing her and touching her luscious breasts which I could
only dream up about.

As the youngest individual in the whole NR group, I was often called on to

perform odds and ends jobs. One afternoon, Mr Buckley called me to his
offce on the third foor and asked me to please take the manila envelope he
had handed me to Ayn Rand's apartment. Her address was typed for me on
a note paper. When I arrived at Ayn Rand's lodging, I rang the bell to it.
The door opened and like a shield, served to hide most of the brown-
haired, fve-foot-two-inch woman's petite body from my view. I identifed
myself, handed her the envelope. She bounced back a curt “thank you,”
and then, very selfshly I thought, closed the door in my face blasting a
stench of cigarette fumes my way. First impressions are lasting ones? (I
would not have wanted Ayn Rand to ever be my mother-in-law!) I told Mr
Buckley how it went, and he reassured me that she was an “unusual
36
character.”

WFB, Jr had run into Ayn Rand at a party and was taken a bit back when
she asked how it was possible that a man so intelligent as he was could still
believe in god! For once, WFB, Jr was left speechless. AR and WFB, Jr
parted ways because of a review authored by Whittaker Chambers in the 8
December 1957 issue of N R that lambasted h e r Atlas Shrugged novel.
Chambers chastised AR severely criticizing her for her unrelenting bossy
tone throughout the whole of the 1,168-page opus that advocates an
aristocracy of talents, an industrial-fnancial-engineering caste, and the idea
that men and women should seek exclusively technological achievements in
order to live a rewarding life. Chambers lamented that he could not fnd
one single element of goodness on one of the book's 1,168 pages. WFB, Jr
was defnitely intrigued by AR. She had come to the United States in 1926,
had attended prestigious Soviet schools, her closest friend had been
Vladimir Nabokov's youngest sister, Olga, and shortly after having lived in
Chicago a bit, found her way to Hollywood, that squalid place of American
culture that has kept Americans as dumb as doornails for decades. This
bantam, intellectual debutante surely must have remained agog there at the
West Coast's celluloid factory (“Living in Hollywood is like wearing
fbreglass underwear—interesting but painful.” Robin Williams) She
admired WFB, Jr because he was a virulent anti-communist and anti-
socialist American political spokesman who was later to serve (mistakenly?)
as the guru of American conservatism and neo-conservatism. But, was it
possible that WFB, Jr was being prefgured by this conservative,
iconoclastic upstart, a Russian immigrant who spoke English with a heavy
accent, who had to suffer the anathemas of a mostly Christian America that
did not look kindly on the tenets of atheism that AR had defended so
vigorously, and most importantly, had written a book that was growing and
growing in popularity while WFB, Jr's National Review, with a paltry
hundred-thousand or so circulation, often subsidized by WFB, Jr's
personal wealth (it is said that Buckley's father, WFB, Sr, in 1958, left each
of his ten children $10,000,000 of oil proft), was foundering to fnd a way
—advertising sales and subscription orders—to validate its very own
existence? And AR, all the while, being so frequently called out on TV talk
shows (Phil Donahue and Mike Wallace) to confront her atheistic stance
before a United States' television audience, those interviewers trying to
embarrass her, she holding fast, even though these TV appearances did not
bode well for her book sales—slowly but surely increasing especially by
37
word of mouth—in an overly hypocritical America. So, let us prod every
one into believing that AR was really the driving force of modern American
conservatism and not WFB, Jr who, as Noam Chomsky notes, was not really
a Conservative in the strict sense of the word, but rather an extreme radical
nationalist. That WFB, Jr, the bon vivant, while parroting a conservative
cultural criticism—I had my own hard time trying to decipher the meanings
of the ideas of Richard M Weaver, Henry Hazlitt, Ludwig von Mises, Jeffrey
Hart, Russell Kirk, Milton Friedman, Anthony Harrigan, Gerhard
Neimeyer, et alia (individuals who were not as dilettante as was WFB, Jr
himself)—the editor of National Review regarding these conservative “think
tankers” with the highest esteem and not wanting to believe that they could
not hold a candle to what AR was pandering to her growing readership of
individuals entranced by her appeal to that emotion all of us possess in
varying degrees: Selfshness—excessive or exclusive concern with oneself
without regard for others. But, why not Unselfshness? Why this obsession
with a morality of rational self-interest? That Selfshness and free market
economy were the best route to follow? All she had to do was to carefully
read David Hume, perhaps best for her the Prussian David Hume,
Immanuel Kant, to discover that the psychology of human beings could not
be reduced to the reductio ad adsurdum her objectivist philosophy would
have it do. No, AR could not have been that naive. Maybe somewhat kooky.
After all, she dieted herself on benzedrine and nicotine for three decades
getting the energy she needed to meet publishing deadlines, and was
reported to have had volatile mood swings in her later days. (I can't help
but think of Christopher Hitchens here. Imagine if he had paced himself in
a more sober manner, laying off the booze and cigarettes, imitating the
intellectual savoir faire of say a Noam Chomsky, a Howard Zinn, a Martin
Jacques, a Bertrand Russell! Can you think of one person whose keen
intellect is needed more today—to help us swim in this sewer we have
created—than the provocative and brilliant Christopher Hitchens?) Indeed,
what was this little pest, Ayn Rand, up to? Did she fnd the cultural
benchmark of the American society so disgustingly low, led by cowboys and
cowgirls some of whom were dumber than the donkeys in their barns, and,
above all, a society so greedy and corrupt AR might have wished to be back
in the USSR where things might have been so much more serious, so much
more “realistik,” and not this bedlam of American maverick, dog-eat-dog,
vulgar capitalism perhaps, in her mind, even worse than the communism
and socialism she had hitherto experienced frst hand. Was Atlas Shrugged,
1957, an act of love written by AR to shock the Americans out of their gross
38
stupidity—an attempt to warn them that they had better get off the
penuriousness and corruption merry-go-round before it was too late for
them to do so? That she was going to surreptitiously shove an enormous
dose of “Selfshness” down the throats of the American society and teach it,
over and over again in 1,168 pages, driving into their thick skulls what the
real meaning of “Selfshness” would be if brought to its nitty-gritty real
self? After all, who can we say is more hoggish and knavish—on this planet
—than the citizens of the DisUnited States of America? Was AR, after all, a
doting romantic and not a witch-like, would-be mother-in-law that I at frst
had thought her to be? Or, how about this zany theory: Was she a KGB
operative sent to play with the minds of the avaricious Americans, to make
them even grabbier, thus bringing them down a notch or two and closer to
participating in a Marxist, socialist universal political movement? Millions
and millions of copies of Atlas Shrugged have been sold in the United
States. It is a Chinese torture reading experience. WFB, Jr said he had to
fog himself to keep reading it to its repetitious, hypnotizing end. Atlas
Shrugged plays with its readers' minds, and is utterly dogmatic—that which
appeals to many of Donald Trump's cronies (Trump has said Ayn Rand is
his favorite writer) decrepit anal hoarders, who praise the book
passionately: Alan Greenspan, Rand Paul, Hunter S Thompson, Paul Ryan,
Andy Puzder, Rex Tillerson, Mike Pompeo, et alia.

Now to that hokum word “legacy.” First WFB, Jr's, then AR's. The National
Review editors always at the ready for a cheap shot, these days ask their
subscribers and “friends” to donate to N R so that they might keep the
legacy of WFB, Jr alive and kicking. (I suppose WFB, Jr did not mention
NR in his last testament when he died in 2008!) Just where do they get the
gall to be so puny with their minds? We must wish them good luck! As far
as WFB, Jr's heritage is concerned, I am of the opinion it will be based on
the television series he hosted from 1966-1999 called Firing Line (In the
military the fring line is the line from which soldiers fre their weapons at a
target). WFB, Jr aired 1,504 interview episodes (many of them available on
www.youtube.com). Firing Line was the longest (thirty-three years), single
host, public affairs show in television history, and included interviews—
very frequently outrageous but enormously entertaining—with, to name a
few, Henry Kissinger, Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, Noam Chomsky,
Allan Bloom, Benjamin Spock, Ayn Rand, Muhammad Ali, Woody Allen,
Mother Teresa, Christopher Hitchens, John Kenneth Galbraith, Milton
Friedman, Jorge Luis Borges, Gore Vidal, Norman Mailer, et alia. When I
returned from Vietnam in August 1968, I was encouraged by my family and
39
friends to visit Mr Buckley at NR. I was advised to wear my frst-lieutenant's
uniform to impress the patriotic editor of NR. I had been emotionally and
intellectually challenged in Vietnam, and preferred to be alone to sort out
my internal conficts. In addition, my philosophical studies at university
had softened my youthful, conservative emotionalism. I now valued Sartre,
de Beauvoir, Russell, Zinn and Chomsky more than the old farts at NR. (I
remember underlining with a red ballpoint pen, in my fag-waving youth,
the parts I thought salient in Barry Goldwater's The Conscience of a
Conservative!) Most of all, I did not want to offend, even distress, Mr Buckley
with some of the sordidness of Vietnam that I had experienced—he being
truly a zealous American nationalist. In later years, I regretted I did not visit
him simply because I might have had the chance to become a friend of this
extraordinary character—at a time I desperately needed a friend. When we
met, in the old days, in the elevator at NR, he always had a warm “Hi,
there!” accompanied by a most charming smile. I wondered to myself:
What would he be like without the millions he had inherited? He did not
sit around stuffng himself with potato chips and drinking beer from
aluminum cans. He was fuent in Spanish. Would send letters written in
Latin to people he knew could understand Latin. He was a licensed pilot. A
yachtsman who wrote technical articles for yachting magazines. He was a
talented novelist. He also served his country as a CIA operative. The most
lasting memory I have of him was when all of us at N R went to his estate
home in Sharon, Connecticut for the company's Christmas offce party held
in December 1961. Before indulging a luscious buffet dinner, we all
listened to the entirety of Handel's Messiah. After dinner, WFB, Jr went to
his harpsichord and played Bach for us all standing around him and
astounded by his virtuosity. Mr Buckley autographed for me a copy of his
Up from Liberalism with the following dedication: “To Tony, from the father
of your greatest admirer, Wm F Buckley, Jr.” Christopher Buckley, WFB,
Jr's only child, went on to write speeches for Ronald Reagan in the White
House. I went on to write speeches for corrupt ministers in Venezuelan
President Carlos Andrés Pérez's government. Not much difference, you say!
Perhaps!

Now to that little runt, that intellectual gangsteress, Ayn Rand. Firstly. How
did AR leave the USSR in 1926, at the age of twenty-one, in the heydays of
the Communist Revolution, and easily relocate in the United States? Did
she have a free-thinking political commissar to pull strings for her? I doubt
that very much—that she was “free” to go where she so desired to go. Was
40
she a “captive” under the thumb of the Russian Revolution—the Soviet
intelligence apparatus? Her Atlas Shrugged is a great anomaly. She defnitely
did not follow Sir Philip Sydney's adage “Art teaches and delights.” Rather,
her “masterpiece” comes off as some Roman Catholic grade school's
admonition: Obey, do not think. It is horrifyingly Jesuitical. There is no
humour. There is no need here to know who the honcho is during this
excruciatingly long, dictatorial brainwashing. Her philosophy of objectivism
is an academic no-go being so enraptured by its praise of Selfshness—
again and again and again—that one can get the feeling of being
mesmerized by it—drugged by it. (“Philosophy requires entire liberty above
all other privileges, and chiefy fourishes from the free opposition of
sentiments and argumentation.” David Hume.) It must have been an agony
for her to write it—ever so much hopped up on nicotine and drugs. Was
she forced to do so? Would her relatives in the USSR be punished if she
did not cooperate? One would think that a writer who has assumed to
create a work of 1,168 pages would, at least, fnd pleasance in its creation
and expectations of receiving praise for the enjoyment it might come to
offer its readers. Secondly. Yes, perhaps she had fallen in “love” with
America, and seeing it wallowing in the success of its devouring quest to
make $$$ and then more of them, contrasting that fanaticism with the
zealotry of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics, she felt sorry for the
dumb Americans. She wanted to teach them a lesson, to inculcate in the
American spirit what Selfshness really meant by shoving it down America's
red, white and blue throat. Hardly. Where is the tenderness, the sympathy,
the goodwill, the funny inside feelings, and especially the impressions of
being uplifted with the promise of hope once the excesses of Selfshness
were laid out in bold lettering and fnally understood by the unthinking
North American capitalists? No, Atlas Shrugged is not some love story, some
thoughtful gesture to help the Americans change their ways before their
ways changed them into still more smashingly parsimonious pigs than they
already had been at that time. Thirdly. The gist of AR's Atlas Shrugged is to
enkindle an iniquity in the thinking of Americans so that it would continue
to further embellish its capitalist system with an even still more closefsted
mindset cancelling all, any, sense of fraternity and group action among the
American people Stupidphones?”(technological achievements?) The dream
of the Soviet intelligence apparatus? We must remember that Marxist
philosophy regards capitalism as an unethical system, one that has done
more harm than good to all of us: “Ever since 1601 when the English East
India Company dispatched its frst outing to the New World in search of ill-
41
gotten gains—thus “inventing” capitalism—there has been a knee-jerk
reaction to the accumulation of wealth as if it were some sanctifed system,
for the good of all, at the expense of workers sweating to accrue it for their
persons in charge, and an arrangement, while not perfect, that is the best of
all those available. Time and time again this pact has degenerated
systematically into chaos and has caused immeasurable misery for
hundreds of millions hoping to receive some “small change” from this
frequently corrupt, obviously fawed, unsigned treaty coordinated between
employee and employer—but by the employer. Economic dodos even study
these cycles of stupidity pontifcating, with coloured pie charts and
factitious, “horoscopic” mathematical theorems, on how it is just normal
that fractures in the technique of administering an economy and fnancing
its stock market are a matter of historically recurring routine. Will someone
please tell me when this 400-year-old ruse used deceptively to gain
another’s confdence, this swindle, will pass into oblivion for the good of all
of us?” (The Art of Greed by Anthony St. John.) AR's purpose was to turbo-
charge the American capitalist system to heights it never thought, ever, it
could reach. And she, indeed, succeeded, did she not? She delighted in
telling us that rich people were “better” than poor people. That being poor
was a blemish. Worse, it was a sign of weakness. She touted that money
was what would make one healthy, wealthy and wise. As if it were honky-
dory to be rich! See them, the well-to-do “rich” men, cannonballing along
in their elegant motorcars which they reckon are more important than a
university degree...on the front seat there is a folded daily sports newspaper
or, maybe, a baseball/basketball/football/soccer magazine...see their
stunningly dandyish alligator shoes...their spectacularly ritzy jackets...their
breathtakingly recherche wristwatches...the latest stupidphones lickety-split
streaming whatever they would wish to lay hold of, and then they are off
once again in a hurry—always in haste, always wasting...the dazzlingly
scrumptious aromas of their eau de toilettes...their phantasmagorical
coiffures!!!...Proud and frm is their sperm...Note them in their
atmospherically perfect gyms with the proper shades of illumination and
the most agreeable fragrances imaginable drifting into the air...their sweaty
bodies are lined up in rows on their indoor exercise bikes...their bald heads
glistening as if they were polished apples racked in the fruit section of a
supermarket...their bulging muscles made up of body building supplements
including vitamins, glucosamine, chondroitin sulfate, carbohydrate and
protein powders, protein shakes, creatine, prohormones and who knows
what...their coup d'oeils and spry glimpses at the mirrors surrounding them
42
and their vain attempts to reinforce the notion that they are really where
they are—yet not for what reason...Let's go to the stadium to visualize them
there...stuffed one over the other in hordes, they free rein their hatreds
with their crypto-fascist, racist, anti-Semitic violent roars and all-together
ferocious chants and gestures while their arms gesticulate rampantly and
rampageously...the stadium remains, for so many, their lonesome point to
congregate—no one here attends social gatherings any more, but all will
riot on behalf of their idols who have been trimmed down to politically and
economically infuential media presences...anything that gives them grit to
rebel and loathe...souls lost in the nothingness of their Past.

And now the women! Have you ever seen so many living things so
elegantly neatened, with their noses towering up, up, up and away, and
their sashayings—on their jaunts to the uppity beauty centers and deluxe
fashion shops—turning everyone's eyes their ways! Look how soft these
snobs' skin is...it is protected by micro-fex formulae...I know one woman
who uses a different, fortifed hand cream for her little fngers and thumbs
because they are exposed to the elements more than her other
fngers!...these gals have no body odours because they use extra-delicate
and extra sensitive anti-perspirants...if you get a whiff of them you think
you might be in an over-priced Geneva pharmacy...their facial foundations
offer full coverage and anti-ageing lifting qualities that guarantee a perfect
regeneration...in addition, they use skin perfecting creams, double-lifting
agents and purifying masks when they take their beauty sleeps...their
fngernails are immaculately sculptured...they regularly seek dermo-
expertise and, you can be sure that they are fghting with all their might to
stop the testing of their olfactive ointments on animals!

There are other reasons to believe that AR set the American rich on a
prolifc binge of hoarding and malfeasance making them extraordinarily
blockheaded and bungling. The frst broadside I offer is that, more than
anyone else, the wealthy possess the propensity to accumulate useless
items, lots of them, and waste the natural resources we might think, in a
civilized society, pertain to all of mankind and womankind, and not to just
the fnicky cream of the crop. Whether it be land, water, petroleum,
electricity, food, precious jewels, et alia, the well-to-do ones are quick to
stash their supplies of these reserves forever in excess of what more often a
normal individual would not require and/or acquire, and they do so
outrageously without worry or concern for the requirements of others—
43
whether they be deprived or not. The rich dig extra wells on their land
fearful of drought. They illegally hide away currency in foreign banks “just
in case.” They give their wives and lovers expensive diamonds and gold
“just in case.” They buy three or four cars “just in case.” Everything in glut.
JUST IN CASE! Sustine et abstine are negative concepts for these pathetic
characters. In addition, the fush ones have armed bodyguards and bullet-
proofed and armored limousines to chauffeur them around. They do not
even have the courage to walk alone on a crowded street. Their yachts are
navigated and serviced by people they wish they could trust and who are
usually lousy cooks. Their private airplanes are piloted by who knows who,
and when they embark to fy off to some business meeting or rendezvous,
they hope the navigator is not drunk or high on cocaine. Their bodyguards
usually have not even fnished high school, and being thick as mud, the
elegantly dressed executive wonders if they will be quick enough to be at
the ready to protect him, their precious assignment. And maids and
butlers? You should hear the rich talk about these humble souls! Behind
their backs, they gossip about them as if they were some inferior race. But,
they too, have to kowtow to their servants who might suddenly walk out on
them. And, woe to him or her who forgets to shine His or Her Majesty's
shoes properly, or missed dusting the bedroom lamp table. Or, worse, was
late delivering their breakfast in bed! Life imprisonment! It's not always a
bed of roses being rich! There is one thing good I can say about the
affuent. They change their clothes abnormally, and because they have
money to buy expensive perfumes and colognes, they usually smell nice!
What then is AR's legacy? Ayn Rand ratcheted up the Greed & Corruption
of the American society to such an extent it became an intrinsic part of
their destiny and that which will take them to their day of reckoning.
(Yuppies in the gormandizing 1980s; The Roaring Nineties written by Joseph
Stiglitz [1943-] in the 1990s. These “aspirational classes!”) She created a
masterpiece of indoctrination—tenets of psychological warfare that would
later forge the resolve of both of the antagonists of the Cold War from Yalta
to today. She set the tone for “red” states and “blue” states. She fostered
the unjust and excessive divide between the rich and the poor. She
promoted the elimination of America's middle class. She furthered the
national “nervous breakdown” of the DisUnited States—Americans being
so much out of their minds, Americans being such exquisite gluttons for
punishment, Americans the best of the Stupids! Does there exist a
defbrillator that can be used to control the Greed & Corruption of the
American people by applying an electric current to the chest wall or heart
44
of all of the American people? One president of a New York-based bank—
so eloquently arguing what a tremendous job he has done for the
DisUnited States and the world's fnancial system—gives one the
impression he should be canonized a saint! The Chinese are excellent,
quaint racheting-uppers, too! Sun Tzu (544BC-496BC) in his The Art of
War, advocated that the best way to defeat your enemy is to have him (or
her!) defeat themselves! (“Americans, if I manufacture this pencil for you
and charge you 20 cents for it, will you, please, sell it for 3 or 4 dollars?
Thank you, greedy ones!”) And the Italians! These geniuses of creativity!
They, too, have apparently read Atlas Shrugged. This summer (2017) Italy
has endured the most serious drought perhaps in its history. 50% of its
olive orchards and 30% of its fruit orchards have been left barren. Forest
fres have been breaking out continually, and on one day 361 fres were
burning in all parts of The Boot. The regular fre brigades did not possess
suffcient manpower to fght these fres, so the Italian government offered
to pay volunteers €10.00 an hour to help out. Many of these volunteers were
unemployed Italian workers. To help lower the Italian unemployment rate
(June 2017: 11.1%) volunteers, very selfshly, set forest fres and then lined
up to help extinguish them—being paid to do so! They call it “destructive
creativity!” Harvard PhD students might write theses about it! Of course,
Italian mafosi, very selfshly, pay Africans €10.00 a day to pick tomatoes
and potatoes. AR would have been very proud of them! (Didn't Karl Marx
say it so touchingly: “If you give them enough rope, they will hang
themselves!) Enter Vladimir Putin! For him, Donald Trump, that “useful
idiot,” is a dream come true. What best psychological warfare could there
be than to make Americans think the Russians are a threat to their
“democratic values?” That they would even be so crass as to compromise
the American electoral process? It makes no sense, in this psychological
warfare mindset we are experiencing, that Putin be guilty or not about
infuencing America's election processes. It is more important for him that
Americans are tossing and turning in their sleep trying to decide whether
or not he is innocent or guilty! The Russians are riding a tandem bicycle
with the Americans. When one goes too fast the other slows down. Vice
versa. Both are going in the same direction, at the same speed—playing
with our minds! Vladimir Putin's end is not to drive the Americans crazy; it
is to drive them crazier than they already are! (Does drought-stricken
California need Siberian water resources?)

Will it be Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-un and Sun Tzu who will be esteemed
45
in the annals of World History—the three who eradicated the Greed &
Corruption of the American shibboleth, this Comet burning itself out, this
Bully whose Bluff is being called—having done so without fring a single
shot but by torturing weak-minded Americans with chicanery and
conspiracy theories?

On another occasion, WFB, Jr, one morning, soon after I had arrived at
work, called me to his offce and presented me with a key and a twenty-
dollar bill. He politely instructed me to cab it to his Manhattan town house,
enter it, go to his bedroom, and pick up the manuscript of a newspaper
article he had written for his syndicated column but had forgotten to bring
to the offce for Gertrude to type up and send out. Off I went. I arrived at
the townhouse and went directly to the bedroom. The bed covers were
ruffed. On the foor next to a large yellow legal pad with red ballpoint pen
writing on it was an ashtray with a lipsticked cigarette in it and a pack of
Marlboro's off to its side. I picked up the article and went into the street
again and hailed a taxi back to the offce, lickety-split.

From that day on, I wanted to become a writer. Apart from the multitude of
authors I have read without meeting any of them—I can say that William F
Buckley, Jr, Professor William R Robinson, my graduate adviser at the
University of Florida, and historian Howard Zinn have done much to help
me blossom into a writer—nothing has been more infuential in my
becoming one than that day when I saw WFB, Jr's manuscript lying there
on the foor in his Manhattan brownstone. It was perhaps the most
important happening in my life because all that I have done since that day
has been to yearn to ripen into a wordsmith.

CHAPTER FIVE

If my employment spell at National Review served as an hiatus between one

Roman Catholic institute of learning, a seminary, and another, a university,
it also instructed me in some of the nuts and bolts of adult life, inculcated
in me a deference for excellence, and introduced me, somewhat, to the
powers of politics. It did zilch, unfortunately, to train me for the animal
farm from which I would receive a Bachelor of Arts (philosophy) degree
and a commission in the United States Army as a second lieutenant
(Artillery) in June 1966.

46
During these four years of almost total obedience to an authoritarian,
regime-like Roman Catholic way of life, I came to the realization—very
often in the most brutal manner—that women were not objects of
veneration in the minds of most males surrounding me, that women had to
yield to the cruel shenanigans of immature, frequently drunk, sex-starved
undergraduates, that they turned up resigned to the fact that their lot was
so, and nothing could be done to antidote this tragic state of affairs, and,
that my own impressions of women were not congruent with those of my
fellows: a considerable source of confict for me at the ripe age of seventeen
years.

Here it is important to make a note of the fact that the 1962 population of
the university roll call was about two-thousand men. Perhaps a mere ffty
were women—half of whom were nuns. Some of the turns in the air The
Boys perpetrated were these: If a “co-ed” or a female religious person
passed by one of the three all-men's dormitories on campus, the scholars
would, in unison, go to the windows of their rooms and stick their bare rear
ends out at the women (a practice called “mooning”); or, The Boys might
throw paint—not water—balloons at the unsuspecting ladies; or, if women
were invited to the huge all-men's dinning hall (“the chow hall”) which on
rare occasions they were, they would be victimized by choruses of verbal cat
calls The Boys would never have thought to utter in front of their mothers
—all the while finging to their hearts' content, at the females, off their
knives, wedges of butter which had been placed on their bread plates; or,
three or four hundred of the more rambunctious ones, many drunk after a
night “gone drinking,” would “raid” the girls' dormitories in the early
morning hours and run out with ladies' undergarments that, after, would
be hanged on their dorm rooms' walls as if they were some category of
trophy. The priests would “boys will be boys” this, and hardly ever did they
come to the defense of the humiliated, deeply offended ladies all in search
of being treated as normal human beings and dreaming of a respect they
would never have here in our “university.”

The tenor of the priests' thinking was this: On the opening day of my
World History class, one alcoholic Franciscan monk, nicknamed “The
Spike” because he was regarded as some sort of tough guy, called the fve
ladies in our class to the front row before the thirty-or-so rest of us who all
had been seated alphabetically in order for “The Spike” to easily take
attendance. (If you missed three of his classes [“cuts”] you were
47
automatically failed.) When up front, “The Spike” told the girls,
sarcastically, to cross their legs and shut the Gates of Hell! There were
gawks and and snickers abounding in the classroom and the second sex,
naturally, had to suck this intolerance in and just assume that the cutting
remark was only another insult to be absorbed masochistically during a day
of education in an almost all-male Roman Catholic “university.” Of course,
priests not always swayed so arrogantly about. In the dining hall, for
instance, two of them had to babysit before the two-thousand men throng
all standing and waiting for the meal's grace to be amplifed throughout the
enormous assembly hall through a microphone, after which all two-
thousand together would scream bloody murder for the waiters to come
and then scoop up, with their bare hands, the mashed potatoes and other
foodstuff placed on the huge trays carried to their tables. If The Boys were
especially obstreperous and their starving stomachs growled for food
inordinately, the two priests—if they dilly-dallied—just might be cajoled to
hurry it up a bit by a showering of volleys of fying butter slabs many of
which reached the ceiling and stuck there until they fell down at another
time. You truly never knew when a piece of butter might drop on your head
in the dining hall.

I dated ladies during my four-year residence near the city of Olean, New
York not far from the Canadian-New York State border, The Snow Belt,
but I met the frst love of my life during summer vacation in 1963. My
university was, what is called in the United Staes, a “college town” because
a few kilometers from it was the small city, Olean. If one of the university
students dated a girl from Olean, she was labelled a “townee.” A student
would be said to be going out with a “townee.” I could only dream about
my girlfriend who was ten hours away in the Borough of Bronx. We wrote
to each other, and I looked forward to returning home during
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter breaks to be with her. To this day I
remember her name, her face, and how wonderful she, Judith Madden,
was. Distance and time separated us and made it arduous for our
relationship to prosper. I recollect pinning for this light-hearted, charming
girl who also enkindled in me the ficker of hope that one day I, too, would
chance upon permanent company with a woman who loved me as much as
I loved her.

I cannot say that all my time passed in this institution of higher learning
was set in a depressed state for the simple reason—I have come to earnestly
48
believe that from good might come bad and from bad might come good—
that it extended to me, by a twist of fate, liberties that until before had been
disallowed me. Because I boarded at this university, I was autonomous and
not glued to my oppressive Roman Catholic family and the other relatives
belonging to it. I also learned, frequently by imitating, the lifestyles and
habits of some of my fellow students and friends who struck me as being
more sophisticated and worldly in their behavior, and who enjoyed a more
unperturbed approach to life not having to have had to endure the vigorous
bringing-up I had undergone at home, at the seminary, and at National
Review. Accordingly, when I put on a sweatshirt blazoned with the name of
the university I attended, I assumed an identity that had been before
negated me. I could walk in the street and feel proud I belonged to
something other than my overbearing family or the self-willed priests in the
seminary or doctrinaire political science afcionados. I began to feel free
and I soaked up the sense of being so. I went to dances where I met girls
from other universities. Basketball was an important economic introit for
the university, and because the school's administration invested a great deal
hunting the best payers to make sure our teams, often playing at the
national level, provided a lucrative payday. We were frequently on national
television, and I remember going to Madison Square Garden to attend an
important match. Belonging to this tribe, I felt an enormous psychological
relief, and I recall sitting at table with my parents and brothers and sister,
when home from school, telling them about the exciting exploits that I had
come upon when away from them and my home of crazy Roman Catholics.
Even they saw refected in my face and spirit a tremendous mutation in my
character.

Another signifcant observation I can account for is the relaxation of many

of the extreme political views I had hitherto held to. When we entered the
university all freshman students were required to take a battery of
intelligence and vocational tests. I was counseled to study psychology or
philosophy. I tried the frst, without success, and failed out dismally
because I could not pass the statistics course that I considered impossible.
So I “fell into” philosophy assuming it to be the logical alternative. Here
the diffculty was that most of the philosophers I had to study were Roman
Catholic. I was not introduced to the philosophies of non-Roman Catholic
scholars. Roman Catholic philosophers were called scholastic philosophers.
Notwithstanding, this prejudice for religious philosophers did not keep me
from enjoying philosophy and even, ever so often, especially during my
49
summer vacations, I read the books of philosophers who were not Roman
Catholic authors—books which were not inscribed with nihil obstat or
imprimatur signals and authored by OFMs, SJs, OPs, or other priests.
Political philosophy interested me the more. I had had an introduction to
it, so why not? I was very pleased to learn that there were individuals who
disagreed with William F Buckley, Jr, James Burnham, M Stanton Evans,
James Jackson Kilpatrick, Anthony Lejeune, Ralph de Toledano, Hugh
Kenner, Timothy J Wheeler, Frank Meyer, Russell Kirk, Barry Goldwater—
individuals I had actually met—and I was keenly motivated to read the
critical views of the people I had worked with at N R . With these
contrasting opinions, I began to think and weigh one idea aainst another. I
took copious notes. Studied. Reviewed. Refected. I was attempting to be
philosophical and did not want to interpret these political theories through
th eyes of the political scientist. I liked to read the classics—to scrutinize
thought in another era. I made an effort to objectify all that I had absorbed,
and sought to arrive at ideas which had been fltered through others. One
conclusion I drew about the United States' conservative faction was that it
spawned the persons in charge of that it deserved: Richard Nixon, Gerald
Ford, Ronald Reagan, Bush I, and Bush II. How much the staff at National
Review played a part in this drive, I cannot approximately calculate;
however, when I was in Caracas and saw Pat Buckley, her husband WFB,
Jr, pictured on the cover of a Spanish magazine wading with President
Reagan and his wife in the seas off the coast of Mexico, I naturally took for
granted that WFB, Jr held infuence in the White House where his son,
Christopher, wrote speeches for President Reagan. Comparing various
political theories with others helped me, I think, to be a more broadminded
individual, and in doing so, I ousted myself from the unyielding accepted
wisdom of the strong-willed sages at National Review.

If my “micro experiences” were more vital to me in fne-tuning the world

around me teaching me therefore to regulate my ways and to continue to
exist and squeeze out some bliss from an otherwise hostile milieu, id est,
life, my “macro experiences” enveloped me with what appeared to be
intractable objects to stand up to—much less think to supplant. There was
the Roman Catholic church and its rock-hard tyranny epitomized by
priestly agents who very well could nave been thought to belong to a “third
sex.” Weirdos. There was Scholastic Philosophy with some of the most
farfetched premises promulgated to hoodwink individuals into a rigid
system of thinking baiting them all the while with a pompous liturgy very
little in synchronization with what was actually transpiring in our world at
50
the time. There was the treatment of women that I found intolerable and
illicit. There was the United States Army which haunted our campus with
its infuence and supremacy. A good number of the buildings (classrooms,
Franciscan Friary, science building, dormitories) populating our campus
had been paid for by the United States government providing that our
university incorporated the Reserve Offcers' Training Corps into its core
curriculum. (Is it not amazing that priests, dressed in elegant cloths which
imitate the sack clothing of St Francis of Assisi and vow to a permanent
state of poverty, could jostle stock portfolios as the best of them on Wall
Street and concoct real estate negotiations with the United States
government that would make Donald Trump green with envy?)

I keep in mind still that day (1962) during freshman orientation, when I
signed a part of my life away to the DisUnited States Army. A short, full-
bird Artillery colonel, bald and nervous (I was to learn he had been
“shellshocked” during a World War II battle when he had called in artillery
fre upon his location to save his men), chain-smoking Camel cigarettes (In
the old days camels carried wisemen; today wisemen carry Camels), as he
lectured us on the merits of joining the Reserve Offcers' Training Corps,
top-heavy with his World War II and Korean War medals, all that utterly I
was not, just now being launched into my new, university orbit: so
confdent with myself and with what I was doing—fnally by myself! I was the
perfect sitting duck. It did not take him long to hook me, and when he
rounded up his thoughts and ended his pitch with these phrases: “Men,
when you graduate from this university, you will probably be called to
military service as a buck private—with a three-year active duty obligation
set before you. If you join the ROTC program, you will have in your pocket
your university degree, a second lieutenant commission in the United
States Army, and only a two-year active duty requirement. The decision is
yours to make! Good Luck!”...He had me by the b***s! I dreamt of seeing
myself in a green uniform with lieutenant bars upon my shoulders. A
dream that would come true and then turn into an Asiatic nightmare.

The ROTC program was mandatory for the frst two years of all of our four-
year education. If you submitted an application for the second two-year
period, a monthly stipend of $125 was offered. For four years I studied
Artillery theory, military science, and geopolitical strategy fve hours per
week in classroom gatherings. On Thursdays (Steak Night in the mess hall),
I paraded with the corps of cadets. There were some military-like social
51
occasions (the Annual ROTC Military Ball), and I fritted away two months
in the summer of 1965, at Fort Devins, Massachusettes in a real United
States Army boot camp. When I returned to university in the fall of 1965, I
was awash in military jargon and quite ft physically. The military course
included military history, weaponry, tactics, strategy, military organization,
and other studies interacted with stratagems and diplomacy. Our school
had been given over to Artillery—affectionately called in the Army, The
King of Battle (The Queen of Battle being the Infantry). At Fort Devens, I
went on forced marches, qualifed with the .45 caliber pistol, the M-1, M-14,
and the M-16 rifes, and was selected, based on my performance, to be the
S-2 (intelligence offcer) of the corps of cadets when I returned to the
university, for my last year, in the autumn. With summer over, I began my
remaining year of study on a buoyant note, and, flling out Army forms,
plumped for Hawaii and Germany as preferred duty stations when I would
be assigned to a regular, active Army unit. I did not think one iota about
Vietnam which in September 1965, did not pressurize my existence in any
way. With one more year of study to go before my graduation and
commissioning, I let my life slide a bit and contemplated my future—even
the possibility of an Army career. I had been impressed with intelligence
gathering, and I thought at the time I would like to serve as an intelligence
offcer.

I remember experienced sergeants telling me that if I went to Vietnam, I

should be careful of the frst thirty days in-country and the last thirty just
before getting ready to return home. The reasoning was this: the frst thirty
days you are green and stupid; the last thirty you are so happy to be near
going home, you become careless and stupid. I had no idea as to where my
my philosophy degree and second lieutenant bars would funnel me, but I
liked very well to dwell on the thought that an awesome transformation was
about to shake my life up, and being so bored and fed up with the
university life I had become accustomed to, I looked forward to moving on
–and always with pleasant expectations. I was—I deemed it to myself—
growing up, and I relaxed with a certain satisfaction in having survived so
far in this grueling, never-ending drama. I could have done better; I could
have done worse. I had not the words to put into “reality” my repulsion for
the university life I had lived for four long years (my mother: “You will go
to the university we pay for!”), yet I knew this agony would eventually end
and I considered it, incorrectly, a penalty I had to pay to obtain a degree,
become an offcer in the United States Army, and then be rewarded with
52
some sense of emancipation. These two ID tags—I had been told over and
over again—would guarantee me a successful post in the real world that I
was about to enter.

Two particularly loathing recollections of my university stay are

everlastingly fastened in my mind. The frst summons up graduation day, 5
June 1966, itself. For years, the repression saddled upon us by the agents of
the Roman Catholic church and their way of interpreting the mode in
which our lives should have been conducted then, boiled beneath many of
the students who had vied for a healthy and productive style of living and
not one which was regulated and controlled by negative directives and
guilty reactions to a morality belonging to another age. Contemplating this
continuing passion, protests against the Vietnam “War” had started to fare
up in other parts of the country, in universities more unbolted and
progressive than mine. Realizing that all of us now in our senior year were
fnished with our studies and on our ways out the university door, it was
easy for the two elements to coalesce into a violent rock-throwing incident
that witnessed students attacking the university's administrative building. I
was stunned that so many of my fellow students had had so many of these
pent-up feelings stewing in them, and as I watched them attack the “admin”
building, I could not but think that I had sublimated—perhaps too much—
my anger for four long years always calculating that this nuisance would
some day draw to a close. It appeared ridiculous to me—even cowardly—
that these learners would react so vehemently when it was all too late to do
anything, to even dissent. Why had they not rebelled so forcefully en masse
before? If they had sucked it in for four years, why blurt out now in
unproductive feats which made many think that they were a species of
criminals. If they had opted to be “silent” for four years, as I had been, then
why not be so, in a muted gripe, on their last day in attendance. The
minute after I had my diploma and commission in hand, I turned my back,
forever, on those four years of gulag-like detention.

I had been on familiar terms with experiences in the seminary which let it
be known that many priests were homosexual and/or pedophilic in their
sexual preferences, but I did not have the words on my tongue to express
this truth simply because the ruling powers of these “Ministers of God” was
so dreadful, it was clearly understood by everyone that priests and nuns did
only good, and if they “sinned,” they did so “amateurishly.” The reality we
all know now fnally, is very much to the contrary. My sentiments for
53
women reached back to those days when I thrived in the company of “The
Five Sisters” who lived above me in Brooklyn. A woman was, then,
something innate in my sinews—my emotional make-up. When priests in
the seminary and the university told me to “close the door behind you,” I
ascertained—but I did not know—the connotation of their “come ons,”
their requests that I help them write Christmas cards, that I take a walk
with them in a secluded area. All I could do was intuit. As these perverts
sized me up—my motives, my psychology, my spirit—I am sure they, too,
recognized that it was a woman's touch, caress that I longed for and not a
man's—that if they had “handed” me their strokes that might have set off a
tragic—for them—retort from me. What kept me from being ensnared in
their perversion was my personality, my strength of mind, my respect and
love for women. No priest could ever have seduced me, and I am really
downcast to be aware of the fact that unsuspecting seminarians and
university students fell prey to these ailing individuals—mostly with Irish
family names. I wonder: What would have been my rejoinders to
pedophilic priests had The Five Sisters been The Five Brothers? I see
nothing off beam with priests being homosexual, but I fnd the Roman
Catholic church's preference to deny them this possibility outlandish and,
further, to rebuff the fact that many priests are homosexual, is an
outrageous spuriousness that only proves to me that the Roman Catholic
church is on its way to extinction given the fact that it must erect
“structures of deceit” (Garry Wills) to sustain its existence. That many
priests are pedophiles is a certainty; and, Roman Catholic parents should
be shrewd about this caring for the psychological welfare of their offspring.

CHAPTER SIX

In two more years I would be free! I suppose most people reading this story
will admit that I, up till now, had a rather unlucky time with my life. And, I
am certain some will think I had so far performed as an absolute idiot!
There is some truth in both opinions, obviously. But I can only think that
too much of my life had been so controlled, so organized for me, that I had
been bludgeoned into a form desired by so many others who thought they
were doing their best in my interest, and I had become goofy, a sort of
unthinking creature. I just kept doing whatever everyone wanted me to do.
I obeyed, I respected. I paid dues for what I could not imagine. One day I
would wake up, I ventured, and admit to myself it was time for me to do
something for my very own self. I was aware that I was absorbing what was
54
all around me. I had no idea what I was doing and I silently looked to
others for their help. All the while I was taking it all “in.” Waiting to make
my move. Before doing so, I had to be sure. I had to have economic and
emotional independence. I had to esteem myself and my potentialities. All
of this would happen in due time. I was not in a hurry but, poignantly,
everyone around me was, and I could not envisage why. This detail
frightened me.

In September 1966, I arrived at Fort Sill, The Home of the Artillery, in

rattlesnake-infested and tornado-flled and rocky Oklahoma where I began
immediately a 3-month Offcer Basic Course at the United States Army
Artillery & Missile School. I was housed in the Bachelor Offcers' Quarters
(BOQs), with a freplace, on a street where “scrambled eggs” offcers
(majors and up), not generals, were also domiciled with their families. My
frst battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas, a West Pointer and
member of the the Army's .45 caliber pistol team, also lived there with his
wife and daughter, and they were exceedingly gracious with me and invited
me to dinner and formal and informal Army parties in their home. Colonel
Thomas was a “brown shoe” soldier and grieved to me over the fact that the
Army was turning out offcers who were becoming more and more a genus
of management specialists wrapped up in reams of paperwork and
regulations which kept them from deliberating on what they were precisely
designated to act upon: soldiering! As far as I was concerned, most in the
offcer corps of the United States Army gave me the impression that they
were obtuse, and I can just see millions and millions of ex-enlisted men
throughout the United States standing up to cheer me for saying that!
Despite that fact, if anyone could have persuaded me to embark on an
Army career, it would have been Colonel Thomas; but, albeit his clout, he
held little infuence with me at that moment in Vietnam when I was offered
the rank of captain—if I had “re-upped” for another year of service. I had
become so aghast with the Army in Vietnam that I could not linger any
longer at the thought of taking off my uniform and I have regretted—
indeed until now as I write these words—that I ever put it on.

While at Fort Sill, I was for the main part full of activities studying, and
when OBC had terminated, I was assigned to a rocket-missile training
battalion. The difference between a rocket and a missile is that a missile can
be guided once it is launched from its skids, while a rocket cannot be
directed after fring. My battalion taught recruits the operations needed to
55
launch Little John and Honest John rockets and Sergeant and Pershing
missiles. I had to hit the “books” of regulations and standard operating
procedures related to rocketry and missilery. Updates to these rules and
regulations kept piling up on my desk in the battery to which I had been
assigned: Little John and Honest John. When my battery commander once
took a leave of absence to attend a top secret course at the Pentagon, I
proxied him as the the battalion's Lance Missile Project Offcer—a charge
that had as its scope the formulation of the groundwork for the eventual
insertion of the new, at that time, missile into our training cycle. While
such a commission might look heady to some, my ignorance of rocketry and
missilery was yet more profound, and thanks to the experience of my non-
commissioned offcer staff versed more than I in rocketry and missilery, I
was rescued from making a total fool of myself although I, a “loose cannon”
in the feld artillery, was decorated with, in a “friendly” offcers' party one
night, The Wayward Missile trophy. My sin: When a rife turned up missing
while I was the battalion's duty offcer one night, I neglected to inform the
battalion's EC (executive offcer) and instead called the battery commander
of the lost rife's unit. Discipline comes in handy—especially in a war—and
I, too, had to learn to keep my feet on the ground. I served eight months in
the rocket-missile training battalion. On 8 May 1967, a telegram from the
Department of Defence arrived at my battery with orders for me to go to
Vietnam. With a secret security clearance and eight months of rocketry and
missilery study appended to my personnel records, I set off assuming that
perhaps there were Army nuclear weapons in Vietnam, and my training
would be to play a part in a corresponding mission. I trusted not.

While at Fort Sill an episode shocked me into thinking that I was actually
in a location, in a state of affairs, that repulsed me severely and held me in a
form of easy-going depression. One Saturday night, about three o'clock in
the morning, while I was fast asleep, there was a stunning banging at my
BOQ door that had startled me immediately to deduce that it was executed
by someone's fst. Then a man began shouting “Open up! Open up!! Open
up!!!” I headed off to the door queasy at what I might hit upon behind it,
and hesitatingly, turned the doorknob. There in front of me stood wobbling
a man in civilian clothes, disheveled, and he staggered about very, very
drunk. He shoved his Army credentials in my face, and I recognized
instantaneously that he was a major. With a menacing voice, he reproached
me with this: “Are you the captain who shacked up with my wife while I
was in Vietnam?” I told him who I was—in haste. My name. My
56
rank. The poor guy almost opened up in tears, and I thought, for a second,
he was going to collapse upon the foor. His misery was so intense. I tried
sympathizing with him and at the same time offered him an invitation to
come in and sit down for a moment. He excused himself. Then, in an
instant, he stood erect, at attention, saluted me “by the book,” and
stumbled out into the street. What had electrifed me most was the rage
that boiled inside of him. He was a big man. By his physique, one might
have wondered if he were a professional athlete. He was a major in the
United States Army! A rather high-ranking offcer. Surely he possessed a
top secret clearance. One would have assumed, erroneously, that he be
immune from such personal emotional calamities. I was to learn later that a
good part of the Army and its offcer corps was dizzy with mortal
quandaries such as the one I had experienced frst hand, and that alcohol
and drugs were a way out for many members of the armed forces—so much
so that I hazarded that it would be impossible to have nuclear weapons at
their disposal there in Vietnam. I, too, a graduate of a Roman Catholic
university that had once obtained the dubious distinction of being
mentioned, “honorably,” in Playboy magazine—for its beer-drinking
versatility—could imbibe, I thought, with the best of them. On occasion, I
used alcohol to help me pass through some stressful conditions that had
become too much for me—especially in Vietnam where I smoked Camel
cigarettes and always asked relatives to send me Antonio Y Cleopatra cigars
to the battlefeld to assuage some of my deplorable strain.

Because I had to study rocketry and missilery most evenings in my BOQ,

often with the freplace lit on freezing Oklahoma nights, it was not until
Friday and Saturday nights that I went out for dinner and then afterwards
to shoot pool with my friends Tom Wilkins and Jim Kindla both of whom
who had graduated with me from OBC. Tom was from Philadelphia and
Jim hailed from Pearsall, Texas. Jim had a Ford and Tom and I were
without “wheels.” Jim was a very generous person and had a unique sense
of humor that kept us all laughing. Tom was the most serious of us, and
was a fne, friendly guy upon whom you could depend. Tom and I, “city
slickers,” were as much mesmerized with the Texan Jim as he was with a
New Yorker and a Philadelphian. We had fun together as best we could
under the thorny circumstances—something that was not easy in the “fort
town” of Lawton, Oklahoma. Tom and Jim were not ordered to Vietnam—
as best I can remember about them—and I am still happy for that. I am
sorry that our friendships drifted apart. We had passed a great deal of time
57
together talking about our girlfriends back home, and without Tom and Jim
time spent at Fort Sill would have been considerably more taxing.

In no time I was on my way to Vietnam. I left New York for Oakland Army
Terminal in California late August 1967. I was quickly dumbfounded when
the Artillery brigade commander, Colonel Anderson, of the Fourth Infantry
division in Pleiku, in the Central Highlands, informed me that I was going
to the feld with the grunts as an 1193—a combat forward observer. I
reminded the colonel that I had been in a rocket and missile training
battalion for the last eight months, and he surprised me with this:
“Lieutenant, yours is not to question why, yours is but to do and maybe
die.” Just as a dog trained by his master would be expected to dovetail—had
I not been in the habit of Pavloving my obedience to domineering women
and ruthless priests?—I saluted the full-bird, exited his offce,
downheartedly, and went to my cannon cockers' battery supply room
(“Don't forget to take two frst aid packs, greenhorn! A bullet that goes in
often comes out! Ha! Ha!! Ha!!!) to prepare to be helicoptered to the feld in
the mountains near the Cambodian and Laotian borders where I was to
hump up and down for four months in the Vietnam monsoons. I took this
undertaking hard because in no way did I want to be in a war, in no way
did I want to come to the point where I had to fre my rife or Artillery at
another human being or beings. Luckily, I never did. Yet, I was forced to
live in constant anticipation of being assailed then wounded or even killed.

Many will think that when a soldier is in war bombs and bullets go off
around him or her all through the day. Much to the contrary. Unless, of
course, maybe you are a Marine! A Marine is always forwarded too where
the action is at its peak. Yet, for the most part, I take for granted even for
Marines, war is a waiting game. Marching from one position to another and
hanging around for the attack. I was in numerous fre fghts but none of
consequence. Light contacts. By the time we had regrouped ourselves and
called for helicopter gunship support and artillery backup—maybe F-4
Phantoms or F-100s—the enemy was safe and sound at home laughing at
us and our hefty waste of the taxpayers' ammunition. (Remember the
world's economic recession of 1962? Wars are good for business!) I was also
in two or three 122mm Chinese rocket attacks—they scare you to Death!—
and a number of mortar attacks which, unlike 122mm rockets whizzing in,
cannot hurt you if you get to a bunker or a foxhole before they start raining
in on you. 122mm rockets can cut through a good number of sandbag
58
layers. Most of the time I was more afraid of my own men and the errors of
the U S Army's helicopter pilots and the Air Force's bombings offered to
“help” us. The average age of the Vietnam soldier was nineteen, and these
“kids” had carte blanche to jockey their trucks, jeeps, helicopters, and tanks
in the most careless of ways. Whenever I few in a helicopter or a fxed-
wing Army aircraft, I was petrifed not that it would be shot down by rival
fre, but apprehensive that someone had forgot to replace a piece with the
right part during maintenance. After every landing, if we had been shot at
during fight—we checked the belly of our craft to see how much the
“pings” had actually damaged the undercarriage of the aircraft.

To repeat: One of the parables that for a great part distorts the authenticity
concerning the Vietnam “War” and fans the fury that persists in polarizing
North America, is that the Vietnam gen was an on-going mêlée and at every
turn there was someone to shoot at you. The fact of the matter is that most
“combatants” in Vietnam never even carried a weapon! For every grunt in
the feld—and here you would not fnd sons of United States' senators or
editors of conservative political journals—seven backed them up in base
camp. Your likelihood of going home safe and sound was rather promising,
statistically speaking. In the Fourth Division base camp at Pleiku, where I
had been assigned, the commanding general, Major General Peers, had to
order all rifes and other arms locked up because there had been so many
shooting accidents with them. So many soldiers were being wounded or
killed in fghts between themselves! “Fighters” on the battle feld, at least
two-thirds of them who had been wounded or killed, died from mine
related wounds, and, ninety percent of these ordnances were made—you
guessed it—in the United States of America! Most of the enemy kills in
Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia were executed by B-52 bombers from the
height of 30,000 feet! (Thanks to Henry “The Carpet Bomber” Kissinger
and the ultra-conservative lunatic fringe in the Pentagon.) When I landed
at Guam on my way to Ton Son Nhut airfeld in Saigon, B-52s were strewn
along both sides of the runway for as far as could be seen. It was an
inconceivable spectacle to perceive! So unbelieving to the Roman Catholic
chaplain sitting next to me—a Trappist monk who had taken a leave of
absence, he said, to save souls in Asia—that he leaned at his window seat
and and fred up by fanning crosses at the bombers! “God help us!” he said.
God help us bomb women, children, and the elderly with bombs from B-52
bombers? You betcha!

59
I have found out that since the armed forces in the United States became a
voluntary affair (1973), soldiers have been proscribed from keeping diaries
while on active duty. In Vietnam, I was “advised” not to keep a log—so I
kept one! From that chronicle I have synopsized a cluster of events that
transpired during my stay in the feld, a mere twenty-two years of age,
attached to an infantry company and in command of a three-man forward
observer party including myself, my recon sergeant Ed, and Paul, my radio-
telephone operator. Let us listen together to what went on in Vietnam, in
the feld, in 1967-1968:

“As much as it was the United States Army's intention to bomb to

smithereens and defoliate the leaves away of the Vietnamese countryside
with the excuse of clearing large segments of land so that the country could
be rid of those “commie gook bastards” from the north of Vietnam, too
much of the beauty of what was once had been called Indo-China remained
to remind one that this potential breadbasket of the world or offshore
goldmine of petroleum deposits—which of the two suited one's fancy?--was
in fact a luscious green paradise of richly luxurious mountains, valleys,
coastlines, rivers, forests, and hamlets.

In the mosquito-infested Central Highlands, adjacent to Cambodia and

Laos, a mountain range of emerald splendor greeted the sightseer, in the
air and on the ground. The views were often breathtakingly seductive, and
the serenity of the expanse made for a pleasant break from Army bases, fre
bases, forts, base camps, terminals, and compounds.

As one trekked through the “boonies” there was the overpowering feeling
that vacation time had come round once again. The pleasantries of the
beautiful woodlands instilled in one a distinct presentiment of
peacefulness. Butterfies—an enormous range of colors characterizing their
diverse species—crowded pathways hacked away by machete-bearing
infantry point men. Birds merrily chirped in treetops and struck a chord of
agreeable moments had in one's youth during Springtime strolls through
shaded timberlands with the loved one—hand in hand. There was that
matchless sound of bacon and eggs—traded, if not robbed from local
Montagnard villagers—crackling on a frying pan over an early morning fre,
the aroma scenting its way through trees and bushes into two-man
hootches where rested soldiers, recharged by a ten-hour sleep-in on an
Army issue gray air mattress, turned over to reach for the frst butt of the
60
day and stalled, in a lazy, contented way, the beginning of a day's march up
the side of a comely mountain.

Canteens were flled with fresh, disease free water from tributaries which
had directed the cool refreshment for miles over rocks and through
vegetation offering Nature's own purifying process and ridding one of the
need to plunk iodine tablets into the canteens and then, to kill the
bitterness, slide in cherry-favored Kool-Aid granules, pre-sweetened, P-L-
E-A-S-E!!!, from the funneled edges of those small, prepackaged envelopes
sent from home. Canteen cups were used to hold hot water for shaving, and
steel-plated helmets served as washbasins into which soapy razor blades
were dunked to make ready the next scrape to the chin. C-ration cans were
heated over small blue pellet heating tabs—yells going up in quest for of an
extra can of peaches, or “Who likes ham and lima beans? (No one) I'll trade
you for a spiced beef.” When breakfast was completed, packs—some
weighing eighty pounds with mortar rounds, M-60 ammo belts, and Pric-9
radio batteries busting a man's back—were hoisted to ft a comfortable
position, rifes were grabbed, helmets were arranged at their most
comfortable tilt, and pistol belts laden with flled canteens and ammo
pouches were clicked into place. The “humping” was begun.

One looked up to the verdant mountain and was discouraged by its

imposing loftiness. The moans and groans once expelled, the men went
about their hiking frst considering it to be a chore, then looking to what
good could come from it. A bamboo pit viper or two wiggled and glided on
the roots of a huge tree. Every month or so, a python to catch and wrestle
with in patches of grass—a machete-bearing soldier on guard to prevent
strangulations. Wild water buffalo were altogether avoided, when not shot,
because they were too malicious and unpredictable in their behavior. No
one appreciated the trouble leeches brought, and in certain areas,
especially where the soil was unusually rich and moist and ensconced from
adequate air circulation by ravines, heavy underbrush, or land depressions,
the leeches seemed to cultivate exceedingly well requiring us to douse our
boots with mosquito repellent to keep them from crawling up our legs into
our crotches.

It was gratifying to walk into a friendly village without going in to destroy it

and fnd villagers hard at work building homes or preparing meals for their
families. And if the inhabitants were not frightened by our presence—how
61
could they have been not?—all the better. GIs teased and playacted with
the tribe. Gifts might be exchanges. C-rations might be tossed to
scrounging kids begging for food. A charred wood smell was diffused
throughout the village. Bare-breasted women, nipples chunky and frm,
cradled children in their arms possessing them maternally and offering
protection to them from the unstableness of an Army which offered them
food by day but at night might bomb them to bits and pieces. There was no
promise of peace and quiet for these people and their country set in
political turmoil for decades. The village now became a memory in the
soldiers' Past.

The company pushed on farther to a night position where foxholes might

be dug and artillery defensive concentrations (DEFCONS) were certain to
kindle miniature brush fres and intimidate neighboring villagers. The
security of the night perimeter was much like the fetal position. The unite
drew itself into itself and felt safe when it covered its head and body with
the security blanket of a circular encampment, with guards watching over it
throughout the night, with radio contact for any emergency, with men well-
armed and fortifed with a flling dinner, with an Air Force at its beck and
call, with helicopter gunships to whip in and out to sting an attacking
enemy.

The moon lit up the night. Radios blared, portable record players played
popular music. Chats abounded within the boundary of the secured area.
Chinese communist disc-jockeys beamed romantic soul music; but, GIs
ignored their political messages happy to hear familiar tunes from back
home. Chilled winds blew in the later part of the day and early part of the
evening, and it was cozy to squat into one's hootch constructed of two rain
ponchos and there position oneself in the center of the blown-up air
mattress—its rubber aroma foating up to be whiffed at throughout the
night. The body was tired, aching. Yet, it was frm, resilient from the
suffering it was being put through. It did not take long to fall asleep. One
might go to catch Zs earlier than usual hoping that the hootch-mate one
had been assigned to would not enter during an ecstatic masturbation taken
under a poncho liner.

There were other comforts. A good book; a reread of the letters from home;
the latest issue of Playboy to escape from reality; a good cigar; the
knowledge that one's M-16 had been cleaned earlier that day; and, dry,
clean socks! At night, when the noise of one-hundred and twenty men
abated, one set off to sleep listening to the sounds of the jungle: its
animals, its trees swishing in the wind, its own peaceful presence
occasionally disturbed by the clock-clocking of a Huey, or the explosion of
an harassment and interdiction (H&I) artillery round sounding off in the
distance with a tremendous pounding to the ground. Nature, in its Beauty
and fnery, was too strong even for the United States Army that, while
despoiling and B-52 bombing It, could not take away the time that would
come to replenish It in all Its green brilliance and vitality. Always a strict
creature, Nature was even severer in Vietnam. For all the punishment It
had inficted upon It, It parceled out Its own. Nature knew It would survive,
yet It yielded high malarious temperatures. It slapped down villagers and
soldiers with tuberculosis, cholera, and typhus. Its billowy, dark clouds—
bulging their way through the skies—dropped oceans of rain on roads
muddying them, on bodies diseasing them, on fghter bombers grounding
them. When the clouds full of rain scattered at the end of their season, the
hot Sun came to parch throats and cake roads to a powdery dust that blew
in the faces of men and clogged the oil-smooth-machinery of the world's
most powerful army.

The Sun to the east, the Sun to the west. It was magnifcent in the morning
warming the body after a chilled sleep. At dusk, it set behind gorgeous
mountains, its fare lighting up the skies in posh hues of red, orange, blue,
white, and purple. Cirrus, cirrostratus, and altostratus clouds beamed
dazzling colors bounced off them by that sinking luminous celestial body
around which the Earth and other planets revolve, from which they receive
heat and light, which has a mean distance from Earth of 93,000,000 miles, a
linear diameter of 864,000 miles, a mass 332,000 times grander than Earth,
and a mean density about one-fourth that of earth!

I fantasized a champagne breakfast at sunrise in St Augustine on Florida's

east coast, and a seafood platter feast at sunset in Cedar Key on Florida's
west coast. The Vietnam experience would not always be with us, but the
Sun would be. And what a gracious, friendly Sun! The company is
drenched with gallons of monsoon rainwater when then, and only then, the
Sun pops out to steam heat away soaking helmet camoufage covers,
waterlogged fatigues, and sloshing wet boots—those boots Nancy Sinatra
keeps reminding us, as if we didn't know, were made for none other than
walking!
62
The chill leaves the body when the heat rays of the Sun pierce their way
through Army-issued green santeen duds. The body becomes dry again.
Sweat begins to seep through the fne pores and small openings of the
body's protective garments. The Colt Rife Company's famous—but
overrated—M-16 is speckled with reddish brown rust particles which will
be easily removed with tiny cloth patches sopped with cleaning oil, one
each, for external use only.

The humping assumes a new, refreshed mood. Stomachs are beginning to

growl from the extra duty imposed on the digestive system to keep the body
pushing on through drafty rains and hot Sun. One must now seek shade
from the midday Sun under whose torrid warmth lunch will be taken. The
rucksack is tossed at the base of a tree, the helmet plunked down on the
ground, the rife put to the side close at hand, the pistol belt is unlatched,
the canteen reached for with both hands in a caressing gesture and swigs
are had from the olive drab plastic container that holds that precious liquid
refreshment more pretentious than a good bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

A pleasant intermission comes to us. Within the inventory of the Universe

there is a large stream one-hundred meters from our lunch break lair, and
our company commander has “tender-heartedly” given us permission to
bathe and wash clothes in the shadiness of the spread of a richly-vegetated
idyllic forest scene. The winsomeness of the area is incomparable. Trees
and multi-colored shrubs abound. The current fows coolly and its
sparkling, crystal clear waters lower the body temperature and revives the
mind to make it as translucent and alive as the colorless, glass-like surface
of the charging brook. The spirit of the men becomes brisk. There is
horseplay. There is fun. The only grim reminder of the war is the fve naked
guards who have been placed on duty to protect the splashing, frolicking
infantrymen. Soap suds begin to dull the upper boundary of the
watercourse as men scrub away at socks and fatigue shirts and their very
own bodies. More than a hundred nudes. There is almost no modesty,
shame. We are only glad to be alive. The relief from the pressing load of
the rucksack has encouraged all of us to forget our slavery and enjoy, as
much as we can, this little grab at joy. There is no bitching when the call to
regroup is made. The men want to savor this encounter with Nature for at
least the rest of the day, and rather than disapprove or pick at their plight,
they permit their disciplined bodies and minds to respond automatically—
involuntarily—to the command of that army they disrespect and despise.
63
The rucksacks, harnessed to strong backs for the umpteenth time, feel
lighter than was once imagined in the frigid waters of the miniature river.

The men head out, in single fle, in silent resolve. Whatever their thoughts
are, they are private, intense. The men intertwine with Nature. They have
taken comfort from Nature's powerful ability to stand and endure. They
look up to the blue and know that those fuffy white cottony nebulas will
turn blackish-gray by late afternoon and pour down huge droplets of water
condensed from vapor in the boundless atmosphere which infltrates the
Vietnamese countryside, the hearts and minds of all men and women, and
even the United States Army. They look to the ground and sense the
frmness of the Earth—its hardened exterior always waiting to take without
recoil or echo the hammering of that steel-plated in the sole jungle boot,
two each, green canvassed at their sides. Soldiers look to the right, to the
left. There are only green trees and lush jungle bushes to catch the eye.
The company has reached a level of Platonic Transcendentalism. They have
superseded, for a short time, the yoke of their own inhibiting prejudices
and the preconceived judgments of others, and in unity, the fellowship of
of infantry fght specialists have intuited the Truth about their fellow man
and have felt, while not intellectualizing it, the value of virtuous conduct.
Chained to their rocks as Prometheus, the “grunts” have begun to stop
warring with their oppressors. They have taken the steps to understand and
pity them. They have found hope in the possibility of a better order of life,
and they have sought, through the simplicity of Nature, to seek peace and
good will among all men on Earth without recrimination and penalty.

Into this serene milieu is plopped the battalion's number one beer delivery
man who is making his on and off rounds around the battalion's area of
operations. The company knows the clock-clocking of the helicopter is the
command and control (C&C) ship of light bird colonel Husky, on the full
bird promotion list, because it is clean, polished, spirals from a three-
thousand-foot height in order to avoid small arms fre, and it has been
some time since our unit's shiny bright, spit-shined booted, with starched
fatigues commander has been out to the twigs for an inspection visit. The
touching Shelleyan slumber of the grunts has been dissipated into the
atmosphere—perhaps forever—by this hideous intrusion.

The company guesses at what its battalion's chief buffoon has up his olive
drab sleeves for tricks and treats this fne sweltering day, and there is
64
immeasurable glee immediately when, to everyone's delight, as Husky
disembarks from his landed Huey and charges forward to greet his
company commander and infantry puppets, he trips over an exposed tree
root, scuffs his mirrored boots, and is caught from a fall to the ground—not
smooth and boarded as is his comfy Tactical Operations Center (TOC)—by
his ass-kissing, permanently fxed to his left side battalion executive offcer.
Husky is amazed with himself and vents his anger at once at his Bravo
Company commanding offcer explaining to him that his men should have
cleared away the landing zone more carefully...

“What, captain, would have happened

if a combat assault was to have been executed
on that LZ (landing zone)
and an artillery forward observer
had seriously injured himself on that tree root
incapacitating his ability to bring smoke
and pee on an attacking enemy?”

To wit, the company commander:

“I am sorry, sir, for that indiscretion.
I can assure you, sir, there will be no
recurrence of it in the future.”

“Very well, captain, Report!

Husky has slipped back to the very reason he came to the feld. The
company commander snaps to, readies himself to resent his Sitrep
(situation report), and whips a fashy salute on Husky. The comedy
continues...

“Captain, I have repeatedly told

you and every other god-dammed
company commander in this outft
that I do not want to be made conspicuous
in the feld by having offcers and enlisted men
salute me. I don't want to be a target
for Charlie any more than I have to be.
Do you understand, you god-dammed little idiot?”

65
 “Yes, sir! That discretion will never reoccur in the future.”

Their are giggles and gawkish looks throughout the company area.
Everyone knows the Vietcong and the North Vietnam Army have been
monitoring Husky's inept operations for months, and have conspired to let
Husky live until he is promoted to Army Chief of Staff—who needs friends
with enemies like this?

“Proceed with your Sitrep, captain.”

“Sir, the enemy situation is complicated and peculiar.

We have out-maneuvered the aggressors
with your stylized tactics...”

“Captain, I don't want to hear

your highfalutin excuses for not giving me bodies,”
Husky shrills aloud in the woods
for all within a thousand meters to hear.

“Sir, the indiscretion will never occur in the future.”

“Captain, are you some kind of

a god-dammed idiot?
Stop that indiscretion shit now!”

“Sir, the indis...Yeeeesss, SSSSSSSSiiiiirrrrrrrrr!”

“Captain, to date your unit is defcient.

You have the highest foot-wound casualty rate
in the whole god-dammed Army,
you haven't had a body for me in four weeks,
and you are slow getting to your positions.
What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Sir...”

“I'll tell you what you have to say for yourself, captain.
You have to say that you are a complete idiot.
You have to say that you are not doing your job.
66
 You have to say your next effciency report is going
to look might shitty if you don't shape up soon!”

“Sir...”

“Don't 'sir' me. I want action

I want bodies.
Go to it, my man.”

“Yes, sir!”

“I want to talk with your men.”

The company commander kowtows and pays homage and droops his body
and bends hither and thither to lead the way for Husky to his men who are
assembled in small groups in the distance talking about their recent
spiritualistic reunion with Nature. Husky comes upon the men—both arms
flled with frosty beer cans.

“Got something for you “gook” killers.”

Feast your eyes on these cold cans of suds, boys.
I'm the only infantry battalion commander in Vietnam
who will break regulations for his men
and bring them ice-cold suds to the feld.”

Husky's favorable opinion of himself

falls on deaf ears.
The men want the suds.

“What do you think about that, private?”

Husky has happed upon California Dreamer,

the unit's philosopher of nature.

“Sir, have you ever thought about Nature

and what a satisfying experience it is
to walk among the trees and mountains
and streams?”

67
 Husky's eyes bulge with astonishment.
He has been taken unawares.

“I-I, yes I have, son.”

Husky thinks he is dealing with a psycho.

“Were you inspired, colonel?”

“I guess I was, I...son, we are here to fght a war.

I don't see what Nature has to do with that.”

“I do, sir.”

“You do?”

“Sir...”

“Son...major, take this man to my C&C ship

and wait for me there.”

Husky does not want to enter into a philosophical debate, nor does he wish
to have his men's minds poisoned with stuff he knows might turn out to be
commie or anti-Army.

“Men, I want to make a point or two clear to you.”

Husky is gearing up for an Army Sermon on the Mount, but his mind is
abruptly torn between risking the use of California Dreamer as an example
of what not to think in Vietnam, thereby alienating his men, or proceeding
to follow through on his hip-shooting hunch that he can make interesting
hay out of the situation and make an example of the philosopher of Nature
who obviously challenged his ideas, who obviously challenged his
authority. Naturally, Husky shot from the hip—his way of doing everything.
The moral homily continued...

“The United States Army is the toughest,

best-equipped army in the world.

68
 It is not a candy-assed outft,
and it is not a pack of Boy Scouts
on its way to an overnight cookout.”

He points to the hills of Cambodia and Laos.

“In those hills are commies.

God-dammed little fucking
slant-eyed bastard commies.
And they are out to kill
your fucking asses, boys.
They are out to subterfuge
and subjugate the
American system of democracy.
They are out to take
your beer from you...”

Husky is rolling along.

The class clown
has become the class valedictorian.

“...they are out to,

God damn those bastards,
seduce and abuse your mothers,
wives, and girlfriends.
The commies are smart little fuckers.
Don't underestimate them.
They are willing to walk the long mile
to get their way, and they will take
all the time they need to do it.
They are waiting in those hills, boys.
They are waiting for you to drop your guard,
to have yourselves open for that one-two,
under-the-belt punch.
They want to box you into a corner.
Men, Husky is here to prove
to them otherwise.
And the way we'll show those
“gook” bastards that we will not
69
 stand for their commie shit is the way
your Old Man Husky is going
to show you how to fght this war.
But, men, I can't do it without you.
I can't do it when you let your guard down.
If you spend your day looking at trees and pretty fowers
and not looking for Charlie,
you are doing yourselves a disservice,
you are doing your nation a disservice,
and you are doing Husky a disservice.
For God's sake, boys, watch out
for those commie bastards.
Don't let them catch you with your pants down.
Be on your toes.
Keep your rifes clean,
walk fve meters apart,
search the areas you are passing through,
take your malaria pills,
and for God's sake, boys,
stop shooting yourselves in the god-dammed feet!

I have an incentive for you.

For every “gook” or AK-47 a Bravo
Company grunt brings me, there are
two quart bottles of Seagrams-7
waiting for you back in Bravo Charlie.
Bring me bodies.
Husky wants bodies, men.
I need a high body count.
I want to keep those god-dammed commies
from infltrating into our country—the home
of the free, the home of the brave.
Go get 'em, boys!”

Husky's moral discourse made

little impression on the men.
There was mumblings in the crowd
mostly over the whisky bribe.

70
 “Let me hear it, “gook killers!”

The grunts' minds reminisced to happier ( ? ) days

at Fort Benning, Georgia and their instructors'
commands to scream out a vociferous chain
of crescendoing
'KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL!!!?'

Their responses to Husky's request

were made with fzzling “kills,” and Husky
had to encourage them with his own
sparked, enthusiastic “kill:”
KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLL!
He screeched out suddenly
at the top of his lungs
waking up the most sullen grunt
from his cosmic reveries.

“Give me 'KILLS,' gook killers!!!”

They came in increased pitch and quality.

Not Fort Benning perfect,
but loud enough to satisfy Husky.

He turned, muttered something to his executive offcer

who had returned to hear his remonstrances,
and then they both walked back to Husky's
C&C ship where the Spreader of the Word
met California Dreamer and told him
he was being sent to the division's
psychiatric unit for observation.”

My dear reader, I think that you now will understand why the United
States' armed forces were converted to an all-volunteer organization—there
was no other choice to be made. They had to become “professional”
because those who had served in the Vietnam “War” were in no way going
to acquiesce in realizing the pipe dreams of an ultraconservative United
States out to conquer the world. Most subjects sent to Vietnam, including
myself, were not, in fact, soldiers. We pretended we were. Our government
71
made up that we were. How was a frst lieutenant in the Artillery, with a
degree in philosophy to boot, going to render homage to some
megalomaniac, Kissingerian delusion of grandeur traipsing around South
East with THE HIPPIE LIEUTENANT scrawled on his helmet's
camoufage cover with a black magic marker? Vietnam was a fgment of the
imagination of the Pentagon. A tragic mistake. One that only a few have
gained knowledge or experience from. The generals of today, two of whom
served in the Vietnam tragedy, generals who suffer Julius Caesar complexes
hoping to become president of the United States, also have as their primary
aspiration the Death Wish to see the armed forces that was not in the
Vietnam “War” become an armed force that they think ought to be today: a
genuine worldwide warmonger and an even more real victrix. These
generalissimos are out to prove to the world that they can accomplish what
was not carried through in Vietnam: Win!

* * *

On 9 November 1967 I was sitting at the edge of a foxhole sloshing with my

boots the monsoon rain water that had fallen during the night—boots
(green-canvassed at their sides and with steel-plated soles) that I had not
taken off for three days...the Cambodian border was at my back...I was
reading A Discourse on Political Economy by Jean-Jacques Rousseau...I was
smoking an Antonio y Cleopatra Grenadier cigar...I was waiting for a wave
of Huey choppers to come in and “extract” me and my infantry company
from one miserable mountain and then to be plopped onto another...”My
Girl” by The Temptations foated in the late morning's breeze.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!! Lieutenant!!!

I looked up and there stood an eighteen-year-old grunt from Tennessee

screaming at me—his eyes fooded with tears, frustration, and anger. In his
hands he held a copy of Stars & Stripes—the soldier's daily newspaper. The
headline he had thrust in my face explained the motive for his excitement:
JACKIE KENNEDY VISITS CAMBODIA.

“Lieutenant, how could she do that?

How could she go on a vacation there
while we are fghting here?
How could she be so inconsiderate?”
72
I tried to calm him down and succeeded somewhat. I just kept repeating
myself to make him understand how we had been put into a diffcult
situation, and the best that we could do was to put up with it until our year
was up. Surely, there were not enough words to ease his torment, but the
fact that I had listened appeared to alleviate a bit his baffement. The
approaching choppers clock-clocked their presence in the distance. We
had to get ready to go—to saddle up.

In the air I pondered the matter over and over and over. I thought back to a
little concise statement I once had seen carved on my university dorm's
bathroom door: WE DO TO BE—Sartre; WE BE TO DO—Camus; DO
BE DO BE DO—Sinatra. I at once felt I had to do something; I sensed I
had to choose to be free; and, I convinced myself I could not let this
predicament go unchallenged, could not let it escape the scrutiny of those
who had sent us to war. I wanted this dilemma to be disentangled.

I wrote a letter to the president of the United States, Lyndon Baines

Johnson, protesting the circumstances. Further, I asked him if I could
resign my commission in the middle of a war just as Secretary of Defense
Robert McNamara had done just then recently. I took the letter to my
Division Artillery commander, a full-bird colonel on the general's
promotion list, and asked him for his advice. He looked at me sternly, then
commented succinctly:

“Lieutenant, if you want to make the army

your career, don't send it.”

He saluted me; I saluted him. He walked away. Promotion! Promotion!!

Promotion!!! That was the obsession on most offcers' minds in Vietnam. I
strolled to the unit's mail drop.

I received a letter from Under Secretary of State for Asian Affairs, Dixon
Donnelley, instructing me to pay heed to the South East Asian Treaty
Organization (SEATO), and listen to the advice of my superiors. (I would
not do otherwise!) A few weeks passed before I was removed from the feld
—combat zone. A supply sergeant in Bravo Charlie told me I was a “Poppa
India,” Political Infuence, and would not be sent to the feld again for fear
I might “subvert” the thinking of the troops! He told me I would be
assigned to those slots reserved for “dummy” lieutenants, and the record of
73
those assignments would guarantee the end of my Army career. Why was I
so lucky?

At this time, the events leading to the battle of Dak To were fermenting. My
former unit had been involved in the initial contacts of what would come to
be the biggest battle of the “war.” My ex-company lost thirteen men and
numerous wounded were reported. The unit was effectively deactivated.
Individuals sent in my place were killed in action. What I had originally
conceived to be a diffcult, but necessary, decision made on my part, turned
out also to be a tragedy for others.

Wherever I went after, to whatever unit I was attached to, I did my best, did
what I was expected to do, did what all soldiers in Vietnam did:
SCRATCHED OFF THE DAYS to DEROS. I was called a coward. I was
called a hippie. I was called Lieutenant Fuzz. “Sticks and stones will break
your bones...”

For many years subsequently, I mused on what Jacqueline Kennedy might

have answered me if I had come to inform her about this absurd chain of
events edifying neither for her nor for me.

Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit.

In August 1968, after DEROSing from Fort Lewis, Washington in the state
of Washington, a dream of mine came true. For months I had built castles
in the air, to keep my sanity, that one day I would be lying in a bathtub
flled with hot water and soap suds, with a book or magazine in my hands,
with a cigar, and listening to classical music (New York's WQXR) sounding
round me. I had chosen the Essex House near Central Park in New York to
appreciate this trance. Apart from my own family's acknowledgements
(WELCOME HOME FROM THE WAR!), the only other bonus welcome I
ever was to receive on coming home from Vietnam, was this one: When my
cab pulled up to the front door of the exquisite Essex House, the doorman
saluted me, inquired if I was the lieutenant coming back from Vietnam, and
after that gave me the number of my room in which I found a bowl of fruit
and a chilled bottle of champagne—on the house! I could not have asked
for anything more. And I never did—some say, my most fatal mistake. I was
so deliriously relieved to be alive. To be in one piece—without having been
shot or missing a leg or an arm or both. I cannot admit that Vietnam made
74
me crazy—if I am crazy! And if I am crazy, I am sure of one thing: I was
crazy before going to Vietnam!

From good comes bad, and from bad comes good. Distant from the many
dreadful episodes I eye-witnessed in Vietnam, I have to concede that
Vietnam was, for me, one of the most instructive, rewarding experiences of
my life. Why? Vietnam taught me—rather harshly you might say—the value
of Life. Before my tour there, I had glided through Life almost
nonchalantly. Now, I was “safe” back home with my body and mind still
tense from a excruciating trying year. When I heard a frecracker go off, or
a car backfre in the street, I sprang instinctively and saw myself “hitting the
dirt” on my elbows with my rife cradled in my arms. My life had been in
danger. Someones had tried to take it away from me. All of this rigidity
oozed out of my nervous system in the months to come. I have never had
nightmares about my year in Vietnam, nor do I wake up in cold sweats
during the night over it. I killed no one in Vietnam. People attempted to
kill me, and I can thank them only because I survived. Many others I knew
—about forty—did not. War is Hell and Hell is those who send you to war.

There remains one additional “advantage” from serving in some army, and
another artilleryman expressed it thusly:

“Military life is the peacefulness

of a life where one's occupations
are more strictly regulated
and one's imagination less trammeled upon
than in any other, where pleasure is
more constantly present because
we have not time in rushing
about looking for it to run away from it....”

Nonetheless, I would not counsel military life as being one to be glad about.
My familiarity with military life has made me all the more a nonviolent
antagonist of it.

Over the years I have passed through intense periods of bitterness over the
United States' involvement in the Vietnam “War.” Still, even these have
dissipated themselves into the Past I think because I no longer live in the
DisUnited States. The last time I viewed the United States (Miami) was 31
December 1975. I have remained an opponent of the Vietnam “War,” a
75
dissident, intellectually and I do all that I can to caution the government of
the United States from entering other similar campaigns. (Americans are a
wonderful people—if they are not bombing you.) When I set off for
Vietnam in 1967, there was no compelling motive for me to escape to
Canada, or risk a jail sentence in an Army stockade. I simply intuited that I
had had still another dose of bad luck—as I had suffered, for example, by
going to the seminary. This was part of Life, too, I thought. I sensed I had
been “Chosen” and nothing could alter my Fate. An act of liberation would
one day come for me—perhaps on another occasion. To this day, I cannot
forgive and forget that the people of the United States of America had sent
us defective projectiles that were later used to kill American troops when
enemy soldiers made booby traps out of them. This, as it turned out,
became a sort of the liberation I had been asking for. What better reason
could I have had for not wanting ever again to live with the greedy
Americans? When I left the DisUnited States for good on 31 December
1975, felt justifed in doing so. (Americans are not crazy because they went
to Vietnam; rather, they are crazy for still wanting to live in the DisUnited
States!) When Vietnam veterans went berserk and committed even mass
murders, I could understand their debilitating frustrations, but I cannot
sympathize with their murderous exploits. Vietnam is their problem; it is no
longer mine. I offer my fellow “grunts” this counsel: You are not crazy for
going to Vietnam; but, you are crazy to continue to live in the United States
with that mentality that sent you to Vietnam—the same mentality that
continues to send innocent soldiers to die for their country in countries
that don't even want them in their presence. Making money was more
important than giving us the options right-wingers are wont to brag—
winning the invisible Vietnam “War.” More than anything else, I cannot
exonerate the United States of America for not giving me the opening to be
what I have always wanted to be: a hero. I regard it as a certainty that my
country, the United States, betrayed me and I am not going to give it the
leeway to do it once again.

Outside most division base camps and even battalion command posts
(Tactical Operations Center “TOCs”) farther out in the “boonies,” “sin
cities” had sprouted up to offer GIs access to haircut and laundry facilities,
bars with recorded music, and prostitutes. One story, I cannot confrm,
reported that an only one of its kind strain of syphilis, without cure,
afficted thousands of GIs who had to be quarantined on Okinawa to
prevent them from proliferating the sickness in the continental United
76
States. “Do you 'BOOM, BOOM'?” was the come-on for young Vietnamese
girls who were often exceptionally attractive. Today, Vietnam is populated
with thousands and thousands of illegitimate Vietnamese children whose
fathers only stopped off for a few minutes of sexual entertainment.

Of course, too, there were considerable acts of other forms of carnage

perpetrated against Vietnamese women. Firstly, their children might fall
prey to erratic artillery shelling or be injured or killed in traffc accidents
caused by careless, reckless youthful American soldiers. When search and
destroy missions were ordered, often to vindicate the deaths of other GIs
ensnared in booby traps constructed with our own ordnance, grunts time
and again went in for the “kill” rousing Vietnamese families from their
simple lives, destroying or stealing their livestock, ransacking their personal
possessions, and terrifying women and children in the most sadistic
fashion. I never was au fait with this idea—and still am not today—why
soldiers would want to make necklaces with the ears of the enemy soldiers
they had killed and then mutilated. What proft might be derived from one
United States' soldier, with an enormous smile on his face, holding in each
of his hands by the hair, arms stretched out, the heads of two Viet Cong
warriors? Perhaps the most hideous account that I had heard of, for a
second time, yet uncorroborated, was the handing over of captured North
Vietnamese nurses to members of the South Korea's Tiger Division who
gang raped the nurses, then set off emergency incendiary fares that had
been inserted into their vaginas. In all of Asia, United States of America
bloodbaths haunt the memories of the people of Japan, Korea, Vietnam,
and China. Are we to expect that in the twenty-frst century these atrocious
incidents, caused by conventional and atomic weaponry, will be eradicated
from the minds of peoples with the drinking of Coca-Cola, the eating of
hamburgers drenched with ketchup, the use of regular and super
Tampaxes, or the installation of Microsoft's XP? Would that that could be
so?

Being far away from women for an entire year, only stimulated me the more
to put them on a pedestal: Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I erected
an Ivory Tower for them that often did not correspond to the reality of
them. And why not? I reminisced associating beautiful women whom I had
seen in issues of Playboy and who possessed attributes I had come to be in
awe of in other women that I had actually been acquainted with. I
“assembled” my idyllic woman and thought about her during the days and
77
nights after humping up a mountain for six hours in the Central Highlands'
monsoon rains. I grasped that I would never fnd this fawless creature, but
just as drooling over the thought of being in a bubbling, hot bathtub, I
granted that these fabricated daydreams were exactly what prodded me
along, what provided me with a raison d'être, what contributed to
preventing me from becoming an MIA or a KIA. I had concocted a make-
believe humankind to help me endure. The most important protagonist in
my mental theater was a gorgeous woman whom I could respect and love
and eventually be with always.

CHAPTER SEVEN

An additional “good from bad” in Vietnam that I can state stamped my life
with an indelibility I am full of pride to boast today, is the choice I made
there to, at long last, begin doing something about becoming a writer. The
Army had it that after “humping” for ffty minutes, a ten-minute pause was
in order. When I dropped down to the ground after unharnessing my gear,
I reached for one of the ten-or-so books (mostly paperbacks) I carried with
me in my rucksack in the feld. I read an enormous amount of volumes (I
calculate about seventy) and on every page I searched for what I would
need to blossom into an author. Classics, History, Biography, Poetry,
Novels, even Mao Tse-tung's Little Red Book delivered to me by helicopter in
a mail sack belonging to the American Red Cross. I was the only one in my
company who read and, naturally, I was regarded as an “eccentric” for
doing so! The selection of reading materials offered to me was intoxicating.
(Thank you, American Red Cross!) My sister sent me a subscription to The
New York Times for my birthday, and I remember seeing, on the front page,
of one edition—copies usually arrived seven to ten days late—a story
referring to my unit when they were in the Central Highlands trying to
block the Ho Chi Minh Trail. One infantry commander from, Louisiana
called me a “pinko commie” for reading the NYT!

I surmised that to grow to become a writer, I had to read what was

considered the best. And that is what I have been doing throughout my life
dedicated to composing. My rule is to read only the fnest. But, I have a big
diffculty in coordinating myself intellectually because my gamut of reading
interests is formidable. I can pick up a political science journal or a critical
book dealing with child psychiatry or a history book or a biography or a
novel or a philosophical treatise.... I am particularly fond of well-written
78
essays which I often fnd in The Times Literary Supplement or The New York
Review of Books. I do believe, however, that my breadth of reading is crucial
to my writings. I wish to cover all the “bases” in life—is this not what a
writer should do?—and offer my say in bringing to the surface some
perspective that might not have been imparted before—all the while
listening to Music! (I had to say that because at the very moment I am
writing these words, I am listening to one of my favorite songs: I Can't
Stop Loving You! Sung by Ray Charles). I have the notion that the
accumulation of all the styles of the writers I have ever read, for better or
worse, have fused to shape my own profciency.

Yet for me, maybe, the most important decision of my life—I had actually
made it when I had sixteen years of age and saw that manuscript of Buckley
on the foor in his Manhattan town hose bedroom—was the choice I had
caused myself to make to become a writer, to be ready to step up and fnally
do something to make real my aspiration, to set a plan, to set a target, to get
going.... I had sealed this resolution in the Central Highlands of Vietnam
yearning so earnestly to get back home, in one piece, and on my merry way
to becoming a writer. The United States Army had given me a lacuna in
which I reviewed my life and generated the courage needed to do what I
regarded as best for me. I was jubilant with the thought of getting back to
the United States to embark on the vocation I had required of myself.

The frst thing I decided to do was to genufect before the Oracles of

Writings passed on to us through the Ages. I had to admit of my ignorance
and innocence. There were heaps for me to learn and assimilate into my
writing's digestive system. But how? School! I had to go back to school. I
had to fnd an academic niche that would offer me the possibility to nurture
my passion, to help it to bud. This university had to tender two things: it
had to demonstrate to me, in a “soft” way, my stupidity, and it had to direct
me to the meaning of excellence. In no way would this university be a
black-shirted Roman Catholic institution of high learning! Remember, I
was liberating myself! I was choosing for me, for a change!

In no manner, shape, or form would this university be located in New York

where I could be sucked into doing that which others desired of me to do
for them. Uncles might want me to become a junior executive for Merrill
Lynch Pierce Fenner & Smith or the Woolworth company. Or an aunt
might want to present me to her friends in New York's City Hall. No way.
79
These opinionated nincompoops had sent me to Vietnam—with defective
artillery rounds!—and I never wanted to look at them in their faces again. I
wanted freedom. I wanted to be happy. I did not want to become a beer-
drinking, Camel-smoking junior executive in some corporate headquarters
that I suspected as being as much a strait-jacket as the Roman Catholic
church and the United States Army had been for me before. I would go
south! To the Sun & Fun of Florida! Bye, bye New York! And you, New
York, know what you can do with all those stocks belonging to munitions'
conglomerates that manufacture artillery shells!

Florida was more brainless than I ever could have imagined. On the
contrary, from good comes...!” The University of Miami in the city of Miami
and the University of Florida in the city of Gainesville, put me to seriously
studying and to seeking overpoweringly the meaning of excellence. I
romped around, too, in The Sunshine State enjoying its warmth and
Nature and shaking off the strain Vietnam had imposed upon my body and
mind. Just before the end of 1968, I was beginning to enjoy Life in a way I
never had done before: I was deciding for myself. What a new experience!
It was infnitely wonderful! Exhilarating! Add to this the fact that a veritable
renaissance of popular music was fowering all over the United States and
Europe after having years been ferociously muffed by the tragic death of
John F Kennedy, I had to admit that this was the happiest of times for me. I
was beginning to get to know myself as I would have liked to do so—all the
time to the beat of an astounding spurt of musical creativity. I could not
have been happier. Even today, a song from the 1960s or 1970s takes me
back to a place with a pleasurable reminiscence to exist in for some
moments.

At the University of Miami I was counseled to take a mélange of

undergraduate and graduate courses to attain the equivalence of an
undergraduate major in English. After, I could apply to graduate school
and study for a master's degree in English. The University of Florida had a
better reputation than the English department at the University of Miami,
so I headed north to Gainesville after four years in Miami where I also had
enjoyed working as a journalist with The Hollywood Herald and Miami's The
Miami Herald. I would have liked to become a flm and/or book critic, but
no such openings were accessible for me at The Miami Herald. I have always
bemoaned this. I also served two years as a social worker with Florida
State's Division of Family Services, worked on weekends as a
80
photographer, and taught Introduction to Ancient Philosophy in the Fort
Lauderdale Adult Education program at night. I even drove a taxi for ten
days when my unemployment benefts expired.

If William F Buckley, Jr had given me the inspiration to grow to be a

penman, Professor William R Robinson, at the University of Florida,
furnished me with the means to do so. During my sojourn at the University
of Miami, I had become ever more curious about literary criticism, and my
longing to be a critic remained high on my list of priorities. I was informed
that Professor Robinson would be my faculty adviser and thesis director if
ever I reached that point. Because I worked during the day while attending
the University of Florida—I sold paper and chemicals used in photocopying
machines and vended whisky and wine for a distributing company in
Jacksonville—I could only attend night courses and these were not usually
helpful in setting me in a particular direction of specialization for a master's
degree. Yet, this did not bother me because I just wanted to fll my mind
with all the best writers and the best of criticism that I could fnd all the
time being guided by professionals in the feld of English.

WRR was the best thing that could have happened to me at that place and
time in my fragile, confused state. I have always been grateful to him even
though now I cannot express my appreciation because I no longer live in
the United States. He was a weighty academic expert and a kind, generous
human being who was benevolent and affable to me and anyone else who
entered into his orb of infuence. He could not be unapproachable to his
students, and what was unique about him was the way he stimulated us: he
provoked us to think and create simply by soliciting answers to questions
he proposed to us—ripostes we would feel we reached on our own
initiative. WRR's style was laid back. He was coolheaded, relaxed. He never
fretted, and being around him one would be aware of being in calm waters,
confdent that a method was there in the offng not only about matters
related to English Literature, but indeed Life. WRR was the most excellent
mentor I could have happed upon, and I almost was caused to feel that I
was going on board a ship called Hope.

This thought just now crossed my mind: When I was at Fort Sill in the
rocket-missile training battalion, a non-commissioned offcer, Sergeant
Jefferson, had used a comparable Zen-like modus operandi teaching me the
ins and outs of the Science of the Artillery and Rocketry. If—during the
81
countless times I had plummeted into the pits of hesitation—I approached
Sergeant Jefferson with an inquiry he knew merited a positive “yes”
response, a reply I, too, suspected to be so, he would smile at me and then
quiz me: “Lieutenant, does a cat have an asshole?” I would reel with
laughter. Or, if I was looking for something in our battery's headquarters
and should have known where the object was, if I asked Sergeant Jefferson,
he would fing this back at me: “Lieutenant, if it was up your ass, you
would know where it was!” I have always gained more knowledge from
living beings who have been considerate and witty with me than those who
have been menacing and/or autocratic. Roman Catholic priests had tutored
me mostly to be as far away from them as possible, yet from them I grasped
the terrible side of blind arrogance and cold-hearted clout living under
their sleight-of-hand words of power and quests for absolute domination—
a percipience that would come in handy one day when I could be occupied
with writing political essays concerning my experiences in Venezuela and
Italy.

On the faps of the jacket of my autographed copy of WRR's stunning

success, Edwin Arlington Robinson: A Poetry of the Act (The Press of Western
Reserve University: 1967), this comment can be found: “...The author
further shows that Robinson (the poet; no relation toWRR) evolved a more
complex and subtle form of realism than he inherited. Abandoning what he
thought of as naive objectivity, he put the mind back into the world—and
created a poetry of the act. Seen in this way Robinson's poetry becomes a
vital bridge between the old order and the new, a poetry that crosses the
threshold into the twentieth century and the age of Existentialism.
Understanding Robinson (the poet) becomes a means of understanding
other poets like Frost and Stevens, who have usually been set apart from
him....”

I came under the wing of WRR when he was in the grips of conjuring up a
new “act”—one for himself; a gift for all of us. WRR was going to erect his
own bridge over which he would pilot us still farther from the Old Order to
something truly far-reaching. That was what WRR was all about: being
avant-garde. He had launched his career with an undergraduate degree in
Philosophy (1952) from the Ohio State University, and you can see in
everything he writes a philosophical penchant. WRR carved out of a
visionary's block and his vision, in the end, turned his head directly away
from literary criticism to what he came to see, from his ponderings, the
82
newly-fnagled means to a newfound interpretation of the order of existing
things: the reality of the Image. But how was this New Order to come to
pass? Through Film. From this world of images, WRR sought to succor a
new “creed” and prod us along to a still higher artistic loftiness of freedom
and growth.

In the 1960s WRR was one of the frst to perceive the magnitude of Film
and the coming explosion of its potentiality. At the same time I was being
taught literary criticism by him, he was breaking down barriers all over the
United States—mainly at English teacher association meetings—fghting
with all his might to have Film recognized as subject matter in English
departments throughout the nation. His pioneer laboring opened the doors
for many English scholars who had diligently begun to treat Film with the
equivalent dignity Literature had been cared for for centuries. His struggles
bore fruit at the time, we must remember, when stodgy conservatives held
on tightly to their scepters of supremacy and authoritativeness at smoke-
flled faculty meetings. WRR, the subtle, patient breaker-down of
established codes and tight-fsted tradition, softly—with his brawn for
insight and inquiry—fipped over a good part of the Old Order for us to
catch sight of—to visualize—a New Order. Jobless English students with
masters' degrees or PhDs got jobs. Many of them also managed to get
deferrals from the draft which might have sent them to the Vietnam
battlefelds.

When I came home to Gainesville after a long day of selling in the beautiful
north-central part of Florida, I moseyed on over to Anderson Hall for my
evening's English classes. Weekends slipped away with my head bent in
books or doing research in the UF library. I did not know it at the time, but
at the Red Lion tavern downtown, PhD candidates and faculty members
and other students were congregating there to soak up the Film philosophy
of WRR, and set off a new movement to delight and enlighten all of us. I
never knew about these soirees, and I regret that I did not have the
possibility to join in on the fun and brain stretches. I have read about them
from others who were in attendance, and I know I missed something both
genuinely ground-breaking and intellectually frizzante. Nevertheless, I am
content to know that WRR was a friend and infuence who encouraged me
to go in directions I had never thought I could ever follow.

This summer (2003) I ordered from www.amazon.com a compilation of

83
many of the essays WRR had written on Film. Seeing Beyond: Movies,
Visions, and Values. He had previously mailed some of them to me here in
Italy. His esprit, as always, is formidable. He argues persuasively that the
cinema/movies are a revolutionary moral force. Let us listen to the
concluding refections of one of his essays, “The Movies, Too, Will Make
You Free,” in the anthology: “...Out of the darkness and chaos of the
theater beams a light; out of nothingness is generated brilliant form,
existence suspended somewhere between the extremes of total darkness
and total light. Performing its rhythmic dance to energy's tune, the movie
of the imagination proves, should there be any doubt, that cinema, an art of
light, contributes more than any other art today to feshing out the
possibilities for good within an imaginative universe....”

At UF I also took courses in English Romantic poetry, the novel, flm, and
even science fction which I loathe. The courses I accumulated did little to
fx me on a determined bearing, but had I taken a few others, I probably
would have been awarded an MA degree without having to write a thesis.
This did not ft well with me, and I would have preferred to continue
reading those courses which related to literary criticism eventually fnding
something about which I could write a thesis. Another reality fgured to
enter the picture: the job market was glutted with English teachers, and if
you told someone you were studying English, they usually looked at you as
if you were crazy. Was I going to have to wait for WRR to put his Film
hopes into English departments' curricula? In fact, in the years to come,
WRR's heroic efforts to put Film into English departments, helped to open
new prospects for students specializing in the relatively new discipline. I
did not have enough credits to qualify as a teacher of Film. I missed that
Boat just as I had missed the literary criticism Ship.

In all this time I never lost sight of my true aim: to be a writer. For fun, I
wrote for the Gainesville Sun, a The New York Times Company. I also had
papers to write for class assignments. Journalism never was very stimulating
for me, but I enjoyed seeing my by-line on the edition I had written for.
Once, I covered the Nixon White House on Key Biscayne for The Miami
Herald, and my story appeared on page two! I was thrilled to know that
500,000 copies of my story were being circulated in the south Florida
region. I recently have been published on the Internet
(www.scribd.com/thewordwarrior), but I have no idea how many people
have read my articles on that blog. Journalism, as I know it, id est, North
American journalism, is not very much to my liking—for the most part. I
84
appreciate good English journalism more, but for me the best of journalism
today can be found on London's The Times Literary Supplement. Whether
one believe's in the TLS's slant or not, their articles are exquisitely
developed and written exceptionally well. In the United States I never felt
free about what I was writing, and always had hanging over my head the
idea that I had to know what I should not write instead of concentrating on
exploring The Truth I assumed I should have been pursuing. Of course,
there are exceptions to this rule in the United States, this “baby nation,”
but here I am talking about the three newspapers I reported for in the
United States and one, The Daily Journal, a Central Stupidity Agency front
in Caracas, Venezuela, where I served as a copy editor. There is always a
“line” to be abided by in North American journalism—I sadly suppose in
most other newspapers throughout, at least, the Western world. I, rather,
wanted to do with my writing something more profound, lasting. I did not
want to be subservient to an advertising budget policy. I wished to write the
raw Truth of the matter at hand. Or, if I was to “lie” being a writer, why not
do it composing novels for myself and my readers and not for a newspaper
out to protect some president of the DisUnited States who would, in a short
time, be proved by himself to be an imbecile? Would I not feel more
liberated, at ease lying by myself, for myself?

In short time my life would be altered in the most drastic of ways, and then,
shortly after, I would be brought to write, fnally, but out of complete
desperation. At this time at UF I was starting to feel glum over the fact that
while my head was full of ideas for writing, and I now possessed the
mechanics to do so, there was something missing, something specifc that
was holding me back from becoming a bona fde writer: the subject to write
about and the passion to accomplish this feat. Surely, Vietnam was the
obvious fertile ground to implant my writing seed. I had written (1970) an
article, The Hippie Lieutenant, for Playboy magazine, and while assistant
editor Geoffrey Norman spoke well of it (“The diffculty with your article
was simply a matter of editorial suitability. Having had some experience
with Vietnam myself, I'd be glad to see material like yours flling the pages
of the magazine, but I have to consider our general editorial nature.”) it did
not win acceptance. In general, I was very discouraged, but worse, I had no
path to follow. I had to toughen myself and concentrate the more on
attaining my goal even though I had no plan or idea how to actualize it. I
was appallingly isolated.

85
One torrid, north-central Floridian afternoon, in Gainesville—I cannot
remember the day or month or year, it was very sunny and the central air-
conditioning in my bedroom was humming and puffng cool air from the
vent over the bedchamber's door frame—I put aside the critical article on
John Keats (my favorite poet) I was refecting upon and glanced into the
grass-covered courtyard of the apartment complex in which I had been
residing on the city's outskirts. A statuesque woman in a denim mini-dress
was hauling a large plastic basket to the laundry room available to all the
lessees of the group of apartment buildings that mingled together in Tudor
style and blended nicely with the pine trees which populated the lovely
landscaped grounds. The woman's auburn hair was braided into a long
pony tail that dropped along her spine reaching the small of her back, her
hefty breasts heaved as she ascended a knoll so I knew she was braless, and
she pinched that Vantage cigarette, I would forever associate with her,
between her right index fnger and middle fnger as she clutched her
laundry close to her midsection. Her legs were very lovely formed, and I
imagined the bulk of her buttocks by following the fesh of her luscious
thighs after they disappeared at the hem of her shortened dress. She was
truly a beauty and I kept my fngers crossed that she might turn, before she
reached the laundry room, so that I could see her face.

The love story that was to fower that day and continue on for about two
years before she died of breast cancer, rewarded me with one of the most
intense experiences of my life, and it gave me the root, at long last, in the
most vicious manner, to write my frst manuscript. It was this juncture that
would carry me to the deepest depths of despair I have ever known, and it
would teach me something excruciating signifcant about Love and Life.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In one of Barbra Streisand's songs she wails that we remember only the
good times, that life—with all of its ups and downs—offers us Time to
mend those mental gashes which we inevitably come to bear during our
existences. True enough. Yet, I still remember sitting on the foor of our
bedroom in Palo Alto in Caracas, my hand clutched to my taut stomach,
listening to Chicago's “If You Leave Me Now,” sobbing as the 33 LP turned
round and round and round; and, Gary Pluckett and the Union Gap's “We
Choose It, Win or Lose It.” Love is never quite the same; I loved you now
I've lost you. So kiss me goodbye and I'll try not to cry.... I had been
86
brought down to the bottom of an emotional pit. My anguish was unreal. I
thought I could lose my mind mulling over and over and over this grandest,
for me, of tragedies. I think back now to our time together in Caracas...

When we left our little fanciful world each morning to go to work, we took
a deep breath, sucking it in with all of our might, and scurried on out into
the street for the block-long walk to the snack bar for coffee, then on to her
consultorio in Edifcio Cavendes and then to my offce at the Ministerio del
Informacion y Turismo at Parque Central. An epic of flthy, soiling
substances malicious, mean and depraved, was about to punch us in the
eyes and defne for me, symbolically, the horror of Caracas and the
debasement to which its citizens had been sentenced to for a life term.

We walked out of our apartment hand in hand ready for all and prepared
for anything. Watch out, there's a pile of dog excrement! Next, a clustered
mass of bloody, tuberculous, stringy, thick mucus. We sidestep. Oh, yes!
The garbage. For eight days it has been piling up. Big orange plastic bags
with green alligators emblazoned on them. Twenty, thirty, forty in huge
heaps in front of apartment buildings. The bags on the bottom have
popped from the weight on top, and rivulets of scummy liquid—putrid
smelling and toxic and emetic and emerald—are squiggling down the
avenida never to reach a clogged underground conduit, but to peter out
after a ten meter journey—that Dry Cleaner in the Sky, at 36° centigrade
putting a damper on any ambitiousness the sleazy, poisonous slime might
care to incubate. Look! There's a man blowing out of his nose a string of
mucus. He has, ceremoniously, put the index fnger of his right hand on his
right nostril, has blocked it, has turned left, and has snorted nasal mucus
into the street. Now, he is doing it again, to the other external opening in
his nose. Oh, no! The spray has speckled the lenses of my glasses! Here
comes a beggar. Not a panhandler earning $50,000 a year in Times Square,
but an honest-to-goodness poor person: hungry and desperate. His hands
are deformed; he is caked with crud; and he limps. Gonza, my multi-
millionaire (stashed away dollars; not worthless bolivares) amante offciates
for me: “Why don't you look for a job, señor?” We're headin' on down the
dusty trail to Avenida Francisco de Miranda and the Embassy of the United
States of America. Look at the humid, polluted haze jelled by the hot sun.
Always, always, always big, round, beautiful posteriors of women to see in
the streets, the women fnally coming around to wearing pants, jeans.
Posteriors pear-shaped. Some like the wooden bodies of mandolins. Look
87
at that bloated dog dead now for four days. Posteriors bulging out at the
seams. I see a man smoking cheap Cherry Blend pipe tobacco in his four-
hundred dollar Dunhill. There is a group of kids playing ball with broom
sticks and soda and beer bottle caps. Ah, yes, another assemblage of
juvenile delinquents kicking a “ball” made of newspaper and bound
together with shoplifted strips of black electricians' tape. Motorcycles,
motorcycles, motorcycles. Few use the wasteful and incompetent
Venezuelan postal system. Motorcycle drivers proceed by sharp turns in
alternating directions seeking out names and addresses, then a cruise or
two running through bus stops to grab a pocketbook or a dangling gold
chain. They wear the helmets of Nazis, baseball batters, Moroccan police
chiefs, English dukes, North American football players, and Kamikaze
pilots. Here is an interesting sight: a four-door, black, 1963 Ford Maverick,
with Mercedes-Benz hubcaps, is zig-zagging and jerking its way on down
the street. In the front seat are four teenage boys, and in the back seat four
teenage girls. On the hood, there are two teenage boys, sons of prominent
Venezuelan lawyers. The driver, jolting the car by racing it and suddenly
stopping it, is trying to knock his two giggling friends to the ground while
they lean back onto the windshield grabbing for the radio antenna. Watch
it! Another pile of dog pooh-pooh. Get into the street fast! Can't walk on
the the sidewalk! It is blocked with parked motorcycles, and two of the
motorcyclists are fghting with baseball bats. Bow your head! We are
passing a funeral parlor. La Voluntud de Dios. The Will of God. The bereaved
are gathered in front laughing, joking, drinking coffee and whisky, held in
white-gold plastic chalices. Three of the bewailers are frocked in black
mourning sweatshirts richly ornate with the heraldic devices and armorial
bearings of the IOWA STATE UNIVERSITY, PLAYBOY CLUB, and
PROPERTY OF THE FLORIDA STATE PRISON. To the left: there's a
puddle of stagnant water with mosquito larvae growing on top. Floating on
it is this ripped news clipping from Caracas's English-written newspaper,
The Daily Journal: “It was reported yesterday that Caracas, after number
one Yokohama, has the second largest incidence of bronchitis, emphysema,
and respiratory diseases in the entire world.” Careful here comes a
motorcycle heading on at us! See the building? They are all fenced in and
barbed wire crowns the tops of these structures that enclose. If there are
thick masonry constructions which serve to protect, their uppermost
surfaces are speckled with shards of broken bottles cemented into the high
shelves. Another beggar coming our way. See the slogans painted on the
walls of the apartment buildings? SEXO DROGA Y ROCK. GOLPE
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AHORA. YANQUI, GO HOME. MILITARES, SI. PINOCHET, EL
ASESINO. VENEZUELA FUERA DE NICARAGUA. MALVINAS, SI.
GRINGOS, NO. QUIEN MATO RENNY? CAP MATO REENNY...See the
delivery truck with the fve-gallon bottles of “mineral water?” The water in
Caracas is so heavily treated with chemicals, when it runs, you must drink
mineral water. But before you do, you have to boil the fungi out of it! Here
comes two policemen on a 150cc Honda. They are wearing baseball batters'
helmets and loaded burp guns are slung at their sides. Press an intercom
button at the front door of an apartment building. It doesn't function.
What works in Caracas? Little green spot lights—á la Miami. A broken
Buchanan scotch bottle. A smashed-to-smithereens Cointreau bottle.
Empty Polar beer cans. Old cars with unfxed dents. No hubcaps. No
strippings. Headlights punched out. Broken brake lights with red
cellophane paper scotch-taped to them. High beams at night dangerously
out of whack, and splashed forty-fve degrees askew. And they are building
a subway under it all! See that man unlocking his Mercedes-Benz?
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
Off goes his electronically installed and controlled sssssssssssssssssssssssss
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn alarm.
He takes his time going to silence it. There's a bank guard with a loaded
shotgun and another with an M-16 rife. Big posteriors. Big violent women's
posteriors! A pool of vomit. On top, an editorial from The Daily Journal:
CARACAS'S DEARTH OF PARKS: “Landscape architect Eduardo
Robles Piquer gave the sad statistics at the gathering commemorating the
15th anniversary of AVEPANE, the Venezuelan organization that so
admirably tackles the problem of the mentally retarded in this country.
While Madrid, London, and New York offer their inhabitants 8, 10, and 12
meters square of green area per person respectively, Caracas has only 1.5
meters square for each of its residents—and that is counting the patios and
gardens of quintas in the eastern part of the city. While this lack of parks is
detrimental for the entire population, it is particularly so for the young and
less fortunate. The are deprived of natural recreational areas, and their
almost total absence of any contact with Nature can easily produce
emotional disturbances. It is estimated that 60% of Caracas's population is
under eighteen years of age. We are waiting with interest to see if the new
urban planning authorities will do anything to remedy this situation.
Action, within the limits of feasibility, is called for without delay. “ The
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President's Task Force Commission Concerning the Logic of Exploding
Atomic Weapons to Alleviate Human suffering in Caracas, met today amid
a furry of controversy. Look! The political graffti on the United States's
embassy's walls is never whitewashed. See the man picking his nose? See
the girl leaning out of her car's front window to pluck her eyebrows in the
sideview mirror? See the man squeezing his blackheads using the window
of a farmacia as a mirror? See the big-breasted woman pulling out, with a
tweezer, black hairs growing between her two mammary glands? Holes in
the street flled to their brims with oily, drossy, dark water. Horns tooting.
Horns blasting. Horns menacing. Horns sounding signs of portent. See the
shoeshine boy? He is ten years old. No school for him. Sits on an emptied
powdered milk can. He shines away. That's a seventy-fve-year-old man
sharpening knives by peddling a make-shift motor attached to his bicycle.
He blows on a four-chord whistle to attract customers. And a shoe
repairman from Portugal who sits in front of Edifcio Cavendes and fxes
your heels and soles while you wait. Fresh bread scents foating out of the
panaderias to be poisoned by smog. Refreshing fowers for sale in the
streets, bunched in twelves, packaged with newspaper, bound with rubber
bands, and dying in the heat. The traffc is...well, the traffc is...Finally to
our coffee. The cafeterias'a foor is laden with empty plastic coffee cups and
cut-up straws which were used as stirrers. Little vacant packets of fexible ,
cellulose paper employed to hold sugar, sparkle on the dirty, stained
linoleum foor. Four men frantically labor behind the counter. One
honchoes jugos naturales, the second attacks the the ancient Italian Faema
coffee-maker, the third throws taut strings of beef and chicken and ham
and cheese and dried-out pork into sliced maiz-four biscuit-like paddies,
arepas, and the fourth stows the fast-fowing cash. Dinero es primero! The
aroma of the rich, red coffee beans, cerezas, powdered to red-brownish fuff
in the electric grinder, leaks to our nostrils. These beans have an
interesting history. Supposedly, coffee originated in Ethiopia, but no one
knows for sure. The cafetos, cultivated coffee trees, need to be protected
from the Sun and wind. They must fourish in the shade. Every year when
they are ready for plucking, poor men go into the felds of Brazil, Colombia,
and Venezuela to snatch the coffee beans off the branches of the cafetos.
Then the edible seeds are spread out on huge patios to dry in the Sun.
After the drying out, the pods are toasted and enlarge themselves to
marketable size. And so, on the corner of Avenida Francisco de Miranda ,
in front of Edifcio Cavendes, I hug and kiss Gonza goodbye and we head
out to work. Suddenly, I hear a CRUNCH!!! I turn to see an eleven-year-old
90
boy gulping in shock and pain. He has been hit by a car, and the two bones
of his lower leg—between the knee and ankle—are broken and bent like an
elbow wrench. There is no blood. The kid's friend is holding him close, not
knowing what to do. The driver of the car that struck the boy, has taken off
for the colinas, screeching rapidly away. To my utter amazement, a
Venezuelan businessman, in Gucci suit and Pierre Cardin tie, driving a
1977 Chevrolet Caprice Classic, imported, air-conditioned and ftted with a
Pioneer stereo system and a pink plastic gorilla dangling from its rearview
mirror, signals the boys to get into his car, and zooms off to the nearest
public hospital where the boy's leg might be set correctly. On 15 August
1977, all banks and savings and loan associations will remain closed for a
religious holiday celebrating the Assumption of the Virgin Mary into
Heaven. The Caracas stock market will also be cerrado. Another kiss,
darling?

I cannot say that I found Caracas incomparably beautiful or hospitable.

When I was there (1975-1983) Caracas was a huge metropolitan energy
trying to become “modern,” or something like that. There are many
fantastic restaurants in Caracas. I was robbed three times in Caracas—two
times with pistols. I am told today (2020) a trip to Caracas is not even
recommended. The violence in the city is so deep-seated. I am truly sorry
for this.

I did learn some Spanish while I was there. For this I am grateful. I
consider myself lucky (I have been unlucky many times!), nonetheless, to
have had the perfect occasions to immerse myself in three divergent ways of
life. I could have been bogged down as a junior (senior?) executive in a New
York-based multinat drinking and smoking and sweating myself up the
“Ladder of Success” unto, maybe, a pension! I chose not to do that, and I
took the blows I had coming to me for doing so. No regrets. I can croon “I
Did It My Way!” Can you?

There are at least three delights you come into when you live in another
country and speak more than your own language. You are less bored—for
certain! There are few things more exhilarating than plopping yourself into
a strange country with $5000 as I did in 1983 when I transferred from
Caracas, Venezuela to Montecatini Terme, Italy setting out to live there
hopefully, happily ever after.

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When I saw Caracas for the frst time, I could not wait to leave it. Italy is
more calming on the nerves, but getting more unstable even as I write this
manuscript. You must relearn the meaning of everything in a new country.
That is invigorating. You do not have to be a genius to familiarize yourself
with the fact that the “C” on the shower faucet is not cold but “caliente,”
HOT! The “F” is cold, “frio.” It is not only language that you must take in,
you have to feel the “rhythmicity” of the people, their paces at drinking,
eating, working, and waiting. For the frst four or fve years, there is so
much to assimilate and decode, you are constantly absorbed in analyzing
and being stimulated to think your way through to understanding where
you are and what you are doing there. You better have a good motive or you
will be in for a very diffcult time! All of this is a natural process—a growing
(up) activity, and I have been led to believe, over the years, that people are
not put together to stay in any one place for more than six or seven years.
Most do, obviously. We just want to know more about others and ultimately
ourselves. The “triumph” of our megalopolises? Fixed in one place, this
urge frustrates itself and we suffer the consequences. In another country
you are always kept occupied trying to show others that you, too, can live
and think as your “hosts” do—when necessary! You are always at work
learning-

By switching to another parlance you change your “mental channels,” an

important beneft which offers an individual a sobering equanimity. This is
great for writers! Unfortunately, most people only speak their own
languages. I can turn on or turn off from one vernacular to another and
refresh myself just as one might turn on, or off, the television, or fip
through the channels to freshen up after a hard day's work. If I am
timeworn with Italian, I can “zap” easily to English or Spanish. Whether I
select to read a book, enter a conversation, or listen to a radio program, I
am sure to have a mental respite. I can always buy a Spanish newspaper, or
even read a French political analysis. There is always a choice for me to
make, and I never feel demarcated by my own idiolect. I am never confused
in French, Italian, or Spanish restaurants. I wish I could fnd more foreign
restaurants in Italy. I am always willing and able to digest more of the four
languages I have a familiarity with, and these “hobbies” have tended my
way a variety of methods to cultivate my tremendous desire to know more
and not only in my own language.

One also derives a very grand sense of pride and self-satisfaction. You get
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happy FIFs (Funny Inside Feelings). Before I travel by train, I stop at a
kiosk and pick up magazines and/or newspapers in four different languages,
and then I amuse myself watching the expressions of the people in my
compartment who appear to be amazed at the amount I am reading and the
languages I am reading my editions in. I do not want to sound arrogant
with you, my dear reader. I am not being haughty. I just feel so pleased
with myself, I wish to share my joy with you! Remember also, please, I had
to sacrifce much to arrive at this recompense. In fact, I am truly sorry for
those who have not had the pleasure of putting down pat another language.
El Pais, Cambio, Hola!, L'Espress, Le Monde Diplomatique (perhaps my most
favorite news journal), The Wall Street Journal (to know what the “enemy” is
thinking!), The Times Literary Supplement, Financial Times, Foreign Affairs,
The New Republic, The Nation, La Gazetta dello Sport, La Settimana
Enigmistica...All the years of study and learning come to be remunerated in
a train compartment! I feel good about what I have accomplished, and I
know most people would also want to share the wonderful experience of
being, at least, bilingual.

The Spanish language lent me a hand as I went about surviving in Caracas.

At the Ministerio de Información y Turismo I was charged with doing
translations, although my foremost activity was rewriting political articles
and speeches of prominent Venezuelan political celebrities including the
president. They had frst been translated into a horrible English from the
original Spanish. I summon up here the trips to work in a por puesto
(translated, por puesto means “Here's a seat!”) when a chauffeured car
(usually a Ford Berliner) was not assigned to me:

Converted Dodge, Chevrolet, or Ford vans, por puestos are mini buses, and
perhaps thousands of these motor vehicles for carrying passengers around
Caracas exist to complement the awkward bus system and the uncompleted
subway network. More often than not the por puesto is part of a union, a
network of drivers, but there are many “bandit” por puestos out there
scrounging up bolivares. Offcially authorized por puestos have an identifying
characteristic: a plastic, moulded sign on their roofs, lit up at night,
specifying the the ends of their runs through the busy city streets and
avenues. Each operator owns his own vehicle, and because he—rarely a
woman is seen driving a por puesto—“lives” in his micro transporter for ten
or twelve hours a day, various manners of devising the comforts of home
have being in the por puesto. Not all conductors are so interested, even
93
extravagant, about the decoration of their por puestos, but enough variations
have existence to give one a sense of anticipation when entering any one of
these public people carriers that charge from one to three bolivares,
depending on the distance of their routes. Por puestos run along calles y
avenidas and, except in heavily-traffcked areas where they are assigned
load-unload zones, might stop anywhere along their itineraries to accept or
discharge passengers.

One morning I hopped up into an imported lavender Chevrolet for my

early morning trip to Parque Central where my work place with the
ministerio (MIT) was located. In harmonizing with the very pale-violet paint
job on the exterior, the driver had taken the pains to jazz up the inside with
black and red shag rugs, rose-tinted seat covers, and pastel purple gloss
paint on the walls of the van's cabin area. Indirect lighting provided the por
puesto with a subdued atmosphere. Electric buzzes had been installed on
the sides, conveniently positioned so passengers could notify the chauffeur
—who really was always within speaking distance; por puestos on the
average, seat nine to thirteen people—of the point of their automotive
disembarkations. A stereo system, with speakers set acoustically in a state of
undiminished excellence, piped pleasing, light Venezuelan waltzes which
eased the way to the piles of paper on my desk. The windows of the por
puesto were tinted smoke gray. A NO FUMAR, POR FAVOR sign in
Latinized Helvetica lettering, gently reminded the commuters in the
conveyance not to pollute the interior with persecuting cigarette, pipe, or
cigar fumes. The dashboard of the public people mover was covered with a
reddish-purple piece of heavy fabric which in ordinary circumstances
would have been used to cover the portion of a foor. Red puffy pompoms
pulsated on the edge of it: the balls of wool aligned in a specifc
arrangement. On it, three big, round magnets were affxed and the operator
tossed on them the metal monies he received from his metropolitan
voyagers who paid up when leaving the por puesto: PAGA USTED AL
BAJAR, POR FAVOR. (in Gothic Baroque script). A blue and white statue
of the Virgin Mary was set beneath the rearview mirror on which dangled a
pair of woman's legs with a red and black silk garter attached to the left
gam. Even though it was only eight o'clock in the morning—the sun was
not yet set high up enough to molest the eyes—the pilot of our por puesto
wore expensive French sunglasses, and he gripped the steering wheel with
a pair of black-pitted leather Italian racing gloves. He wore pre-shrank
Valentino jeans, gold NIKE sneakers, and a green t-shirt that made plain
94
publicly, in bold yellow English lettering, this message which he probably
did not understand the meaning of: WHEN GOD CREATED MEN, SHE
MADE THEM SECOND BEST. An Omega diver's watch adorned his left
wrist, and a gold chain was hanging around his sweaty neck. Decals were
appended to the interior sidings of the por puesto: SONY, COCA-COLA,
CLARION, MOMA, PIONEER, FORD, PEPSI-COLA, PIERRE CARDIN,
FRUIT OF THE LOOM, HOLIDAY INN, and I LOST MY VIRGINITY IN
THE VIRGIN ISLANDS. A lilac room deodorizer scented the inside of the
transport vehicle. The por puesto was not air-conditioned, and it was
uncomfortable in the interior. On the sun visor there was a chrome-plated
picture frame encasing a formal shot of the driver's attractive wife and six
children aged about nine to eighteen years.

The look on the man's face was one of quiet resignation. He was a hard
worker, took obvious pride in his apparently successful private enterprise,
and was getting a slice of the oil pie. Capitalistic democracy was paying him
well—at least for the time being.

When a bash to the back of the Chevy jolted all of us in the por puesto, and
shattered brake lights fell to the oil-slick pavement making clinking metallic
sounds, the composure of the Venezuelan man did not alter one iota. As if
he had been rehearsing such an event for years, he reached under his seat
and pulled out a 9mm PPKS with a pearl handle, stuck it between his belt
and belly—an enormous mound of fesh that reminded me of a six-ton
African elephant in the nineteenth month of gestation—and left his por
puesto gently closing the door behind him.

I looked to the rear and saw two French women, who did not speak
Spanish, surveying the damage to their car and the por puesto. Our driver
approached them with his hands on his hips and a scorn on his face. When
the French woman driver scrutinized a pro-por-puesto-driver crowd
congregating around the scene, an obvious guilty “he was hit in the
backside (culo)” verdict uttering on the lips of witnesses, and the milky-
white handle of the PPKS glistening in the now-rising sun, she let loose a
food of tears and cushioned her head on the shoulder of her daughter who
was screaming “merde” at the top of her lungs accusing our perplexed, but
very angry, driver of scaring the “merde” out of her mother.

Perhaps it is pointless to repeat it, but “shit” is merde in French and mierda
95
in Spanish, so our operator, not a bi-linguist by any means, correctly
associated merde w i t h mierda, took merde, naturally, as an insult, then
bewailed—pointing his left index fnger at the two mesdames and resting his
right hand on his pistol's grip—a staccato bevy of choice Venezuelan
slogans which the females could not understand but felt all the more
penetratingly.

“Oú est mon ambassadeur?!!!! shrilled the daughter in a useless search for
diplomatic assistance. The crash had come about unexpectedly in one of
Caracas's more unsavory sections, not far from Parque Central, and the
women were justifed in being out of control. The tears of the tender
gender brought sudden relief to the gentlewomen, but not to two
Venezuelan passersby who had come to their rescue trying to calm down
the por puesto driver with “They're foreigners!” screeches. When our driver
realized the ladies were being defended by two of his own people, he pulled
out his pistol and held them at bay as accomplices. Traffc had been tied up
already for twenty minutes, and the shrieking sirens of two police cars
could be heard off in the distance where they were trapped in the traffc
jam caused by the accident.

Before I slid out of the por puesto, bent like a pretzel, I tossed my bolivar on
the driver's seat, then founced into the street hoping I would not be
shouted after and detained from my work at MIT to partake in flling out a
police report. Cars were passing slowly by and their occupants were
assessing the damage to the vehicle and appraising the harm to the spirits
of all the verbal combatants. I was lucky; no one saw me. It was 8:20am, and
I had to trot in my Harts Schafter & Marx business suit to make it on time
to the offce and the mountain of translations, news reports, public
relations releases, and rewrites waiting for me on my cluttered desk in my
MIT work cubicle.

CHAPTER NINE

I am the sort who likes to scream bloody murder every once in a while
especially when I believe I have absorbed too much of what I consider an
unfairness. Sometimes I apply a “one, two, three strikes—you're out”
categorical imperative of sorts to soothe my conscience and keep myself
from getting an ulcer: I think it is harmful to my being to hold in anger for
too long a time. And in Caracas, it was easy for me to want to “explode,”
96
and at times I took it all out on Gonza. Instead of being the patient,
supporting individual that I had been mostly to her when we were together
in the United States, it was her turn to console me in the throes of a
vigorous South American cultural shock. Refecting on this set of
circumstances today, I must conclude that I only wish I could have been
stronger for her at that time when—and I did not realize it—she needed me
more than ever.

When I rushed up sweating after the por puesto crash—my tie out of place
my face full of soot, my hair hanging in loose disarray—to the up button of
the Otis elevator, I eyed the progress of a modern hoist scanning with my
eyes the pace of the digital display of foor positions above the door of the
vertical shaft. My offce was accommodated in the penthouse, on top of the
twenty-two storied building.
Pip...Pip...Pip...14...13...12...11...10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...PB (Planta
Baja, the main foor.) SWISH...SWISH...CLOP: the doors opened with
the precise fraction of a second the gravitational force of the enclosure
settled at the point where the door met the foor.

I sprang to the entrance when the chime admitted the falling body had
indeed fallen, and when I raised my sights in expectation that some of the
big-bosomed telex operators on the night shift might exit, three of the
voluptuous ones plunged out shrieking inarticulately, weeping copiously.

Before I could think what might have happened, they bolted to the street
and huddled on the median strip that divided Avenida Mexico in two, and
consoled and hugged one and other until I joined them. “Temblor!”
“Temblor!!” Temblor!!!” they were shrilling in horror, mascara dripping
down their cheeks, handkerchiefs shoved to their noses. I immediately
offered my affections and mutual understandings quickly wondering how I
would have reacted if a minor Earth tremor had thrilled me on top of a
twenty-two-story high concrete mass. I touched shoulders, I pulled out my
very own handkerchief, I blotted tears lovingly, I reassured nonchalantly, I
fnally enjoined them that they relax without delay. It worked. “Tranquilla,
chicas. Tranqui! Tranqui!! Tranqui!!! They oozed off to a cafeteria on the
other side of the street fnally allayed of their intense mental anguish.

When I returned to the building, h-e-s-i-t-a-t-i-n-g-l-y, I met my boss, a

North American Brooklyn, New Yorker who had been living in Caracas for
97
more than twenty years, who had changed his citizenship to Venezuelan in
order to secure his administrative post with the Venezuelan government, I
—in ignobly fearful fashion—cautioned him offcially: “Clem, there's been a
vibrating movement in the building. Perhaps it is wise for us to wait a while
before going up.” “Wait? Wait for what? he grunted at me puzzled.

“If you're going to work in Caracas, gringo, you better get used to temblores.
and pronto. There hasn't been a quake in Caracas for more than ffteen
years. We have temblores all the time. The buildings are constructed to
absorb quakes up to 5.7 on the Richter Scale. I can't be bothered with
temblores,” he fnished tersely; and, he did not say a word to me all the way
up to the penthouse—he taken up with what was going to happen in his
action-packed offce during a day that disproportionately shivered three
communications' technicians and one transplanted Brooklyn boy.

I went to my desk as soon as we got to the crown of the edifce's head, and
put in a call to Gonza's offce excited about not only the temblor, but still
remembering the uncanniness of the por puesto ride which had undone so
abruptly the reserve of the two charming French women. Gonza listened to
me as if I were a greenhorn newspaper reporter who had received an
anonymous call specifying the evidence of a presidential sex scandal.

I blurted away at her:

“You can't believe what happened to me
on the por puesto!
“You should have seen the faces
of the two French women!”
“You can't imagine how spiteful
that por puesto driver was!”
“You wouldn't be able to guess
what happened when I was about to go
into the elevator at work today!”
“You have no idea how afraid those
telex operators were!”
“You would be shocked at how calm
my boss was when I told him
there had been a temblor in the building!”
“Take it easy, baby,”
she admonished as only she could reprove
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 kindly but seriously.
“Oh, Gonza! I was scared s**tless!
I thought the guy was going to shoot someone!
I thought the building might collapse!”

Gonza, who had never ridden in a por puesto in her life that had been
dished up by a doting father quick to supply her with chauffeurs never
allowing her to sit next to “dirty” people and catch strange Venezuelan
diseases, spoke completely composed:

“Gringo, I told you things would

be different here.
You need time to learn...
to adjust...to adapt...,”
she evoking the power of persuasion
as a psychiatrist would upon his or her
patient as he or she offered the three Rs:
Rest, Reassurance, and Rx.

“Gonza, I thought I was the shrink

in this family! Who's crazy here, you or me?”
I detonated without thinking.
“It's not a question of being crazy, gringo,”
she calmed her paranoid.

“Then what the f**k is it, Gonza?

Look, the people are crazy, loco.
I mean it.
It's bananas wherever I go and
you're telling me I have to learn
to accustom myself to this insanity!
Come on, baby, get off it.
This is too much.
I mean WOW!
Too much...

“So go home, gringo,”

she played one of her psychoanalytic aces.
“Go home???!!!” I scowled.
99
 “Yes, if it's too much you can leave,”
she put the psychoanalytical icing on the
psychiatric cake.
“Sweetheart,” I fumed,
“after all I gave up for you!
Holy S**t!!!
What else do you want from me?!!!”

“Look, gringo, we are here whether we like it or not,”she took me back into
her fold and reminded me subconsciously that it was her mother and
father's millions that would help us out a great bit if we ever returned to
gringolandia together. Was it not worth the wait? Was it not so much to put
up with for a while? Was it not wise for me to cool it and relax and adjust
and adapt and acclimatize and accustom and...and...and...???

“OK, Gonza. I'll behave,” I conceded.

I hissed my onerous vapors out ballasting my momentarily uneven temper.

She had to know what she was doing—she talked so gently, so deliberately.
It had to be me who was exaggerating. I must act more levelheaded. I must
calm down. I must modify. I wished I were back in Vietnam going on a
combat assault mission in the middle of the night. (Not really.)

I smacked a kiss at her through the telephone line and told her I loved her
very much indeed. I truly did. She reciprocated. Then I put the receiver on
its hook, and muttered “f**k!” to myself over and over and over again.

As I rewrite these words it is 27 April 2020, and I can remark that not one
week goes by without me thinking of Gonza and the beautiful times we
spent together both in Gainesville and Caracas. I made a host of mistakes
and I often come to blame myself for her death. Maybe our love story put
too much a stress on her and caused her cancer. I cannot say. I only know
that I loved her more than anything else in my whole life. She was the most
wonderful of events that ever had taken place in my life. I tried to do
everything for her. Perhaps I tried too diligently? Did I overdo my love for
her? Is that even possible? What could I have done to have her with me
today? I tried my best. That was not enough. If only I could be with her
now. Instead, I must heartbreakingly remember that day I sat on the foor
watching the 33 rpm turn and turn and turn....”If You Leave Me
100
Now” you'll take away the heart of me...oh, oh, oh, pretty baby, please don't
go....” She's gone...she's gone....

Translations and rewrites were my main task assignment at MIT, but when
there were none, I accompanied other colleagues in the offce on VIP
service calls to airports, hotels, and government offces situated in the
craziest places in Caracas. During my travels from one place to another, I
met kings, queens, princes, princesses, presidents, foreign ministers,
ambassadors, scholars, editors, and cocaine bagmen. My chauffeur, Carlos
Estrepa, hauled me around one offce to another whenever I went on duty
outside MIT. We had a huge FORD LTD with air-conditioning, two-way
radio/telephone, television, a siren that went WWWEEEEEEEEAH WEEE
EEEEEAH WWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH,
and two gigantic red lights on the limousine's front fenders—like those one
sees on fre trucks. These accruements helped a bit in traffc, but not really
very much.

Carlos and I made many trips together during my months at MIT, before I
was pink slipped, and we developed a fondness for each other which was
charming and respectful. Many mornings he passed by my quinta to pick
me up and take me to work. My neighbors went loco because they thought I
was a personaje importante in the government. I was so embarrassed. I
actually preferred the por puesto. I always sat in the front with Carlos, riding
shotgun, and that impressed him very much. On occasion, when I had
reams of paperwork to handle, I sat in the back seat because there there
was an overhead lamp. For two months, until he got fred, he insisted I
occupy the back seat when he chauffeured me. And then, too, if I was alone
and we stopped for lunch, I always invited Carlos in with me to dine while
the other chauffeurs waited in their cars. In the United States Army,
because I was an offcer, I also, there, was entitled to a chauffeur. I never
felt that I deserved to be driven by someone who was considered to be
inferior to me in class or rank.

Since MIT was paying for my lunches on out-of-offce assignments, Carlos

and I went to the best restaurants in Caracas, some of which include the
following that I do not know are still in existence today: Tyrol, Don Sancho,
El Tinajero de los Helechos, El Gran Charolais, Hereford Grill, La Estancia, El
Tejar, Mee Nam, El Palmar, Aventino, Bagatelle, Antoine, Henry IV, La Bastille,
La Belle Epoque, Lasserre, La Cava, Da Guido, Franco, Il Padrino, L'Inferno,
Altamar, and my favorite, Costa Vasca. I even took Carlos to a Yehudi
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Menahin concert at the Teatro Municipal—my MIT carnet letting us in free
at all public functions in Caracas and Venezuela. Carlos knew, too, that if
his wife or kids needed him to take them somewhere, he could count on me
to take a cab or a por puesto. Every week I lent him my carnet to go to buy
food in the military discount store where certain government offcials and
colleagues had access. I could not cook in my room, so I had no need of
discounted nutrients. Carlos's poor family, and I had met them, needed
these price breaks more than I did.

So when Mrs Carter visited Caracas and I had a problem with three US
female journalists, Carlos was at the ready to put his a*s on the line for me
without hesitation. Carlos was with me when I went through one of the
most disgusting experiences of my stay at MIT.

We were down at the airport waiting for Mrs Carter's jet to roll into the off-
load section. Another jet followed the Carter Air Force jet, and that one
was mostly flled with American female journalists. With the Nixon
experience in the back of everyone's minds—the Venezuelans were the frst
to spit on Richard M Nixon and they did it years before the North
Americans ever got around to doing it!—you can imagine how tight security
was. A battalion of cover and undercover Secret Service agents, many
equipped with attaché cases containing Israeli machine guns and high-
powered hand grenades, buzzed in and out and around and between the
airport buildings. Even the Kennedy family would have been astonished.
To get into the place and onto the airport premises, we had to wear three
IDs: one from MIT; one from the Venezuelan Ministerio de Difensa; and,
one from the United States' embassy in Caracas. The SS men kept talking
into little radio microphones—the reception part of the two-way
communications system ear-plugged into their heads. They were dressed in
smart suits, and were bright, athletic types. Little green, yellow, and black
pins in their suits' button holes identifed the protective agents. Mrs Carter
had a small army to protect her. Secret Service agents, United States'
military personnel, and Venezuelan police and army units who were
watched as closely as Mrs Carter was.

My chore was to lead the cavalcade of North American journalists to

Caracas. I had a feet of ffteen Ford LTDs and four Venezuelan army
motorcycles with heavily-armed non-commissioned offcers to escort us up
to Caracas: two of them at the rear; two of them up front. I had led a
102
convoy of four-hundred army vehicles in Vietnam, so I was up to this
ffteen car parade. Soldiers were positioned at most strategic points from
the airport to Mirafores, a thirty-minute drive, where Mrs Carter was to
hold a news conference when everyone settled into their name-tagged
chairs in the press conference sala of the Venezuelan president's work
palace.

There were news media characters from Newsweek, Time, St Petersburg

Times, Los Angeles Times, The Washington Post, The New York Times,
Associated Press, United Press International, Cox newspapers, ABC, CBS, NBC,
and even the Voice of America. We were well prepared to do our best for the
journalists, all women, and their quarters, at the Circulo Militar, were of
frst-class quality. They could not have asked for more—even though they
did. All the drivers had washed and waxed their black limousines; the
insides were spic n' span; and, the windows were Windex squeaky. Each
driver waited at his car and was at the ready to load baggage/luggage into
car trunks, open the doors for passengers whom I had assigned to the cars
reserved for them in order to save time in loading, and offer all the
amenities and courtesies possible to make the stay for the tired journalists,
who were on the last leg of their South American whirlwind tour, as
comfortable as possible.

The cramming-ins went smoothly enough. Carlos helped me direct this and
that collector of news items to her car, and I was immediately drawn
attention to the fact that they were very tired and very grouchy. They
looked like a motley crew of tourists disembarking from a long, third-class
train journey, nearly exhausted and hungry, all fagging along to their cars.
Each one had a White House press pass hanging on a chain around her
neck. Almost all complained when we politely put forward a Venezuelan
government carnet—to be put again around their necks—that we knew
would help us entertain them more effciently during their two-day work
visit.

It was not long before my three guests, representatives from Time, NBC,
and The Washington Post came to my car after the loud roll calls of names I
had been making in front of the arrival terminal on one of the airport's
peripheral roads. It was my wish to secure the arrivals safely and
comfortably into their seats in the backs of the ffteen Ford LTD sedans
that stood at attention in fle waiting to zoom them to Mirafores. I graced
my group and greeted them with a smile and a friendly “Hi, there!”
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“Are things going to be as f****d up here as they were in the other banana
republics we visited in f*****g South America?” came their gloomy rheums.
“Well, ladies, I surely hope not. Were things a bit trying for you in South
America?” I attempted to take hold of the situation. “Trying!!! It's been a
f*****g nightmare. S****y food. Long waits at airports. And all kinds of
other s**t you just wouldn't believe!” one nitpicked vociferously.

“I can tell you that we have prepared a very pleasant stay for you. Your
accommodations are top-notch, and you will have a chauffeured car at your
disposal twenty-four hours a day. Please inform me of your needs, and I
will do my best to help you,” I talked calmly and convincingly reassuring
the ladies that things would be totally different in media-conscious
Venezuela where every effort had been taken to serve and satisfy.

The young women grunted and groaned “We''ll see about that,” and when
I saw that all the people informers were settled in their cars, I radioed that I
was ready to lead the way to Caracas. One woman squealed to another that
all she needed was a hot meal and a “good lay.” I looked back at her and
her scrawny legs and sorrowfully wondered who was going to have that
chance.

We pulled out rapidly and headed for one of the airport's exit gates that
was designated for the journalists' caravan. I had it in mind to beat Mrs
Carter and her hostess, Señora Pérez, the wife of the President of
Venezuela, to Mirafores and get the journalists comfortably seated before
the entrance of the frst ladies. Mrs Carter was still posing for photos and
shaking hands with Venezuelan well-wishers and functionaries.

When we reached our out spot at the airport's passageway out, it was
closed, and a Venezuelan army major, who was posted there with three
armed lieutenants and twenty-fve machine gun carrying troops, stood still
without moving to open up. I sent Carlos to instruct him to permit us to
lapse through, and when Carlos rushed back with a negative frown, I knew
my my hopes for things to go like clockwork were sliding into oblivion. I
got on the radio fast. The major would not release the lock without orders
from his superiors. I could not imagine where the foul-up was originating,
but I knew my best bet was to bleed the radio for information—but how
long would it take?
104
A tediously protracted ten minutes! At least the cars were air-conditioned
to help us tolerate the hot, muggy seaside temperature. The ladies were
insulting and inconsiderate throughout the stoppage.

“Another f**k-up, Marlene!”

“Yeah. Those god-damn f*****g banana republics!”

While I squirmed in my seat, they began to comment on their last visiting

place.

“Remember the ceiling in the offce of the president?

He thought it was some kind of f*****g Sistine Chapel
with all that gaudy painting up there.”
“Yeah. And the Simón Bolivar Plaza in the
downtown area. Big f*****g deal.
We've got loads of that s**t in Washington.
“Marlene, have you heard all the stories
about what a stud Carlos Andrés Pérez is?”
“No, but I don't think he's such a hot number.
He's got the face of a Mafa gangster.”

And so on and so forth, their mouths spewing forth bitter gall and pointless
non sequitors. I even felt a bit sorry for them. The gate fnally opened. I told
Carlos to buzz off, and like a shot we were fying, at long last, to Caracas.
Carlos honchoed the motorcycle escorts in front of us with the siren when
they delayed too long for at an intersection or busy shopping area. People
were lined along the streets watching the spectacle blur by them.

It was not long before another disaster befell us. Just before we entered the
expressway to Caracas, we got caught at a red light where a farmer in his
pickup truck was stopped. The access road to the major divided highway
was single lane, so we could not pull up around this guy to pass him. The
motorcycle drivers were signaling and shouting at him with their sirens and
screeching coño de su madre (m**********r) at him to get him to pass on; but,
he refused. Even when the two soldiers dismounted and went to speak with
him, he directed his index fnger at the red light and reaffrmed his
obligation to remain for the green.

There was no time to argue with the old man, so the motorcycle drivers
105
eased their Harley-Davidsons up to the back fender of his pickup and
started pushing the truck, flled with caged chickens, out of the way. The
weight of the light vehicles was heavy enough to cause the back wheels of
the motorcycles to burn up a cloud of blurry black tire rubber which
clouded around the windows of our sedan and started to seep in through
the air-conditioning system.

The ladies kept muttering “another banana republic f**k-up when the light
fnally changed. Then the farmer took off screaming curses at the
motorcade. With the way clear again, I gave Carlos, who was rather
embarrassed at this point, the high sign and we were off to the races after a
two and a half minute delay that gave the impression of being an eternity.
Or as Einstein put it: “When you are courting a girl an hour seems like a
second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder a second seems like an hour.
That's relativity.”

More testy remarks from the rear. I had all to do to keep from popping off
to the offensively self-assured female information gatherers. I conducted
myself in a way that would have satisfed Gonza.

We were running along at a good clip when the ladies caught sight of Mrs
Carter's limousine way beyond us, and they sighed their disbelief to me
that we would be in Mirafores before Mrs Carter. “Another banana
republic f**k-up.”

I looked grimly at Carlos. Carlos did not speak English, yet he immediately
caught on to the bitching. He shrugged his shoulders, then suddenly
alighted with an idea that he conveyed to me in silence pointing his right
index fnger at the accelerator on the foor of the LTD. I got his message
and thought seriously for about ten seconds—mostly about the trouble I
was about to get into—and when I nodded my head positively, Carlos hit it
hard and we rocketed off past our motorcycle escort, onwards to Mirafores.
I looked back to survey the expressions on the ladies' faces, and all I could
see were legs and red, white, and blue panties—the gravitational force had
plastered the girls to the back seat—with this inscription stitched on them:
“I COVERED MRS CARTER'S 12-DAY TOUR OF SOUTH AMERICA:
June 1977.”

The women kept screaming “Slow down!” but I ignored them. They fnally
106
shut up when we whizzed by Mrs Carter and Señor Pérez, who looked at us
with the dumbest expressions imaginable—while the SS men and
Venezuelan security forces cursed “f**k you's” and “coño de su madre” at us.
We fnally crashed into Mirafores, red lights and siren leading us on. The
LTDs' wheels squealed a piercing cry as we stopped to let the ladies out.
They were furious. Carlos and I were waiting for them to go inside so we
could laugh our heads off. One spiteful, lewd woman, the one who needed
a “good lay,” shouted over her shoulder to me: “I'm going to include this in
my report to my editor when I get back to New York!” I uprighted the
middle fnger of my right hand, and pumped my arm, up and down, at her.
She nearly had a stroke and Carlos grabbed my arm to stop me.

When we turned around, the two front motorcycle army non-

commissioned offcers from the Casa Militar, an elite corps that guards the
president of Venezuela, that had led Mrs Carter and Señora Pérez into
Mirafores—a good fve minutes after Carlos's spectacular entrance—came
running towards us with their handcuffs unlatched. (“Handcuffs” is an
interesting word in Spanish. “esposas,” handcuffs is the plural of the
singular “esposa,” which means WIFE!!!)

My boss made a beeline to us and interceded pronto. He did not want to

scandalize Mrs Carter with an arrest of security-cleared people. He ordered
Carlos and me to report to his offce at nine sharp the next morning, and
when we went to him we were left off the hook with a mild admonishment;
we had become heroes overnight because everyone had become so angry
with the White House SS men and the Caracas embassy people for acting
like such fatuous persons during the visit, and since Carlos and I had
upstaged them so dramatically, we were thrown laurels wherever we went
from then on—people talked about us for weeks as if we were folk heroes,
and we rode high on the crest of our abruptly favorable esteem laughing
our heads off whenever we told the story to our friends.

CHAPTER TEN

Gonza was incubating cancer in her left breast, benign epithelial tumors in
the right, and polyps on her uterus. Her libido was low-strung and her
reactions were more depressive than usual. I never imagined that her
physical health might be in jeopardy.

107
We refected on our situation again and again and again and it appeared to
be becoming more and more and more impossible. If only we would admit
it; if only we could. Our love was strong, but it was set against insuperable
odds—the main one being her family. We were bitter with the
circumstances which dulled our dreams and supplanted our successes. We
thought back upon the good times in Gainesville. The tender moments
alone clutched in oneness underneath the swishing pine trees outside our
apartment. We had given names to the trees we imagined to be in love as
we were. We remembered the long rides through south-eastern Florida:
the huge oak trees...the charming small municipalities...the tobacco leaves
blowing in the winds auguring a powerful electrical storm...the lakes with
cabins chained around them along their waters' edges...the rows of pine
trees set in vertically running fles planted by gargantuan paper
corporations...the Florida State Highway Patrol cruisers, black and cream
colored, speeding past us to chase a speeder...the trips to Atlanta Stadium
in Georgia to check on a patient of Gonza's who played infeld for the
Atlanta Braves...the car's radio emitting our favorite romantic tunes....

And there was Gainesville itself: the All-American city, the home of
Florida's largest educational facility, The Flagship university, the University
of Florida...the charming and elegant southern-styled homes in the city's
northwest section...the nights of English and ophthalmology study sessions
in the university library...our apartment set in a low-rolling hill area where
there were enormous pine trees...the Gator football games when we would
ascend to the top rows in Florida Field, and from our benched seats, fing
paper airplanes, made from our programs, onto the playing feld...the
swims in the pool outside our apartment...the Saturday afternoons holding
hands and kissing in the movies...the shopping trips to the Publix
supermarket where we walked together imaging we were married...sipping
on beers from the rime-laden Heineken aluminum kegs that were set
alongside the pool area on hot summer afternoons...steak and wine and
salad and chocolate cake late night private dinner parties...tennis games at
the local public park...no parents from Caracas to intrude on our happiness
—yet!

We recalled and told over and over and over again the past experiences we
enjoyed together in the United States. The memories themselves were a
source of emotional resuscitation, the wish to repeat them still in the
future, a cause of continual expectation. Now here we were together
108
twisting in our bodies' smells and fuids, our resistances low to the system
of forces that tended to strain and deform our happiest thoughts. It was
always the considerations of the past—not the present or future—which
acted, somewhat, to supply us with the physical and emotional verve to go
on.

Back at MIT. I went off for coffee and noticed, at 9:15am, the other
trabajadores straggling in after the expected time set to begin work—they
conforming to their own established practices. No one made reference to
the work hours (08:30-12:30; 14:30-18:30) offcially posted on the wall
between the Xerox machine and the DAMAS toilet. My boss, who knew
better, was not a stickler for time. Ana Maria, his plump, chain-smoking
secretary—she did know better—huffed in protesting the “insoportable”
traffc on the Caracas streets. A group of stray trabajadores eyed her with
confused expressions: could there be meaning behind such an
unembellished declaration of something widely known with certitude? One
trabajador directed his right index fnger to his right temple and, near it,
whizzed circles in the air.

Iris, the directress of Xerox machine concerns, foated to her work station
wearing jeans, painted fngernails, painted toenails, painted cheeks, and a
painted sweatshirt that cried out: KISS ME, I'M HOT TODAY!” In a
manila envelope, held in her left hand, was contained the latest book of
poetry of her brother which she said she had to copy one-hundred times
that day in between our boss's demands to hurry up and get the president's
speech reproduced for the Time and Newsweek representatives waiting in
the lobby. She later complained, absorbed with piles of poetry all over the
foor—people were kicking them over as they came out of the toilet—that
she would do the best she could as soon as she fnished page thirty-nine of
her brother's obra maestra.

Flor de Primavera, daughter of Generalissimo Juan Carlos del Rio

Turbulento, the vice-Ministro de Defensa, strutted to her desk followed by
her chauffeur from the Ministerio de Defensa, a fatigue-clad sargento caped
with a helmet liner, who carried through the main corridor, lined with
enormous fungi-laden fve-gallon water jugs, two suitcases flled with
dresses and blouses she had bought in New York's garment district while
her father addressed a United Nation's Military Affairs Commission,
delivering in French a Venezuelan Armed Forces position paper entitled
“Wake Up Family-Loving Christians and Defenders of Capitalist
109
Democracy!!! Communist Subversives Are Infltrating through the
Backdoors of Our Cherished Ideals of Freedom,” dresses and blouses she
wanted to “unload” before tackling the translation, into French (her father
taught her all she knew about French) of a President Carlos Andrés Pérez
International Rotary Club speech that the France Presse Caracas bureau
chief was anxiously waiting for in the foyer—he chain-smoking Gitanes and
sweating out the possibility of his imminent removal from Caracas to Dacca
if the political discourse did not reach his Paris headquarters before
deadline.

Maria Eugenia, a sister of construction magnet Guillermo Boticello,

bubbled into the offce, eyed her desk to see if work was there, saw that
there was, then about-faced to the DAMAS room where she spruced up,
with Conchita Alvarez, the assistant telephone switchboard operator, for
ffteen minutes chatting about her recent love affair with a Viasa pilot and
the problems they were having with his wife's mother.

Fanny Maria, at 9:53am, has charged in showing one and all a General
Electric public relation's release honoring her uncle for his thirty years of
loyal service to the company. That very afternoon he—and she will take off
soon to get dressed for the ceremony—will receive the Orden Mérito al
Trabajo en su Tercera Clase from Prsidente Pérez himself at Palacio
Mirafores. The president will also give him a cellophane-wrapped basket of
Grand Old Parr, a fne, neat, real antique, smooth-fowing deluxe drink
from Scotland. Her uncle, Pedro Martinez, whose four sons also work for
General Electric, made this comment for General Electric public relations
director for Venezuela, Rudy “Speedy Gonzalez” Fleetwood: “General
Electric is my family. I am part of General Electric, and General Electric is
part of me. Also, General Electric means security, stability, and
consideration.”

Coco, the private secretary to the assistant director of Television, Radio,

and Audio-visual Affairs, has arrived sullen, dressed in black. Her
grandfather did not survive open-heart surgery in Houston, Texas, and she
has had time to come to the offce because the funeral, set for that very
morning, has been put off until tomorrow: Viasa accidentally sent the
casket to Maracaibo—the oil city fve-hundred kilometers to the port side of
the country. A group of the girls will represent the ministerio at the funeral;
a group of translations will be further delayed. (Flor de Primavera is now
110
annoyed with Coco because she had a hot sale of three dresses going before
her customer went off to shed tears for the dead abuelo.)

Maria, wife of the cousin of the Ministro de Fomento (Finance), has fnally
reached her work station with her two children, Pepe and Esmeraldo, ages
six and eight, respectively, and has asked me to keep an ojo on the two
rascals for her—“play with them, gringo, if you will, anything to keep them
busy”—while she goes off to call home to fnd out if her two Colombian
maids have returned to the quinta from their IUD fttings at the local
Ministerio de Sanidad y Salud birth-controlled clinica. Meanwhile, Pepe y
Esmeralda, and yo, are rolling circular-shaped wads of compressed
typewriting paper into three empty plastic coffee cups placed in line, on the
foor, against the desk of the Assistant Director of International News
Affairs.

Maria Carmen Julia, daughter of Spanish immigrants, Don Carlos Oria de

Joaquin Ruiz Jiménez and Doña Julia Carmen Sevilla de Cria de Joaquin
Ruiz Jiménez, she, Maria Carmen Julia, the offce's fnal word on all
Spanish grammatical stylistic problems—and there are many of them!—has
immediately summoned me to speak with the fat, bespectacled assistant
foreign affairs editor of The New York Times who is mouthing off in
Brooklyn-accented French to the France Press bureau chief—about to go to
Bangladesh—that he wonders if France Presse is having the same trouble as
the NYT in getting “good copy” out of the “banana republeeks” all of which
he will visit on a whirlwind tour from Chile to Mexico in fve airport long
days. My instantaneous concern: Who is going to play with Pepe and
Esmeralda? Here comes the bosomy Haydee the directress of Caribbean
News Affairs. A perfect candidate—motherly type that she is. But no!
Haydee has to study for her exam tonight at the Universidad Central de
Venezuela, she is a law student, and she cannot play with the two
effervescent ones screaming for their mommy, arepas, and peepees in the
DAMAS room just behind the knee-high piles of Iris's brother's books of
poetry. I call my boss and he tells me he will go himself to the pudgy
foreign affairs editor. (Iris, parenthetically, is really pissed because the
copies of her brother's book are gray-tinted, and she wants to know why
the ministerio is so cheap about buying paper.)

Maria Victoria, sister-in-law of the vice-Ministro de Justicia, arriving to

work excited, has called for everyone's attention. She is to be engaged to
111
Francisco Alvarez Aria Salgado, son of the owner of the largest beverage
factory in South America—this very day! Everyone is invited to the
engagement party—set to begin at 15:00 that afternoon—in the Naiguata
Salón of the Tamanaco Hotel. “Please bring your dates, girls!” she giggles.

To cap the morning off, Humberto, a male employee, Director of the

Petroleum Information Task Force Liaison Section, has come up to me
pounding on the oil price page of today's newspaper; has pointed to the
latest increase in petrol prices; has screamed over and over and over again
in my ear in his delightful, exuberant manner, slapping me on the back,
while uncontrollably uttering, in broken but well-emphasized English—
spoken with a Spanish-Chinese accent-- the following: “We are going to
fuckee goodee you gringos! Chico, lookee at theeze priceees!” Humberto
did not know, at the time, that in California one Hollywood actor, soon to
play his biggest part, was himself impressed with “theeze priceees.”

Valium or Old Parr?

I was losing Gonza. One night coming out of a party that had been called in
her honor and mine—to celebrate her return to Caracas—we were walking
to our car when she all of a sudden turned to me and uttered this earth-
shattering quip: “Do you realize that you were the only one in that party
who isn't a millionaire!” My self-esteem dropped into the gutter. I was
dumbfounded. We had talked in Gainesville about every possibility under
the Sun that we thought could have impeded our way to our happiness. All
the angles had been covered. I knew that going to Caracas would be a great
risk if I had not had Gonza's love and emotional support, and now it
appeared that it was I who could not offer her the emotional stability she
required. I began sucking what would turn out to be a great deal of
suckings in.

While I sat at the party with the six Venezuelan couples, mostly
professional people, doctors and politicians, there was no doubt in my
mind that I was, if truth be told, out of place. Not only did I not speak
Spanish enough to empathize with the conversationalists, and had to sit
there and watch everyone's facial expressions, I could not even comment,
with those who spoke English with me, on current affairs in Venezuela. I
was a fsh out of water.

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The people were indeed friendly and outpoured themselves to me. And for
this I was very grateful. But I knew, and they did also, that we were two
different life forms. What shocked me beyond belief that night was the fact
that each and every male had carried a pistol with him to the party! Because
there were no children present in the apartment where the party was being
held—and no need, therefore, to put their guns on a china closet or
armadio high up and out of the reach of kids—the guns were placed on the
coffee table in the living room where we had congregated after dinner to
talk more. With Scotch glasses flled to their lips and clogged with ice, the
guests used the index fngers of their hands to stir their drinks. And all the
women were dressed in very expensive French and Italian dresses and wore
expensive Italian shoes, and the men were ftted with costly Italian suits
and wore gold Swiss watches and posh cuffinks. For a minute I thought I
was on the set of a Hollywood flm. I was fabbergasted but did not let on. I
was similarly amazed to hear that when the partygoers had arrived—some
had parked their cars in the garage under the apartment building of the
host and hostess—they walked from their cars with their hands on their
guns, and those entering the elegant edifce through the garage's electronic
doors, they checked to see if robbers had ducked down behind their cars
and had followed them in while they were entering. As you would expect, I
was thrilled with all of this. It was different. It was the only one of its kind.
I was learning that not all people in the world thought like me and other
North Americans with whom I had shared my life prior to coming to
Venezuela's Caracas.

Old Parr. Maria Victoria's engagement party inspired awe in the thousand
or so guests invited to the on-going, three-day, pre-nuptial shindig in the
Hotel Tamanaco's Naiguata Sala. Because of previous work commitments,
Carlos and I did not arrive until late the frst night. We swooped on
through wooden Venezuelan Army and Metropolitan police stanchions
which had been positioned in the streets near the hotel to keep hundreds
of supplicating mendicants out of reach of the rich, high society, diplo and
government partygoers.

When we reached the parking lot, television crews, which had been
monitoring the comings and goings of the diplomatic corps and important
Venezuelan, North American, South American, and European
industrialists, ran to us thinking we were VIPs. Splashing, red, amber, blue
and white circular fooded fashes roamed along the windows of the
Tamanaco Hotel's frst, second, and third foors. Four Venezuelan Army
lieutenants, toting Israeli sub-machine guns, escorted Carlos and me to the
reserved parking area of the director of the hotel, removed two small day-
glow red-orange plastic barriers from the executive's spot, and guided us in
with military police-like hand and arm stringent moves. After realizing that
we were not the “copy” they were looking for that evening, all the
telejournalists returned to the main entrance of the Tamanaco to resume
covering the arrivals of more important dignitaries, guests, and la-de-das
many of whom were landing on a two Chinook helicopter shuttle that had
been set up by the Venezuelan Air Force between Maiquetia and Carlota
and the Tamanaco. Carlos and I were dressed in white tuxedos with red
bow ties, red handkerchiefs, and red piping at the sides of our white pants.
As a courtesy to me—obviously of course because I had fashed my MIT ID
card in every security guard's face—Carlos was not asked, as other invited
ones were, to check his two 9mm PPKSs which he carried at his sides,
under his armpits.

Getting Carlos to come to the party had been a chore—I had to remind him
of his bodyguard duties to me; getting him to put on a tuxedo was like
pulling impacted wisdom teeth from hungry river horses. When one works
with a partner over a protracted period of time, his or her peculiarities
surface as a reminder that each and everyone of us is a bottomless pit of not
only surprises, but of strange features that support other identifying
elements which all have fnality in making a whole of many parts. Carlos
was full of his own pride. Putting on a monkey suit was something of an
insult to him. It signaled that his being was being altered by others. Carlos
did not like the order of things, but he seemed to be implying that he
would wait until a new one was created. To him the Present was already the
Past because the Now had no value for him. The future might bring the
better, but the act of outlasting could not be grounded on the dream world
of the Future. Carlos had the divine will of the Stoic in him. He was
seemingly indifferent to joy, grief, pleasure, or pain. The perfect retinue.
He could not explicitly accept his work. Carlos was an Indian. He was split
in two: the monkey suit or the rain dance. To put on the monkey suit was
too live, too close to the Present he hated. He rejected vehemently what was
being shoved his way. Carlos preferred to slush in the mud. The gulf
between us was too great. The way of the Indian was Carlos's path:
patience, forbearance, suffering. He looked at me without promise, without
disgust. We were friends. Yet, I could see one thing through his eyes that
struck me squarely in the viscera: the Indians of Central and South
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America, on the political warpath, were looking more and more and more
upon the conquistadores del presente with repugnance tinged with a violent
hatred. They were learning to ride on up and out, and not on the wings of
democratic capitalism or Soviet communism (Ni Cristo; ni Marx!). A new
seed had been sown with the dried blood of centuries. Carlos and his
people's loathing was beginning to simmer beyond the low boil.

Then we walked on into the tremendous hall, the frst vivid perception
produced for us was His Eminence, Juan Carlos Cardenal Cardona, the
archbishop of the Diocese of Caracas, sprinkling holy water—with a
diamond-studded pocket aspergill, a gift from his mother for being elevated
to the bishopric ten years before—on the seven-karat diamond engagement
ring of Maria Victoria. His Eminence daubed away with his aspergillum
(New Latin), and television cameras and video-cassette recorders picked up
on the droplets of sanctifed H²O dripping off Maria Victoria's gigantic
chunk of ice unto the violet-red velvet cushion that bore the weight of it. In
His Eminence's right hand there was a crystal glass flled with Old Parr on
the rocks, con hielo, (between his thumb and index fnger); a world famous
Rothman's International export with a long ash and a tradition of over
ninety years of fne blending, the favorite of clubs and embassies
throughout the world (between his middle fnger and ring fnger); and, a
gigantic ruby red ring surrounded by diamonds (surely smaller than Maria
Victoria's eye-opener) which had been bought in the Vatican's secret FOR
BISHOPS AND CARDINALS ONLY Jewelry Bargain Store in the
catacombs (on his ring fnger).

Now when the media's kliegs blasted their broad beams of bright light upon
His Eminence's Right Reverended Right Hand, the imprint of the
glistening on ice Old Parr, of the sparkling gold-banded Rothman, and of
the resplendent discounted ruby, so fascinated one periodista from El
Momento de Caracas, he ran to his press car, copped his Nikon-9, and trotted
back to shoot a still of the Right Hand which he thought might be a live
presentation of an event that appeared unexplainable by the laws of Nature
and so is held to be supernatural in origin, or an Act of Dios. (He later
entered his “shot” of the thought to be miracle, now a “work of art,” in the
Second Annual International Venezuelan Photographic Competition.)

After His Eminence fnished scattering globules of Holy H²O all over the
room, he headed for Maria Victoria and Francisco, and His Eminence's
imminent impulse, after he procured a refll of the smooth-fowing Old
Parr, was to dash liquid upon the twofold, voluptuous, uplifted mounds of
Maria Victoria's 39-D-cupped mammary masses, while her betrothed
bowed his head in prayer. The “bish” pitched to and fro. And again. Maria
Victoria was wet through and through. She fickered her long, water
beaded lashes for The Media, crossed herself from forehead to crack
between her gigantic boobs, then left shoulder to right shoulder, tilted her
head down, kissed the thumb of her right hand three times, and thanked
the Almighty One Above for sending to Brazil, from the heavens, the plastic
surgeon who grafted the new membranous fold of tissue which now
completely occluded her vagina's external orifce. The so-called, in Rio,
“Immaculate Implantation.”

His Eminence then tipped unsteadily to the boxes of whisky, champagne,

and wines; stacks of smoked salmon, lobster, roast beef, and caviar; crates
of two-hundred sixty-four assorted French cheeses; barrels of fruit,
chocolates, and mints; bundles of Havanas and other imported tobaccos, et
cetera; and, dispersed more sprays of consecrated H²O in every direction he
walked swerving from one side to the other.

Carlos and I shifted ground in the company of what gave the impression of
being a “see” of low-cut dresses, shining jewelry, mauve-colored tuxedos,
gold Rolex watches, and ornamented fngers holding plastic cups, signaling
the red, white, and blue logo of that famous cola company, flled with
expensive French champagne. Generally, the men were off standing in
groups of threes or fours, the women sitting in small and large assemblages.
We ventured to the mannish, extreme opposite.

There was Jesúcristo Marquez Pompeyo with El Ministro del Trabajo y El

Ministro de Educación. Jesúcristo, son of eminent Venezuelan socialites, is
pushing a nation-wide chain of English teaching institutes. He needs
government permission and backing for his enterprise: work visas for
poverty-stricken Oxford PhDs, and building permits to erect government
subsidized educational facilities.

There was José Vincente Rangoso with El Ministro de Agricultura y Cria y El

Ministro de Desarrollo Urbano. “Joe,” male offspring of wealthy Venezuelan
landowners, is negotiating with North American hydroponics' companies to
cultivate vegetables in water containing dissolved inorganic nutrients.
Caracas is short on soil, and “Joe” thinks he can make a bundle in the
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vegetal biz. He needs Agricultura y Cria import rights and Desarrollo Urbano
big business backing to get set up.

There was Rómulo Betunería, ex-presidente of Venezuela, with El Ministro

de Estado Para Asuntos Económicos Internaciónales y El Ministro de Ambiente y
de los Recursos Naturales Renovables.Rómulo, ex-communist sympathizer and
now member of the Deomocracy Hall of Fame, and a good friend of Arhtur
Schlesinger, Jr, is wheeling and dealing to sell his memorias in ten different
languages, and to raise thousands and thousands of cast-iron forms of
sculptured likenesses of himself in pueblos throughout the Venezuelan
republic. He needs Estado Para Asuntos Económicos Internaciónales tax
deductions and Ambiente y Recursos Naturales Renovables iron protection
rights.

Forever, Carlos stood next to me faithfully. We sashayed away from the old
men to the younglings. Fernando Acostado, twenty-fve years old, heir to a
heavy duty machine company, was having love problems. Engaged to Sonia
Alvarez for seven years, he was reluctant to cave in under the “marriage
pressure.” He wanted an MBA from Harvard and more girlfriends before he
took the plunge. In one hour he would be in a Tamanaco bed with the
forty-fve-year-old wife of El Ministro de Estado para Asuntos Económicos
Internaciónales who kept talking book publishing with Narcissistic Rómulo.
Fernando liberally sipped on a gigantic Old Parr as he radared his eyes on
the minister's wife.

Ignacio Loyola Verga, twenty-six years old, in line to inherit the fortunes of
a pharmaceutical company, specializing in condoms, was having love
problems, too. Married to Conchita Sanchez for three months, he was
looking for an abortionist in Miami to rid his high school sweetheart, Maria,
of an embarrassing problem. He wanted the best medical attention for
Maria, and was reluctant to send her to the “Butcher Shop,” “La
Carnicería,” in Caracas's elegant restaurant zone, El Rosal. In forty-fve
minutes he would be in a Tamanaco bed with the seventeen-year-old
daughter of El Ministro de Agricultura y Cria who was planting hydroponical
notions into “Joe's” head. Ignacio sniffed on cocaine and told Carlos and
me to go to Francisco and Maria Victoria's ”Tocador,” Powder Room, to
secure gratuitous mini-envelopes of the white surface anesthetic.

Frankie Sosiego, twenty-fve years old, soon to take possession of a whisky

importation legacy, was having love problems, naturally. Divorced but
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engaged to Elvira Zurriago, he was bending over backwards to escape
Elvira's persistent pleas to marry her. He wanted to travel to Scotland and
visit the distilleries for a year or two so he could break loose from Elvira's
matrimonial clutches. In thirty minutes he would be in a Tamanaci king
size with the thirty-nine-year-old wife of of the young El Ministro de
Información y Turismo, my boss-boss, who was discussing his presidential
possibilities with El Presidente himself. Frankie sipped Old Parr, sniffed
cocaine, and sucked on marijuana.

The next stop for Carlos and me was the Tamanaco's swimming pool area
where recreational facilities had been set up to entertain the teenage-and-
below crowd while their parents gluttonized themselves in the Naiguata
Sala and Tamanaco bedrooms. Betamaxes with cartoons, video games, a
small band of seven hard rock musicians in from Miami, non-alcoholic
refreshments imported from the United States, hamburgers and hot dogs,
pulsating lighting, dart boards, tennis tables, ping-pong tables, pinball
machines, electronic video games, shuffe boards, chess sets, checker sets,
monopoly games, and a Walkman 37 gift for each and everyone of the more
or less than fve-hundred fabulous ones, made the evening a “night to
remember.”

There was Chico Choo Choo, the thirteen-year-old son of the owner of
Venezuela's largest beer brewery. Chico was plugged into his Walkman 37
and was listening to the “Best of the Bee Gees” when we saw him sneak
behind the swimming pool pump house to steal a snort of cocaine.

There was Roberta San José de Tarbes, ffteen-year-old daughter of

Venezuela's largest chocolate company owner. “Robbie's” bathing suit bra
had been yanked off in the pool by one of her boyfriends, and she was
running—her breasts heaving up and down—to the DAMAS room to avoid
the heckling that she was receiving at poolside.

And there was Chamo Rodriguez sixteen-year-old son of the Venezuelan

ambassador to England. Chamo was smoking pot and and drinking a glass
of Old Parr his father had snuck to him, and he proceeded to enter the
DAMAS room where he stayed with “Robbie” for two hours listening to the
Bee Gees and enjoying “his” and “hers” bodies in one of the toilet stalls in
the bathroom. Carlos and I could hear Chamo singing to “Robbie,” along
with the Bee Gees, “How Deep Is Your Love?” Roberta panted: “Muy
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hondo! Muy hondo!! Muy hondo!!!” (Very deep! Very deep!! Very deep!!!)
Roberta pleaded: “Más! Más!! Más!!!” (“Again! Again!! Again!!!”).

Enough! Enough!! Enough!!! We returned to the Naiguata Sala and caught

sight of rhythmical bodies which had loosened their limbs to accomplish
sybaritic gyrations on a huge dance foor inlaid with parquetry. It was
mesmerizing to see how much in consonance were the bodily movements
with the powerfully sensuous Music in compliance with many Latin
percussion instruments made of metal, trees, and animal skins. The
melodious throbs undulated synchronously with both downbeat and
upbeat waves. It was integrated Music for it satisfed frst the body with
passionate poundings upon the dense, bass parts of all the instruments;
then, it gave pleasure to the mind with light strokes upon the tingly, high-
pitched parts of the instrumentality. The mélange, unquestionably
matchless and stimulating, engendered an exuberance which wheedled one
and all on the foor, to swing, then sway in enthusiastic abandonment. A
tonic to both young and old. When the Latin Music halted, very often a
disco tune from the United States would send old folks scurrying to their
seats while younger persons jerked stereotypically, jolted mechanically.
There existed no soul in this sharp, “modern,” staccato-like, straight dance
music. With a Latin melody again sounding loudly throughout the sala, all
the way into the hotel's bedrooms, parking lots, and pool area—where it
faded into rugs, cushions, macadamized slots for cars, and the air of the
outdoors—people thronged once again to feel their bodies in tune with
their minds. They crowded the dance foor, and some were forced off the
wooden mosaics and found space to bob up and down between scattered
tables and chairs. There was an energy in the air that obliterated tension
and worry for as long as the Music played on. It was relaxing to gaze upon
the oscillating forms. The dancers had an even, gentle motion in their
shuffing gaits. Their arms rocked softly in front of their bodies as if they
were mimicking—in slow motion—the jostling of a pair of maracas. I
remembered being electrifed with dancers in Afro-American bars in
Buffalo, Harlem, and Miami. Yes, the dancers created harmonious patterns
in their relaxed rotations—refecting, repeatedly, beautiful rebounds and
recoils. But their dancing was less natural because it had politics in it:
Afro-Americans danced to identify themselves; Afro-Americans danced to
be identifed; and, Afro-Americans danced to set themselves apart from
their oppressors.

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The Latin people materialized because dancing was the thing to do. Their
steps and gestures leaped from them as unpretentiously as stalks of corn
ascend from the muck. There was no basic themes, no signifcances of
something. Only pleasure produced by the expected order of things.
Soothingly gracious. In agreement. Free from affectation and artifciality.
The feet of the frolickers slid in short, patient glides; the bodies of the
merrymakers revolved ever so gently on an axis which ran into the deep
recessions of the Earth. Men felt proud, honorable; women sensed the
feelings of joy, they were affectionate. Carlos's eyes beamed with delight.
He jived. He swelled. He smiled. The beat bloated the vanities of those
moving up and down. But it did not intoxicate them with superiority. It
stimulated them to feel part of what was beneath their feet. It excited them
to intuit communion with Nature, with the Universe. It exhilarated them
with some moments of hope and promise for their loved ones. When the
Music stopped, they returned to the state of actual being and sipped Old
Parr, sniffed White Cocaine, and sucked Gold Mary Jane. I caught sight of
the United States' ambassador staring solemnly at the ice cubes in his
almost drained glass of Old Parr.

I high-signed it to Carlos that it was time to go. He stiffened to the on-duty

position. I led him to the food area, handed him a gigantic plastic orange
bag with a green alligator printed on it, took one myself, told him to fll his
bag with pounds of lobster and smoked salmon, while I stuffed mine with
roast beef and potato salad, nodded to him to follow me to the parking lot
where we got into our limo, and when we reached a cordon of Venezuelan
panhandlers, we opened the trunk and dropped the two orange plastic bags
to the ground. Through the rear-view mirror of our car we could see a large
group of poor people foraging in the midst of the bags, stuffng their eager
mouths with food. Then Carlos turned to me and asked me if I knew when
and where Maria Victoria's wedding was going to be offciated.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gonza telephoned me as soon as she got in from a short vacation with her
mother and father and children in the Andes. But she would not discuss
anything with me on the phone. Rather, she invited me to dinner at the
most expensive restaurant in Caracas, the Gazebo, a French eating
establishment, the following night. I was shocked at this unusual move.

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It was not normal for Gonza to shell out two or three hundred dollars for a
ritzy French meal. Either she was going to marry me or dump me into the
Orinoco river.

She jilted me with this grammatically improper Swan Song that she told
me she had composed in complete Andean serenity after hashing over the
state of the affairs, my future, with her mother and father:

“Gringo, there are those loves like Romeo and Juliet, all those Operas are
about that dont last. They are only romantic stories, just that. They are not
true to life. They are selfsh loves were there is room for nothing more, for
this reason, they cant last. They rise like foam, quick and exaggerated but
like foam, without grounds to hold itself, it soon fops. They are selfsh
because the involved persons dont allow for nothing more so they are
predestined not to work leaving great pain. As adults we must realize that
there are certain norms to conform to to succeed, to be able to live among
fellow man. I dont have a steady income. I am beginning my working career
which will take time to be profttable. This is fact. There is no doubt about
it. My destiny for the following ten years is traced. I must put effort and
dedication to this. To be able to do this the mind must be quiet if there is
love at the same time it must be curbed, it cant intefere with the basic
grounds as as to not allow these to function. Your views are different, love
is the core, the ups and downs and the thrills make you to keep going no
matter what, instability suffering and great emotions. I can guarantee this
will lead to nowhere not only with me but for yourself. From my experience
with you, which has been full of emotions fears challenges anguishes
worries which have not allowed me to function as I should. I could say
there is no way out. I cant expect for you to wait. I cant expect you to be
alone in a strange country without a friend or a reason to be in going thru
ruff roads I dont want you to-not only that no human being can stand this
why should you. And even if you tried you would soon come to realize that
it is not at all worth the effort. But this takes time. You will see. Time puts
things in their place. Our relation was doomed. It started at the wrong time
and it continued in the wrong time and wrong place. We were children
playing with love. We like children believed it would work out, we were
playing with love. It is a love that to survive it needed to sacrifce everything
else society work family I dont think you or I are prepared to become
outcasts. Yes you sacrifced everything and so you want me to do the same.
I cant. Up to now it has been almost impossible. We cant go on. I am
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returning to my mother and father's house to live. I think you need to think
in peace. So do I. Dont try to contact me in the future. I'll be thinking too.
I think we must exchange ideas after. We will. Dont panic. Dont do crazy
things.”

Cognac. (Not Old Parr. When in a French restaurant, do as the French do.)
I sank to the bottom after I had fnished reading the letter. My gut tensed.
A million thoughts raced through my mind: her grammatical errors; her
confusions; the strange way she crossed her “t's” (if only I were a
handwriting specialist); her psychological state flled with feelings of
unworthiness, pessimism, self-punishment, procrastination, and pleasure
avoidance; her chilling unfaithfulness to me after I offered up all to her.
Was this then the end? Was she so forcefully under the spell of her mother
and father? Was she suffering an emotional crisis that obstructed her
rationality? Was she really wanting to discard her lover or to react to an
unbearable situation? I wanted to hit her. Smack her out of it. I wanted to
call the United States embassy and ask if it could send missiles and rockets
and artillery on her head and the heads of her mother and father. I wanted
to shock her out of it. I wanted to love her. I was torn in two. Whichever
way I turned, I lost. All the pluses, all the minuses equaled zero. She had
made the move to break up. I had no choice but to bow out like a
gentleman. She was too weak to carry the load. She had not the character
to propel herself, much less the load of the two of us. I was very sad. I was
confused now, too. Tears came to my eyes. I could not speak.

At the same time I did not want to play a self-immolating Humphrey Bogart
function. I did not want to accept defeat. She and her family were playing
dirty. I looked forlornly at her. She was willing to end it all because it did
not suit her anal-hoarding family's fancy. I was willing to fght it out to the
end. But what now was I going to battle for? A traitress? She had decided to
eliminate her problem and take any number or kind of consequences. She
was pulling out. My respect for her had dropped two-hundred points on the
Moral Stock Exchange. The message, that had been so clearly delineated
for me, was not acceptable. She was not adhering to Hoyle's Love Rules.
She was not conducting herself in a sports-womanly, honorable, correct
way of acting. That son of a beeeeeeeeeeech!

I accepted, again, her cognac offer. I sat stunned. My distress was tinged
with bitterness. What had I done to deserve this turn of the screw? NO
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MONEY automatically zipped across my mind. She was amoral, I thought.
A no good son of a beeeeech! Really. She needed to placate her mommy
and daddy at my expense. She needed to rub her nasty embarrassment out.
She needed her fnancial status more than she needed my love. She was
just plain stupidly corrupt like so many others I had come to meet in
Caracas. I felt so shamefaced for her. Nothing came to my mind to utter
aloud to her. I could not react. I could not even banter back and forth with
her over it all. While her emotions were devastatingly weak, her wits were
about her—and strongly so; I knew this much about her. Her ethical
strength was nil. There was one distinguishing attribute that impressed her
and her family: $$$. I had none of them. I was a worthless precursory
entity in the fnancial scheme of things.

I called Carlos on my electronic page, and he arrived at the Gazebo in ten

minutes to take us home. I slid into the back seat of the car after Gonza was
set in place. I must have looked very depressed to Carlos because he did
not switch on the television or Betamax or stereo-radio as was our custom
to do during slack hours. No one uttered a word. All I could hear was the
squishing rummages through the frequencies of the radio-telephone that
broke squelch occasionally to emit a message from MIT, the Metropolitan
Policia, the Policia Technical Judicial, the DISIP (Venezuela's secret
police), the Army, the Navy, the Marines, the Air Force, or the President's
offce in Mirafores.

Gonza puffed on a Vantage and sat with one leg traversed over the other.
She had an air of elegance about her that one thought should accompany
modish clothes and expensive jewelry—but did not. On this occasion she
had worn one of her three or four cocktail dresses that she had kept draped
in dubious trust for years over the metal bar in her bedroom closet. No
makeup. She looked beautiful. So simple. Not glamorous, but a state of
glamour. She beautifed her dress; it did not beautify her. Gonza was
stunningly alluring. A lady of dignity and charm. I could understand why I
had fallen in love with her. Her stretchable stockings and underpants in
one piece summoned back to awareness the hours of nakedness we had
shared together. Her breasts caused me to remember the tremendous
psychic relief I had taken from them as my head—cushioned on their
softness—swirled with bliss and contentment. Now I must think about
losing this capacity for happiness.

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I kissed her goodnight on the cheek but said nothing. I wondered if this
would be the very last time I would ever touch her again. I could have died.
I walked her to her door and turned to go immediately when she clicked
the lock open. As I walked away, my torso tensed in hopes of receiving the
“blows” of a “comeback” signal from her. But none came. I went to the car
and asked Carlos to take me home.

I removed my clothes, then laid down naked on the bed and cooled myself
with the soft breezes which blew in through the window in the balmy night.
Tiny frogs gurgled short, high-pitched peeps and tweets and low-pitched
groans and moans in the still darkness. I was alone; a lover cast aside. For
about three hours I scanned through theories of love. Henry Miller,
Norman Mailer, D H Lawrence, Jean-Paul Sartre, Stendahl, Gore Vidal,
Marcel Proust, and even the folksy sayings of Barbra Streisand, Barry
Manilow and Gary Pluckett and the Union Gap. Some feminists: Kate
Millet, Germaine Greer, Ti-Grace Atkinson, Lucinda Cisler, Dana
Densmore. No one could help me. What mattered an interpretation? What
mattered the thinking postures of Miller, Mailer, Lawrence, Sartre,
Stendahl, Vidal, Proust—individuals whose writings I knew well enough to
“speak” to them about Gonza. Their ideas were not of importance. And
what would the feminists say to Gonza? I could not even guess. I felt I had
done nothing to degrade or insult Gonza's sex or femininity. I had always
thought—as she had once, with me—that we were a team that transcended,
with our love, all the external considerations of a politics of sexo. We just
damn well liked being together, liked being loving, liked being kind to each
other. Gonza had to have some screws loose to want to drop me. She had to
be under a great strain. Too enormous for her to handle. The big problem
for me was to decide that if Gonza was too depressed to function happily in
our relationship, should I back out or fght to melt away that what was
making her despondent, that what was sapping her strength away: her
mother and father's unnatural clutch on her and her society's ways—
corrupt and immoderately fond of accumulating the affuence of material
goods because it was short of those assets which could not be counted in
real terms. And I could not help thinking of George Bernard Shaw's saying:
“A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all
infatuations.” To exit abruptly is the sanest of recourses for me.

The next morning I went to the forist, purchased a long-stem red rose, and
maneuveringly chucked it, with a National Basketball Association hook
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shot, over the ten foot wall that surrounds San José and Santa Maria,
Gonza's family quintas, onto the pavement that leads from the upright
structure to the entrance of her parents' home. No note. Nothing. I went to
MIT and waited.

She called shortly.

“I told you it was over, gringo.

O-V-E-R!
Do you understand?” she spelling it out loud and clear.

“Go fuck yourself, Gonza,” I screeched impulsively slamming down

the receiver upon its plastic pronged hook.

Two female co-workers came scurrying to my desk

guffawing over my anger with Gonza,
and they prodded me for details as if I were a soap opera
they had been watching but which now had privy to in
a most real life way.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I seethed.

They were compassionate.

Halted their spasmodic giggling abruptly.
Wished me their best wishes and walked away.

“Muchas gracias, chicas,” I retorted sprightly but sardonically.

The phone rerang.

“Please. I beg you. DO NOT THROW ROSES TO ME.

My father will get upset.”

Slam. Her f*****g father “WILL GET UPSET!!!”

Again the phone.

I: “You will get a f*****g rose every f*****g day

I don't f**k you, you Venezuelan f***er! Do you understand?”

“This is crazy! You are crazy, gringo!”

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 “Gonza, I love you!
Darling, I love you!” I shrieked.

Her voice was restrained: “Gringo, please understand.

Try to understand. I can't go on. I can't continue this way.
It's too much for me. Be nice to me.
Please don't hurt me.”

“A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose and a day without a f**k

is a rose is a day without a f**k is a rose,” I taunted tautologically
not realizing I was blackmailing her.

Slam went the phone in turn.

Ring in response.

“I want to meet with you,” she soothed softly the vibrant

sounds I wanted to hear.”

“When?”

“I get off from work at...”

“NOW!” I commanded.
It was 10:15am.

“The Tamanaco then,” she acknowledged as just.

Slam went my phone.

“Where the f**k is Carlos?” I bellowed producing

a blatantly arresting effect within the confnes of the offce.”

“Carlos!” went one.

“Carlos!” went another.

“Carlos!” went still someone else.

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 No Carlos. Where is Carlos?

I called my answering service.

“Por favor. Clave 29777. Mensaje: Carlos

telefona 'El Gringo' prontissimo.”

Carlos reported in six long minutes,

and I asked him to rush to the offce to take me to the Tamanaco.
He “rogered” me out and arrived in short order.

“TAMANACO, Carlos, but no siren!”

Off we went.

I did not want to impress Gonza with my personal involvement

in the source of our mental unrest.
Apparently, neither did she, for when I met her she was perched
on a chair ficking through the pages of a
woman's fashion magazine!

“How can you read that f*****g s**t at a time like this?”
I moiled.

“It's important for a woman to keep abreast of...”

“I'll keep abreast of you! You!! You!!! f*****g traitor, traitress!”

“Traitress?”

“Traitress! Yes, f*****g traitress!”

“Do you want a drink?”

“A drink? A drink! F**k no! I need a Valium!”

“I'll send you some from the offce.”

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 “Vodka, con hielo, por favor.”

“This can't go on, gringo,” she deferred.

“You are right, Gonza, we can't continue this way.”

I surrendered to her kindness and dignity.
“It's over, gringo. O-V-E-R.”

“OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,
Gonza,” I sobbed.

The tears poured forth more than suffciently.

“What do I do?”
I earnestly appealed to her.

“You go home.”

“Home?”

“Yes, to Gringolandia. To your family.

To your country, the great United States of America,”
The Female Humphrey Bogart summoned the Wisdom of the Ages
with placating incantations!

I saw frecrackers going off and jets making fy-bys.

Old Glory fapped in the blasts of strong airs.

“Home?” I momentarily pondered.

“Yes, home, gringo.

Home, where you belong.
Home to Gringolandia.
Away from this insanity that is driving you crazy.

“But, Gonza, I was just getting used to it.”

“Home.”

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 “Yes, home,” I simulated her pitch.

“Go home, gringo. Go home, gringo. Go home, gringo,”

she cast me under her spell.

“Yes, go home, gringo. Go. Go. Go. Home. Home. Home,”

I reacted cooperatively to her suggestion.

I thought in a state that recalled the Past.

“Gonza, remember “Bridge Over Troubled Waters?”

a Simon & Garfunkel hit we driveled over again and again and again.

“Yes, gringo,” she cooed.

I ordered my memory to return to the words that were fxed

in our minds forever.

“When you're weary

Feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all...I'm on your side
Oh when times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled waters
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled waters
I will lay me down
When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I'll take your part
Oh when darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled waters
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled waters
I will lay me down
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 Sail on Silver Girl
Sail on high
Your time has come to shine
Oh if you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled waters
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled waters
I will ease your mind”

Her eyes fell to the foor and she began to cry, too.

“Gringo, I can't lay me down for you.

I can't my darling.”

Her feebleness shocked me out of my self-pity.

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Gringo, I love you, I love you, I love you. But, I can't,”

she cried uncontrollably.

“OK, Gonza, I'll bug out. I'm a hero. Boy Scout, too.
I'll Humphrey Bogart it for you.”

“Gringo, you are special. I never in my whole life met a man

so faithful, so gutsy, as you.”

I sang from Simon & Garfunkel again:

“I am a rock; I am an island.”

She spasmed a jerk of gaiety.

I sang to her from Gary Pluckett & the Union Gap:

“We chose it
Win or lose it
Love is never quite the same
I love you
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 Now I've lost you
Don't feel bad
You're not to blame
So kiss me goodbye
And I'll try not to cry
All the tears in the world won't change your mind
There's someone else and he's waiting for you
Soon your heart will be leaving me behind
Linger a while
And I'll go with a smile
Like a friend who just happened to part
For the last time
Pretend you are mine
My darling, kiss me goodbye
I know now I must go now
Though my heart wants me to stay
That guy is your tomorrow
I belong to yesterday
So kiss me goodbye
And I'll try not to cry
All the tears in the world won't change your mind
There's someone new
And he's waiting for you
Soon your heart will be leaving me behind
Linger a while
And I'll go with a smile
Like a friend who just happened to part
For the last time
Pretend you are mine
My darling, kiss me goodbye
My darling, kiss me goodbye”

Gonza could not fnd a plane out of Casablanca to put me on. So I downed
my vodka, took a Maalox tablet which tainted white the corners of my
mouth, and kissed her on her cheek. She kissed me back on the feshy part
of my face below my left eye.

I walked out of the Tamanaco Hotel and fipped my cigarette, a Vantage I

had borrowed from her, to the ground as Sam Spade did in The Maltese
129
Falcon.

Carlos looked sadly at me. He knew. He could see it in my face. I was

haggard. I was miserable. I was taut white with grief and loss.

We drove out of the hotel's parking lot and Carlos took me home.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Time separates everything into components after which one may think
more intelligently. Give Time to Time. I was not going to jump back to the
United States at this precise moment in my life. I would continue the
march for a while, without, sadly, Gonza. But, I was not going to return
exclusively for Gonza and her family. I needed to extricate myself from the
Gonza “entanglement.” When that mission was pulled off, I would decide
what was best for me. I could not do it before I had had some peace of
mind. If I was going to be left alone, alone then would I determine the
conclusion of my Caracas sojourn. I had to support the poverty of my spirit
with a very high degree of self-respect. It was not to be an easy task.

There was such a gargantuan amount of mental malfunctioning at MIT, I

thought that that by itself was suffcient motive for me to allow the
“entanglement” to slip into forgetfulness. Yet, even with this governmental
chaos, my memories of her chewed on me with an intense melancholy.
When Carlos took a street and passed by a place where we once had a good
time together, my spirits sank. When I was burdened with remembrances
of our long-ago, my heart saddened. When I was tempted to call and ask to
see her, my gut strained with anxiety. When would this persistent yearning
diminish? I was in mourning. I was suffering through the psychologically
connected phases of one who has been afficted with a bereavement; that is,
the whole process of responding to the loss of a signifcant, key person:
anticipatory grief, grief-mourning, depression, loneliness, and
estrangement. My relief and resolution were yet to come.

So what was I to do to “forget” uncomplicatedly? WALK!!! Yes, I decided

to walk! Walking is fantastic, a great way to put out of your mind something
disturbing and threatening. Perhaps I had read that in an issue of the
Readers' Digest sometime before in a dentist's offce, but it looked as if to be
to me the proper thing to revert to in my acute sorrow. Good for the
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circulation system, too! I remembered that Latin adage: Post prandium
stabis; post caenam lento pede deambulis. (“After lunch rest a while; after
dinner, take a leisurely walk.”) So, after my afternoon siesta, (not after
caenam, because you have to be crazy to walk in Caracas at night) if there
was no action at the offce, Carlos took me home where I changed into my
walking uniform: jeans, a Chinese t-shirt, and Alpine hiking boots (that
cost me a whopping $186.00!). Carlos objected vehemently when I told him
to go home. I informed him I wanted to mix with the people to fnd out why
Gonza was such a s******d. He notifed me that I was a bit loco over the loss
of Gonza, and that suicide was my real ambition. I indicated to him that I
was no chicken foreign affairs' offcer working in a plush embassy. I
instructed him to leave me alone, and off I went.

I have a great idea! My dear reader, how would you like to come with me for
a walk in downtown Caracas? I'll take you through the city and you'll be
able to see for yourself. Just as John Gay once did for his London readers!
OK? Take your camera if you like. But don't look like a dumb tourist or
you might get your a*s busted. Keep close to me and do as I say. There will
be no problems. If I tell you to duck, DUCK!, damn it! Don't look at me as
if you think I am stupid. Just follow my instructions to the “t.” Let's move
out. Saddle up! Ready on the left? Ready on the right?

We can start here at Chinquinquira—a big church—not a cathedral—in La

Florida a few blocks from my quinta and the two quintas where that creep
Gonza and her family dwell. We will walk about ten to twelve kilometers,
back and forth, so I hope you are in reasonably good shape. At the halfway
mark, we will break for a bite to eat and some cold Polar beer—if that suits
you. Look, but don't stare and don't act surprised at anything. Keep your
mouth shut all the time we are engaged with other people. You don't speak
Spanish and they will think you are saying something unkind about them.
If you talk in a foreign tongue, or even ask questions in a different
language, these people will pop paranoid. Wait until the coast is clear to
talk to me. Let's gooooooooooooooo!

This is Avenida Andrés Bello. He was a famous man of Venezuelan letters,

and his Spanish grammar book is used in schools throughout Venezuela.
Even, I believe, in many other countries in South America—but I am not
sure in which ones. Andrés Bello leads into Avenida Urdaneta which leads
into Avenida Sucre. Urdaneta and Sucre are revered historical personages
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too. The Andrés Bello-Urdaneta-Sucre thoroughfare is perhaps the most
important traffc artery in the city, and it is famous in the world for its
mighty congestion and hefty pollution that kills regularly The City of
Eternal Spring. From Chacaito, in the north-central part of the city, it leads
thousands and thousands of people to work spots and important
governmental locations including the president's offce in Palacio
Mirafores—at the end of Avenida Urdaneta, just before the beginning of
Avenida Sucre.

The noise of honking car horns and racing cars and bus engines might
strike you as unbearable at times, but don't let it get to you. It might be a
good idea to keep your nose and mouth covered with a handkerchief
especially when the unmaintained buses spew out their clouds of noxious
smoke. Keep checking the ground for dog and cat and human fecal matter.
When we pass through the elegant zones in La Florida, watch out for the
red hibiscus leaves which dot the sidewalks in lots and look like huge
droplets of blood; they are slipperier than banana peels. And always,
always, always check out corners—even the underground passageways
leading out from basement garages—to avoid being hit by reckless drivers.

The next street we are coming to is Avenida Samanes—there to the left.

That is one of the most luxurious streets in Caracas, and the cost of
apartments in those buildings is four or fve times more than the same
structures in the United States, for example. This zone, La Florida, is
renowned for its blackouts and water shortages. In fact, one smoldering,
fne summer day in La Florida we went without water for two whole weeks.
Water trucks came to the streets, and lines of public utility consumers went
to them with plastic and glass tubs and containers to get fll-ups for
cleaning and cooking and fushing toilet bowls. Rich people have water
tanks in their quintas and apartments. Gonza, that creep, has a 100,000-liter
tank under the front lawn of Quinta San José.

As you can see, the trees and plants along Avenida Andrés Bello are all
dead or dying. They are never pruned, but even if they were, the carbon
monoxide would still do them in. Sometimes water trucks pass to wash the
streets off, but that is not often and usually comes before a general election.
There is at all times piles of garbage wherever you go—in all sections of the
city. That's normal.

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You'll be full of soot and grit when you get home. The incidence of acne is
high in the city. Venezuelan business executives who use public
transportation forever have rings around their collars, but the best
imported detergents wash them away with the greatest of ease, and leave
their shirts sparkling white and fuffously soft. Obviously, you should not
drink from public water fountains. And if a beggar asks you for money,
please pass him or her a bit. You'll help him or her a little, and you'll feel
good for doing it. Unemployment is very high. And, the Bible says: “TO
GIVE IS TO RECEIVE.” Remember?

Another important warning: DO NOT SPEAK if we are stopped in the

downtown area by the police or Army personnel checking identity cards
and passports. Just hand over your passport if they stick their hands out to
you. Don't be, or act, scared. If they nudge you with the muzzles of their
Israeli machine guns, don't panic. Their guns won't go off by accident. I
swear to you. These brutes know how to to shoot—they don't have
accidents. They are not going to fre at a foreigner, anyway, and if they
thought to, they wouldn't do it in broad daylight. They would take you to
the Petare jail and kill you there. Let me do all the talking. I have
government ID, and my electronic warning system if things go awry. Be
polite, self-possessed, and cooperative even if you don't want to be. As they
say on Madison Avenue, “it pays to be nice.”

The next street is Avenida Las Palmas. On the corner over there, in that
drive-in restaurant one fnds a meeting place for students and offce
workers in the area. The prices are exorbitant even for Caracas, but the
food is well-prepared and the waiters, mainly Portuguese and Spanish men,
are prompt and courteous. Teatro Las Palmas—I saw a nude review of
Brazilian ladies there—and a legendary pastelería are down the avenida, two
blocks, very close to Avenida Libertador, another important heavily-
travelled broad street. Avenida Las Palmas, at night, is relentlessly troubled
with aggravated assaults, soliciting prostitutes, and transvestites scampering
away from the police who are always chasing after them to keep them out of
their hangouts on the tourist rich Avenida Libertador.

As we walk along you can see a variety of apartment buildings, medical

offces, coffee shops, small businesses, and drugstores. A hodgepodge of
Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Venezuelan family affairs. No large-scale
emporia. Notice the kiosks which populate practically every corner we pass?
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Newspapers, magazines, betting forms, chewing gum, candies, pencils,
razors, and sometimes liquid refreshments, are hawked from these large
metal cubicles. The men pushing refrigerated carts sell ice-cream, ices, and
chicha, a milk-rice beverage. The ice-cream is factory produced, but the ices
and chicha very often are home brews so they cannot be trusted to be
hygienic. People will accost us to buy fowers, boxes of tissues, shoe laces,
pictures of the Virgin Mary, fshing poles, stolen watches, clothes,
newspapers, stolen prophylactics, and many other items which very often
are hot stuff from the United States. These characters walk stealthily wary
of the police who seldom harass them because their sheer number boggles
the peace offcers' minds. These alms hunters, along with the beggars,
might appear to be a source of inconvenience, but if you ignore them, they
won't harry after you or impede your progress.

The next street, Avenida La Salle, to the right, leads up to Venevisión, the
gigantic private Venezuelan television station that is in possession of a
family consortium, one of the twelve most powerful ones of the Venezuelan
“Twelve Disciples.” This particular conglomeration owns about twenty
large companies, and it is an enormous economic concern in all of South
America with ties to large banks and corporations in the United States. As a
matter of fact, this association of Venezuelan businesses has a “think tank-
foundation” mentality, and often offers exclusive seminars touting “freedom
of the press” and “big business is fne” bills of fare frequented by North
American and European political science and economic notables. The
scheduled meetings are very expensive to attend, and the high entrance fee
serves as a public constriction, in turn a security measure, to keep out the
masses of Venezuelan people who are not “Capitalistically” enervated and
who might endanger the functioning of the elite meetings with
embarrassing questions, if not attempted assassinations. (It would be
impossible for David Rockefeller or Henry Kissinger or Arthur Schlesinger,
Jr, frequent visitors to Venezuela, to appear at a Venezuelan public
university gathering to speak about the progress of democracy and
capitalism without being shot at. And if they tell you otherwise, don't
believe them.)

To the right, you can see one of the few parks that are in the city of
Caracas. Remember that there is very little greenery in Caracas, and youth
under eighteen years of age constitute a hefty sixty percent of the
population. This park is typical. For example, you can make out that it is
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not supervised; and, it is not bounded by any protection to cause it to be
perceived distinctly. So then, it tenders a short cut to another street, it
serves sloppy citizens with a place to dump their garbage at night, and it
makes itself available to a fraternity of drunks who sleep there after dark.
There is exceptionally not very much grass, and where there once was, now
you might see large patches of powdered dirt which blow all over the place
in the twirling city winds.

Notice everything is broken. There are no swings left, the narrow tubes of
metal on the monkey bars are missing, the long planks of the see-saws are
gone, there are no hoops in the elevated, vertical boards used for playing
basketball, and the slats in all the park's benches have been removed. The
trees are so battered from climbing and initial carvings, they look as if they
are ready to die.

What should strike you as even more sinister than the physical abuse the
park's property is subjected to, is the mental maltreatment which the gangs
of unoccupied teenagers—you can see them frisking and rippling here and
there in large groups—are caused to carry on through with. They belong in
school at this hour; but, they have no compulsion to be there. Every year
there are less and less openings in the drastically crowded university
“system,” and unemployment is skyrocketing with Venezuela's debt
problems. You see them dancing, smoking, smoking pot, perhaps some
cocaine, but very little of the expensive heroin. Those kids are poor. They
are cultivating notions to rob so that they might satisfy their psychic needs
to escape from a very portentous future. If you talk to them, and I have
many times, they strike you as being very nervous, immature characters;
and, they believe strongly in DROGA, SEXO, & ROCK and the value of
money and clothes and television and cars and cheap jewelry. When they
are pushed into the corner by the authorities and their nagging mothers
and fathers, they react, in groups, with a dangerous viciousness.

You will note, as you get to know Caracas, that it is a city of potent
contrasts: very rich, very poor; very fast, very slow; very happy, very sad. It
is not an equilibrated city. (Two negatives do not make a positive.) The care
queñia society is on edge all the time. An on-going joke among foreigners
here is this pathetic observation: If fuorides can be put into Caracas's
drinking water to prevent tooth decay, why can't Valium be put in to
prevent mental instability? Things fow crudely in this large company of
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individuals because with all the clashes colliding between the extremes, a
disordered midst is ever perpetuated. Problems resolve themselves
successfully usually with a great deal of luck and/or patience. Never without
infuence, palanca. One cannot rely on things to function normally because
they will habitually perform, from convention, out of the ordinary. Waste
and effciency are the norms. The childish notion is that oil can pay for
everything.

One of these arresting dissimilarities between things compared, of which I

have just spoken to you about, is the walled complex opposite the park on
Avenida Principal de Maripérez. That is the Hermandad Gallega, a club—
an alliance is perhaps a better word because the organization is strongly
nationalistic—to which Spanish immigrants and their families, mostly from
Galicia, a zone in northern Spain remarkable for its seafaring inhabitants
who for centuries propped up a very unstable fshing industry, go to enjoy
themselves and escape from the realities of Caracas which, in this case,
strike them very violently at times when their sons and daughters lock
horns with the poverty-stricken ruffans in the park across the street, when
the Spanish settlers leave the Hermandad Gallega to return home.

It is important to understand a little about the gallego y gallega, the man

and woman from the bitter cold place at the top of the northeast corner of
Spain—directly to the north of Portugal and not far from Bordeaux, Nantes,
Brest, Plymouth, London, Cork, then Dublin. And to the south, not far-
fung from Porto, Lisbon, Tangier, then Casablanca.

The winds from the North Atlantic Ocean have everlastingly blown hard
upon Gallacia, and the characters of the gallegos y gallegas are strong and
sinewy. The gallego is a hard worker, but he is also an uneducated one.
Forever intimidated in his history, the gallego—his face chaffed by the cold
winds—had to suffer barbarous cultural, social, economic and linguistic
perplexities. The centralist state of España, headquartered in Madrid, far
away from Galicia's capital, La Coruña, at all times insisted on making the
people of Galicia, travel minded individuals, conform in ways that did not
abide well with the restless temperaments of the gallegos. Poverty and strict
dependence on fshing that gave them their livings, added to the suffering
of the people set upon the mercy of a government they scorned for its
brutal insensitiveness and corruption. No conformity; no state aid, no
Roman Catholic schools, no social services...no! no!! no!!!
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Galicia perhaps the largest fshing region in Europe, has for all times been
isolated because of the thickheadedness of its people reacting against the
unrelenting intransigence of its national government. Los Gallegos: brawny
to the physical strength test; scornful of education, technology, and
modernism. Its own enemy. Xenophobic, family orientated, and avaricious
about money so as to secure economic vitality that more often than not
keeps the gallegos y gallegas only a bit above the poverty line.

When the monster Franco took the Spanish helm in 1936 and began
leading Spain through the turbulent waters of religious and fascist
destructiveness, Galicia, the Balcony of the North Atlantic Ocean, smarted
bitterly. The economic and political persecutions—often made in the name
of the Roman Catholic Jesus—dealt consistent swipes at Galicia, and
hordes of gallegos y gallegas, used to upping their collars to the freezing
cold, putting their hands in their pockets to keep them warm, scattered to
South America, in the late 1940s and early 1950s, to seek their fortunes.
The oppression had become too great for many. In Caracas, these people,
former slaves to Francistic Fascism, peasants to a rural area bordering the
mighty sea, found jobs in grocery stores, in taxis, in laundries, in bakeries,
and in fruit and vegetable stores. Intractable characters: quick to work,
earnest to save and improve their status. They clanned together and
isolated themselves—their natural posture—from the Venezuelans upon
whom they then looked with horror and disgust.

Over the years their fnancial acuity and monetary accumulations lead them
to own fourishing, but small, businesses, and with their newly acquired
fnancial clout, they contrived ways to protect themselves and insure the
prosperity, yet rarely the education, of their offspring. Alert to their own
previous lack of education, they insisted, with little success, to convince
their children to study. Conscious of their own former want for medical
attention, they made sure their children could visit doctors and dentists.
Cognizant of their own past want for social and sports' facilities, they
insisted that their children have a club as did the Italians, Portuguese, the
Hungarians, the Lebanese, the English, the French, and the Venezuelans.

So, up went the Hermandad Gallega, a huge complex and perhaps the best
of its kind in Caracas; surely not the most elegant, not the one with the
most yachts, not the one with the most rich people, but the one that offers
—club pound for club pound—the most activities, the most sporting
137
events, the most organized programming. It caters to the gallegos y gallegas
and their families who frequently enough now have intermarried with the
venezuelanos y venezuelanas and other nationalities. Other clubs usually
pride themselves on their gaudy facilities and Who's Rich in Venezuela
membership lists, exorbitant entrance fees, manicured lawns (a novelty in
Caracas), bar service at poolside, and so-so restaurants. These clubs are not
so ingenious and social conscious as the less conspicuous and practical
Hermandad Gallega: a monument to the dogged will of thousands of
Spanish individuals who immigrated to Venezuela to escape economic,
religious, and political persecution and fnd a better life for themselves and
their families.

But where is the “better life?” the gallego y gallega demand now in
bitterness. Certainly not outside of their homes, beyond their walled club.
The terrorism in Caracas has embittered the weather-beaten provincials
from Galicia as it has disillusioned many others. As a rule, the same
individuals, ironically, who sped away from Franco's storm troopers beating
their heads in the name of Jesúcristo, at present clamor for military control
and golpes de estado to rid Venezuela of its corrupt democracy and unsafe
streets. The gallegos y gallegas, victims of the sword, now wish to wield it
wildly against folk at this time burdened with repugnances for the gallegos y
gallegas themselves that they once were strapped with. The circle closes
more and more and more in Venezuela. The gallego y gallega: newly “rich,”
stubborn, handsome people making their impressions, for better, for worse,
on the Venezuelan society that distrusts and often dislikes them. A society
which, all in all, is a composite of many individuals from many different
lands racing from itself and the realities with which it dawdles.

The next sight, Parque Andrés Bello, is not exactly a landscaped tract of
land, but a gigantic slab of concrete with a monument dedicated to Andrés
Bello and toilets for men and women. Again, a hangout for juvenile
delinquents and drug pushers. Outdoor political gatherings are held here
sometimes, and there are forever perro caliente (hot dog) vendors and ice-
cream cart pushers congregating near the steps that lead up to the
sculpture erected as a memorial. There are oodles of statues in Caracas,
with pigeon excrement covering them, and I wonder if Narcissistic Romúlo
had it in mind that his iron mug would one day be the landing zone for
pigeon droppings.

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That spot is the Hospital Ortopédico where people with bone diseases and
deformities go for comfort. The hospital is non-proft and is sponsored with
government funding. One is certain, therefore, to fnd inadequate services,
poorly-trained medical specialists, and long waiting periods to obtain care
and attention.

Over there, across the street, to the left, is the Guaicaipuro Mercato where
fresh vegetables and fruits are delivered from farm trucks every morning
between three and fve o'clock. It is a great place to shop for produce if one
has the willpower to rise early enough to beat the crowds that come later to
scrounge up what has not been distributed out to the supermarkets and
abastos (grocery stores) in the city. Very often tents are thrown up, and good
clothes buys and excellent household appliance purchases are available. It
is nice to walk through the mercato to smell the rich odors of vegetables and
fruits. The Guaicaipuro Mercato is a hotbed for offoading stolen goods and
farm products, especially those confscated illegally from Colombia. A must
on one's Caracas sightseeing list; but, it's too late now for us to see there
anything of interest. Early, very early, is best.

The building with the large white fags with huge red crosses on them is the
Cruz Roja, the Venezuelan Red Cross headquarters. Not a very dynamic
organization. That miserable one, Gonza, told me about it. Like so many
things incorporated into Venezuelan society by imitating other countries
(Boy Scouts, Lions' Club, Rotary Club, Chamber of Commerce, and others
like them), there is a sense of artifciality about the Cruz Roja. One can
detect a sense of insecurity and xenophobia affliated with this group when
it attempts to advance some common purpose or charitable work program.
Venezuelans can easily feel that they have been “invaded” by others. Less
than enthusiastic, the functions of these associations “imported” from other
places often serve corrupt leaders who bilk away at membership dues and
public or governmental contributions.

As we cross over Avenida La Estrella which passes under that overpass

above us, we enter a twenty square block zone that will prove more
interesting and lively during our travels. Before this, we walked along
Avenida Andrés Bello adjacent to some very fancy well-to-do residential
areas: Las Lomas, San Rafael, La Florida, Las Palmas, Las Colinas de las
Palmas, and San Bernardino. Now we are on downtown (“El Centro”) turf,
and the district, more poverty-ridden and crowded with slums, more
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populated with stores and government offces, and more heavily traffcked
with por puestos, buses, imported cars, and taxis, will give you a better sense
of Caracas not only as it churns on today, but how it partially looked, many
old colonial houses and narrow streets, that slowed marauding armies of
the past, still remain. This area is nostalgic for many Venezuelans because
in years gone Caracas was a more sedate, healthy, and vibrant community
even when Spanish soldiers were not on the rampage against the citizens of
The City of Eternal Spring.

Are you ready? Let us enter El Centro. The frst interesting sight is
Candelaria, a Spanish section occupied by members of the gallego
community who live here under social and economic pressures, where, also
vascos and catalanes relive, even today, a repressive Spain they once suffered
with and then left nurturing sentiments of abhorrence and desperation.
This is a peculiar neighborhood, very “Spaneesh.” It is set apart from the
Caracas mainstream even in its slum-like appearance that reminds one of
New York's Lower East Side. It is unlike the mud-sliding, shack-like barrios
which typify Caracas's shantytown sections which compromise ffty or so
percent of the living space in Caracas. In Candelaria everyone speaks of the
glory and splendor of Spain and disparages his or her Venezuelan fellow
citizens with whom he or she is “encumbered” to live with. If you speak
with vascos o vascas, they will tell you they are superior to catalanes who are
superior to gallegos y gallegas who are fner than vascos y vascas who are
better than.... All are greater than all others, especially native Venezuelans:
“The Indians,” “Los Indios.”

Candelaria swanks the Spanish soberbia: arrogance, haughtiness, conceit,

vanity, presumptuousness. Perhaps rage and fury are better words. The
place reeks with all-talk, no-action. Here, in this neighborhood, frustrated,
lower-middle-class, individuals belch their melancholy for España Gloriosa.
They eke out bourgeoise livings in small shops selling discounted
electronic equipment, radios and stereos, dental equipment, hardware
products, and crystal and silver ornaments. All are usually imported from
Miami and are frequently stolen merchandise. The streets are teeming with
people and carts scurrying to buy and sell, oblivious to the other “worlds”
which occupy the Caracas urban bouillabaisse.

Spanish people are great chatterers. In Candelaria there are no decent

hospitals, schools, or civic associations as one might expect to fnd in New
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York or London or Paris or Madrid. There is no attempt to incorporate
Candelaria into the Latin Melting Pot. Candelaria is strictly a “get it all for
me and my family” proposition, and the insularity of its inhabitants is
refected in their community spirit and civic responsibility very little of
which exists beyond their own reclusive family leagues. The Sacred Family.
Blessed by the Pope and prayed for by the Saints. Streets are unhygienic,
apartment buildings are unkempt and dingy, and the surface features of
Candelaria are, to the casual observer, distorted and slapdash in outward
appearance.

Now if one has the staying power and mind and knack to remain calm
under adverse cultural barrages, a dive into the murky waters of Candelaria
is worth the stab. Intelligence agents should include Candelaria in their
reports to presidents and kings and dictators and popes. Candelaria is the
fnding of the political Rosetta Stone of South American lower-middle-
class society. Once one shoves aside the pomposity of the frightened
Spanish immigrants and enters the private worlds of their family and
business establishments, the realities of their lives evinces a sympathy. The
Spanish in Candelaria are scared. Nervous. On edge. Brutally arrogant in
their shots to be bona fde. You want to ask of them: “Why, if you hate
Caracas so, do you live here?” The inevitable answer: “For the money.”
Their tussle for bolivares impels their impetuosity and that bursts out all
over Candelaria.

There is “culture” here. Now, my dear reader, don't reach for your pistol as
Goebbels did when I talk with you about “culture!” I don't mean “culture,”
I mean “culture, culture.” I mean nut-cracking, anti-social behavior,
neuroticism, psychoses, and pushing you out of the way “culture.”
Pounding against the wall “culture.” Kicking a*s “culture.” Stabbing in the
back “culture.” Take a swig of Vodka before you go to Candelaria, and keep
your hands over your testicles when you walk around that hole.

In these houses and apartment buildings in Candelaria exist young people

isolated by their parents' not poor-poor, not rich, money. Youth, stymied,
denied, abused, nihilistic, oppressed, abandoned emotionally. But their
bellies are full, and their mommies and poppies have enough money to buy
opera records, videocassette recorders, and encyclopedias! The monsters
beat upon themselves with an intensity that would make Christian martyrs
envious. Misdirected punks. Masturbating, smoking pot, sniffng cocaine,
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slugging whisky and wine, f*****g like rabbits, and aborting like plumbers.
Within the confnes of these modern social prisons, there exists a handful
of “distorted beings” practicing the piano, practicing novel writing,
practicing playwriting, practicing atomic physics, practicing computer
science, practicing flm making, practicing airplane design, practicing
Molotov Cocktail making...practicing, practicing, practicing to keep from
going completely out of their skulls. These “horrors,” if the oil money holds
out (and who is crazy enough to think that it will?), might come to create a
symphony or two, but will probably design new weapons to hurl against the
United States' embassy on Avenida Francisco de Miranda and the Soviet
Union embassy located in Las Lomas de Las Mercedes: the chance to
destroy being more apt than the chance to fashion sparkling newness.

The persistent screech of South America, to spring up from its bottom

position, cannot beat on in a spirit of understanding and good will. It must
rise as a festering infection frst bursting out of its rind, then spreading
itself upon the skin of all that surrounds it. Middle-class South America
insignifcant in number, caught between the well-established anarchies and
the gargantuan masses and masses and masses of poor people looking for
the way and the day to murder and rob out of their banal existences, is the
backbone of the coming Latin revolution that will stun foreign affairs
offcers throughout the world.

A good example of middle-classism is the restaurants in Candelaria. There

is a slew of Spanish-styled eating joints there, and I will single out one, the
Bar Catalan, that is likely the best of them all, and surely typical, surely
Spanish. A view of this place will help you put Candelaria into better
perspective.

In this eating establishment catalanos y catalanas congregate to sing folksy

songs at the bar, to scream and shout during Spanish football matches, and
to cultivate their bravados assenting to their personal higher kind of nature
which, they say, is wider in scope and more comprehensive than that of the
Venezuelan people in whose country they live and support themselves
usually more comfortably than their Venezuelan counterparts.

Whenever you are in a Spanish-imitated restaurant, you can be sure of two

things: a high decibel level and unctuous food. I've never been
disappointed in this regard. Bottles banging, trays clanking, air-
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conditioners buzzing, waiters shouting orders into the kitchen. People yell,
shriek, pound on tables, and slam doors to their hearts' content. One let's it
all out in these Spanish restaurants in Candelaria, and if your nerves are up
to the challenge, it is an interesting experience. But, except perhaps for the
food, one with which you could do without. The español must scream in
Caracas in order to keep his or her emotional balance. Not the place to take
a date with whom you wish to to talk about serious, intimate matters. These
are places where one careens one's conversation through and around his or
her companion into the walls laden with relics from Gloriosa España. Bar
Catalan is considered a chic place. You have to be admitted by the owner,
Juancito, who inspects you through a one-way mirrored door at the
entrance. While the atmosphere is not elegant, it compensates itself, in
turn, with its rusticity. The food is excellent when you know how to avoid
the oily dishes. Clean, well-prepared cooking. Bullfghters from Spain visit
there, Venezuelan prominent political personalities fock there, and
theatrical and artistic aspirants deem it necessary to make the Bar Catalan
scene.

I'll tell you one thing about the Bar Catalan that might keep you from going
there. The toilet!!! To go to any public toilet in Caracas is a depressing
experience, generally, and the Bar Catalan is no exception, unfortunately.
To go to the bathroom one is called upon to sustain a great inconvenience,
which is normal in most public places where there are rest facilities. Firstly,
there is no toilet paper. No napkins. Maybe an old newspaper. If you need
to defecate, you must go to Juancito and ask for a roll of toilet paper that he
will present to you with ceremony as if he were handing over to you the
keys to his new car. All Venezuelan paper rolls of towels and tissue do not
break off—the perforation machines in the paper companies are not
properly maintained. The paper rolls on and on and on, and you grab hold
of it and rip it apart. As a rule, the foor is soaked with sticky, caking male
and female urine, and the toilet bowl might very well be clogged with turds
that will not fush away because the tank is out of order. Cigarette butts are
squashed all over the foor. If you have a coat or a bag, you can't hang it
because the hooks on the back of the doors have been removed. The top of
the toilet tank is so dirty and scummy and viscous, one cannot think to lay
his or her bag there without a paper towel or large section of ripped-off
toilet paper or newspaper set as a protective mat. When the toilet paper has
been obtained, one must dry the urine off on the toilet seat before sitting
down on it with one's feet set in caking urine. There is a universal habit in
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Caracas to put used toilet paper and tissues in plastic baskets next to the
toilets. The city's plumbing systems are so ineffcient and old—paper clogs
so easily in them—it's become a common practice to put rancid toilet paper
and sanitary napkins into these wastepaper baskets. (This drives women
from St Paul, Minnesota crazy!) Soap? Forget it! The mirror is broken and
what sections of it that remain are covered usually with vulgar, magic-
marked special sayings. There is no graffti on the intellectual level, but
demands for golpes de stato and the phone numbers of prostitutes, who have
visited the bar, are scribbled with lipstick. You have to keep your foot at the
door to keep people from coming in because the latch to Juancito's lock is
missing. The smell of urine and fecal matter mixed with cigarette and cigar
tobacco can make a strong stomach nauseous. The Colombian cleaning lady
might get to the privy next week. One can't be convinced, though. When
you open the door to leave, a smog of cigarette and cigar smoke and the
thunder of screaming people pelt you in the puss as the blast waves from an
exploding artillery projectile. After leaving the restaurant, the noisome,
rackety city street has the feeling of being relatively calming to the nerves.

Let's go back onto Avenida Urdaneta. If you look up and down the
thoroughfare at this point, you will see one of the world's ugliest city streets
—perhaps worse than Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. There are
many store fronts to be sure, and some of them attractively designed—flled
with shiny electric toasters and electric juice squeezers to buy. But outside,
there is the bustle and hustle of traffc and the rushing to and fro of
agitated, nerve wracked people. The puffs of pollution defy the health of
the citizens. When the signal light changes to green in the street, horns and
sirens begin to blast the impatience of the drivers in their stopped vehicles
even before a driver has taken his or her foot off the brake pedal to pass it
over to the accelerator. Everyone is on the run. Not to their work places to
be effcient and proud of their endeavors, but to escape the noise and
tension and heat of the street. A pedestrian crosses over to the other side of
the street in fear. People push and shove and spit on the ground and throw
paper to the pavement and jump in front of others to enter taxis, buses, or
por puestos. The huge transnational publicity posters, colorful and trendy,
impose themselves against a backdrop of old, ugly buildings flled with
offces with Swedish telex machines and new Italian typewriters and
German telephones and Japanese calculators and North American air-
conditioners and Japanese color televisions, and North American water
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coolers and French mineral water bottles and English tea bags...

Look at that cruddy Chinese restaurant roasting chickens in its front

window, and watch the common domestic fowl's fat dropping on sizzling
coals and the smoke curling its way to the street to mix itself with the
greenhouse gases and smells of caking vomit. See the cervercería, beer joint,
rocking with its cache of drunk men shouting and gambling and cursing
and smoking and wishing that their wives were dead? See the lotería, La
Virgin de Coromoto, dishing out useless lottery tickets under the auspices
of the Virgin Mary, tickets blessed by the pope in Rome and promising
rewards of heaven after a dismal life in Caracas? See the 5 y 6 outlet doling
out receipts for bets on drugged horses mopping around the Caracas
racetrack beaten by Latin jockeys with hemorrhoids itching them on? See
the forería sighing itself with droop-headed red and white carnations in its
misty, steamy window? See the farmacía offering, without prescription, the
magical Valium crystals to those with sweaty palms, taut stomachs,
palpitating heart muscles, headaches, constipation, pounding veins and
arteries, receding hairlines, and ringing ears? See the iglesia, church, where
the priest is singing alleluias to nine people with expectations of eternal
happiness in a world of infnite felicity?

Let's stop and scrutinize the faces of the people. Let's feel these people.
Let's forget about ourselves. See how intense they are? Worried. Caught up
in a struggle to survive. Not interested in anyone but themselves. No
enjoyment on their countenances. Men crying in their beer. Admitting how
worthless they are. Blubbering for their mommies' attention. Sucking on
the tits of cigarettes to calm their nerves. Blake:

“A mark in every face I meet,

Marks of weakness, marks of woe,”

Woe! Woe!! Woe!!! Woooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

See the beggar sitting there with his cancerous legs exposed to the sun? See
the boy in an epileptic ft? See that paranoid-schizophrenic who has just
busted the window of the Rex shoe shop with his right fst, and is now
rubbing his bleeding artery on the window of the Banco Provincial? See the
kids tossing rotten eggs, from a bus, at the policeman? See the boy bent
over in the back of that taxi rushing him, with a .38 slug in his stomach, to
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Hospital Vargas? See the transit policeman throwing his whistle at the car
that has just passed a red light at one-hundred-forty kilometers an hour?
See the President of Venezuela fashing by in his armor-plated Cadillac
with bullet-proof windows, the window shades downed, and a force of one-
hundred Israel machine-gunned Venezuelan troopers in twenty black
station wagons imported from Detroit to protect CAP? See the Yanqui, GO
HOME, sign sprayed to the marble front of the Banco Mercantil y Agricolo
—the Chase Manhattan affliate in Venezuela? See the motorcycle driver
grabbing at that girl's gold chain, over there? See the two M-16ed soldiers
in front of the Banco Latino branch offce? See all the big a*ses? See the
dark, but not black, skin of the people? See the crippled boy peddling
copies of the afternoon edition of El Mundo screaming “Mundo!!!” under
the roar of cars and buses and trucks and por puestos? See the girl with the
sweatshirt: TOO MANY MEN, TOO LITTLE TIME? See the pitiable old
man selling vials of human placenta to stop falling hair? See the
advertisement plastered to the wall billing a performance of the Orquesta
de Camara de Moscu, directed by Mikhail Teryan, that ten people will
attend? See the man on the corner eating greasy Chinese egg rolls and
drinking sweet sherry from a plastic cup? See the holes in the street? See
the helicopter zipping up there with Tango Tango Fox; he has more than
eight thousand hours in the air reporting to his radio listeners on Caracas's
sluggish, turgid traffc? See the man pouring reddish-brown Pepsi-Cola
into his gold beer? See the girl smiling greedily and kissing her bus driver
boyfriend while he drives and she sits on the over-heated motor of his
Yugoslavian bus that is stimulating her clitoris? See the three ten-year-olds,
truants, with syringes, sucking out the milk from the veins of dying plants
in front of the old Fondo Comun building? See the pounds of pregnant
women swelling out in their bellies with mounds of babies?

If you take that street, Norte 9, and go four blocks down, you will come to
two attention-getting places: the Terminal Pasajeros (the New York Port
Authority bus terminal of Venezuela) and Nuevo Circo (a bull ring used for
political meetings and bullfghting). DO NOT take a bus from Terminal
Pasajeros. I repeat: DO NOT take a bus from Terminal Pasajeros.
Newspapers are flled every week with charred bodies and squashed metal
bus frames. Once the bus drivers exit Caracas and are on the open roads to
all points in the country and out of it, they let loose the pent-up aggression
that has accumulated in them while they lost time leaving traffc-plagued
Caracas. Please. I must repeat: DO NOT take a bus out of Terminal
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Pasajeros.

But visit it. Let's go down there now. You can see crowds and crowds and
crowds of travelers waiting to embark. They are patiently sweating on lines
to enter the dangerous people carriers. Dressed in jeans, with GET ON
DOWN, I ONLY SLEEP WITH THE BEST, Gucci, Pucci, Coca-Cola,
Pepsi-Cola, Sony, or Yale University sweatshirts or t-shirts. Sneakers
(trainers) for sure. Elegant Italian leather bags to carry clothes within.
Sunglasses from France. Gold chains from African mines. Baby strollers—
closed up like umbrellas—from the United States. Smoking Dunhill
International cigarettes, eating soggy potato chips, chomping on strange
looking hot dogs, licking melting ice cream cones, guzzling sweet, freshly-
squeezed orange juice, munching stale popcorn, chewing gooey chocolate,
sipping from warm Coke cans: all for sale from vendors walking through
the long lines of waiting travelers. Kids playing catch between buses their
balls greased with gasoline; women sitting on suitcases shaded by empty
buses, playing cards; men standing and playing chess on magnetic
checkered boards; people slipping and falling on oil-slick patches left by
buses; a line of twenty men lingering in the torrid sun to go to the only
functioning toilet in the terminal.

We can't call on Nuevo Circo because it is closed today, but I can give you
an impression of it I once had when I saw a bullfght here a month ago at
four o'clock in the afternoon's scorching, setting summer Sunday sun.
Gonza, that stupid numbskull and idiot, had asked Big Shot Paul to land
me (she does not sit with people who are hot, perspiring, and drunk on
Spanish wine which is guzzled from animal skins sewn to form a soft fask)
a choice seat in the arena on the shaded side, she had begged, but that
turned out not to be the case.

When we entered the small stadium we were met by a ten-piece brass band
playing, in the lobby, Spanish bullfght songs on the order of Herb Alpert
and the Tiajuana Brass's “The Lonely Bullfghter.” Wow! What a charge to
the spirit listening to those roistering notes in the air! (I later bought a
cassette of the maestro Raymond Nuñez's Oreja de Oro, and La Gran
Banda de Toro, with such bullfghting oldies but goodies as “Toque de
Cuadillas,” “España Cañi,” “El Toreo,” “La Virgen de la Macarena,”
“Machaquito,” “Sangre Española,” “Pepe Ortiz,” “Granada,” and “Toque de
Muerte!”) I was a little on the high side after a fantastic paella and white
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wine lunch at La Cita in Candelaria where some of Big Shot Paul's military
friends took me before the breaking of my bullfghting virginity which they
had joshed me about all during our delicious almuerzo. (They didn't know I
had seen the meat slaughterhouses in Chicago, the feld hospital in
Vietnam during the battle of Dak To, and the carnage on the United States'
super highways.)

It turned out that the people sitting directly to my side were a North
American couple, attached to the United States' embassy, and from
Oakbrook, Illinois, a real ritzy section near the very same Chicago I had just
spoken about. All during the “bullfghting,” the woman kept sticking her
head into her husband's chest to avoid what she thought was a primitive,
horrendous, vulgar debasement of human dignity. I agreed. She almost
bolted for the exit a few times, and kept murmuring what “animals” were
the people in the stands who persisted in cheering on the gore—she a
virgin to the maze of cattle waiting in Chicago to have their heads
bludgeoned and sawn off with electrically powered toothed discs.

Many people were drunk out of their cabezas, and within the—accumulated
as a whole—psyches of the human beings in this audience of perhaps two-
thousand people, there existed a strange demeanor, a resoluteness, that is
diffcult to describe, but which is something important to perceive about
the citizens of Caracas passing so rapidly from a society once rural and
predominantly Indian, to one “urban” and “civilized!”

I cannot tell that the crowd's stance was brutally heartless, nor can I make a
case that their conduct was genuinely exemplary. But, the reaction to the
supposed “viciousness” was itself very ambiguous. As when I witnessed
these special people dancing, there existed here, too, surrounding the bull
ring, a unique, unusual, unnatural—actually “undernatural” is a better
word—stated quality which is not trouble free to pinpointedly defne as one
might when assenting, for instance, that the Zuñi Pueblo Indians, the
Todas, and the Polar Eskimos represent, more or less, life-affrmative
societies; while, the Dobus, Haidas, and Aztecs signify destructive
civilizations. And even a “copout” into describing the people surrounding
me in the stadium as non-destructive-aggressive people—that is, people not
basically destructive but who do participate in aggressiveness and war with
a penchant bent on acquiring things and performing certain functions to
validate their existence—is not accurate either. Perhaps the best way for me
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to depict the way these individuals witnessed the ferocious acts in the bull
ring is the following: The people looked on at the “horror” as a statement
of fact, one with which they have been living for centuries; they cheered
their ability to sustain their sufferings and survive massive terror which is
well nigh deep within the spirit of the Venezuelan Indian (in modern times,
the victim of Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese racism of the sort that would
put Ku Klux Klan members to shame); but, and more importantly, in their
faces was the will to resign themselves to further abuse (viz a viz the gross
interference on the part of the six industrial nations that have reconquered
them) which is very more dangerously agitating to them than the
maltreatments they have tolerated before and which are so vehemently
pushing them into that corner where they will be fnally forced to burst out
in vengeance and vindictiveness and violence. Sitting in front of this “bull
murdering,” the Venezuelan people were expressing their patience for
more excruciation, were recharging their batteries in anticipation. Not
everyone, especially the drunks and the band players, were so serene in
hatred, for sure; but, there was a collective consciousness, among these
items of humanity, which spoke of a strength hankering to explode out into
the air with power, but would probably reach into the sewers of
destructiveness.

Let's go back to Avenida Urdaneta. The elevated avenue is Avenida Fuerzas

Armadas and that is the main thoroughfare running north-south through
this downtown, “centro” hectoring of confusion. On it is located The Daily
Journal, the “DJ,” the English-written Venezuelan newspaper. It is known
to a few thousand, and it was bombed in December 1961 when President
Kennedy visited Venezuela. In January 1977 or 1978, the The New York
Times exposed it, with no press reaction in Caracas, as a Central
Intelligence Agency front that everyone in Caracas had known for years.
The senile directors of the DJ were palsy-walsy with Narcissistic Romúlo,
and they wrote many things in The Daily Journal about “the founder of
modern Venezuelan democracy,” including these bits of journalistic
“brilliance.”

“And he took us all around his quinta, commenting on everything—the

swimming pool, the enormous kitchen, the revolver and machine-gun on
his night stand (he used to go three times a week to the poligono to practice
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his marksmanship), the papers and books in his study, the fruit juice mixed
with champagne that he served us, his pipes...”

“One time was (sic) badly hurt by a bomb that exploded in his car...”

“When we were planning publish (sic) a special supplement about him in

May 1977, he insisted on coming to the DJ to see the editions coming off
the press. So, that night in May, he came to visit us. He left his two
bodyguards in the car, but asked one of them to carry in a case of
champagne that he had brought along.”

“...At 11 he took his leave and we walked with him to his waiting car. (a
small detail; he had a revolver in his belt all the time.)”

“After he fnished his term (in 1965) he went off to live in Switzerland, but
he was never out of touch with events in Venezuela, and he continued, even
in Switzerland, to be a force in Venezuelan affairs.”

“One of the things Renee, (Narcissistic Romúlo's wife) would have liked to
talk over with Romúlo (now dead) is the frustration she feels at the delay
with which the commission appointed to review his papers for publication
is going about its job. It is made up to (sic) eminent public men who are all
very busy; Renee says they are not meeting and nothing is getting done.
She is also afraid that the one million bolivares ($250,000) the government
earmarked for the publishing will never be collected since no action is
under way. There is so much Romúlo said and wrote which she feels is
highly pertinent for Venezuela's present situation.”

You can be sure Narcissistic Romúlo is doing somersaults in his ornate

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crypt and not just over the typographical errors in The Daily Journal!

Up farther there are more businesses, banks, the old offce of MIT, and one
or two good restaurants, not spectacular by any means, but decent. The
really fantastic restaurants are located in Las Mercedes, El Rosal, Altamira,
La Castellana, Los Palos Grandes, and La Florida where that creep Gonza
lives. There are others in different areas, but this northeastern section is
where the best ones are. Call 92.55.68, reserve a table, and you will be
shocked! The prices will traumatize you, too!

As we pass along the contaminated, ever-traf---HIT IT! GET DOWN!! ON

THE GROUND!!! GUN SHOTS! DOWN! Up there to the right. POLICE!
HOLY S**T!!! They are spraying that bank. Roll over to that shoe store!
NOW! Stay down! Move it! Move it! Move it! ROLL! Roll!! Roll!!! We can
take better cover here. It will be all over in a minute. You've got to be
careful of ricocheting, high-impact bullets from Israeli machine-guns. They
fy in millions of directions, and you can't trust how far they will defect.
Look at all the police cars! An army of them! And lights shining all over.
Incredible. Oh, nooooooooooo! The bastards eliminated some of the bank's
customers! NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! A mother and her
baby! No! No!! No!!! Riddled with police bullets. No! No!! No!!! They just
shoot and shoot and shoot! Shoot to kill. To total everyone in sight.
Everyone even near the robbers is fair game. Murderers. Look more bodies.
Blood all over the sidewalk and the stairs leading up to the bank's entrance.

I'm sorry. Really sorry. I think I'm in Vietnam here sometimes. There are
war zones in this city, I swear to you. I know them. You must get used to
the violence to survive here in Caracas. Look. Here come the ambulances
and the coroner's wagons. No prisoners. Dead robbers, dead cashiers. See
the murder in the faces of the policemen? See their mean faces? See them
sneaking sips of whisky in their patrol cars? Old Parr. See the public
offcers, whose primary function it is to investigate by inquest any death
thought to be other than natural causes, circling the bullet holes in the
bodies of the victims with black felt-tipped pens and assigning double-digit
numbers to the numerous perforations? See the police bored with the
medical forensic proceedings? See the roped-off area? See CRIME DOES
NOT PAY looks on the faces of the t-shirted passers-by? See...well, I'll be!
There's Carlos! Over there, squatting down behind that parked car with his
two fancy PPKSs poised for action!
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Let's pass by. What can we do? You can tell this story to your friends when
you return home; they will think Caracas is some kind of cowboy town with
high-priced oil gushing out of the streets.

Three blocks up, and three blocks down to the left, is the Casa Natal del
Libertador, the birthplace of Simón Bolivar. A Colombian psychiatrist from
Bogatà, Dr Mauro Torres Sopsti, says that Bolivar was a hypo-maniac and
suffered from dementia—irreversible deterioration of his intellectual
faculties with concomitant emotional disturbance resulting from organic
brain disorder—throughout his life. From his infancy Bolivar was
“uncontrollable,” says the doctor in his book, Bolivar. He lost equilibrium
constantly. Because of his illness, Bolivar lost many battles during the war
to free South America from the oppressive Spanish murderers. He lost,
says Dr Sopsti, numerous soldiers in unnecessary battles. The doctor
attributes his fndings to plentiful documents in his attempt to prove that
Bolivar had been born insane and had died insane. El Libertador lost his
reason very frequently in his endeavors to create a free and United States
of South America. (Why United States of American and not United States
of North America?)

It is interesting to note that Bolivar—in Bolivia, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru,

and Venezuela—is regarded with an awe that is akin to the devotion which
esteems the Pope or the Virgin Mary in Italy or Spain. He is a Sun god. He
personifes that which includes all. To speak against him is to stir up a
fanaticism that might lead to one's expulsion from Bolivarlandia.

Two blocks to the west of Simón Bolivar's birthplace, is Plaza Bolivar, a

tourist scene for those who occasionally venture away in air-conditioned
buses from the beaten paths of restaurants, elegant shops, and hotel
lobbies. This is really an attractive public square with manicured lawns,
people doting on pigeons, and lovers whispering sweet somethings to each
other. The broad paved area is well-protected by patrolling police. A huge
monument with Simón Bolivar on a horse is in the center, and pigeons are
always defecating on his head. His hair is forever patted with a crust of
white, caked pigeon droppings.

Still another block away is the Capitolio, the building where the
Venezuelan legislature assembles. This is a charming and distinctive
location: ornate, historical in setting, immaculately well-kept, and, of
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course, well guarded.

To its south is the Centro Simón Bolivar, a huge 1950-styled government

offce building, hideous in appearance; and, Teatro Municipal and Teatro
Naciónal to where come many international artistic presentations which are
sparsely attended.

One block over and six blocks up, we come to Palacio Mirafores—the
workplace of the Presidente de Venezuela. A beautiful Spanish Colonial-
style construction. Under Avenida Urdaneta there is a tunnel that leads to
the Palacio Bianca, the White House, where there are other very important
government offces. If the President of Venezuela must exit the country fast
to Switzerland or West Point, New York or Miami, his suitcases stashed
with millions of dollars, he runs through this tunnel from Palcio Mirafores
to Palacio Bianca to the Cuartel Mirafores, the military detachment
assigned to guard the president, and then to a helicopter that swoops him
up and and takes him to one of the three or four possible Lear jet take-off
ports located minutes from Palacio Mirafores. Then on to his in-exile
freedom home...depending on how much the now “exiled freedom fghter”
has “borrowed” from the Venezuelan people.

I'm tired. I'm disgusted. I'm pissed off. That shoot-out at the bank has
rattled me. Let's have a couple of beers, and then head home in a taxi. No
more for me today. My spirits are low.

You know now a bit more about Caracas, the City of Eternal Spring.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At six-forty-fve, post meridian, on a moonlit, summer Saturday, I was

leaping and springing home from El Centro, my blue Chinese cotton t-shirt
soaked with sweat, my sore feet glued to the innersoles of my elegant,
expensive boots, when I passed over into La Floridalandia on Avenida
Andrés Bello-Avenida Las Palmas: the border thoroughfares that separate
Las Palmas from La Florida. My unusually pleasant excursion—for one, the
banks were closed—had been taken on a clear but singeing afternoon and
had been highlighted by the following event: In a bar near Palacio
Mirafores, where I had tarried to have a couple of Solera (a fantastic beer
spiked with an alcoholic content of 7%), I met and absolutely darling
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Parisian who taught French in the Alliance Francaise in Los Caobas, who
spoke English better than I spoke French, and who, to my utter
astonishment, was detoxifying, as I was, from the effects of a poisonous
Venezuelan love affair her rich, “third-secretary” diplomat, ex-boyfriend
whom she had met in the Venezuelan embassy in Paris. She, hanging
downward in body and spirit, was on the verge of tears. Her amorous échec
was two months in its realization, and the “living,” but very sad, “doll,” had
tired of her French friends' fretful frankness that the end had, quite
frankly, freaked her out.

In mildly gallant fashion,--what right had I, in my post-loving depressive

state, to posture the qualities of a romantic hero?—I confessed to her my
very own on-going unravelling of that which is regarded as a symbol of the
constancy of two lovers: The Love Knot! She gasped. How could it be that
there existed in this universe another human being who shared the strictly
and completely in-accord-with fact that she herself was encumbered with at
this time and place in space? She raised smartly and quickly, and in abrupt,
distinct, and emphatic fashion, quizzed me—as I interrogated her—for
three hours about the details of our missing, intense, affectionate and
sexual concern for those two other individuals who had played such
important roles during our short times holding The Loving Cup. We talked
about possessive fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters and and and.
We talked about a crazy society, demented customs, abnormal ways. We
talked, we talked, we talked. Out fowed the putrefying emotions. Long live
psychoanalysis! The repressed material had been brought to consciousness,
and with our sips on beer and cognac, the tensions and anxieties were
sucked from the bar room in a splurge of joyful revelry.

You might think, my dear reader, that there existed here an opportunity to
create an intimate sexual/love relationship, an enthusiastic liking and
desire, or to foment a romance between two love doves. Don't, please, make
that mistake. Love and/or spontaneous sexcapades do not work that way.
They are collisions between upbeat, positive forces; they are not based on
the compatible suffering caused by losing and being lost. Two losses do not
make a win. Our love/sex batteries were low, in the red zone, on the
negative way down. We were not ready, as Barry Manilow has sung many
times, to fall in love again.

So we exchanged telephone numbers, and she whimpered away never to be

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seen by me again. I threw her calling card into the frst sewer I came to, and
I assume she did the same with mine. I wonder who she is kissing tonight?

Walking back to my home, I mused over our three hours of bean spilling,
and I had to admit to myself that the meeting had done wonders for me, as
I had hoped it had relieved that sweet, delicate, intelligent, honest, and
kind French girl, too. My juices had been revitalized enough to get me
kicking and grunting and foating again for, at least, a while. As I headed in
the direction of La Floridalandia, the sights took on different meanings, the
people assumed different expressions, and my future appeared promisingly
better. My mind was drunk. I had tripped accidentally over a reasonable
reason to be content. I knew it would not persist for very long, but I also
knew the temporary charge it was giving me was both life-giving and
redemptive in character. I was confdent, happy, and in feel of myself. Hope
had been rekindled in me.

Some people write poetry or compose quartets or sell politicians or sing

high masses in this state. I'm lazy. I like to watch and absorb and feel and
sense and memorize and relax. So my trip home was of this nature: I
smelled, looked, tasted, inhaled, observed, recorded, contemplated,
listened to, and touched all that I could, all that my being was up to
assimilating. This is what I experienced: The big, milky, bluish-white
moon, hanging over the Avila mountain in the northern part of Caracas,
seemed to be walking with me through buildings and decaying trees. A tree
trunk there, a bank building here momentarily occluding this natural sight
that many say is the cause of changing tides, increasing criminal activity,
and surging birth rates. Even the city's torrid temperature was unsizzling
under the bewitched bidding of this gigantic steely Ice-cube in the Sky.
Thousands of bantam-sized frogs were cheeping throughout the city in a
continuous, non-measured beat that hinted at the slowly, but surely,
passing of Time. These living things were undaunted by the buses, taxis,
por puestos, and imported automobiles. Over the darkish green Avila and
down its one-kilometer back end, there was the Caribbean Sea whose
waves were churning faster and more forcefully upon the beaches of El
Litoral where lovers were now walking hand in hand upon the soft,
spongelike sands of the salty beaches. There was the expectancy that I
would shower, change clothes, and walk to a nice restaurant and submerge
myself in a beautiful dinner with a small bottle of wine. There was also the
anticipation that I would fnd romance and love once again in this loco
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Caracas now settling down after the day's hectic happenings, now
loosening itself off of the tensions and stresses which attack its inner core
so frequently and violently.

With this sensation of joyous well-being and inspiring hope within my

spirit—a plastic sailboat moving easily and lightly, as if suspended in some
bathtub of my youth—it was easy for me, when I arrived at the bifurcation
near Chinquinquera pointing me in the face to elect to take the direct route
to my abode or to circumvent this path and pass along the other fork which
pronged directly towards the front of Gonza's quinta, Quinta Santa Maria,
to decide to veer along past the huge stooge's residence to test my belief
that my tender emotions for Gonza, whom I had lost and grieved for so
strongly, were no longer so tenacious as to cause me boredom, disgust,
remorse, and paralysis over her lost existence.

I steered my body to the place outside where she lived, where I had once
visited, but not entered—informally, unoffcially, irregularly—and now
noticed things I had never perceived before in the excited anticipation of
our lip-smacking meetings: the Nina y Amalia gift shop across the street;
the faded yellow chalked “Roberta ama Fernando” on the thick, gray, stone
doorframe of Santa María; a rectangular patch of black asphalt that sealed a
hole once hollowed out by telephone construction workers; the bulky rich
green lustrous blade-like greenery succored to the trunks and branches of
the mango tree in front of Gonza's quinta; the 1953 Chevrolet Biscayne
abandoned and rusty and stripped and missing its motor, its hood, its radio,
its front and back windshields, its radio antenna, its seats, its steering
wheel, its door handles. The zipping of por puestos and taxis and buses
around the corner of real estate Gonza's father once lorded over and
mastered over—two wives at his beck and call to fertilize, with four
children, his notions of power and possessiveness in another world—and
now entrenched with high walls and protected with electronic burglar
alarms to diminish the violent attacks of others whom now were arrogant
enough and suffciently intelligent to demand, but not work for, the
privileges Gonza's father had toiled for, but did not clamor for, in a time
when drudgery was back and heart breaking but simple and proftable.

Gonza's father, two weeks after her radical mastectomy, would die this way:
One late afternoon he and his North American-born wife, Gonza's mother,
were walking arm in arm up Calle Negrin to pay a visit to Banco Republíca
156
where Gonza's father transacted “household expenses” business. At the
corner where Calle Negrin joined Avenida Avila, there was a kiosk, and in
front of this huge metal box, on the sidewalk, an illegally parked
motorcycle. Somehow Gonza's mother managed to cause the bike to fall on
her left side, and when she lost her balance, she tilted onto her husband
and they both pommeled down to the ground in a pile. As they were
collecting themselves, the two seventy-three-year old exasperated ones were
to become further disgusted with the “new” Caracas when the owner of the
motorcycle, who had rushed out from a building where he was making a
delivery to determine the cause of the ruckus in the street, began cursing at
the two superannuated beings for causing the wing mirror of the
motorcycle to be bent out of its usual shape. Gonza's father began to lock
horns with the youngling who fnally jumped up on his red 350cc Honda
laughing at Gonza's papi's pathetic plea for is identifcation. To add insult
to injury, when a passing police patrol car stopped to investigate the
diffculty, the policemen told the now gasping for breath, pale-faced old
man—he who had once prided himself on his more than one family social
system—that the infraction was not under their jurisdiction but that of the
traffc division. Gonza's mother, sensing that the violent agitation was
afficting her husband's ailing heart, rushed two digitalis tablets to his
mouth. It was too late. He careened to the pavement again and to his death
and was covered from view a a funeral that had been fraught with unusual
occurrences.

For example, the spanking new Cadillac Fleetward limousine which

transported Gonza, her mother, her brother, and me to the cemetery, for a
strange reason way beyond my comprehension, had to have radiator reflls
of water at every red light we stopped, and the driver paused at two gas
stations along the way to fll gain the tin can that was the same kind my
grandmother watered her roses with in our backyard in Brooklyn. And,
then, when we got to the graveyard, two robustless cemetery burial place
excavators were just, at that precise moment, beginning to stomp their
shovels into the earth under which Gonza's father was to be laid. Gonza's
brother and I picked up scoops with long wooden stems, and we began to
cull out a hole while the almost two-hundred mourners sweated in the hot,
midday sun. In a half hour, the cavity, fresh and deep but not planed
smoothly at its sides as professional gravediggers would have fashioned it,
was ready and the box, with a glass porthole that revealed the wrinkled,
blue puss of the man who, essentially, was responsible for keeping Gonza at
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so far a distance from me, the man who had been an honorary member of
the board of directors of perhaps the largest corporation in South
American, the man whom I had just helped bury, was placed on two huge
ropes and the four of us gently slid the casket into the fnal disposition of
Gonza's father after upon which roses and carnations were tossed by the
sweltering members of the entirely black-clothed crowd. So unlike a Palm
Beach, Florida burial I once witnessed where the priest, after chanting the
t h e Dies Irae in Latin, went to an electric switch, ficked it up, and
proceeded to watch, with all of us, a sheeny cherry wood box drift down
into the deep recess of a uniformly carved hole on two enormously, thickset
canvass belts. Gonza, who had not slept for almost two days, kept checking
the inside of her dress to see if the tube, attached to a round plastic suction
container placed over her removed breast to accept drainage from her
operated area, had fallen out of its place at one end of a long, lateral, slowly
healing scar.

When I arrived in front of Santa María, this is what I learned from the
speech of a sobbing, pleading Gonza whose voice reverberated out of her
father's home, San José, unto the street, Avenida Los Jardines: “I love
him! Why do you keep me from him? The gringo makes me happy! Let us
alone, please!”

There are those who, possessing higher intellectual faculties than most of
us—such mental giants as Kant, Russell, Einstein, de Beauvoir,
Wittgenstein, Leibniz, Schelling, Sartre—who are able, in moments of
crisis, to assimilate these trying situations, place them conveniently and
quickly in the order of past, present, and possible future, and then
immediately react with a course of action which is rational and salutary for
them. Even a skeptical David Hume would have held out that my best
alternative—at this crucial moment, when I clenched my fsts in despair
over Gonza's continuing love for me—should be to go forward walking
home. Strike One. Gonza's rocking to and fro with her love for me, then
not for me, was a serious consideration which portended a bleak future.
Strike Two. The intense emotional strain she was suffering over me and
over her father would partially abate if I were wholly out of her listless life.
Strike Three. She's Out! What promise would I have of a life of happiness
with an individual whom I was now for weeks considering a lovable
creature but really not one made of enough stern stuff? All these factors
were very clear to me, instantaneously. Too clear. But I could not order—of
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what I perceived and immediately understood—this data into The
Unalloyed Gonza History that I knew of from the past, suffered with in the
present, and would more than likely anguish with in the future. My
impulse, my illogicalness, was to dwell propitiously with Gonza in the
instant of her distress, during the imperative of her dread, then, in the
midst of my own self-induced suffering. If I was not a madman, I certainly
was an inquisitive, devoted individual.

I darted to twin public telephones on the corner expecting that one of them
might function. In fact, one did, and I dialed to speak with Gonza for the
frst time in a long time.

“What do you want?” she grunted, her voice discourteous, her essential
activating principle saddened.

“I want to talk to you.”

“No!” she frmly demonstrated.

I hung up the phone automatically realizing that Gonza was in need of

shock therapy and not understanding, and with the surety of my opinion
derived from the quick telephone examination of Gonza's psychical forces,
went directly, went boldly, went recklessly to the side door of San José to
speak with whomever would come to answer: the faultfnding father, the
martyred mother, or the tormented child/woman.

I pressed the botón and heard the buzzer summon those within. Gonza
responded, and when I saw her, through the small crack in the door, she
had surreptitiously opened to determine who the visitor was, that it was me,
she immediately slammed shut the movable structure and shouted: “Go
away, gringo! I don't ever want to see you again!”

That was not enough for me, and I tried a second time.

“Please go away!”

Yes, of course, I must go away. There is no point to this.

As I turned to go home, I was met with an angry command from on high

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above the door, off the roof-terrace of San José: “Go home, gringo, you are
no good! You have no money!” Then Gonza's Philadelphian-born mother
spat at me!

I could not believe what I had visualized. I could not give acknowledgement
to what she had screamed at me. A sudden inclination to throw something
at the witch sped to my head, but when I saw her distorted, mean face, her
embittered, helpless look, her strings of gray and white hairs hanging
straight on down as though they had been cut along the rim of a salad bowl
that had been placed over her head—obviously to save money—I knew that
this frst face-to-face communication with Gonza's mother, who I had seen
only three times before and then at long distances, was not with a normal
personality, but with perhaps a mentally deranged one.

“I wish to speak with your daughter, señora,” I politely asked the North
American bruja who had lived in Caracas for forty years.

“No!” Go away! Leave or I will call the police.”

I abruptly contemplated: What to do?

I pounded on the door without stopping, demanding to see Gonza, ready to

keep up my commotion until she exited San José.

The police arrived, their revolving red and white lights dashing fying
masses on Gonza's father's fortress. I was frisked frst, then placed into the
wire-caged back seat. I could see Gonza staring down at me with a shocked,
humiliated look, her left arm around the waist of her father.

Instead of leading me to the hoosegow, the police politely asked me where I

lived, and when we arrived in front of my quinta, they sought from me a
promise to behave (P-L-E-E-S-E, gringo!) myself and desist from bothering
my ex-girlfriend and her family.

Unlike what David Hume, and certainly not Immanuel Kant, would have
done in a similar set of circumstances, I gently but frmly informed them
that I would return to San José, and there thump again on the door until I
had an opportunity to speak with her.

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The two policemen laughed at me and told me if I did I would probably
spend the night in the Sabana Grande Jefatura for obstructing a public
sidewalk, in a public street, in front of Gonza's father's not-so-public
habitation. I cynically smiled back at them signing and delivering my end of
the gentleman's agreement.

At the Sabana Grande calabozo, I deposited my belt, shoelaces, electronic

pager, and other personal belongings in a manila envelope, signed for
them, and taking advantage of my prerogative to make one telephone call, I
phoned my answering service and told them to tell Carlos to hotfoot it
pronto to my aid. Then I was ushered to a large cell in the back of the
dismal-looking cárcel.

In my confnement area I was greeted by an assortment of twenty-odd odd-

looking drunks, street brawlers, and psychotics. The worst was when one
tipsy Latin peed on my taut stomach as I tried to sleep on the cold foor
covered with a sheet of Caracas's conservative daily, El Naciónal. No food
was available and there were no bathroom privileges. Some of the naughty
ones were so drunk or demented they occasionally exhibited violence
which, in most cases, was directed against themselves or the walls or the
bars of the cell or others of their own inclinations who immediately bashed
them with their fsts to calm them down, to persuade them to rest and sleep
their morbid bitternesses off. The prison guard kept telling us not to
number one through the bars onto the foor outside our narrow quarters,
but he would not open the cell door to let anyone of us out. As soon as he
went away, a group of seven or eight trustees, in turn, after the others, all
that could ft along the bars, would hang their penises out through the
parallel metal poles, and streams of yellow and light olive-brown and
bronze urine would cascade, in varying distances, from the long straight
rigid round pieces of iron, in falling currents, non-frictional, of high
volume, in consonance, containing alcohol, melodious—the jets from the
feshy nozzles of the men striking the ground then splashing back on the
metal webs of the cage for humans and the pants' legs of the imprisoned
pee-peers.

If the unpleasant custodial offcer signaled to them his menacing arrival,

which hovered pretentiously over their ability to maintain urinary authority
—he jangling his enormous black keys which would release the locks of the
huge cell doors then to be heard bang-banging, bang-slamming everywhere
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in the building—the men would rapidly insert their dripping organs, with
military precision, into their trousers' zippers, close in unison, and dive to
the foor to feign the natural recurring physiological state of rest
characterized by lessened responsiveness to external stimuli. Although
almost delirious with Old Parr, the defender of the law, upon seeing the
steady tide of rich golden liquid springing its way down the corridor, would
rant and rave, bang his truncheon agains the bars, and threaten us with
prolonged detentions.

So when, after hours and hours and hours of waiting for my hearing, I was
called before the sergeant, I was not straight away pleased to expect my
release, but was suddenly made comfortable enough to know that I was
about to enjoy a respite from the smells of caking vomit, three or four turds
which had been tossed against the opposing wall of the cell, and urine
freeing itself from moisture and alcohol.

When I entered the sergeant's offce, eyes squinting, the bright offce of the
detention personnel, I saw Carlos in heated rage arguing with the lower-
echelon non-commissioned police offcers, promising their reassignment to
the Brazilian border if ever again I was incarcerated for such a stupid,
trump-upped offense as “obstructing a public way in a public street!” I
calmed him, thanked the sergeant for looking after my things, and lead the
boiling Carlos out of the jefatura. Carlos kept apologizing for the
inconvenience I had experienced. I told him it all was my fault. When I told
him angrily that what had happened to me would never have occurred in
the grand gringolandia, and that if he ever was arrested and imprisoned in
the United States of America, he should make certain of committing a
federal crime—federal penitentiaries are better places than the medieval
systems of, say, the states of Florida or Louisiana—I instantaneously
understood what a double fool I really was. Carlos sensed my preconceived
preferences right off, and when I went to apologize to him, he stretched to
his Indian position: hard and cold. We went to down a couple of beers as
the sun was beginning to rise, before he took me home. Both of us silently
pondered over the gloom which had taken hold of us in the early morning
hours of a blossoming, not-yet-old, hot day.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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One day at MIT, I was asked to translate a heap of curriculi vitarum of
prominent Venezuelan government offcials and ministros who were slated
to visit the United States with Carlos Andrés Pérez—to celebrate the two-
hundreth anniversary of the richest country in the world. One of the
curriculi vitarum was that of the new Ministro de Relaciónes Exteriores, and
when I had handed in my work to my section chief, I cautioned him to
check over the ministro's CV very carefully because there appeared to be
irregularities in it. I was not particularly nonplused over the inconsistencies
because errors were rampant in whatever was being done in our offce, and
we were always producing second-rate fnished products. For example, in
this CV after Lugar y Fecha de Nacimento (Place and Date of Birth), Estado
Civil (Civil State), Profesión (Occupation), Idiomas que Habla (Languages
Spoken), Cargos en el Servicio (Government Positions Held), Cargos Públicas
(Government Elected Positions Held), there loomed, under the Otros
Cargos (Other Positions Held) section, a list of incongruent employment
experiences which, because they were not true, were actually demeaning to
the ministro, and might prove embarrassing for him when his CV was doled
out (hundreds of copies for the government and press people viewed in a
position of social and intellectual advantage and privilege in Washington,
DC) at crystal-clinking cocktail parties and swanky breakfasts and luscious
dinners. I guessed that some of the tasks—for example, copy editor of a
newspaper, circulation manager, and printing press supervisor—should be
verifed before the CVs were boxed and rushed to the presidential plane
waiting to take off at Carlotta and meet the Friday night take-off schedule
to the United States of America's capital.

Over the weekend the ministro, actually the Chancellor of Venezuela, soon
became cognizant of the errors when North American journalists spoke
with him in face-to-face meetings. The ministro, who hated the Ministro de
Información y Turismo (MIT), my boss-boss, the person especially loved and
indulged by El Presidente de La República himself, screamed the rigging of
facts in his CV meant to embarrass him, then said the MIT ministro had
photocopied lies about him to further the MIT's chief's own career, and
fnally hopped the next plane to Caracas refusing to go with President
Carlos Andrés Pérez to Philadelphia to present Venezuela's bicentennial
gift to Gringolandia.

When I heard about the contemptibly narrow-minded views of the Ministro

de Relaciónes Exteriores—my section chief had relayed to me from
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Washington that our boss and he were immediately returning to Caracas to
plan a defense for the MIT ministro who had told him that my job and his
were on the fring line—I laughed so hard I had to go pee pee. At the offce,
everyone was screaming “Where is the CV the gringo translated?” It could
not be found, and so, the mystery and tension in the offce rose higher and
higher. I explained that I had handed it in with my translation and did not
know where it had gone after that. More shrieking. Desk draws were
overturned, fle cabinets were rifed, and boxes were ransacked to fnd the
original CV that had to be somewhere in the offce—but was not!

On Monday, still no CV. I snuck out of the offce in the chaos; then, went to
the offce of the Chancellor's secretary, lied I was a New York Times foreign
affairs correspondent working on a story about the new Venezuelan
Ministro de Relaciónes Exteriores and Chancellor of the Republic of
Venezuela for millions of avid North American readers of Venezuelan
governmental procedures, and returned to the offce with a photocopied
copy of the mistaken CV that appeared to have been copied—probably
amidst others—by the chancellor's secretary in between coffee breaks and
visits to the beauty parlor and telephone calls from her boyfriend. The MIT
ministro, my section chief, our boss, and I were left off the political hook.
Two weeks later, when contracts for non-nationals, as I was, were being
examined for renewal, I was called to my Brooklyn, New York-born boss's
offce—between his meetings with Central Intelligence Agency high-ups
posing as magazine representatives and public relations, television, radio,
and newspaper “experts” based in fctitious Miami and Washington
companies—I was told by my employer that “It's time to get rid of you.” I
handed in my IDs and keys and kissed the girls in the offce goodbye and
thought to myself how nice it would be from now on not to wear a suit coat
and tie in the torrid Caracas sultriness. I began immediately to adjust to my
new role: defrocked Venezuelan government worker. I'm so lonesome I
could cry.

Months later, the phone rang. It was the chilled, mirthless voice of my well-
known, almost forgotten, ex-novia. Her polished tidings—swimming from
her end of the line—jolted me. Were the mother and father dead? Hope
surged through me forthwith—from habit, from bygone times.

“How are you?” she set herself on frm footing.

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 “I'm fne. But very lonely.”

“I'm sorry,” she conceded sadly, unfeignedly.

“You?”

“Not so good.”

“Can I help you? I muttered thinking

that if I had had a gun and she was next to me,
I would have shot her between her eyes.

“I'm not sure.”

“Then why did you call me?”

“I'm scared.”

“About what?”

“I have cancer.”

“Cancer?” I broke short.

“In my left breast.”

“Are you sure it's not a lab foul-up?

Did you check it out with another doctor?”

“I have 'The Big C,' gringo,”

she rejoined –her mind mesmerizing her thought
to me skipping its passage through her seat of affection.

“SSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTT!”
I neighed in disgust.

I laughed.

She laughed.
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 I cried.

She cried.

“When can I see you?” I pleaded in a friendly tone.

“Do you really want to?”

“Yes, stupid! I really want to.

I will be with you, Gonza, I promise.”

“It's impossible tonight. Tomorrow? Lunch?

“OK. Where?”

“Your favorite, Costa Vasca. I'm inviting you.”

“Fantastic. Thank you.”

“Gringo?”

“Yes?”

“Te amo.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes...I...” I cut the conversation short...and bullied low mindedly without

casting reproach...”but I can't love you. See you tomorrow at noon, in front
of the Costa Vasca”...then I hung up the phone.

The Costa Vasca (Calle Beethoven; Edifcio Ibaizabal, Colinas de Bello

Monte: Telephone 7524615) holds a warm spot in my heart for a number of
reasons. One is that the owners, Asunción, the manageress, a dominant
personality, and her husband (I forgot his name; he is a quiet blushing sort
—he better be with Asunción!!!), and the cook, maintain an almost
abnormal standard of excellence in whatever they cook up. Whether
attending to the cleaning of their small, intimate restaurant, or selecting the
day's vegetables, or preparing the main attraction itself—fne food. These
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vascos from España go at it above and beyond the normally accepted
Caracas restaurant norms which, far more often than not, stoop to the
raunchy side. In fact, Narcissistic Romúlo often eats in the Costa Vasca, and
when he is not feeling well, he calls in his order and sends his bodyguards
with pots to pick up his selections of scrumptious nourishment. To tell the
truth, we have eaten many times at the same pre-rush time, at different
tables, with our dates—he with his wife—the only four people in the
restaurant, never speaking once to one and other, buy eyeing each other for
long times, our mouths on the chew, content that we beat the crowds that
would come to enjoy an evening's meal or a Sunday lunch with the family
all dressed to kill in Gucci scarves and Marlboro sweatshirts.

The Costa Vasca is semi-formal at night. It is not a large space and holds
perhaps thirty places at different sized tables. The two waiters, Antonio and
Manolo, españoles, wear tuxedos to give the house a formal tint, and the
bill is delivered in a beautifully-carved wooden Spanish container.
Bathrooms are cleanissimi! Candles illuminate the table areas. The place is
comparatively quiet even when it is flled to excess—especially when there
are no children around. The table linen is immaculate, lustrous: it has the
touch that it has been scalded to the point of sterilization, and dried and
bleached in the hot, blazing Sun. It smells garden fresh.

No one is in a hurry here. Cocktails may be sipped before sitting down.

There are high engraved wooden dividers between tables. Antonio and
Manolo seat you and they guide gently the chair to the back of your knees.
This is an enchanting place to lunch or dine.

Things being so, it is almost beyond belief to encounter in Caracas, a

simultaneous combination of cleanliness, order, and serenity braced with
superior menus of yummy food and wine. Special sauces and fresh meats
and just received fsh and precious breads and savory salads and
unfermented fruits and soft desserts and abundant garnish and sweet
liquors and silvertoned wines and freshly brewed coffee. These constitute a
joyous event. Perhaps a cognac? A Duca d'Alba? A Montecristo? One rubs
his or her fngertips on the luster of the tablecloth. One watches the glow of
the candle refect off the features of the beloved one sitting across the way.
One enters a dreamland of pleasure—not exceedingly indulgent and
expensive—to enjoy, to relax, to escape, momentarily, from the actual
existence of Caracas.
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Gonza was nicely dressed when I set eyes on her standing on watch near
the restaurant's entrance. She did not see me at frst, so I had some
seconds, before her, to encompass her, to size up her being while it was still
remote from my own. I stole this instant in Time to zero in on her pallid
face, her unusually thinned constitution, her lackluster hair, her hallowed
eyes, her seemingly frail and vulnerable carriage. I knew now, at last, how
to encounter my ex-novia after so long a time in absence from her. I
zoomed on up to the front of her. Our eyes came face to face. Our hands
reached out. Our cheeks bumped. Our lips puffed. Our smiles exploded
with merry remembrances of happier days together. We walked into the
Costa Vasca set to be seen maybe by important Venezuelan political
personages including El Presidente himself.

“You look good!” she revved her engines.

“How are you feeling?”

I thought it best to be clinical:
rigorously scientifc; highly objective.

“How are you?”

“How's everything?”

“It's been so long.”

“Yes, almost an eternity.”

“How's everybody?”

“How's work?”

“Weather's hot as hell.”

“Oil prices are skyrocketing.”

“Many patients?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

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 “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Who wants a girl with cancer?”

(I suppose I do.)

“Let's talk about your cancer, Gonza?”

I delicately inquired.

“My cancer. Yes, my cancer. My 'Big C' as you

Americans would say.”

The tears rolled out and on down her cheeks onto the patina of the
tablecloth that regenerated the beads of clear saline liquid into gray-white
dapples.

I reached rapidly for my clear saline liquid wiper, and passed it to her,
providently, for her to do her own blotching in the public spot. I stared at
her coldly and businesslike; the memories of our turbulent past were still
crisp in my mind, goading me with courage...for the moment. I knew before
the night was out my frost-bitten heart would dissolve with oodles of fellow
feelings, sparkled by Duca d'Alba, and I judged at random that I might
even be in love with her again. I could see it all unfolding. More suffering,
more excitement, more passion, and a mastectomy to boot. Just what, point
of fact, I was wishing for again after so long a time from the intimacy of a
woman: the smells, the touchings of soft skin, the togethernesses, the
dovetails, the walks hand in hand; I, it might have been an eternity, cooped
up with my pad, paper, Japanese lead pencil, and my manual wordmaker.

But suddenly I was not sure that I could drop back again into being in love
with her. She was so weak, so pathetic in appearance. She looked wilted.
The zest for her body, which for so long had provoked me so lasciviously,
was not again driving me on. It was not entirely the idea of cancer—
although I was to have some reservations before making love to her with
the scabbed left side of her chest slit from the sternum to the armpit and
the gooey yellowish, putrid-smelling drainage passing through a pliant tube
into a round plastic container—that caused this lack of lust. Cancer would
exact a small part of her (the moiety of two majestic thirty-eight D-cups), I
assumed. Her carcinoma, for me, was a reminder of her general illness:
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weak-willingness. About everything: her father, her mother, her
mmmmmeeeeeeeeee! Cancer was just another diagnosis on that principal
“disease” that I instantly redetermined—while she dried her droplets of
clean saline liquid—would never be anti-doted. My unmanly libido
recessed itself. I felt distant again from her. She knew it too, because the
way—the pathetic way with which she was to win again a part of my love
back to her—she began her Cancer Speech, was the start of a desperate
effort to retain some semblance of affection and security in the phiz of
surgery and, then possibly, Death! She was going to have to perform a
miracle to get me back. She was going to have to be lionhearted perhaps for
the frst time in her life. She was going to have to swallow it, her pride,
without losing her sense of being a woman. She was going to have to be
charming, brave, and dignifed. A diffcult trick to pull off even for a
pathological liar. I was not going to make it easy for her.

She handed back my handkerchief, and I folded my arms like a Supreme

Court justice sitting attentively on the bench listening to the arguments of a
monumental legal appeal. She cupped her Bloody Mary encircling both
hands around her short, frosty glass, glared into the drink as if she were
contemplating a crystal ball which was about to fx upon her future life,
then reached into her purse and handed over to me her Cancer Speech
which, choked up at the front as it eventuated, would have grounded her a
Best Actress Oscar from tearjerking Hollywood had it been placed “live” on
celluloid for the masses of moviegoers.

“My dearest Gringo,

my life has been so diferent, so difcult. Its been controled by others. You
know, you know very well, I was thinking the other day that it would
probably be better for me to dedicate my life to medicine and not to love.
For medicine I have sufered a lot. The eye, as you know, is a very intrecate
part of the body. I need to be realistic. I need to think about the future and
my practice. And I need to do this knowing that maybe death is just around
the corner waiting for me. I told you again and again much times that my
money has has to be one of the most important things for me to worry
about in my mind. I think all this time that with money all my problems will
go. I can be happy and I can live with you in our apartment where we could
have a good time and be happy like a family. My father was always good
with me with money. You know this now. You know he is good and bad for
me. This is the truth of it all. This is so. I cant change this reality. My
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mother to. She doesn't like you to. This is not my problem. It is our
problem. I repeat our problem for we alone. My mother and father will not
live long for many years. We will live. We have been separated now for
some time. Is this a long time in a life of 70 to 80 years? I ask you. Is this
such a sacrifce to make for the love of two people who have such a
beautiful time together? WHEN THEY ARE TOGETHER! Is not this
posible of our good time together something which you feel good about?
Dont you? Dont you ever think about us too together? In each other arm
and kissing and holding and happy? What is money? You think I think all
the time about money. How wrong you are gringo. How wrong you are!!!!
Money is important gringo but it isnt everything. LOVE is everything
gringo. Love gringo. You need love. You need me. Me. Me. Me. What is
money? Money helps. Yes. It helps a lot of times. It gives to you things to
help you to live and to SURVIVE gringo. You know me. You know I dont
want fancy clothes that cost a lot of money and diamonds and cars. Big
expensive things are not for me gringo. I am not one of your Doris Day
gringas. I am a Latin girl. I want love. I want family. I want kisses and hugs.
I am not cold like you American girls. I dont think about $$$ all day long. I
have dollars gringo. My father gave me lots of them. Millions of them. You
told me your mother kept taking your picture when you were at O'Hare
airport in Cicago on your way to Vietnam. Gringo what kind of people is
you gringos. We dont do those kinds of things in S America. We are not
organized to kill people. We dont send our children round the world to kill
women and children in Asia. We need money to eat here and survive. Not
to make bombs to kill people gringo. What did your father tell you at
Kennedy before you went to Vietnam? What did you tell me? Remember?
He said to you to watch out for those sneaky Asian bastards with slanted
eyes. You gringo you told me that yoursef. Who do you gringos think you
are anyways. You are not special like you think so you are gringo. And me
to. I am not to good thing for you to. I know it. Your mind is diferent. You
are not like all the gringos. But you are a gringo the same. A special gringo.
Why do you love me? I ask mysef 1000 times. I am bad for you. But gringo
you are still here in Caracas! Why? ME! You are here for me. Admit it! Why
didnt you go home? If you are not here for me. Please gringo understand
this to me. One thing understand and only. If we are going to be together
in our heart and mind for a long time cant we be together in each other
arms for this time? What are you doing to help us get this? What do you do
gringo? Can I be such a big help to you if I be dying of cancer? And if I live.
How many years do I have? 5? 10? 15? 20? 25? If you love me what do you
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do for me to show. What do you do for me now? You can only love me
gringo. You have no choice. You will sufer all in life id you dont love me
now when I need you now the most. If you are a man gringo you will come
back to me. You will open your heart and forget my stupids to you. Gringo
I am weak. I am down now. I am low. I need you. You cant leave me now in
this time of my biggest trouble in my whole life. If you do you are not a
man. You are a chicken. You know it too gringo. A mierda. A shit. Go. I
want you to go. Me? A woman without love and hope. If you go you are a
mierda. A shithead. Gringo a real shit. I can only say this to you. If you stay
with me and are lyal to me I will promise to be with you all my life when we
live in the US where you want. In New York, Coral Gables, Palm Beach,
Fort Lauderdale any of our favorite places. You can write like you said you
wanted always to do and I will help you even if we must pay to publish your
books together. Gringo please love me please be with me now when I need
you much. I need you. I need your love, darling. I love you. Your very own,
Gonza.”

My frst thought: New York is a nice place to visit, but I would never live in
The Big Apple—it is too fast for my body but too slow for my mind. My gut
reaction: to laugh in her face, and not out of scorn. I was charmed up by
her avoidance of the ethical considerations which had surged to the
forefront—between her thinkings in desperation.

Her cocker spaniel eyes had so large globules of tears in them—ready to

burst out onto the sterilized cloth that covered the Costa Vasca's table—I
suppressed my sudden feeling in consideration of her damaged senses,
senses I was convinced now had been impaired by her own will to live
beyond the rules of life's baffing game. I hardly knew her in this new
posture which was shouting out from the bottom of all the little
forcefulness that was left in her. I could not mock her even when she had it
coming.

I also deadened a second whim: to gently tap my hands in cheers for her
brilliant performance. It was useless for me to pretend that I should try to
bear insight upon some of the unfortunate contents of her letter. Gonza
had a mission: to extort me back at all costs. Logic and truth had no issue
here.

I called for a second Duca d'Alba and asked her to let me think a bit over
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the letter-speech and ideas of hers expressed therein. I needed to stall some
to try to come up with my own thoughts which had sunk into the deep
waters of my intellect, which had been bobbing all over the place with the
excitement of seeing Gonza for the frst time in a long time, and the
unscrupulousness of her letter, which I naturally assumed foreboded awful
times for me once Gonza's quick romantic hallucination was over. In my
pensive mood I realized Gonza knew, too—like so many militants before
her—that a good defense was an offense. And on the attack she was
awkwardly refulgent, innocently stupid. She turned the whole kit and
caboodle around to my end, and there, jabbed away at me and my gonads
without regard for probity or tenderness of conscience. With these fast
fourishes, which reminded me of an old lady hitting a heavyweight boxer
with an umbrella and kicking him in the shins while he smiles goofy like,
she hit once or twice with very hard punches at my own incompletenesses
when she oppugned my parents and my country.

She had played frst her weakest, but in the end most convincing card: the
woman-victim struck down by cancer and alone against the surgeon's
scalpel and the prospect of death. This hit me the hardest. For no matter
what a cute scoundrel she turned out to be, she still needed the comfort of
an intimate friend in this horrid affair. She had a right to sound desperate,
to plea her case as an F Lee Bailey might, to hit below the belt—if
necessary. At the same time, while her despondency was her best way to
suck me back to her, I was sharp-sighted enough to see through to its
double face: Heads, her right to try to win me back; tails, the putrid fruits I
would be left with again after her successful convalescence.

The broadsides at my mother and father and country rolled up strange, but
they did “hit home.” I had to agree with her, actually. Gonza had never
spoken to me before concerning her feelings for North Americans, for their
particular political and social propensities. Obviously, these observations
had roasted a long time in her mental baking chamber before she had
decided to pull them out—steaming hot—to use in her calculating, favorite
time. Why had she not verbalized to me earlier these predispositions? Had I
thought to ask her about them on a previous occasion, she probably would
have shrugged them off or told me she was not interested in hurting me. In
the euphoric state of love, we are ofttimes inclined to proceed on the
powerful waves of joy and hope. To blast me on this issue then, in her
wretched Cancer Speech, was a stout-hearted penetration into enemy
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territory where she had everything to lose or everything to gain.

The bribe? What else could I expect from her unprincipled self? Money is
everything to her. Her Sovereign of the Universe. The Supreme Goodness
that cancels all debts and cures all ills. Even her cancerous breast was going
to be operated upon by one of the most famous and expensive surgeons in
South America in one of the costliest clinicas in Caracas. Why should not
wealth buy back love? I thought, in a moment of disgust, that my lot was to
never be free of decadent people with money and people without money
seeking inspiration in morbidity. I felt sprayed by a wash of greed and
stupidity. Like billions of others caught up on one side of a huge political-
economic tug of ideologies. I had no plata. No tengo dinero. (Gonza
explained to me one day that she thought “fve or six million dollars aren't
really a hell of a lot when you really think about it. Some of my friends have
ffteen or twenty million.”) I thought a little about capitalistic mental illness
and its cause—money and the want for more of it.

Latin women want hugs and kisses and do not smack their kids! I thought
how Gonza might be now if her father had fanned her butt some when, as a
niña, she was full of pestering frolic. Perhaps a little antagonism towards
her father might have helped her along the road to emotional
independence, and might not have left her in an interminable separation-
loss complex. Would have that incompatibility abetted her in her attempts
to project her sexuality upon another male, not her father? Who knows. It
does not matter now in any case.

Spanking? The new cure for possessive father-daughter relationships? No!

She's daddy's little girl! Slapping people is crisis intervention bubblegum
and rubber band fxing of psyches gone harebrained at war's critical
juncture or for hysterical personalities in the throes of panic that might
endanger their lives. Yet even in these cases a tranquilizer is thought of frst
—before the “Snap out of it! Get hold of yourself or I'll shoot your brains
out!” technique is employed. I remembered, in the Vietnam “War,” where I
served as a forward observer with an infantry company, offcers had the
license to kill in the event a soldier jeopardized the functioning of the unit
by putting lives in danger. We were told to shoot the violator in his neck
with a .45 pistol. These shock treatments do work at times. They hurt, but
they are calming in effect—on occasion. Are not millions of individuals
purged into overjoy when their favorite boxer slams his opponent
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unconscious to the bloodstained canvass? And has not the loser, in a stupor
which might be a sign that his brain has been damaged, been jerked into
the reality of his obvious incompetence? Is not a sporting match with spilt
blood more attractive to audiences flled with frustrations and pent-up
emotions? And what serves this “joke”?: “What did the mean man do after
he raped Helen Keller? He cut off her hands so she couldn't yell for help!”
Even some psychiatrists will chuckle at that sick joke if they are honest with
themselves. (Interestingly, that “joke” comes from the book, Gross Jokes, by
Julius Alvin: Zebra Books, Kensington Publishing Corporation, 1983. Alvin
dedicated the book with this blurb: “In fond memory of Helen Keller.”)
Strange is the human being! There must be some post-Freudian psychiatric
literature written on this subject, but I do not know of it. Also, I do not
know of anything—beyond the trance of drugs—available to parents and
teachers seeking to meet the emotional and physical untamed energies of
their little monsters who have lapsed into the zone of excessive
unreasonableness.

Perhaps tickling the brats would be intelligent. An approach to discipline

without drawing upon violence or bloodletting—without damaging the little
creeps' psyches. Instead of spanking them or stuffng a pill down their
throats, tickle the misbehaving urchins. Now I mean tickling up to a
clinically correct and positive point. I suspect one could actually tickle a
child to death. I am more concerned here with healthy, constructive
tickling. To delicately tickle a monster into submission without a grand
amount of commotion. Imagine one of your precious ones, a creature of,
say, nine years of age and with the unacceptable habit of not wanting to do
his or her homework. In lieu of buying her a new SONY color television,
tickle her into doing her school assignments. Dumbfound her with tickling!
She will laugh and laugh and laugh until the tears roll down. She will beg
for “uncle.” She will plead to do her homework.

Or another cherished one will not lower the “Best of the Bee Gees”
cassette. He or she will if you tickle enough! And your wife wants to write a
novel and will not clean the bathroom, tickle her, too! Tickling: A Humorous
Approach to Behavior Modifcation.

But tickling must be used discriminately. It cannot be vindictive. Imagine

this scenario: Your wife is dragging on a cigarillo butt in bed after you and
her copulated out of lust and boredom, not love, on a dull “tomorrow is
work” Sunday afternoon. You have been married for eight years. She is
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depressed; you are depressed. But what is worse, you and working she do
not have enough money to buy that new second car and third television set
to keep up with the Jones's who are, regretfully, your wife's sister and her
clownish husband who is a rich bank vice-president. All money concerns
give the impression of hovering over your wife's sister's lifestyle. Your
wife's jealousy is killing her and your marriage. Rather than wishing about
tickling her, slit your brother-in-law's throat from ear to ear with one of the
expensive, balanced carving knives her sister gifted you as a momentum
from one of the European trips she and her husband took—which you
cannot afford to take! Or divorce your wife—if you are not of the violent
sort. Tickling, then, must be judiciously used and is best advised in
intimate family situations.

The curtain had to fall upon my stall. The decision reached by the jury after
the legal proceedings? Guilty. Leniency recommended in the form of a
suspended sentence. I looked at her very earnestly. I let her know that it
was not easy for me to acquiesce. Then I broke out with a huge smile which
sent her collapsing rearward to the back of her chair where she puffed out a
Cyclopean sough of relief, then sent foating after it a huge cloud of
Vantage cigarette smoke she had expelled after taking an incredible drag. I
felt delighted that I still held a part in helping her achieve some sense of
satisfaction. Nonetheless, the eventual weaning-off of this love drug
haunted me intensely, and the withdrawal symptoms she and I would have
to sustain when the father-daughter embarrassment was again resuscitated,
sent squeamish waves of loathing to my tight stomach.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When Gonza entered Centro Medico in San Bernardino, Caracas's Jewish

section, she fxed a plan—a diplomatic ploy set to keep The Family's
feathers unruffed, soothed for visiting loved ones. My shift, the best, I
admit, was the late-at-night, sleep on the sofa till early morning one. Mami y
papi's schedule was middle morning to late afternoon. (Two days in before
the operation; two days in after it.)

I bought magazines for her to forget her troubles and worries, and the night
before the operation, we talked about old times and snuck in some late-
evening lovemaking when the night nurse, a Christian, was gossiping at her
work station in the middle of the ward. (Gonza, incidentally, hid my
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toothbrush in her cosmetic bag.) We were very anxious, but we joked and
talked away our morbid notions rather successfully—I thought.

The moment of truth arrived for me that morning when the morning nurse
came to inject her, to prep her, for the operation. Gonza cautioned me to
leave so her parents could see her once again, and I was then left on my
own.

I reconnoitered around the ward and waited for her to pass on the Gurney
cart, and when they slid her semi-conscious onto the PATIENTS ONLY
elevator, I walked in and held her hand all the way up to the sala de
operaciones, quirofano, operating room.

I kissed her there on the cheek; then, the two operating room nurses
commanded me to get back on the elevator. My gut was tensed to pop, and
when I saw the equipment in the sala de operaciones—and the doctors with
green masks and aguamarina paper bags tied around their feet—I thought I
would faint. There were those obnoxious antiseptic smells, so devoid of
enlivening and enriching ingredients, all through the post-op wards and
inner sanctums of the hospital.

I went downstairs and began to compose myself in a waiting room chair

near the Flower & Candy shop. I popped a fve-milligram Valium into my
mouth. I did not know what to do, where to go. I had no idea how long she
would be in the OR, and I could not even guess when her anesthesia would
wear off so I could talk to her again. After a queasy ffteen minutes, I felt
the Valium balm my muscles and stabilize my nervous system. I appeared
to myself to be thinking more rationally, and in my artifcial calm, decided
to go to my quinta, rest, perhaps sleep, and hang by the phone in my home
until Gonza called to tell me how things went.

I laid in my bed for many hours. I could not eat. I dozed a bit. Each time
the phone rang in the hall, I braced myself for the knock at my door. The
long-awaited hard blow came fnally after four or fve false alarms. I vaulted
to my feet and ran to the hallway where the beige telephone hook was
neatly cradled on a yellow pages phone book waiting for me to pick it up. I
reached for it and pumped a polished “hola” into the mouthpiece.

“I have cancer, gringo!” Gonza wept back at me.

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Then she burst out in convulsive sobs that tormented my attempts to
remain puissant myself. She bellowed over and over and over again: “I
have cancer! I have cancer!! I have cancer!!!” The foodgates, which had
long held her gushes of mental agitation, fnally were opened; Gonza had
let loose at last. I interjected at the frst opening: “I'll be with you in less
than a half hour, I'm on my way.” I hung up.

The Spanish landlady in my house came to my room and asked how la

doctora was. I sat on my bed to talk with her, but I could not. Suddenly, I
began to weep, and for ten minutes the lady sat with me on my bed with
her arm around my shoulder—she, making every effort to console me. I was
impressed with her sympathy. When I was composed enough. I showered
rapidly, dressed, grabbed hold of Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex
thinking that it might draw Gonza's mind away from her misfortune, then
hailed a cab in the street to rush me to Centro Medico.

The parents had left before I arrived, and Gonza was sitting up in her bed
with the covers draped up and over her chest, up to her neck. She looked
pale. The room was dimly lit. She was staring at the wall and disheartened.
I immediately directed my eyes to see the missing lump that was once her
left breast, but both sides of her chest loomed with identical bulk. I was
puzzled for a second. I darted to her, took her hands, then kissed her gently
on her cheeks and forehead over and over and over again.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, gringo” she demonstrated sobbing with
a sense of obligation which she knew and I knew was superabundant. I did
not want to talk about what was obviously on my mind, so I generalized
without any intervention:

“How did it go?” She contested limpidly, sticking at nothing.

Then she opened up. “The doctor did not want to remove the breast before
he talked to me; tomorrow I will return to surgery for the mastectomy.”

My sympathies poured out to her posthaste.

“Another f*****g operation,” I mused silently.

I asked her, redundantly, if I could stay with her again through the night to
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the morning when she would be rolled up again to the OR. She said she
would be very happy if I did. She knew, and I divined, that it would be a
long haul to morning. I told her I would go out in a couple of hours to get a
bite to eat. I asked her if there was anything I could get for her in the
meantime. Magazines? Newspapers? A scrabble game? Checkers? Other
things I had seen in the gift shop?

“No thanks, she sighed.”

I sat holding her hand for more than an hour without us saying one word.
The atmosphere was stuporous with unspoken intellectual activity that
neither she nor I wished to start to brood upon.

The furniture in the hospital room was old but well kept, well polished.
The tiled linoleum foor was dingy, nonetheless, but clean. The lighting
fxtures from another time, but functional. All so drab; su much like our
dispositions.

I felt very anxious with her for not only was there nothing to say, there was
little I could report to shower some cheer upon her chilled general feeling.
After the long wait, I was happy to interrupt the coolness and take my leave
to go to eat something. As I walked from the room, I sensed my
performance of this normal function, that of eating, would perhaps help
her to participate indirectly in what was routine and revive her with a burst
of vigor. I had the impression that I was worthless, useless. I could only
help myself; I could not lift Gonza up out of the depths of the fear that
faced her as the moments to her blood-letting ticked away.

When I came back to the hospital, I handed over The Second Sex and she
ficked through it fnally getting to the last section, “The Lesbian,” which,
having been of most interest to her, arrested her attention. Then she began
to read. The chapter went from page four-hundred twenty-four to page
four-hundred forty-four, and after half an hour of immersion in the text,
she lifted her eyes to me and asked me if I thought she had lesbian
tendencies. I laughed uncontrollably and said I thought not. She gave me a
cute look and quizzed “Who knows?”

The night nurse came in to give her a sedative with which she could
soundly sleep until the next morning. When the person trained to care for
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the sick left us, I took her hand and held it until she dozed off into a pre-
operative induced slumber.

The same tactic was made use of for a second time in the morning. Out I
went to make room for the parents. Such is life. Then the rendezvous at the
end of the hall and the trip, again ascending to a higher place, to the OR.
This time, however, I did not return to my quinta but stalled for time at the
hospital. The operation would last for about two hours I had been told, and
I decided—against Gonza's wishes for me not to aggravate her parents
whom I wished I could kill with aggravation—to wait for Gonza to return to
her room from the OR. Suddenly, this pleasant thought came to me: She
would be asleep when she arrived so she could not be upset with me
anyway!

I went to the street thinking I had about two hours to kill, but thought I
had better start my “stakeout” at the OR elevator on Gonza's room's foor
way before that. I put a toast and cheese and tomato sandwich, a glass of
freshly squeezed orange juice, and a coffee con leche into my empty
stomach. When I started to go back to the hospital, a man selling roses
approached me, and I paid for a bouquet of red ones wrapped in
newspaper, broke the rubber band around them, took the most hale and
hardy of the bunch, tossed the others into a garbage heap dirtying the
street, and stuck the stem between my left thumb and index fnger. I
crossed the threshold of the hospital's entrance determined to go on watch
near the elevator door that would eventually open to eject from its inner
recesses the prostrated body of Gonza bleeding and stitched upon.

Gonza had been in the OR exactly two hours and twenty minutes when the
door moaned open and presented a pooped out, pale-faced Gonza draped
in green and sound asleep. Two nurse pushed and pulled her to her room,
and I crept along behind hoping that I might be granted permission to wait
in the room with her mother and father until her eyes reopened again. I
went to the door and when Gonza rolled in, the father, eyeing me, slammed
the door in my face.

I took up watch in a chair near the room's access. When a nurse came to go
in, I asked her to take my rose to Gonza. She smiled kindly and entered
carrying my rose in the upright position. Immediately, out came the father,
and he began hitting me over the head with the rose screaming: “She
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doesn't need roses! She needs care, norteamericano! I paid for this
operation—not you!”

I turned to go. As I did, up came Gonza'a brother, Jesús, in operating green

surgeon's clothes and my eyes popped out. He had blood on his OR shirt. I
asked him if he had been at the operation with Gonza, and when he said
yes, I bolted for the hospital's exit digging into my left pocket for another
Valium. I went home and slept twelve hours straight.

Gonza “went away” three months later. Every week for a year I visited the
cemetery where she was buried, but I was prohibited from coming near to
her grave because her family had placed a guard at her resting place to keep
me and tomb robbers far from it.

Gonza had kissed me and stopped me from shaking so many times I just
consider it an honor to have known her for the time that I did.

Gonza, I need you today...

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I once kept up a correspondence with a Missourian, thirty-or-so woman

who, after graduating with honors from one of the United States' most
renown journalism schools, tried to gratify her wanderlust by leaving home
to travel in Europe where she settled briefy but not long enough to learn
the customs of Deutschland or even its language.

Not content, she resolved to go at it again and packed her bags this time to
wade into waters even more culturally unfathomable than Germany had
been for her. She headed out to China!

This North American professional journalist did not meet the personal cut-
off date she had set for herself before going to the Orient, and returned to
her homeland disgruntled and angry with with a billion Chinese people but
not one iota disappointed with her own self. She bombarded the Chinese
diet with a stomach-turning disgust claiming that she did not do well on
eating dogs, cats, feld mice, civets, turtles, worms and chickens' feet with
claws intact. She contrasted the diet of an eight-thousand-year-old
civilization with that of hamburgers and French fries in existence less than
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two-hundred years. She thought nothing of the fact that more than ffty
percent of the United States' population is overweight and a very good
portion of them is risking their lives with heart disease and diabetes. Her
main food staple in China, before her running back home, had been
chicken breasts and chocolate bars. She complained that no free trade
existed between the West and communist China because the “commies”
controlled all there is in Mandarianlandia. She predicted that China would
evolve into a corrupt oligarchy with fascist underpinnings forgetting that
ninety percent of the DisUnited States of America is owned by four percent
of the population. She claimed that Western men coming to China had a
ball because Chinese women threw themselves at them for their passports
and their cash forgetting that one famous DUS (DisUnited States of
America) female novelist had written a book showing how so many North
America female citizens had fung themselves while in university to “catch”
an affuent husband. She found Chinese men ultra racist and super sexist
forgetting, again, that female Afro-Americans in the DUS do not enjoy the
freedom Chinese women also are defcient in. She lamented that it is
normal for the “lesser” Chinese female to be with a Western man, but “God
forbid” a superior Chinese male be associated with an inferior Western
female.

The misfortunate, stymied paragrapher had been hit hard and she dangles
still in the cultural confusion that screws her to the wall in a turmoil
spinning her head between thinking from the particular to the general and
then from the general to the particular! If you speak with her, do not
mention diet—or even chopsticks! She will explode into a tirade against all
that is Chinese, all that rejected her while she was there in China's Town.

She has, and had, no good judgment and now fumes rolled up in the Stars &
Stripes crowing to everyone how lucky they are for the reason that they live
in the DisUnited States of America! God blesses her and all those who
agree with her. She tossed this ringer at me in her repugnance for my way
of thinking: “You hate everything that has to do with the white race!” If
she only could guess how fond I am of her and her talents!

The lesson I received from her—and that matter surrounding this issue of
international relations and the culture shock one is bound to submit
oneself to when going off to live, for a spell, in an other country—reminds
me of such an experience I myself have endured and enjoyed during my
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lifetime.

However, the heartfelt misfortune here is that this intelligent and sensitive
journalist—she is truly an exceptional writer—will never be able to impart
to us the knowledge she might have accumulated about China had she
remained a good four or fve years to soak up well the feelings and thoughts
of a culture all of us are attracted to. Anthropologists claim that one needs
four or fve years of living with a people before one can come to touch the
sinews of their behavior and understand, somewhat, about them. Our
impatient journalist has nothing to show us, except her vitriol; she did not
stay long enough in any one place to learn enough about the people she
had decided to visit. We must go without her valuable scrutiny and insight
which would have been indeed priceless to all of us lucky enough to have
been able to read her postings to us from the Orient.

No Gonza. Little money. A defrocked Venezuelan government worker. No

sense of my own dignity. I'm so lonesome I could cry!

It would have been, accordingly, so effortless for me to pack my bags,

maybe hop a plane to Miami if I could afford it, and sulk in the disgust of
having failed to accomplish the mission I had intended in the frst place
when I set off to live with Gonza in Caracas. Too easy—I mused. I
remembered purposely waiting weeks weighing my options and thinking
hard about what my next step would be. I did not want to make a hasty
decision. If I were to continue to live in Caracas it would not be forever, but
it surely would be more than a year or two.

I sought to become a student of Venezuela, and with the experience I had

accumulated in the DisUnited States and Venezuela, I envisioned the
possibility then of writing seriously about what I had learned in South
America's then most dynamic democracy. I could stay in Venezuela with
the idea of leaving it when I was good and ready, and not when others
thought it was wise for me to do so. Here was a chance for me. He was
something exciting and atypical. Here was, perhaps, my way to fame and
fortune.

And why not? Ever since I had been sixteen, I had thought to be a writer,
and when I was in the mountains bordering Laos and Cambodia, where I
read prolifcally many of the books recommended to me in university but
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which I had not had the opportunity or time to pore over then, I had taken
my big decision—if I were ever again to return to the DUS alive and not
maimed: to read and to know what was valuable to me as a writer, and to
listen to others who knew what was highly regarded, who knew the world
of knowledge. In Vietnam, I resolved to do something about being a writer;
in Vietnam, I realized I had to gain mastery of writing through experience
and study; to learn many things about writing: how to write, what to write,
where to write, when to write, why to write.... During my own “writing
internship” I needed to do one most important activity—above all others—
uniquely suitable and satisfying to me and my passion to be a scribe:
READ THE MASTERS!!! I was going to read and read and read them until
I fell into step with them. I did not care how successful or unsuccessful my
scheme might turn out. I just aimed myself in the direction of becoming a
writer. Nothing—no one—was going to detour me along the way, MY WAY.
And today (24 February 2004), as I write this sentence, I have the battle
scars to prove that I kept true to my word, sworn with my zeal, one
November day in 1967 on a mountain top in Southeast Asia.

Walking along Avenida Libertador in the heart of Caracas after ten years of
steadfast reading, almost penniless, lone, without mettle, broken-hearted
with bereavement, my head bowed to the sooty pavement, my hands
clasped behind my back, my eyes drifting along the the narrow clefts in the
concrete slabs which passed under my feet—I willed to stop thinking about
writing and pledged to begin to WRITE!!!

There was one thing I felt I could write about and that was my one-year
stint in Vietnam—and some of the events leading up to its happening. A
daily record, a journal of episodes, opinions, places and objects that I
lugged with myself in the jungles, lent a hand in enabling my mind to
revert to the past, and summoned up for me—up to the crest of my
consciousness—other reminiscences which had become buried, blurred, I
thought for forever.

Now I had the enthusiasm to write. In no small way could I thank Gonza
and her family for “forcing” me into the writing of my frst book—my frst
“baby.” They had inadvertently nodded me on and had dropped me to the
bottom where I had discovered that there was only one way to go: UP!
They stripped me bare of any of the security I had once possessed in
Caracas and the world. They had assisted me, meanderingly, to apprehend
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the dreadful fact that I had to create my own happiness and not seek for it
in other individuals. In a sense, I had come to be the proverbial “man”
through the many loathsome occurrences I had put up with for Gonza and
what I had thought was my own prosperity. (Gonza, interestingly enough,
after so many years of separation from her, still holds a part of my heart,
and I often call to mind her existence in the remembrances—so lucid and
convincing as to sometimes evoke a real sadness—of our Past together. A
lady of dignity and charm as much as I wanted so often to break her neck!
And if I hear Chicago's “If You Leave Me Now,” tears can actually come to
my eyes even today.)

I had lived in a cell in Caracas for more than fve years. My tiny abode
measured three meters square, and its scabrous, ceiling was sectioned off
by fve carved mahogany planks adorned, at their ends, with ornamentation
that resembled prickly leaves. The foor was constructed with ruddy tiles
and each measured twenty centimeters square. A quarter-inch frame of
white paint bordered each slab. In the room there was also a window with
two shutters decorated with pretty white lace curtains. The walls were
painted egg white, and the moulding and window frame and sill were a
green color that, in the spectrum, fell more to the outer portion of yellow
than blue, and reminded me of those milky, pastel colors one fnds in
thoroughly cleansed hospital corridors and sweat smelling high school
basketball gymnasiums.

The door was in the north wall. Near it, against the high thick masonry
structure, was placed—as much out of the way as possible—a closet for my
clothes. On the back of the wardrobe's door were six raffe tickets (all of
them losers) which I had bought from supplicating Latin children; a
program for a Flamenco concert; a schedule of events for a performance by
the Chamber Orchestra of Moscow; and, another bill of fare for a Bach,
Mozart, and Haydn concert. My red and white striped umbrella drooped
down on a hook next to my bathrobe and facecloth.

On top of the chest was an electric fan made in Hong Kong, a box of
Twinings English Tea, a container of Ajax, a dry sponge, and three fuffy
rolls of Scott toilet paper. Taped to the sides of my closet were many
memorabilia including the timetable for the private English classes I
tutored to residents of Caracas; a newspaper story about my friend's father
who was serving as Minister of Foreign Affairs for Venezuela; a political
185
poster endorsing losing presidential candidate Luis Piñerúa; a card with the
telephone number of a local taxi line; twoChinese restaurant menus; and,
this quote I had thought up out of frustration: “My analysis leads me to a
degree of pessimism regarding the viability of Political reform in
Venezuela.”

Against another wall was a nightstand. On it: four books about lesbianism;
English, French, Russian, and Spanish dictionaries; and, two music
cassettes: Beethoven Klavierkonzert 1, Christoph Eschenbach, Berliner
Philharmoniker, Herbert von Karajan (Deutsche Grammophon); and, Mario
Lanza, Fourteen Favorite Lanza Love Songs, “Be My Love,” (RCA Red
Seal). There were two fve-gallon jugs of mineral water on the foor next to
the nightstand.

A bookcase balanced out that side of the room. My toilet articles were
cramped against each other on the top shelf: Johnson Buds, Crest
toothpaste, two French toothbrushes, a comb, a hair brush, Cussons Baby
soap, Pears soap, Pino Silvestre stick deodorant, Aramis cologne, Van Cleef
& Arpels Eau de toiletter 85°, Halston cologne, Helena Rubinstein's Silk
Sheen for after shampooing, L'Oreal Elveve for shampooing, Pantene hair
tonic, a tube of Vaseline, a bottle of alcohol, Hawaiian Tropic Extra Dark
Tanning Oil, Trac II razor blades, a razor,Clearize for my eyes, and a roll of
cotton spooled on blue tissue paper. Next to them was an empty wine bottle
flled with medios (the Venezuelan dime) to make calls at the public
telephone in my residence.

On this side of the room my broken typewriter hung—on the wall. The
manual Olympia was a memory of the nine months of writing that
produced my frst completed manuscript, The Hippie Lieutenant. When
my fctional prose narrative without a plot had been completed, I smashed
the typewriter without a scheme was completed, I smashed the typewriter
with a sledge hammer, in the backyard of the quinta where I lived to
celebrate the end of the machine's use. The typewriter's lower case “a”
began to malfunction two days after I had started using it, and I had to
suffer with it until the completion of my third rewrite. You just do not
return things in Venezuela if they are damaged when you buy. You are
stuck.

The bookshelves held about ffty hardcovers and paperbacks concerned

186
with my interests: philosophy, literature, psychoanalysis, psychiatry,
psychology, political science, and economics—in declining order of
importance to me. On one of the shelves was a group of odd items
including two tins of of pipe tobacco (Dunhill My Mixture 965 and Balkan
Sobranie Smoking Mixture), one Bohemia crystal brandy glass, and a bottle
of Duca d'Alba Spanish brandy.

My bed was set against the third wall. Next to it was a beach chair/reading
chair made of wood and canvass from which I hung a tape-recorder, on
which I kept my violin and music notebook, and on which I also readied
socks and underwear for the next day's use. The wall was adorned with
three posters: one of the Caracas Philharmonic, another of Luis Piñerúa
embracing a child's head between his two hands, and the last, of a
restaurant, La Cava, with a huge rhinoceros on it.

My SONY model ICF-6000S multi-band radio dangled from a nail on the

last wall where the window was. An NCR company visitor's pass number 7
was pinched to the radio's strap. A Wilson T-3000 tennis racquet and a 45-
rpm record, “El Candidato,” sung by Jesús Spinetti and recorded by
Producciones Escobar, were fxed in position on another fastener. A piece
of thick yellow nylon cord was nailed to the wall, and it served as a resting
place for my towel and shorts. Against the same wall, on the foor, was a
dayglow orange plastic bucket with the four volumes of The Encyclopedia of
Philosophy placed on top.

On my desk was a set of earplugs, a Braun quartz clock, tissues, a box of

aspirins, three bottles of garlic pills, Mayadex multi-vitamins with minerals,
B-12 capsules, paper, a Spanish elbow lamp with a blue daylight bulb, a
silver ashtray from Peru, and these books: Militares y Politica, World
Population Crisis, Velásquez, Transparent Things, Tropic of Capricorno, Cities of
the Plains, Tropic of Cancer, Manual of English Grammar, Spanish, Spanish
Verbs, The Guermantes Way, Daily Life in Peru, A Life of William Shakespeare,
War and Peace, four volumes of the Collected Essays, Journalism, and Letters
of George Orwell, The Basic Writings of Bertrand Russell, an autographed copy
of William F Buckley, Jr's Up from Liberlism, WFB: An Appreciation, and
The Film Sense.

Slung to the back of my desk's chair was a Jiffy-Gym pocket exerciser, and
three large loose-leaf books flled with personal notes and impressions
about Venezuela sat on the chair when I did not use it.
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There was a music stand in the middle of the room next to a small, round
wooden table upon which I kept my pipes, toothpicks, and a timer for
jogging in place each morning. I used a take-home plastic container from a
Chinese restaurant as a nocturnal pee pot. A three-pronged brass lighting
fxture was suspended from the ceiling. Each projecting part held a 40-watt
lightbulb.

In order to put pen to paper, I had to support myself in some manner, and
I was lucky, suffciently, to obtain a teaching position at the British Institute
in La Florida, near my home, where I worked fve evenings a week then
Saturdays in the mornings. The directress of “The Tute,” an Irish lass who
was later dismissed for having embezzled fund's from The Tute's
accountancy, was so impressed with my old business card from MIT, she
told me it would be a “shoe-in” for me, a North American, to be accepted
by Cambridge University to teach the Certifcate of Profciency courses. My
schedule left me with time loose to write, and the social contact with other
teachers and students at The Tute helped me to maintain a balance
between the desolate life of writing and the incidental need to
communicate with others—that which would beget the onset of my second
love story in Venezuela, the daughter of a Peruvian general, who had been
banished to Costa Rica after failing three golpes de estato, and the separated
wife of a Peruvian minister who, too, had been sent off to Costa Rica
because he had been rushed into offce by his wife's father.

I bought a small, manual Olympia typewriter, a ream of paper, a Japanese

lead pencil, and off I went to write! Unfortunately, the typewriter's “a” key
kept sticking in the punch guide, and after each “a” I had typed, I had to
stick my fnger to the “a” and push it back into its original position. My
writing career had been launched on ominous strokes. Nevertheless, in all
senses, I really “felt” like a writer, was determined to fnish my Vietnam
manuscript come what may, and took enormous pride in telling everyone at
The Tute that I was occupied fve or six hours a day ”writing my book!”I
had exchanged my petitioning for the hand of Gonza for the writing role.
My new identity had been forged and has remained with me since.

In my room, apart from other people—pencil scratching sentences into

stenographers' notebooks, transposed after to the typewriter these pages of
script patched with proofreader's marks for letting it stand, making
capital.deleting, closing up spaces and inserting—my head capped with a
188
white tennis tam-o'-shanter to reduce the glare from my lamp, my Japanese
fan breezing balmy blasts around my head, my dictionaries set on music
stands, my pipe's light dimmed out—one day so happy I fick the keys of
my typewriter keeping time to Beethoven's Klavierkonzerte 1; another day
so depressed I will mope through my work sensing I will never fnish it—I
write. Why? ? ? I am psychically destroyed of tranquility and composure,
but not all the time. I am forever refecting on the fact that I have not
achieved anything I ever wanted to do for myself: to play the violin...to be a
professional philosopher...to be a book and flm reviewer.... Those were lost
for me forever—as is Gonza now. Being a writer—becoming a writer—is
something I felt would redeem me. I am terribly despondent over the fact
that I am only starting out now to be a writer, and I cannot even guess at
whether or not I will achieve victory.

Yet, when I am writing about what I am cajoled emotionally to call into

existence, I feel a sense of well-being for both confronting what I could not
have faced before, and for explicating something which others might enjoy
braving with me and which they might fnd relief in as much as I do. My
subjective responses spring out of the murky imprints of my life which lie
fxed below my consciousness and, as the years pass, occasionally melt away
wholly involuntarily. Still, there are many of them simmering and, they do
not disappear as quickly as I would like. They are down there, and ever so
often signal to me—through bodily tremors and nervous tension—their
desires to transform themselves into a defnition of their reality. The
screams for escape tell me I must begin to sort out my notions because if I
do not attend to these hidden emotionally turbulent predilections which
might not pass away with time, I will suffer painful consequences for my
neglect. These psychic reactions demand immediate attention. I must write
them out.

And so when the written-over pages reach the fnal draft stage where they
have assumed a neat, well-designed look with measured borders to impress
the publishing companies, with a consistency I have tried to achieve also in
ideas and manners of expression—the work now fnished—I stand back and
admire the original and its photocopies; I dream of the effort appearing in
bookshops and on library shelves: and, I rejoice in the completion of my
human endeavor to have a similarity to Nature, to add to It, and to mark
approval and disapproval of It.

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My very frst manuscript, The Hippie Lieutenant, took nine months to bring
to an end. That day was for me a truly exhilarating time. I was thrilled.
There is a seriousness in referring a book's completion to the birth analogy
because when the manuscript has been terminated, an author feels as if he
or she has given birth to something and that something, for me, was The
Truth about what had transpired in Vietnam according to my own
experiences and observations—not Hollywood's or some disgruntled
soldier's. I pounded the last letters on the keyboard to the fnale of
Beethoven's Klavierkonzerte 1, and the next day I treated myself to dinner at
the Costa Vasca realizing that no-one was competent enough to understand
what it meant to me to conclude my manuscript. I was flled with joy, and
began to relax a bit from the stress that I had gone through during the
book's “pregnancy.” I remembered while writing some parts of the work,
the memories of Vietnam were so intense and emotional for me, I had to
rest on my bed, and only after taking a brief nap, was I able to regroup my
feelings and begin to write again. I had written for three hours in the
morning, and after a lunch break, went at it again for two hours in the
afternoon. Long walks kept me physically ft, and each evening I went to
The Tute to socialize with the teachers and with my students who were, for
the most part, professionals and/or well-to-do individuals caught up in the
desire to learn English and to understand British and North American
people.

Those were the heydays of the Bee Gees and John Travolta and Olivia
Newton-John and Barry Manilow and Barry White, and discotheques in
Caracas were crammed with dancers gyrating to disco music and enjoying
the feeling that they, too, were participating in an event that people all over
the world were also sharing with them. The economy in Venezuela was
overheating but no-one cared about the future. An enormous party was
going on, and it was time to celebrate and and get inebriated on the idea
that still better things were to come down the road paved with a gold
bought with Venezuela's petroleum dollars. A veritable bacchanalia was in
motion and this festive mood was even taken advantage of by the politicians
who employed the most popular disco hits using them to plan their
campaign strategies. I had never seen such such a rage happening where
millions of participants had joined in on the wave of anticipation that high
petrol dollars would guarantee forever their future happiness.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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Imagine for a moment it is Saturday morning—a bright, beautiful,
blossoming tropical day is before you—and you are a successful Venezuelan
businessman, owner of the company that has exclusive rights to import and
sell one of the United States' most famous lines of automobiles. You are
tired after a busy week of business meetings, late evening work dinners,
and two unplanned rushes, in your Lear jet, to Detroit to haggle over a
price increase and fnancial assistance for the opening of your new sales
outlet in Maracaibo. Your wife, who has not seen you for fve days, is
prancing about the bedroom in red-lace bikini panties, and her two
fantastic heaps of fesh—without an undergarment to give them contour—
are fopping up and down and exciting you as they did when you grabbed
for them (when you could, you remember with a sly smile) during the
period you wooed the queen with whom you have been with now for ffteen
years. You know what you want, what she wants, but yet you are still not up
to it. You are dead tired because during the week you made love three
times with an automobile executrix with whom you have been
intermittingly attached for over eight years (What's good for General
Motors is good for you!) since you started to itch in the seventh year of your
marriage. You talk your wife into letting you sleep until midday promising
her a hot time in the old town tonight as soon as the kids are deposited at
t h e abuelo y abuela's home, when your libido will have been, hopefully,
more intensely activated. She reluctantly assents to your plan—her juices
had already been fowing in expectation of rapturous, riotous, pleasure-
giving moments. Suddenly, “The Greatest Hits of the Bee Gees” cassette
starts blasting out of the children's wing of the quinta, and you—thinking
that all through the house not a creature had been stirring, not even one of
your own rats—tense up in anger realizing now that the happy anticipated
sleep-in to twelve will not become an event that is actual. You relax
yourself, coil under the covers of your bed draped with egg-white silk
sheets, and realize beforehand, very soon, there will arrive three pre-teens,
your children, who will jump on you and jostle all over you in delight at
your arrival home. They will then immediately ask what was it your bought
for them in Detroit, Michigan.

Before respond to them, you think back to the early morning hours when
you came at length to home, dropped your bags and attaché case in the
living room, poured some Old Parr into a Bohemian crystal glass, and sat
down before the onyx coffee table in the living room upon which is set
three gold-framed color photos of each of your darlings' First Holy
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Communions. You recall looking at them frozen in saint-like poses—the
two boys dressed n blue suits with white ties and shirts, gold cords around
their necks, grasping cooly, in an unruffed manner, huge wooden
crucifxes burrowed into their chests, and white and crimson silk sashes
attached to their left arms; the girl, in a white dress, wearing a snowy veil,
her two hands folded in prayer around a black missal from which dangles a
pair of silvery rosary beads—and you had to admit that certainly they are
not people offcially recognized by the Roman Catholic church as being
entitled to public veneration; nor, are they especially charitable, unselfsh,
and patient individuals.

You refect on this incongruence. Then you think of your studies at the
university: social psychology and business administration. You take into
account your jet lagged traveling, computerized offce, and illicit but
satisfying sexual life. You contemplate: Why is it that we freeze a pose of
our faces to be exhibited in a public place—a stance that is totally affected,
wholly chimerical, naturally unreal? Are we crazy? The religious motif in
the photo has no connection whatsoever with the lives of the children and
certainly your human activities, relationships, and collective interests. But
that recurrent, thematic element has been monumentalized in your very
home for all to see, for all to know that you are conforming to an ideal that
you know you do not believe nor sustain with overt practice and regular
attention. (You think: Maybe you believe in God, but he certainly does not
believe in you!) You swig at your brandy. Why? Why?? Why??? Even the
focused faces of the infants fascinate you. They are not the same children
that they were when those pictures had been taken. They will never be that
again. Why have you and your wife given those photos—those instants in
Time—a status that signifes an outstanding and endurable achievement
viewed as a model for later generations? You immediately call to mind that
movies and videocassettes are more intelligent. Or, you see in your mind's
eye, suppose it was possible to take a head shot of your children the frst
day of every month for the rest of all their lives—to their deaths—and splice
the sequences together to form a flm? That might be more cunning than
the few casual shots you have taken to date. How can these idiotic visual
representations of your children, in quasi medieval garb, serve to be
portrayals of their likenesses, much less their lives? Something is out of
whack here, you admit nearly hopelessly.

The they get to you. Mobbing your bed, hugging your neck, kissing your
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face, stomping on your stomach.

One! Two!! Three!!!

What did you get me, papi? What did you get me, papi?? What did you get
me, papi???

This and this and this. Then they run off to their rooms. Your wife smiles
at you. You remember how tired you are, and you roll over and try to send
yourself back to sleep. The children know no quiet moments. You think
how to cope with the predicament. How to manage it. How to administer it.
You think how to keep the fort under control on Saturday mornings. You
think how you must get them to peel potatoes and drill in the quadrangle
for three or four hours on Saturday mornings. Eureka! You ruminate how
you will enroll the devils in Saturday morning English classes at La
Florida's Instituto Cultural Venezolano-Britanico—known to all underpaid
profesores and profesoras as “The Tute.”

As you are rubbing your palms in delightful expectation of the Saturday

your chauffeur and maid will take the urchins out to breakfast before class,
to return home later for lunch with you and your wife, a mere ten minutes'
walking distance from The Tute, there exists an individual writing a book
about Vietnam—a person you will never meet, but who will be the English
teacher of two of wonderful ones; a person you will never hear mentioned
by your wife, but who will be her ardent social companion for the next four
years until the agitated author decides to take leave of Venezuela and try to
fnd peace and quiet in the beautiful, indolent Montecatini Terme in
Tuscany, Italy.

The aspiring author is snuggly settled in a quinta ruled over by a Spanish

tyrantress from Galicia. He works hard on his book every day, is an exercise
buff, is trying to forget a lost love, is taking writing lessons from Beethoven,
is a New Yorker (Brooklyn), is poor, is rich in spirit, is attempting to
understand the Venezuelan way of life and its beautiful, suffering people.

It is his custom to rise early Saturday mornings, before going to The Tute,
to do some calisthenics, defecate, shave, shower (SSS!) and then have a
leisurely breakfast consisting of a big glass of orange juice, a cheese and
tomato sandwich, and a café con leche—coffee with milk. He likes to watch
the Italian coffeemaker as it spews out vapory streamlets of the rich, thick,
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mildly-stimulating beverage into a plastic cup to which, then, is added hot
milk steamed by a vapor nozzle at the side of the coffee-making machine.
He adds half a cellophane envelope of brown sugar, and off he goes—with
his coffee in hand—to climb up Avenida Los Mangos on the way to The
Tute.

He guesses that perhaps the most gorgeous days in Caracas come in the
months of December and January. It is then that the temperature is driest,
the sky, brightest. The top of Caracas is fuffy blue and wide-open during
those precious days. Little humidity. Mild breezes. Dazzle-less sun. A
perfect picture-taking ambiance: shadows are distinct.

On his journey up Avenida Los Mangos, the writer-teacher draws into

himself and records forever sights that delight, smells that compel. Within
this location, Caracas, in the Inventory of the Universe, there is an
enormous collection of trees, plants, fowers, and bushes—richly vegetated,
very often striking works of Nature—doting the streets, the lawns, the
driveways, and the roofed terraces of the stylish La Florida residential zone.
Plump purses of shrubs abound so thickly in some areas, one envisages that
an idyllic forest scene—Avenida Los Mangos slopes up into the Avila
Montaña—is awaiting all at the end of the thoroughfare. It is not.

On any day in December and/or January, Avenida Los Mangos is fabulously

resplendent in green growth and foliage which, when mixed with the sun,
refects a greenish-yellowish glowering hue off itself up into the air. The
fne odors from the leaves, branches, and fowers are so pungent at times,
one thinks he or she is in a fower shop or next to some man or woman
wearing a strange but pleasingly pleasant strong scent. The air is heady
with these blossoming agents which entice with their intoxicating aromas.

The writer of the Vietnam book is reminded of the magnifcent vistas he

saw in the Ia Drang Valley in Vietnam and the mountains of Laos and
Cambodia. In these places, too, rich, thick plant life populated the
landscape. Luscious vines and leaves; gigantic bushes and trees. The
insects were also of inordinate sizes just as they are in Caracas:
cockroaches (cucarachas in Spanish; Palmetto bugs in South Florida) the
size of one's fst.: pythons stretching in the Asian jungles forever; wild
water buffaloes reaching to the sky; tigers, lanky and thunderous; cobras,
malicious and wiry. Even the monsoon rains in Asia are impressionistic:
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long, hard, persistent, and nourishing a tough territory—a land of strange
diseases, a portion of the Earth that defes modernity.

Caracas does not challenge things belonging to recent times, to the present.
Yet it does nothing to accelerate a change to what is considered temporary.
Generally, wild fowers, plants and trees, where they exist, stand not
isolated in a park or botanical garden, but in the homes and backyards of
the residents: usually the wealthy ones who can afford large enough spaces
to cultivate rather complicated, exotic vegetation.

So as the writer walked along Avenida Los Mangos, he saw not through the
wires of cages nor did he observe in sections of public areas exceptional
examples of peperomia sandersii, palmace chamaedorea, elegans,
polypodiaceae adiantum, flices, crasulaceas, and crotons, but he discovered
them through an ajar door with a view leading to the generously
proportioned lawn of a quinta, through a porthole in a wall enclosing the
terraced patio of the ex-president of Banco Central, or through the
driveway that leads up to the Spanish castle of one of Venezuela's most
successful novelists.

In Vietnam it was the contrary. Nature hemmed him in. The writer had
been “free” to roam in a Gigantic Garden where, occasionally, were found
individuals living in “primitive” circumstances, without running water,
without electricity, without medical facilities, without supermarkets,
without, without, without what he the writer had been with, with, with.
Montagnard villagers naked to the waist, cooking on burning coals in front
of their huts, their bodies caked with dirt, their teeth crooked, stained,
rotten, and their eyes burnished with sadness and fear of the North
Vietnamese soldiers, communists at night, and the North American
soldiers, capitalists during the day. Their Gigantic Garden inhabited at this
time by forces they did not understand or defer to. Their Gigantic Garden
no longer open for them to glide through in the hunt for food and the
chase for women. Their Gigantic Garden populated by unknown
representatives of strange political, economic, and social propensities. And,
of course, they had to suffer B-52 bombings from a 30,000-foot altitude.

Whichever way the writer turned, he felt trapped. In Caracas, it cost to see
Nature. In Vietnam, Nature was for free. Exempt also to exact it own price:
as each and every capitalist and communist general there knew, Nature was
195
a strict creature.

The writer did not think it was important that there was little Nature in
Caracas and, perhaps, too much Nature in Vietnam. Nature is Nature! And
It exists all over the world. All over: wherever the writer wished to fnd It.
Delicious heaps of It! It could be looked down upon. It could be looked up
at. Nature is ubiquitous.

What impressed him the more was the power of Nature: Its constancy, Its
force, Its beauty, and above all, Its avoidance of Speech, Its secrecy. Nature
is wise. Nature is deliberate. Nature is awesome. Nature is action without
articulated language. A fne place to fasten one's attention, as John Keats
says, in his frst published poem, when one is lonely or alone with
someone:

“O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell,

Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings, climb with me the steep--
Nature's observatory—whence the dell,
Its fowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift leapt
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refned,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits fee.”

So, therefore, every Saturday morning, at the time when the writer moved
along felicitously, to the front of the farmacia, then round the corner where
Avenida Los Mangos intersected with Avenida San Gabriel, climbing up to
The Tute, he took from Nature and felt content in Its innermost recesses.

All through is life he had taken high happiness from Nature: In Vietnam,
where he walked through the jungles with his thumb on the safety and his
right index fnger on the trigger of his M-16, with his rucksack yoked to his
back, with sweat accumulating at his armpits and lower chine, with his steel
196
helmet shoving his neck muscles into the middle of his shoulder blades,
with boots wet and scraped by twigs and rocks...always it was the Beauty of
Nature that allured him; and, in Caracas, where he would fnd Nature, when
he breezed through the streets of another age with his electronic page at
the ready, with his underarms soggy, with his faded jeans tepid in the hot
sun, with his Timberland boots skimming over the pavement, with the
perspiration from his head dripping on down into the lenses of his plastic
glasses...the Beauty of Nature enticed him all the time. And just as when, in
Vietnam, the Shelleyan slumber he was indulging in in the natural
infrastructure of a unique wooded area was violently interrupted by the
smacking of one or more AK-47 shells or the exploding of 122mm Chinese
Communist rockets, resounding through the trees, the rounds pounding
themselves to the ground in thunderous ovations, scattering his infantry
company in panic and confusion and forcing him to “Hit the dirt!” and
come up with the grid-coordinated location of his unit so as to call his
battery for artillery (“arty”) fre support, so too, the same Percy Specter he
was enjoying as he walked up to The Tute, was suddenly trespassed upon
by the screams of two-hundred little hostile forces, jumping out of trees
and off cars, blasting the air with Bee Gees' songs which annoyed The
Tute's neighbors (The Tute would be closed by the next government for the
reason that the children's obnoxious infringements drove the fellow
citizens bananas), and anxiously waiting to storm the open doors of The
Tute to buy candies and sodas before the beginnings of classes.

There were twenty-fve small demons catalogued on the writer-teacher's

attendance sheet, but no more than ffteen imps ever assembled for the
three-hour (with a 30-minute break at midpoint) Saturday morning
marathon of instruction. Many of the cursed ones made weekend visits to
their parent's beach homes, or few with mami and papi to their apartments
in Miamilandia for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday “weekends;” or,
they just refused to attend class because they deemed some familiar social
gathering or sporting event more important than their presence at class.

It is more correctible to state that the writer was not, in fact, a teacher at
The Tute. He was a sitter of big. spoilt babies. His class, programmed for
boys and girls between eight and nine years of age, actually accommodated
a group of students whose existence in Time ranged from six to twelve
years. There were two principal reasons for this: the frst: some of the
unnatural productions had been left back either because they assisted at
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class sporadically, or because they had been hated so by their previous
professors and professoresses—remanding them thus satisfed the sadistic
sides of some of the harried educators. The second: two mothers had
insisted that their darlings remain clustered together at all times—in the
same class at The Tute. Tute offcials, keen on the establishment's
emolument, bended sideways and all ways to oblige possessive parents. The
writer's class, essentially, was colonized with two family units of varying
ages. The Tute, a “non-proft” biz, hankered earnestly to keep classes flled
to their brims. This overfowing edge of The Tute—without exaggeration,
there were tens of thousands of these fabulous, “rich” beings in Caracas—
often ran over with tension and hostility with four independent human
aggregations vying for their chances to confrm their modes of existence:
the administrators of The Tute; the teachers in The Tute; the blood
relations of the out of the ordinary ones; and, the very ones who inspired
terror, horror, and disgust.

From the writer-babysitter's perspective, a typical Saturday morning at The

Tute, then, was not a learning experience for the children, but an obstacle
course for him who, to survive, needed to have at least tried to remove,
circumvent, surmount, and manipulate them for three hours into a social
stratum of ordered members who ought to have shared similar things in
common: quietness, attentiveness, and courteousness. This was never
achieved.

The writer knew that the frst law of the classroom jungle was to eyeball, on
the frst day, mischievous offspring into a semi-obligingness. Not to torment
them, unfortunately, but to set a tone all at once dependable, serious, and
respectful. The writer believed, as David Hume, that frst impressions were
lasting. Why not lay the law down plain for their undeveloped minds?

Children actually fnd discipline irresistible because with the limits and
bounds set for them, they can go certain distances in confdence, they can
feel themselves secure in one determined, delineated manner of behavior,
and they can, when they are confdent and strong enough in the company
of their own passions, then seek to charge out to explore at all times
knowing they might return to a position where they are at their level,
conscientious best. As much as he often wanted to do, the writer knew that
he could never smack them into such a conscious-rising state: violence is
not the mode whereby one learns to analyze one's own life situation and
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then transform it so as to achieve liberation from oppression within.

Within the totality of social relationships among the human beings in his
eclectic collection of young, often brilliant Venezuelan students, there were
six individuals who demonstrated to the writer—an intellectually acute,
single person on every occasion on the human behavior lookout—excessive
sensitivenesses that troubled the writer and impelled him to think twice,
thrice, often fve times, before he proceeded to impose his character upon
them.

One progeny of a prominent Venezuelan family, an asthmatic child, Juan

Carlos, eight years of age, evinced these unconformable peculiarities: he
sat simmering all the time is a state of antagonism and hate, and rarely
expressed himself to others; and, he constantly made reference to his
mother asking when it would be when she was to come for him—she being
one who, before the course began, expressed her intense concern for her
child overprotecting him with her guilt-ridden, controlling mannerisms and
hinting to the writer her own doubts about her maternal role. Medication,
frst-aid procedures, and telephone numbers were all clearly handed over to
the writer to be used in the event of the dreaded, inevitable ataque de asma.

Another youngster, Safa, age six, was afraid to be in The Tute. She was the
youngest of three family members who peopled the class. Her older
brothers were out-going, good students, but she seemed to anxiously and
miserably dwell in the shadows of them. Safa's mother was divorced, but
had plans to remarry. Safe possessed a very low self-esteem, and she
appeared to be severely vulnerable to external infuences. Her mother was
an excessive busybody, and told the writer not to pay attention to Safa if
she complained about headaches. Safa kept asking to be excused to go to
the ladies' room.

Miguel Angel, nine, was considered “strange, crazy” by the other students.
He was overactive—in perpetual motion. He exhibited aimless motor
activities and intermittently had temper outbursts which disturbed the class
and frightened Safa very much. Generally, it was impossible to expect
Miguel Angel to concentrate on anything with such strong sentiments of
impulsivity. Nevertheless, there were times when he managed to participate
with the others in the class.

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Maria del Pilar, eleven, worried the writer the most. She kept trying to leave
the classroom. She continued saying that things were totally different from
what they had been last term, and that “new rules” existed to keep her from
going to the ladies' room when she wished to. She communicated with no
one in the class, was defensive, depressed, and chary. She wanted to
change institutes and study another language.

A different diffculty was Marciano, seven. He often exhibited explosive,

involuntary utterances, and his neck muscles regularly jerked to shake a bit
his head and thoracic region. Sometimes he coughed nervously or grunted.
Marciano was inhibited and overly anxious.

Carmen Julia, age nine, tore at the writer's heart strings. She was a
differentiated person. She had been born deformed, one leg longer than
the other with a protruding hump at her left hip. Her attitude was at once
courageous and beautiful because she always made claim to receive
consideration as any other human being, her disfgurement
notwithstanding. She attributed to her disability a behavior that an
ordinary unburdened individual would have merely regarded as human.
Everyone in the class viewed her as a subject of interpretation: Why was
she the way she was when everyone else looked as if not to be as she?
Carmen Julia was uneasy and uncertain in her mind, and she was forever
assessing how great a part her dissimilarity would affect the actions of the
others around her. She could not, in our class, seek comfort from others of
her own kind. She was not living in an institution or a hospital. She glued
herself to those who could be relied upon to show tact and understanding.
Hers was a protective withdrawal. Whenever she came forward to express
her personality—and she was indeed willing to press herself on others—she
was ever so careful, ever so situation conscious. She sought approval from
her viewers. She took pains to show that her condition was a state to which
she had triumphantly adjusted—a mindset where she felt she had charge.
In fact, the writer felt she was tolerating her own society—not the reverse!
She often had to put people disturbed with her circumstances at their own
comfort! Actually, she was fantastic at this. She was brave. She was
attempting, in a forced sense, to underscore her adjustment. (Is not good
fortune, traditionally, a most unpardonable faw among those who have not
thrived?)

It was because of these six special students—overly susceptible to the

200
attitudes, feelings, and circumstances of the others in the class—that the
writer was to come to adopt an attitude of deriving pleasure from being
offended, dominated, and mistreated by the members of his petite, but
unique, student body. The other ten students in the class were a huge
discipline problem not because they suffered from physical or mental
disorders, but for the reason that they, in their peer group, went bananas
with excitement and playfulness. They all appeared to be in need of
expending a vast amount of physical energy that obviously had had no
outlet in their usual social and cultural surroundings.

To juggle these beings in perpetual motion, to keep these callow powers in

a common rhythm at one time for three hours, was not the work of a writer-
teacher-babysitter, but the labor of a magician-clown-showman. And
whenever the writer had success in his manipulations to befool, his
machinations gave the impression of not lasting for any great length of
time. So jokes, storytelling, and games came to be the way the writer held
attention. When he commanded interest, he went about deceivingly making
an effort to sneak in the work of an English teacher. He taught very little of
this language spoken by some 1,000,000,000 people throughout the world.

Perhaps the dreary room where the writer conducted English studies had
had something to do with the actions and reactions of the children. It was
not an especially attractive place setting. It was illuminated with light
emitting from electromagnetic radiation, and one of the long, white tubes
in the overhead fxture kept fickering on then off, on then off, on then off.
The desks were old, wooden ones with scads of initials and scratches
furrowed into their tops. The walls were scuffed with heel marks, with
dried food, and with pockmarked depressions made by the pressure of
banging pieces of fat-topped furniture. The dilapidated blackboard was not
a green or white board, and its tray was packed with an accumulation of
chalk dust which had snowed on it over the months. The writer had to clap
the powdery erasers (rubbers) on the outside wall, through the window of
The Tute, because the cleaning lady had never thought herself to clean
them. The foor: cigarette burns, patches of dried gum and soiled black
scrapes, scuffs, holes in its raggedy linoleum. A wooden crucifx, with Jesus
Christ's left leg and right arm broken off, was centered above the old
blackboard.

When the monsters scampered into class they immediately began

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arranging the desks in their preferred order, not mine, seeking
companionship with their friends or family members. They carried their
ripped textbooks, with pages missing, to their places. Pencils dropping to
the foor...candy wrappers fying to the foor or bouncing off the rim of the
bent-out-of-shape wastepaper basket...hands gesticulating for bathroom
privileges...fibbertigibbets screaming to know what games were to be
played that morning. Games? Games: “Guess the Word” the English word
that flls the gap on the blackboard; who can write a sentence, a little
English sentence, the fastest?; who can play English teacher the longest
time?; who can tell a story in English?; who can write the most correct
English words on the blackboard?; and, on and on and on....

Julio is punching Pedro. Julio is sent to the directrix's offce. Miguel Angel
keeps jumping out of his seat to pull at Maria's hair. Miguel Angel is told he
will not play “Guess the Word” if he does it again. Safa looks so sad; she is
on the verge of tears. Safa is made the permanent “Assistant to the
Teacher,” sits next to him, and turns the pages of his textbook when he is
able to teach. Maria del Pilar has snuck out of the classroom while the
writer had his back to the class—writing a game on the defective
blackboard. Maria del Pilar's absence is reported to the administratrix's
offce. Rámon, Marciano, and Juan Carlos's hands are upped for
permissions to go pee-pee. Rámon, Marciano, and Juan Carlos are told to
wait, in turn, for their trips to the boys' bathroom.

Sitting alone at break time, the writer whimsically wished that he were an
anthropologist, an ethnologist, a psychologist, a psychiatrist, a
psychoanalyst, a historian, a sociologist, a philosopher, then, a politician!
Yes, he saw it as a political game. It was not to be analyzed, dissected,
written about, studied, put into conference, hashed over, and then stacked
away in the s**tcan of memories shelved in the library. This was
communist-capitalist free-for-allism! The writer's pupils were on the
s**tend of the political stick. The lines had been drawn: benevolent
oligarchy and masses of poor people against the masses of poor people with
a not-so-benevolent, a*skicking dictatorship of the right, of the left, of the
communists, of the capitalists...it did not matter one iota. There were no
social services—even for the well-to-do—in Caracas and there would never
be enough. The median age of the Venezuelan is getting younger every year
—it is not maturing. Who in his or her right planning mind was going to
make well hundreds of thousands who were stressing to death the natural
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order of things? Who could consent to assist the nurturing of hundreds of
thousands who spawned forth from the bellies of humans as guppies do
from the uteruses of their mothers. There was a hold on social services in
Venezuela, and no one gave a damn about Safa or Marciano or Maris del
Pilar. They were to cook in their own juices, and if they bubbled up in
revolution—if they survived—they would be shot on the spot.

The writer pondered over these remorseless realities. He knew that some
rich parents had had the money to go to the United States or Europe or the
Soviet Union to have their children's health problems cared for
intelligently and professionally. He grasped the fact that there were few
dedicated doctors in Venezuela striving to do their best for their people.
He understood ninety percent of the people would never get proper
medical attention. He well comprehended that there existed six swift
elevators in the IBM building in Caracas, but lines to get on the single
elevator at the University Hospital. He knew the oligarchy was so far
removed from the common people, their stupidity appeared to be
excusable. He also realized this neglect was festering to the violent breaking
point.

When the children returned after the pause, the writer braced for the next,
the last, period of aggravation and frustration. Maria del Pilar still has not
returned to class. The writer runs to the directress's offce to fnd out where
she is, but no one knows her whereabouts. A search is conducted
throughout The Tute, and fnally the writer fnds Maria del Pilar in the
boys' bathroom with the middle fnger of her right hand in the anus of a
four-year-old boy, the brother of a Tute student. Maria del Pilar explains to
the writer that the little boy wanted to go pooh-pooh, couldn't, and asked
he to “aguantame” to stimulate his excretory canal so that he could have a
successful bowel movement.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It did not dawn on me at the time that I was metamorphosing into a

political animal—a ferocious one, at that. From the beginning I had been
absorbed strictly in my concern for MIT and more, naturally, for Gonza.
For almost two years I had not thought once about myself but what it
would be like to be with Gonza in her arms forever. I would not, dare not,
accept another way which would exclude her. I was totally enwrapped in
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my passion for her.

Coming out of this obsession was indeed like coming off an addiction to
some drug. I had withdrawal pains all the time, and I can understand now
why the writing of my The Hippie Lieutenant was so crucial to my emotional
stability. That enterprise furnished me with a rationale to continue living,
thriving. I had to create something. I had to foat to the surface of my sanity
to suck on air. I was obliged to show myself that I was talented enough to
accomplish something, to seek happiness again. To renovate my suffering
making it a chef-d'oeuvre of conquest rescinding my dread and even pulling
off the defnitive cachet: a sensation of joy for that which I had attained.

As I abandoned the exhilaration that I had enjoyed so powerfully being

under the spell of Gonza, I fnally began to see around me, to take in that
which before had been consumed in my fxation. The Hippie Lieutenant and
my students gave me the prospect of considering other things in this life,
and opened for me a myriad of dazzling ideas and marvels to write about
the more.

And it was this emancipation that encouraged me to make an effort to be

au fait with the individuals, and their culture, who surrounded me. My goal
had been well set in my mind. I was going to study the Venezuelan people.
Analyze them. Scrutinize them. Arrive at their quintessence. My curiosity
was, is, without bounds. I obliged myself to encompass the authenticity of
these folks who had piqued my inquisitiveness.

Two or three months before leaving the United States for forever (31
December 1975), I called the FBI offce close by Gainesville, Florida, and
telling them that I was shortly planning to live happily ever after in the
arms of Gonza in The City of Eternal Spring, I asked for some advice about
Venezuela and if there was anything I should be wise to, in particular,
before heading out. Vaccinations. Visa. Passport requirements. The agent
with whom I had spoken told me to call the Central Intelligence Agency
and ask them because that “outft” was better updated on foreign affairs. He
gave me a phone number that I decided to call away from my home—in a
phone booth at the Gainesville Hilton Hotel. A man answered and he never
identifed himself or even the offce to which he had been assigned. When I
asked with whom I was talking and with what group I was in contact with,
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he would not answer me and then abruptly enquired as to why I had called.
I told him. He wanted to know if I was seeking employment—I said “not
really”—and I went on asking some general questions and tried to get a feel
for what Venezuela might be ready to offer me when I arrived fresh from
the United States (Miami). Near the end of the call, he asked me if I would
like to be “contacted” once I was in Caracas. My mindset at that time was a
“who knows...I just might need some help there alone and distant from the
United States.” I was told an”insurance agent” would contact me when I
was in Caracas. He did not say when or where.

It didn't dawn on me at the time, but in many ways I was a perfect catch for
a CIA recruiting offcer fshing for apprentices. I had a university degree
(Philosophy). I had been chosen as the S-2 (Intelligence Offcer) of the
Reserve Offcers' Training Corps (ROTC). I was an ex-army offcer (on the
captain's promotion list) already with a SECRET security clearance. A
Vietnam veteran. Trained in the Artillery. I had reported for three
newspapers in the United States. And, if I might add, I was a lateral
thinker! I was a recipient of “The Wayward Missile Award” and had been
called a “Loose Cannon” while I served in the feld artillery. Most of all, I
was an “out of the box” theorist. (“A standard recommendation for reform
—one made regularly by people discovering these problems for the frst
time—is to encourage “outside the box” analyses that challenge
conventional wisdom and consider scenarios that appear low in probability
but high in consequence. To some this sort of intellectual shake-up might
well have led the intelligence system, rather than Tom Clancy, to anticipate
the kamikaze hijacking tactics of 11 September.” Foreign Affairs, January-
February 2002; page 49.)

In 1988, I took an examination administered by Dr David Joseph Weeks

and Dr Kate Ward of the Royal Edinburgh Hospital in Scotland. The test
measured my level of eccentricity, and I performed rather high. As an
authentic eccentric I am prone not to conform, I deviate from the accepted
standards of behavior, and I can conceive of new approaches in the artistic,
scientifc, or technological felds. Eccentricity is the motor of progress and
of human cultural behavior. (John Stuart Mill: “The main risk of our age is
that there are not enough people who risk to be eccentric.”) The eccentric,
too, is enthusiastic regards his own convictions and is ready to fght in even
total isolation without being bothered by those who oppose him or her.
The eccentric is also resistant to the infuences of fashion and fads in
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society. The creative eccentric is less inhibited, more informal, Bohemian,
and radical. He or she gives a shock to our system of mental organization
sometimes so formidable as to liberate the creative promise. In all of us
who are considered unusual persons, there is an emphasis upon the forces
of harmony in Nature, the cosmic order, and the idea of a hidden symmetry
in things and events. (The eccentric Henry Prentice had ordered written
the following on his tombstone: “Don't worry about how I lived; concern
yourself rather with how you will die.”) Almost all of the eccentrics studied
by Weeks and Ward were found to have lived exceptionally long lives,
enjoyed good health generally, and were pleasant characters. With our
fxations, we give our lives a signifcant and precise set of objectives. What
results is a sort of happiness which, indirectly, might be able to protect us
physically thanks to a different and more effcient immunological system
that is also closely connected to our nervous and endocrinologic systems.
We are bearers of diversity—and without that there cannot be change nor
evolution. (Paraphrased from Italy's La Repubblica.)

The Central Intelligence Agency would have been ludicrous not to have
wanted to have one such as I in their ranks. But they were not going to ask
me to work for them! It was for me to go crawling to them. The CIA hunts
for supporters. It covets minions. Just as one joins the Jesuit order. You go
to the Jesuits, Jesuits do not go to you! It is called being authoritative.
These organizations want individuals who are predetermined and
apprehensive. You must be of an unenthusiastic, malleable nature but
raring to go to fnd some legitimacy in a strident cause. You also might get
shot! This amalgamation requires that a candidate be a conforming non-
conformist. As aspirant must exhibit exceptional abilities to think
tangentially yet be disposed to submit to a last word. Any contestant who
reaches beyond the control sphere might be stomached for his or her
incomparable fare—if she or he is beyond doubt an important element—
but this temperament cannot be remunerated in the context of such a
person's career profle. If you want to feel free you should not join the
Central Intelligence Agency! I did not want to join the CIA, but I was
furious that they did not want to join me! You must think pessimistically
about everything with them. And you better not be an atheist!

When I had fnished the frst draft of The Hippie Lieutenant, I came to the
realization that my experiences in Southeast Asia had drummed into my
psyche mental residues which I had before not taken resolutely enough
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into consideration. From the time I had returned (August 1968) from
Vietnam to when I had begun to write about my encounters there in-
country—my post-Gonza period—I had assumed—more or less—the
subsequent stance: Vietnam was a terrible personal experience; it had been
an obligation I had taken on voluntarily, the threat of prison hanging over
my head; I had had a spite of bad luck having had to go there; I wanted to
get on with my life and not morbidly live in the shadows of Vietnam; and, I
could not even participate in the bleeding of hearts of Vietnam veteran
crybabies, an attitude which many veterans had easily sunk into and which
jeopardized both their physical and mental health. As a genuine eccentric, I
could not, for the life of me, hook up with these sore losers and angry
protestors who kept banging their heads against a wall and drugged
themselves with alcohol and mood-changing pills. I had to protest,
nevertheless. I required of myself that I fnd a method that would not self-
destruct back upon me.

I was rewarded with a wholesome catharsis by writing The Hippie

Lieutenant. All the mental junk I had left alone for years foated to the top of
my consciousness, and there I dealt with it after a remarkable negligence.
During the Vietnam “War” I had kept a personal diary of the main events I
was witnessing. We had been advised not to keep one, but we were not
prohibited from doing so, and I could not resist logging certain occurrences
and making sure they would not slip between the slats in the foor of my
memory. I realized, when I served with the Fourth Division (Pleiku) and the
Americal divisions, something unique, but dreadful, was transpiring and I
was an eyewitness on the spot. I had no intention, while in Vietnam, to
write a book about my experiences. Yet I had a premonition that such a
record would come in handy one day. I did not know it at the time that a
book would evolve from the copious notes I had taken, that they would
offer me one day an extremely satisfying relief once the tome had been
terminated.

The Hippie Lieutenant served to help me review the year (August 1967-
August 1968) when I functioned as a US Army artillery offcer (MOS: 1193)
in the battle zone—and sometimes safe from it—during the Vietnam “War.”
(I cannot refer to the Vietnam tragedy as a “war” because it was not. It was a
United States' police action and a disastrous one at that. The United States
of America should not have embarked on that foolhardy initiative. It had
done so for mistaken reasons.) But, still more importantly, because I had
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written the manuscript in Caracas, I had the peace of mind that I never
could have enjoyed if I had written the volume in the United States. The
political climate in the US would never have permitted me to vent the
ideas, the truths, and observations made in The Hippie Lieutenant. Being
alone and “in exile” from the United States, I relished an intellectual
freedom fowing through my being—an autonomy I never would have come
in contact with in the southeast of Florida in the 1970s. In the US, I had
not belonged to any political organization or movement. I defnitely was not
a Republican, a conservative. The smugness of National Review editorialists
and political theorists had turned me completely off them. If the CIA could
have read my thoughts about the United States after my writing of The
Hippie Lieutenant, I believe I would never have ft the format of their
requirements unless, of course, the CIA, at that time, was an institution
with an extremely unguarded political perspective. I had no reason to
suppose that.

As the truth reared up to slap me in the face as I went trudging along

composing The Hippie Lieutenant, I began to lose respect for all that I had
been taught to accept as true concerning the United States. My education
had done everything to help me ignore that which was obvious, and when I
had come home from Vietnam, and many had hinted to me to just let the
“bad memories” be forgotten, I still refused to go along with the automatic
exoneration granted to the US government and Vietnam veterans who had
carpet-bombed millions of innocent people, and who had committed
atrocities worthy of the Devil himself or herself, who I had been told was
sneaking all around us trying to bring our souls down into the sewers of
perversion and disrepute. Where was the CIA while these acts of violence
were being perpetrated? Where was the CIA when the My Lai massacre was
being carried out? Where was the CIA when defective artillery rounds –
manufactured in the Red, White, & Blue United States of America and
which would later be converted into booby traps used to kill our own men
—arrived by ship from the US and were off-loaded at military ports
strategically located in Southeast Asia? How could I trust the CIA in
Caracas if I could not have trusted it in Vietnam? Besides, from one of the
books I had read written by Vladimir Nabokov, this adage had remained set
in my mind: “Spies get shot.”

And spies get used, too! In my post-Gonza depression—the weakest

episode I had ever suffered—I just may have become a member of The
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Company. Had they asked me! To this day I count my blessings. I stayed
true to my convictions and did not give in to the allure of an exciting, if not
dangerous, style of living. They say the pay is good, too. There are many,
many perks. Gonza and The Hippie Lieutenant had kept me from making a
rash decision, and I restrained myself from hooking up with an
establishment whose tentacles reach beyond the imaginations of most of
the citizens of the United States. An enormous misfortune for democracy.
How could I trust the CIA? After all, we really aren't even certain who
killed John F Kennedy, are we?

Before I give a psychological profle of the Central Stupidity Agency's

fellows I worked in tandem with or knew casually, I wish to fll you in, my
esteemed reader, on some interesting facts which I came across here in
Italy while reading a book scribed by two Italian journalists concerning
Italy's republic and its relationship with the CIA: Made in USA!

When the last vestiges of the horror and killings of millions and millions of
European people abated, and thus permitted individuals to think that some
kind of an abruption to World War II's brutality had been effectuated, the
“victors” began chopping up into teeny-weeny, itty-bitty snippets the
devastated continent.

Their egos, thus assuaged, permitted these “vanquishers” to celebrate with

joy the “victory” that had left millions heartbroken and shocked to their
bones. And off we went into what would, for decades, be called The Cold
War! (Isn't that an oxymoron? We all know what happens to oxymorons!
“Hot Wars” had become rather unpopular with citizens—especially
European civilians!)

Italy, The Problem Child of Europe (CNN), had to be reckoned with

particularly so. The nation was on its hands and knees. Starving children
glued themselves to North American GIs to acquire the necessary
nourishment they required to survive. The Italian government, in a
shambles, was coerced—as a consequence of its humiliating defeat—to
subscribe to the dictates of the occupying United States' forces who were
even kind enough to fx ballot boxes throughout Italy preventing Italy from
electing a king as their leader instead of the gray fanneled suit type
requested by United States' governmental foreign policy makers in
Washington, DC.
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At the time, Italy was divided in two by an ex-fascist pro United States, pro
Vatican faction in the south, and a contra-fascist- contra-the United States
and pro-Marxist coalition in the north. The Boot sought desperately to
maintain not only its sovereignty and cultural identity, it despairingly
quested to keep in tact its dignity and reputation as one of the world's most
prolifc producers of artifacts and art. It succeeded somewhat after having
paid an extremely high emotional and economic cost (debt) that hovers over
Italy's head still—as I write these lines on 10 June 2004.

There arose, in this turbulent milieu, an incredible aura of compromise

through deceit that was to defne Italian-American relations for decades—
up until this very minute. The crystalizer of this despicable ambience was
the notion that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics—decimated from its
victory over Nazi Germany (the Soviet ambassador in Caracas told me that
as many as 40,000,000 Soviets might have been slaughtered during their
Second World War battle against Fascism)—was out to conquer the
Universe and that little old Italy was high on its list of pawns-to-be-toppled.
Surely, Italy's geographical position was—is—fundamental to the
considerations of both military (Camp Darby in Tuscany holds the largest
deposit of US arms outside the United States!) and economic strategists.
We all would agree. Yet, evidence is there to support the belief that all of
Europe was not in the mood, not had even the military fettle, to slap on
more war paint during that period of déjà vu. N'est-ce pas? It is an
insufferable discredit that we must attribute to the Department of Hate and
the Central Stupidity Agency for not having the noodles to realize these
details then and for which the United States of America will endure,
forever, the consistent impertinence of the European Union justly escorted
by France and Germany.

But how did this Snowball of Stupidity start rolling down the mountain
side? Look up to the horizon. See him riding his trusty mount, Purity. See
him defending the DisUnited States of America for all of us. See him wince
his mug at all that is evil and godless. Have you guessed yet who it is? Why
it's General William “Wild Bill” Donovan, founder of the Offce of
Strategic Services (OSS) and the Central Intelligence (Stupidity) Agency—
the loony let out of his bin!

A pa rt o f “Wi l d Bi l l' s ” curriculum vitae reads so: “soldier and

hero...frustrated in his efforts to become a Dominican priest...graduate of
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Columbia University Law School...intimate friend of Franklin D
Roosevelt...Columbia U's quarterback when the university won the national
championship...cavalry offcer against Pancho Villa...leader of suicide
attacks against German machine gun emplacements during World War
I...New York States attorney general...defeated (thank goodness!) in New
York's governor's election...unsuccessful (thank goodness!) White House
aspirant...worldwide “secret agent” for FDR...et cetera.

Immediately after World War II, “Wild Bill” rode (foated?) around Europe
planting his spies here and there and everywhere. He even visited Asia to
set up secret networks. The Henry “The Carpetbomber” Kissinger of his
day. Remember, “Wild Bill” was the progenitor of a unique North
American style of Universal Conquering. He was an overly zealous
individual, strict, authoritarian Roman Catholic, and you best have not
tempted to contradict him.

“Wild Bill” was meticulously fervent when it came to the Roman Catholic
church, so it should come as no surprise that a trip to Roma for him was a
sort of incorporeal event. In New York, the right-wing cardinal Francis
Spellman served as his spiritual confdent, and “Wild Bill” was a member
of the Knights of Malta—two ID bracelets that easily opened Vatican, Inc
doors for him as Opus Dei does today for others of the intransigent ilk. Our
truly outstanding roving, snooping citizen made contacts with Jesuit
“intellectuals” in Rome, and had his brain washed by doctrinaire church
offcials who wanted to see that “Wild Bill” clearly understood perfectly
that the predominantly atheist Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR)
's Marxism-Leninism was not on their muster of much-loved dogmas. He
fell hook, line, and sinker and Vatican, Inc was off to scaring the entire
Universe—with “Wild Bill” tagging along—into believing that the Red
Menace was out to teach your dog to bite you. (Paul Joseph Goebbels [1897-
1945] Nazi propagandist: “The bigger the lie, the bigger will be those who
believe it.”) But what was really unscrupulous about Vatican, Inc was the
way it eked out, bilked illegal funds from United States' taxpayers for
decades bluffng that The Communist Conspiracy was out to suck in all of
Europe, and then, all of the Universe! (17 May 2002, email to Jacques
Chirac, President of the French Republic: “My dear friend, Jacques, is it
possible that Jesus has winked His approval to Vatican, Inc to syphon
donations collected from Roman Catholic poor boxes all over the world, to
boost Italian pension funds and to subsidize the public debt of the
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bankrupt Italy, and that without these funds the European Union would be
responsible for rescuing the corrupt Italian economy? [The Devil made me
say it! Frère Jacques! Frère Jacques! Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?? Dormez-
vous??? Bim, bam, bom!!!)

Funny money from Washington was passed to Vatican, Inc and then to the
Democrazia Cristianna political party from where it was drawn off to corrupt
DC politicians and their organized crime cohorts with the aim of “defeating
the communist devil.” Theories of communist collusions in The Boot were
sweetly whispered in the ear of the moldable “Will Bill” who scurried to
return to Washington with his stark raving mad communist plot stories,
and then passed this “Virus of DisInformation” to the likes of Senator
Joseph Mc Carthy, William F Buckley, Jr, Willian Colby, James Jesus
Angleton, Allen Dulles, James Clement Dunn, William O'Casey, John
Sullivan and other exitus acta probat patriotic, spiritual, often Roman
Catholic, often Irish, doyens—all members of the North American
Conservative Goon Squad. Italian party hacks and their Vatican, Inc
sidekicks chuckled with delight to see “Wild Bill” wrapped in his lunacy,
and on one occasion, they even dreamt up the preposterous story that the
communists were storing arms all over Italy and were preparing to take over
the Italian government by force! The need for another hoard of military
ordnance, to equal that of the communists' “stash,” was fctionalized by the
Vatican-backed DC, and the sales' profts went merrily to Switzerland and
the Vatican City vaults.

The Red Menace had to be squashed, did it not? Eisenhower had “warned”
us about the military industrialized complex. Only a do-do would deny that
much of this spending had been great guns for the world's stock portfolios
—including, naturally, those of Vatican, Inc.

Will some one please tell me where the separation of church and state is? Is
it not time for a United States' Senate Investigation? I hope the Islams, the
Jews, the Mormons, the Freemasons, the Amish, the Anglicans, the
Baptists, the Calvinists, the Dunkers, the Episcopalians, the Huguenots, the
Mennonites, the Methodists, the Quakers, the Shakers, the Unitarians, and
the Zwingliansts read those US Constitutional lines before Cardinal
Michele Giordano, archbishop of Naples, Italy does. Mamma mia!

No “insurance agent” ever contacted me in Caracas. But that was not

necessary simply because I was surrounded by CIA goofballs—as you will
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soon see—wherever I traipsed through and around Caracas, while I was on
the arm of Gonza.

However, I must append here a very strange story I had read in The Daily
Journal and which hinted to me that even if an “insurance agent” was to
accost me, I could not communicate with him or her about my “dealings”
with the CIA. The article stated that the CIA had been infltrated by
“moles”—it was not said who or where they were—and that the CIA was
taking precautions to remedy the state of affairs! How could I be sure that
the “insurance agent” was not a mole? I was on my own. I could not believe
anyone. It was one of the most liberating, joyous days of my life!

When George Tenet announced his resignation from the Central Stupidity
Agency in June 2004, effective 11 July 2004, he made the following
statement: “We are not perfect...but we are very, very, very, good...” I
doubt that very much. If you do not agree with me, look at the history of
the world for the past sixty years and decide for yourself whether or not the
planet is a better, safer, calmer place to live on. Please do not offer excuses
for the catastrophes that these swivel chair warriors have concocted for
millions of innocent people who have had to put up with their often
megalomaniac shenanigans. I am going to try to prove to you how and why
the Central Stupidity Agency is chock full of dim-witted personages who
are doing the United States more harm than beneft, and now I draw upon
my CIA experiences in New York, Vietnam, and Venezuela to do so.

The CIA agents/operatives I knew were tense, grim, and lived their lives
strenuously: playing hard ball at work, but soft ball when they lightened up
—if they ever did. With the perks that they possessed, they had been given
extravagant opportunities to take the Rests & Relaxations that allowed them
to regain their lost composure and verve. But once these breaks were
interrupted, they were back again at stressing themselves at their sinews
convinced that they were not only performing a patriotic service, but also
persuaded to be performing some metaphysical, religious good turn that
would reap them rewards not only in this world, but in what they believed
to be an afterlife, too.

Charles McHugh, circulation director of National Review magazine, in 1961,

was the man who hired me as a circulation/correspondence assistant for
$65.00 per week. I am sure Charlie was not a CIA hand because he was a
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jovial, easy-going chap. He had a round face and was balding. He had a
medium frame, a stocky build and you could not tell if under his jacket that
he wore all the working day, you might fnd fat or force. His grin was always
turned on for you. The offce workers who toiled under him knew him to
be an individual who made you feel that he was working with you, for you,
and he was exerting himself more forcefully than anyone else under his
lead. He even let you know he appreciated your efforts! Imagine that
charm. No CIA representative I ever was acquainted with had even one
ounce of humility or respect for others. Naturally, Charlie was eventually let
go because William F Buckley, Jr could never understand why his NR
circulation had never taken off to reach the hundreds of thousands of
copies' mark—the Buckley family was not too keen on always subsidizing
the cost of getting the mag out.” Someone had to take the blame. The
circulation manager was the obvious one to go when the frustration was so
much for all of us to bear in the editorial offces, and I think it would have
been embarrassing for all at NR if the real Drama of the Circulation
Department had been revealed to be exactly as its history would depict it.

I remember Charlie running up and down, to the third foor and back
down again to the second foor where the circulation department was
housed in a building at 150 East 35 th Street—on the east side of New York
City. The address wrappers for each issue of NR were printed, in the back
room on the second foor, off an Address-o-Graph machine, and near this
area were the drawers of addressed plates and the fles with the roll call of
all the subscribers in alphabetical order. NR occupied the frst four foors of
the building. On the frst foor was located the graphics department, and
there I would go to make photocopies on the Ozalid copying machine
which was in a back room to keep it from stinking out the whole building
with the obnoxious ammonia smells it exuded during it usage. WFB, Jr's
offce was on the third foor as was the publisher's, William A Rusher—
nicknamed “WAR” by all the NR employees. Accounts were kept on the
fourth foor, and there were also rooms there for visiting editors and NR
contributors who had come in to deliver their manuscripts or be paid or to
attend editorial meetings that planned the strategies thought needed to
boost the number of future issues of NR.

Many famous individuals—both conservative and liberal—came to 150 East

35th Street, and it was thrilling to be there when television and radio crews
came to visit the up-and-coming William F Buckley, Jr. I was sixteen going
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on seventeen when I labored for NR, and my obligations were rather simple
and menial. I never saw WFB, Jr visit the second foor, and I met him more
times in the elevator than I did on other occasions. He was a tall individual.
Whenever he met me, or any other person for that matter, his face shined
with a huge grin and he bubbled out: “Hi, there!” It was a trademark of his,
of sorts. Very few people who worked at NR came to be intimate with him.
What I knew about WFB, Jr came from his acquaintances or from articles I
had read written either by him or about him. I never became one of his
intimates.

After graduating from prep school at the age of sixteen, my family had
decided that for both my mental well-being and happiness, it would be best
for me to work a year or two before attending university. At the time, I had
become very much interested in politics—a subject I had often discussed
with my grandfather who had been born in Alsace-Lorraine and who was
so fervently conservative he espoused the ideas of a fanatic Roman Catholic
priest, Father Coughlin, who had ranted and raved against Franklin D
Roosevelt on the national radio waves during FDR's presidencies. My
grandfather and I had talked a great deal about Barry Goldwater and the
young editor of a new conservative magazine, National Review, Willian F
Buckley, Jr or Wm F Buckley, Jr or WFB, Jr. I called NR to see if there was
a job offering, and for the frst time in my life, I was told to come into work
as soon as possible and begin my service as a correspondence-circulation
assistant—something that also meant I was to get the ladies' lunches, sweep
the foors, and help Angelo, on Saturdays, print our Address-o-Graph's
zinc pieces of metal upon the paper wrappers, now labelled, and containing
the latest NR edition. I was thrilled beyond belief. (I really think a cousin of
my mother who worked in New York City Hall had something to do with
my employment at NR. I'll never know....)

One day, Gertrude Vogt, Mr Buckley's private secretary, called me up to the

editorial offces and told me Mr Buckley wanted to see me. He asked me to
go, the next day, to the Pierre Hotel, pick up the elderly mother of L Brent
Bozell, an NR editor and brother-in-law of WFB, Jr, and chaperon her to a
rally of the Young Americans for Freedom that was to be held in Madison
Square Garden. When the lady and I arrived at MSG, I escorted the nimble
—yet exactingly polite—lady from a taxi to the anteroom of the large sports
and entertainment center. She leaned on my arm, and I gingerly walked
with her caring not to let her trip or fall.
215
In the MSG's outer room used as a waiting room, there was a congregation
of some of The Big Guns of the United States' conservative movement.
WFB, Jr, Priscilla Buckley, James Burnham (author of The Managerial
Revolution), William A Rusher, Senator Barry Goldwater, Charles Edison
(son of Thomas A Edison), Senator Strom Thurmond, Bill Rickenbacker
(son of World War I aviation ace, “Eddie” Rickenbacker), and one short
man who stood all alone out of the way of all the commotion—just as I, too,
had gone off to a side to remain standing by myself. Within a fash, that
stock character—whose hair was fattened back in Clark Gable fashion—
came up to me, with is hand stretched out, and—very un-New Yorkishly—
said: “Howdy, I'm John Tower from Texas.” The days I passed at NR were
often electrifying and always interesting.

Two other reminiscences come to my mind—imprints of Charlie that

remain with me to this day. One late morning I went to Charlie's offce to
consult with him about a problem I was having with a complaint letter from
a subscriber in California. Charlie normally kept his door open except
when he was interviewing or in a conference with parties not belonging to
NR. When I came to the door it was ajar about two or three inches, and not
thinking I would be interrupting anyone's privacy, more or less barged into
Charlie's offce. When I laid eyes on him, he had his hands cupped near his
mouth and was kissing what I understood to be a miniature, upside-down,
Jesuit black, crucifx! And I was right, because when Charlie abruptly
passed the pair of rosary beads to his left pants' pocket, it was evident that
what Charlie was holding was indeed rosary beads. On one of the very, very
rare occasions I had ever seen Charlie come close to getting angry, I
instantaneously saw that he was not pleased with my intrusion that enabled
me to observe him kissing the cross of his rosary beads. All of this was
strange to me and it was not that I was unfamiliar with rosary beads or even
people kissing wooden crosses that they carried with them—I had just
escaped from a Roman Catholic seminary—but I could not fathom why
Charlie was so embarrassed being caught kissing his cross. Why the
disgrace? Charlie was Roman Catholic as were almost all of us working at
NR, and he would jump at the opportunity to go to mass with WFB, Jr and
his sister Priscilla at a Park Avenue church just walking distance from the
NR offces.

In Charlie's offce there were bookshelves flled with conservative cant, and
some of the authors of those hardbacks and paperbacks I actually came to
216
meet shaking their hands and getting them sandwiches and performing
errands for them. The Managerial Revolution. The Conscious of a Conservative.
Up from Liberalism. Charlie gifted me a number of them and others, he
informed me, I was free to borrow if I wished. Charlie was always courteous
and available.

When in December 1961 I attended the NR Christmas party at WFB, Jr's

Stamford, Connecticut estate, Handel's Messiah was the music of choice for
us—I befriended Christopher Buckley who was the only individual in close
proximity to my age there that night. We hit it off well together, but I never
saw him again in person in my life. I befriended the young lad for the night
because he and I were awash on a sea of blowhard conservative bigwigs,
and it was time for us to adjourn and to a quite, calm place to speak about
baseball and rock 'n' roll. (Decades later I would read this preposterous
statement made by Christopher concerning the Vietnam “War:” I wish I
could have served in Vietnam.”

Charlie told me he could get my copy of Up from Liberalism autographed for

me by WFB, Jr, and I was set into a frenzy when the book came back to me
with this inscription: “For Tony—with regards from the father of your
greatest admirer—Wm F Buckley, Jr.” (WFB, Jr also penned this letter of
recommendation, dated 7 August 1962, for me: “TO WHOM IT MAY
CONCEREN: “...he worked for over a year for National Review and did so
diligently, good-humoredly, and creatively. I heartily recommend him to
any prospective employer, and will be glad to elaborate on his qualities over
the telephone. Yours faithfully, Wm F Buckley, Jr, President.”

Up from Liberalism is a well-documented, well-written (very well-written—

especially if you like, as I do, the classical rhetorical style) conventional
chunk of conservative stuffng which does little to enliven, and is
abnormally susceptible to gloomy and unwholesome feelings. WFB, Jr
chugs along in it relieving himself, he is The Master Debater, of pent-up
political frustrations with leftist conceptions of behavior in government.
The book gives us some interesting perception into the personality of WFB,
Jr. The best—and it is not so good—WFB, Jr comes up with against
liberalism as he goes along lambasting the Left, is this cute fragment found
on page 155: “What is the Liberal millennium? So far as I can make out, it
is the state in which a citizen divides his day equally between pulling levers
in voting booths (Voting for what? It does not matter, what matters is that
217
he vote); writing dissenting letters to newspapers (Dissenting from what? It
does not matter, just so he dissents); and eating (Eating what? It does not
matter, though one should wash the food down with fuoridated water).”

We get to the heart of WFB, Jr's delicate, diehard perceptivity—and his

authoritarian, dogmatic, and power-driven special inclinations—when he
toots off in the last two paragraphs of Up from Liberalism, where he
comments on his Supreme Conservative Proposition, pages 202-203: “Is
that a programme? Call it a No-Programme, if you will, but adopt it for your
very own. I will not cede more power to the state. I will not willingly cede
more power to anyone, not to the state, not to General Motors, not to the
CIO. I will hoard my power like a miser, resisting every effort to drain it
away from me. I will then use my power, as I see ft. I mean to live my life
an obedient man, but obedient to God, subservient to the wisdom of my
ancestors; never to the authority of political truths arrived at yesterday at
the voting booth. That is a programme of sorts, is it not? It is certainly a
programme enough to keep conservatives busy, and Liberals at bay. And
the nation free.”

Poor WFB, Jr! Creator of a Programme/Program of languor and nihilism

for all but himself and his priggish conservative cohorts. Let us observe a
man who does not want to yield to anyone or anything, who wants to amass
his power for himself, and wants to do what he cares regardless of political
truths reached yesterday at the voting booth. Here is an individual who has
chosen two objects of worship: his Earthly conservatism and his Divine
Roman Catholic God. Both of these objects of veneration are absolute, and
WFB, Jr is prepared, obviously, to make others submit to them using
despotic means if necessary. He is rigid, incapable of tolerating ambiguity,
close-minded. He is not open to the ideas of others, he does not wish to
critically examine new opinions, and he does not give care to thought
analysis. His mind is already made up, and it is impossible for him to
entertain novel conceptions. Hardly the one to propose dynamic political
theory!

Charlie gave me another book one day and told me I could keep it. I did. It
is called WFB—An Appreciation, by his family and friends; New York;
Privately printed, 1959. Edited by Priscilla Buckley and William F Buckley,
Jr, illustrated by A Derso. Further...
218
“This volume is privately published by the ten children of William F
Buckley for themselves, their children, and friends of the family, and is not
intended for general distribution. However, as long as the supply lasts, a
copy of the book will be sent to anyone who wants it; with the compliments
of the family. Write to Miss Edna MacKenzie, 103 East 37 th Street New York
16, New York.”

And...

“Fifteen hundred copies of this book have been issued. Typesetting is in

Linotype Janson with printing on Warren's Olde Style. White Wove covers
are in DuPont PX-1 with impression by silk screening. Graphic design was
executed by Harvey Satenstein and complete manufacturing by Book
Craftsmen Association, Inc, New York, December 1959.”

I have long considered WFB—An Appreciation to be an important

document because it lays bare the Cult of the American Privileged Class
and its fellows. It records the personal life of a famous and rich
conservative, an important infuence in the Central Intelligence Agency and
the United States' government, a man whose son, WFB, Jr, went on to
spearhead the neoconservative revival which existed under the aegis of
Ronald Reagan, George Bush I, and now is popular with George Bush II—
all close friends of WFB, Jr; and, the book demonstrates how a man
endowed with great wealth would use his power to enhance his
conservative political sentiments, and very importantly, it serves to give us
insight into the personality formation of the enigmatic Wm F Buckley, Jr
whose father, elegized in the book, played so potent a stimulus in the
development of whom is perhaps North America's most important political
reactionary.

Here are twenty-one direct quotations from WFB—An Appreciation which I

hope will introduce to the reader facets of the traits of William F Buckley,
Jr's father, and which surge beyond the dominant tendency in the book to
pay homage to a man “...so gay and gallant, one of God's noblemen, a man
of pleasing personality, a gracious host, a churchman given to wide charity
without ostentation, a loyal member of the Roman Catholic church, and the
founder and architect of the Buckley family as it exists today.”

Excerpt 1
219
In Part One. Retold Tale, by son F Reid Buckley, citing a story about Wm F
Buckley, Sr's grandfather, an Irish Protestant recently married to an Irish
Catholic, who went to the Orangemen to forbid them to parade across his
land in deference to his new wife's religion...page 4: They paid no
attention to him, and some of the men in front began climbing across. He
took up a plowshare and bashed in the head of the frst man to touch down
on his land. This was maybe the frst time a plowshare had been turned
into a sword so quickly. Well, they threw him into jail. He was there eight
days while they waited to see whether the man he hit was going to die or
not. He didn't. But after that your ancestor thought it wise to leave Ireland.
That's how we came to be Americans.

Excerpt 2

In Part One. Texas, III. College Days, by friend Walter S Pope, page 17:
WFB, Sr a loyal member of the Roman Catholic church in Austin. As to his
loyalty to his church I will mention one instance that occurred while he was
a student. St Edward's College, a Catholic university, was and is situated
across the river south of Austin. The University of Texas and St Ed's were
great baseball rivals and at this time the ball game was being played in the
St Edward ball park. When the game was very hot and close a priest called
“safe” what appeared to someone to be a a foul ball (sic). That damn priest
is lying. With lightning speed Will (WFB, Sr) knocked him down with a
fast fst stroke.

Excerpt 3

In Part Two, Mexico, 1. Tampico, by Cecilio Velasco, page 34: In 1921 they
had the satisfaction of seeing Mr Buckley (WFB, Sr) expelled from Mexico
as an undesirable foreigner.

Excerpt 4

In Part Two, Mexico, III. Witness, by William F Buckley, Sr, testimony

given at Washington, DC, 6 December 1919, taken by Francis J Kearful,
Esq, in pursuance of an order of the Subcommittee of the Committee on
Foreign Relations of the United States' Senate, and referring to Mexican
government leader Huerta, WFB, Sr speaks, page 59: Huerta could have
been eliminated by use of some tact.
220
 Excerpt 5

In Part Two, Mexico, III. WFB, Sr continues: The truth is that it does not
matter what a great majority of the Mexican people think; the mass of the
people have not the ability to think clearly; and have not the knowledge on
which to base convictions, or the public spirit to act on them.

Excerpt 6

Ibid, page 95. WFB, Sr continues: The Latin American representatives

(during the process of the Niagara Conference) in this case showed the
weakness that men of their race usually show in a crisis.

Excerpt 7

Ibid, page 119. WFB, Sr continues: The oil company, able to fght, has not
had the courage to do so, and has fallen back on the one alternative—
bribery.

Excerpt 8

Ibid, pages 136-137. WFB, Sr continues: The time a squatter set out to
build a shack on Father's (WFB, Sr) land between his house and the river—
and refused to leave....Just before the shack was completed and the
scoundrel moved in, I called in Ramón (his manservant) and told him,
Ramón, you see that shack over there on my property? Well, I don't care
what happens to it. Every stick is yours provided it is removed before dawn.
Ramón was the world's laziest man but he would work feverishly if he ever
had the opportunity to earn a dishonest dollar....Well, sir, I looked out the
next morning and there wasn't a trace left of that house, he laughed
uproariously. Remember, Aloise, we were having a dinner party that night
and the police came in with the squatter to ask what I had done with his
house....I don't know what you are talking about, I said. A house, on my
land? I know nothing about a house on my land. Surely no one would build
a house on my land without my permission....

Excerpt 9

Ibid, page 143. From the English language Mexico City newspaper,
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Excelsior, reporting on Father's expulsion from Mexico in November 1921:
Several days ago it became known that agents of the secret police were
looking for Mr Buckley. He is now in the American Embassy pending the
arrangements to be made between George T Summerlin, United States'
Charge D'Affaires, and the Foreign Offce for his departure from the
country.

Excerpt 10

In Part Three, New York, I. Odyssey of an Oil Man, Douglas Reed speaks,
page 153: As I write this (1956) the net worth of the companies under
Buckley's guidance is around $110,000,000, having risen to that from
$25,000,000 in the ten post-war years, and the Buckley group is ensconced
in the oil situations of Venezuela, Canada, Florida, the Philippines, Israel,
Australia, and Guatemala.

Excerpt 11

Idid, page 155: Then a real estate development built in Tampico by

Buckley was invaded by squatters. Buckley convinced the authorities that
the neighborhood sportsmen sorely needed a rife range on his property for
practicing their marksmanship and the squatters retired, persuaded of the
basic human right which they had challenged.

Excerpt 12

Idid, page 157: Beyond that, he had a vision. Today, Venezuela is so rich
(chiefy through oil) that its diplomats' entertainments in the world's
capitals are renowned for their splendor and their gushes of champagne.
Thirty years ago, when interest in Venezuelan oil was only beginning, very
few foresaw this rising future.

Excerpt 13

In Part Four, Connecticut, II: Memorandum to: Aloise, John, Priscilla,

Jimmy. Jane, Billie (WFB, Jr) Patricia, Reid, Maureen, Carol, by Billie
Buckley, Jr, page 218: There was nothing complicated about Father's
theory of childbearing: he brought up his sons and daughters with the
quite simple objective that they become absolutely perfect. To this end his
222
children were, at one time or another, given professional instruction in:
apologetics, art, ballroom dancing, banjo, bird-watching, building boats in
bottles, calligraphy, canoeing, carpentry, cooking, driving trotting horses,
French, folk dancing, golf, guitar, (Hawaiian and Spanish), harmony, herb
gardening, horsemanship, history of architecture, ice-skating, mandolin,
marimba, music appreciation, organ, painting, piano, playing popular
music, rumba, sailing, skiing, singing, Spanish, speech, stenography,
swimming, typing, and wood-carving.

Excerpt 14

Ibid, pages 238-239:

MEMORANDUM TO THE BUCKLEY CHILDREN:

I have been much concerned of late with the apparent inability of any of
you, at any time to go anywhere on foot, although I am sure your Mother
would have informed me if any of you had been born without the walking
capacity of a normal human being. A few of the older children, notably
Priscilla, occasionally walk a few hundred yards behind a golf ball, but all
the others “exercise” exclusively by sitting on a horse or a sailboat.
Concurrently, I have noticed that the roads around Sharon are crowded
with Buckley cars at all hours of the day and night, and it has been years
since any of you has been able to get as far as the Town Clock, much less
the Post Offce without a car, or if under sixteen, a car and a chauffeur. All
the cars are left out every night in all kinds of weather, undoubtedly
because of the dangerous fatigue involved in walking from the garage to the
house. I think that each of you should consider a course of therapy
designed to prevent atrophy of the leg muscles if only for aesthetic reasons,
or you might even go to the extreme of attempting to regain the art of
walking, by easy stages, of course. The cars might then be reserved for
errands covering distances of over ffty yards or so.
Affectionately.
Father

Excerpt 15

Ibid, page 239. A resigned protest to Bill's (WFB, Jr) future father-in-law:

223
 MEMORANDUM TO AUSTIN C TAYLOR:

I have tried for many years to interest my children in conventional sports,

but I have not been very successful. Billie (WFB, Jr) is easily the worst in
this regard, having no interest in tennis, golf, or other activities which
satisfy the great majority of the nation. If you expect to entertain him, you
will fnd it necessary to furnish him with 1) a horse, 2) a yacht, or 3) a
private airplane. Aloise joins me in affectionate regards to you and Babe.
Will

Excerpt 16

Ibid, pages 242.245. The speech which Father wrote but was too shy to
deliver on the eve of Bill's (WFB, Jr) wedding: “I feel that the honor of the
Buckley family, or what is left of it after the activities of my children during
the past year, requires that I now, somewhat belatedly I confess, divulge to
the Taylor family that they have been the victims of a fraud. In matters of
love and marriage, my children are a most unscrupulous lot. They were
determined to get Ann and Pat as sisters-in-law and, as usual, let nothing
stand in their way. I must tell you that my children's tactics vary with the
character of their victims: with Ann, who is extremely wily herself, they
resorted to prayer, with Pat, however, who they consider very strong-
minded, they despaired of prayer and resorted to artifcial wile. For the last
fve or six years our daughter Priscilla had announced each Spring that Pat
was going to visit us in Sharon and each Fall that she was coming to
Camden. After Pat failed to materialize for several seasons, I asked Patricia
about this mysterious girl and the answer was, “Pat looks like a queen, she
acts like a queen, and is just the wife for Billy (WFB, Jr).” Poor Pat's fate
was inevitable after this. When Pat did not come to visit with the Buckleys,
Patricia decided to visit the Taylors. She then shrewdly suggested to an oil
company that Billy and Patricia's fancé, L Brent Bozell, could do excellent
work for the company in Alberta and Saskatchewan. In due course she
casually suggested that the Taylors invite Billy for a short visit. I will explain
later why the other Buckley children joined in the plot. Brent's name moves
me to digress from my story for just a second to illustrate the lethal
qualities of these children when they are on the hunt. Billy and Brent
became inseparable friends the day they arrived at Yale. Billy told Patricia
how wonderful Brent was, and notwithstanding that she had not yet met
him, Patricia immediately fell in love. Parenthetically, Brent had shown
224
some radical tendencies in his career at Yale, which Billy deplored but
which he said had greatly moderated since their acquaintance. After
spending one evening with Patricia, Brent asked Billy how he would like to
have a radical for a brother-in-law, whereupon Billy telephoned Patricia
that she was engaged. Nothing that Brent said could change this fact—he
was engaged and that was that. But to return to our subject. The alarming
thing about Patricia's plan is that it immediately developed into a
conspiracy among the rest of the children, in which Patricia and Billy had
no part. Billy has been always regarded by the rest of the family, except
Patricia, as being slightly defcient in a sense of humor, and unbearably
arrogant and dictatorial. The latter quality, I gather from chance remarks,
they attribute in part to the former defect. Now, his brothers and sisters
have devised all sorts of plans to tame Billy without any success whatsoever,
and when Patricia and Billy told them how strong-minded and determined
Pat was, they had the inspiration that here was the instrument to use for
their purpose. In mitigation of the determination of the other children, but
that you may understand fully the gravity of the role that is being assigned
to innocent Pat, I must give some illustrations of the Taylor's future son-in-
law. When he was six years old, he wrote the King of England demanding
that England pay her war debt. When Billy was eight and a half, a guest
remarked in the presence of her daughters, ages 25 and 28, that she had no
religion and that her daughters had not been baptized. Within three hours
Billy reported to his Mother that while the two daughters were taking a nap
he and Patricia had baptized them. Their souls were thus saved regardless
of their will or their mother's. When Billy was ten, he attended Beaumont
College, near Ascot, and within two days of his arrival he called at the offce
of the President, a distinguished scholar, and told him that there were a
number of things about Beaumont that he did not like. Father Sharky, who
recounted this incident to us later, said that the shock rendered him too
paralyzed to speak and that before he recovered Billy had explained the
defciencies of the venerable college. One weekend, Jane about two years
older than Billy, brought to Sharon a little girl about her own age. The girl
was not a bit shy and when we sat down to dinner began expanding on
world affairs. Billy arrived late and after listening to not more than two
sentences said, “Look here (what's her name?) Cecily, you are entirely too
young to have such positive convictions, and besides I am going to tell you
something that will surprise you—you are mistaken in every statement you
have made.” He then turned to me in an aside, which everybody could
hear, and said, “I took a dislike to her as I came in the door.” When in
225
1938, the older children founded a local newspaper in Sharon devoted to
the advocacy of isolationism, which brought on the family animadversion of
the entire community, Billy was given the special job of delivering the
papers to the post offce because he was too young and innocent to realize
that he might be mobbed on the way. Considering himself a member of the
staff he solemnly announced at dinner that evening that the Editorial Board
must make no decisions in policy without consulting him. It was decided to
send Patricia to the Ethel Walker School when she was about thirteen
years of age in spite of the misgivings of Billy. Based on his experience with
the weaker sex he felt that the girls at the school were not suffciently
refned for Patricia, although his sister Jane had been attending the school
for a couple of years without any protest from him. As we left her at school
we could see a look of consternation on Billy's face. He had, in his
preoccupation with global affairs and some correspondence with
congressmen he had overlooked a very important item. He felt that the
girls' dresses at Ethel Walker were a little too short, so he located Patricia
at a distance from the car of about thirty feet, and then had her reach up
with the right hand and then the left hand until he found the proper length
for her dresses. Then he pinned her dress in the right places and gave
instructions for alterations. At Milbrook School he appeared uninvited at a
faculty meeting to report that a member of the faculty had deprived him of
the right to express his political views in class and proceeded to expound to
the stunned faculty on the virtues of isolationism, the dignity of the Roman
Catholic church and the political ignorance of the school staff. Having no
witnesses here to corroborate all of these statements (my wife, while
entirely too gentle to attempt fraud, is nevertheless too loyal to condone
this exposure of her children) I appeal to Dr Shumiatcher here present for
a confrmation of the following: A summer ago when Billy spent the
summer at Regina (he was gradually being moved nearer to Pat by Patricia)
he and Brent were leaving Dr Shumiatcher's offce as a professor from Yale
was entering. According to Dr Shumiatcher, the professor asked if that
could possibly been Bill Buckley of Yale. When advised that that was the
same person, the professor said, again according to Dr Shumiatcher, “That
boy took a course under me last year on politics and I give you my word he
talked twice as much as I did during the entire year!” Fortunately, there is
another objective witness here, Mr MacDonald of San Antonio. Billy was
transferred to the San Antonio Military Base when demobilization started,
and after being there forty-eight hours wrote a letter to the commanding
general telling him that he had found a great waste of manpower and his
226
staff was inadequate, and expressed surprise that such things could be. He
submitted a plan of his own redesigning the entire system. This letter and
plan had to go through Mr MacDonald, who intervened and saved Billy
from an immediate court martial. There are many other instances but I
have given you enough to satisfy my own conscience and enough to warn
Mr and Mrs Taylor that there is a purpose behind this assiduous courtship
by the entire family and that Billy's brothers and sisters expected to use Pat
to accomplish what they have failed to do and that is to beat Billy into
submission, even if it requires his being beaten into insensibility. If Pat
survives in her course between Scylla, the family, and Charybdis, her
husband, it will be a tribute to the stamina that she has inherited from her
Mother and Father. I feel that this report, while very belated, will serve to
be a vindication of my wife and myself. I can now, however foresee from
the frowns on my children's faces the storm that is gathering and which
will descend on my head if I do not isolate myself until after the wedding
tomorrow afternoon at 1:30.”
Father

Excerpt 17

Ibid, page 246: “Dear Maureen: Your mother and I have thought for a long
time that you are intellectually and temperamentally suited for a law career,
which you would fnd you would enjoy very much. I am sure Jimmy would
have no trouble getting you into the Yale Law School and as a matter of
fact I don't think he would allow you to go anywhere else. You should write
to the Dean of the Law School as soon as....”

Excerpt 18

Ibid, page 246: “Dear Aloise: Your Mother and I both think that it would
be far more sensible for you and your family to live in Sharon (Connecticut)
than in Hartford. The Bingham house is now on the market and I am sure it
can be bought very reasonably. Mr Cole can take you through the house
either this Saturday or the next. Be sure to let him know which is....”

Excerpt 19

Ibid, pages 246-247. The year Billie's God and Man at Yale came out, Father
wrote: “ I had planned to have a long talk with you in the East
227
about your future...In the frst place, I will state that if you are in this
country during the next electoral campaign, I think it would be an
invaluable experience for you to...participate in X's campaign. I liked this
man's letters very much, as did your Mother. Maureen got so enthusiastic I
think she would like to volunteer, with the reservation only that you must
adopt all of her views, or none. I have the feeling that you will inevitably be
drawn into politics, or alternatively catapult yourself into this feld. What
this country needs is a politician who has an education, and I don't know of
one. There hasn't been an educated man in the Senate or House of
Representatives since Sumner of Texas quit in disgust three or four years
ago. Joe Bailey and Spooner were great constitutional lawyers with a broad
knowledge of History; Borah was a thinker and had a thorough knowledge
of American constitutional law; and John Sharp Williams, of Mississippi,
was a thoroughly educated man. I don't know of any other educated
Congressman or Senator in the last 25 years. If you are going into politics,
or if without going into politics you want to continue to discuss public
questions, you should spend a couple of years in study.... If this is to be
your course, I would think that you could very proftably spend 8 to ten
months a year for two years at Oxford or Cambridge, and study under one
or two of the outstanding scholars there.... You could, of course, do the
same thing at a French or German university, but you could not afford in
addition to go through the struggle of either perfecting your French or of
mastering German. Besides, the English have an innate mastery of politics
and government which is not refected in their stupid incursion into
Socialism. The other alternative, and this could be deferred until you get
back from your trip to Europe, or even until after your return from two
years of study there (unless the business should go bankrupt because of
your absence for so long a period) is the matter of going into business with
John and Jimmy and their associates.... In my opinion, you would make a
great executive, and it would not take you long to get into the spirit of what
we are doing and trying to do, and I believe this is a feld that would
fascinate you. You would get primarily the pleasure coming from adventure
(and gambling), and in addition the multiple interests of dealing with
governments and bankers, and companies....I do hope that you will discuss
this matter with Mr and Mrs Taylor, while you are there, and possibly
permit Pat and Christopher to sit in the room while you are doing so. (A
little Phenobarbital would help to keep them quiet!) Lots of love.
Father.”

228
 Excerpt 20

Ibid, pages 247-248: If Father noted in later years that Maureen still
gobbled her words, that Billie' handwriting was totally unreadable, and
Alois seemed never to emerge from a cocoon of cigarette smoke; tht, in fact,
the barrage of memoranda he had shot at his children had remained to a
large extent unheeded, this was no reason to desist. And so, from his hotel
in Bad Gastein two weeks before his death came an admonitory note to a
36-year-old daughter: “My dear Priscilla: Since you and Carol plan to
spend several weeks in Mexico, I think you should know that young ladies
of good families do not go unescorted in Mexico City. This is a custom I
think you girls should respect.....Affectionately,
Father.”

Excerpt 21

In Part Four, Connecticut, III. “The Squire: A Reminiscence,” by Van

Zandt Wheeler, page 258: “Will William F Buckley, Sr) was the founder
and architect of the Buckley family as it exists today.”

Stop!
Stop!!
Stop!!!

Enough!
Enough!!
Enough!!!

The poor, rich Buckley children! What an emotional obstacle course was
created for this “quasi-perfect” group by the Irish-North American mini-
tyrant as he preened them to set their sights on the day they would peer
bug-eyed over the offcially authenticates copy of his probated will! They
had to be solicitous! Father was the type who leaves his money to the cat if
he doesn't get his way! Will Power Will )Wm F Buckley, Sr), or should we
call him “BullShitter Buckley,” he must have given a big hug and kiss to the
Blarney Stone sometime in his life, would have been to much to bear for
most of us wee mortals who must foot our own bills and can only indulge in
reveries about the horse, yacht, airplane set. I am stunned by this man's
highly authoritative character, and I am alarmed that the Buckley family
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would care to catalog “Father's” eccentricities for future Buckley
generations boasting all the while that his bizarreness is worthy of
emulation even for the rest of humanity!

What materializes from our selected texts is a makeshift organization of an

individual's distinguishing character traits, attitudes, and habits; and, we
deduce form these private glances a disposition charged to be refective of
narrow interests; possessed of desires to own and dominate: harshly and
haughtily arrogant; prone to carry on in an unyielding, obstinate, and
persistent manner; diffcult to handle; exacting; crazed to regard anything
short of perfection as unacceptable; oppressive to and contemptuously
overbearing towards others; fawed with a tendency to change by unfair
means so as to serve his own purpose; psychologically unsettling; obsessed
with excessive and blind patriotism; inclined to querulous and often
perverse criticism; and sharply unpleasant. In short, an old cantankerous
fart! No wonder Will Power Willie (Wm F Buckley Jr) hooked up with the
CIA! He would have done anything to get out of the country and as far
away as possible from Will Power Will—

Are not our heart strings tugged at for dear Mrs Buckley, Sr? We do not
learn a great deal about her in W.F.B—An Appreciation, but imagine sitting
at table with ten little brats one of whom, knock-kneed Jimmy (later to be a
Ronald Reagan under-secretary) is smacking on his food and screeching his
penny-whistle; still another, Reid, dressed as a bishop, is dancing and
singing in English, French, and Spanish; Aloise is in a cocoon of cigarette
smoke; Willie/Billie/Will Power Willie, the editor of Ronald Reagan's
favorite/favourite magazine, National Review, is zapping out little girls with
Don Rickles-like long-liners after professing he does not like them on
coming in the door; and, above and beyond everything else WFB, Jr is
altering girls' dresses to conform to his idea of knee-length morality! I bet
Mother, Saint Aloise, wished she was in Mexico fomenting revolutions with
her husband. Anything to get out of this crazy house and away from those
damn memos from hotels in Caracas, sleeping cars in Spain, apartments in
Paris, chalets in Switzerland, and rented suites in London. And signed, of
course, with “Lots of love, El Señor!”

It is not in the purview of this piece to psychoanalyse Will Power Will or

Will Power Willie. However, if the reader takes out his Abnormal
Psychology textbook and looks under “A” for antisocial personality, “N” for
narcissistic reactions, and “P” for paranoid patterns, he or she will arrive at
230
a fairly good insight into these rip-roaring members of the human race,
“The John McEnroes of The Petroleum Industry and The United States'
Neo-Conservative Movement.”

As much as I think this family—with its extraordinary manners in

conducting itself with others and even close associates might qualify itself
for the loony bin, what does make the family more than loco is its ideas
about Mexicans, Central Americans, and South Americans—Spanish-
speaking people in general. We must closely examine these sentiments
because in many ways they still hold sway with a considerable segment of
present day North American militaristic, diplomatic, and economic
ideologues—including many members of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Will Power Will and Will Power Willie are two of any who have helped
establish a dangerous reputation for North Americans “south of the
border.” A recognition by other peoples that agonizingly slumbers in hate
and frustration yet hopes for—without any basis for expecting fulfllment or
deliverance—a release from the enduring torture of years of abuse and
exploitation; an appreciation that threatens the ideals of peace, harmony,
and cooperation that are essential to co-existence between North
Americans, Central Americans, and South Americans.

Let us take a retrospective view of Will Power Will's demented convictions

of individuals who are descendents of the Spanish race and/or Hispanic
people. The preponderate quantity of Mexicans, for example, have not the
natural talent necessary to reason. Quod erat demonstrandum, and get this
rip-roaring logic: it does not matter what they think! And since they do not
possess the facts or conditions of being aware of something, they are
ineffective individuals. Not all of them, for sure. Friendly dictators,
“educated” people of a special class—probably those who have gone to
exclusive Roman Catholic universities as Father did—and certainly those
who do business with him and shoot at squatters for him...these are
immune from his blanket generalities. The mass of Mexicans are not
answerable to a higher authority. They are too stupid to be responsible.
This is an inherent, settled trait. In fact, men of the Latin race display
weakness when a crisis is brewing. They panic; they clutch. The best way to
handle these varmints is to use a frm hand. We may then imply that illicit
activities in collusion with rogue types and a United States' government at
Will Power Will's beck and call, are fair play in dealing with these “south of
the border “ scallywags. Yanqui, go home? Gringo, go home? Will Power
231
will, go home?

Yes. Will Power Willie easily fts the racist profle. And so do many of his
sons and daughters and his political buddies at National Review and the
swank private clubhouses where these saviors of Christian Capitalist
Democracy huddle, as do members of Masonic lodges and Opus Dei sects,
to do justice to their ideals of just how the United States of America should
be presided over. Will Power Will is defnitely zenophobic whenever he
steps out of any rich man's haunt or North American embassy which
shelters him among the “educated” class, away from the realities of Latin
life. Is it not sad that the majority of the North American colonists living in
Central America and South America hold Will Power Will's penchant for
avoiding contact with the commonplace people unless they be individuals
with whom business is to be done or politics is to be promoted?

Relations among North Americans and Central Americans and South

Americans is an intriguing topic. While we are minimally separated in
distance from each other, we are light years away from clasping hands in a
spirit of goodwill and friendship. For this unfortunate state of affairs, Will
Power Will and Will Power Willie, and others of their ilk who share their
syndrome of disdain and disrespect for the dignity of all men and women
unless they measure up to fatheaded and spurious notions of justice and
equality, must stand accused.

I defy any North American to go to Mexico or Venezuela to look for a statue

erected in the name of the megalomaniac Will Power Will. To search for a
hospital in his name. A school in his name. This man cultivated an ethos of
hate and superciliousness that later would be refned by his son and his
friends Ronald “The Grand Communicator” Reagan and Margaret “The
Iron Lady” Thatcher. You are not going to fnd gushes of champagne in
Caracas anymore. Rather, you will stumble on the gushes of blood of
insurgents fghting with all their might to free themselves from the
DisUnited States of America. If you have the courage, gringo, to visit
Caracas, you had better not walk down Avenida Libertador without
bodyguards—day or night!

I challenge the members of the neo-conservative cult and all United States'
government functionaries to go to any Central or South American city to
proclaim out loud the prejudices and racism of the American right-wingers
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but not among the friendly, “educated” wealthy classes who are pals of
dictators and corrupt government leaders, but in the midst of the
inhabitants of the barrios and favalas. There I dare them to preach Will
Power Will's messages of selfshness and loathing to the submerged ninety
percent of Spanish-speaking people who are social, economic, and psychic
slaves of Will Power Will and Will Power Willie's conjuration of a
Christian Capitalist Democracy.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

When Gonza and I were making preparations to leave Gainesville, Florida

and resettle in Caracas, Venezuela, my beauty queen asked one of her big
shot political friends to come to the United States to meet me. It was not
such an enormous problem for Pablo to fy from Caracas to Miami because
he owned a sumptuous condo in Miami and often came to The Sunshine
State to do business and visit his away from home bank. I would be
fabbergasted one day to discover that Pablo was the right-hand man of the
minister of the Ministerio del Ambiente y de los Récursos Naturales, the highest
budgeted ministry in the Venezuelan government at that time. He was a
member of the Acción Democrática party which had very close, tender
feelings for the United States of America and the US felt the same for AD.

Pablo was very affable and wanted to do all he could for Gonza and her
gringo boyfriend. I, too, shared Pablo's interest in the well being of Gonza.
I would have done anything for her. I was also wise to the fact that I was
not in a position to be choosey about where I wanted to toil. Observing that
I had had experience in journalism, it was Pablo's idea that I should go to
The Daily Journal, the Venezuelan English-written newspaper, when I
arrived in Caracas and started to look for work. I was excited and fred
myself up reviewing my prep school and university Spanish textbooks to try
to improve my inadequate fuency. Pablo, his wife, and children were
exceptionally kind to me and I am left with a pleasant memory of them.
Pablo even got me speech translation work for his boss, the minister. He
invited me to my frst bull fght—an event I did not relish and, to this day,
think of as a despicable formal procedure. Pablo was the most pleasant
felon I had ever met up with at that point in my life.

After I became comparatively peaceful in Caracas and was ready to get

working to prove my mettle for Gonza and her family, I called The Daily
233
Journal and asked for an interview. I arrived for a colloquy with the editor
and was shocked into disbelief when, after he had cordially asked me to sit
down, he addressed me so: “You know some very important people in
Caracas. When do you want to start working?”

Gonza had never told me about her “connections” or even, as I was to learn
soon after, her father's wealth and that of her family. I smarted immediately
at these new revelations being content on the one hand and concerned on
the other. I had cast myself to the winds. The Daily Journal was the second
opportunity for me to have contact with Central Intelligence Agency
operatives, the pilot and co-pilot of the DJ. These two foggy bottoms were
of “the old school” of United States' intelligence and counterintelligence.
They rarely spoke, were standoffsh and if you met them in the offce or at
the entrance to the DJ, they were curt and unapproachable and walked
quickly to where they were going. The two were in their sixties or so. One
remembrance of them sticks with me still: One day, through the partly
opened door of the director, I saw autographed pictures of John Foster
Dulles and Clare Luce Booth! I could just guess what side of the fence
these two old coots were on. And they both wore those same ugly socks I
once saw Richard Nixon sport when I sat a few seats from him at a San
Diego Chargers-Miami Dolphins football game in the Orange Bowl in the
early 1970s.

Because my Spanish was not suffciently useful to the DJ, I landed a

copyeditor position in the editorial offces and did not have to go out into
the feld. I regretted this. However, I learned later that DJ journalists were
considered CIA stooges by Venezuelan citizens and wherever they went,
they had to be very careful and always on the lookout for anti-US troubles.
Venezuelans are not politically naive. They can be astute, too. After all, they
spit on Richard M Nixon way before the North Americans ever got around
to doing it!

The DJ workplace was not what one might describe as “modern” or still,
“passable.” I had exerted myself for The Miami Herald, and in 1973 it had
had one of the most state-of-the-art newsrooms in the world. I could not
have imagined at that time that there existed a more up-to-the-minute
newsroom. The DJ was a comedown. Manual typewriters. Shabby interior
decoration. Poor lighting. Closed quarters. The rag was in the downtown
area, not very far from important government nerve centers and Palacio
234
Mirafores, the President of Venezuela's seat of power. There was nothing
pleasing to the eye about this vicinity although it would be unfair to say that
Venezuelan administrative buildings were all lacking in taste or magnetism.

The D J had been bombed by “terrorists” a few times, so when I came in

eyesight of my place of work, I could not help thinking that perhaps today I
might be blown to bits by a bomb placed by an amigo not in consonance
with United States' foreign policy. I remembered from the Vietnam “War”
that I was to “hit the dirt” in the event of an explosion or gunshot
thuds/cracks echoing through the air. Interestingly, the offces of the DJ
were reached after a long walk through a long corridor leading from the
entrance of the building within which the publication was housed.
Venezuelan secret service types in unmarked cars were always on duty in
front of the DJ. I started to work in the afternoon and came home by por
puesto late at night after that day's issue had been “put to bed.”

As a copyeditor my responsibility was to mostly check the stories submitted

and ensure to see if the grammar and rhetoric of the journalists' reports
conformed to the standards of the DJ's editorial policies. I had no control
over content. What could I add to or delete from material that was
fastidiously guarded by the CIA hands, and which had to follow a strict
regimen of conformity to a mindset referred to by the United States
Department of Hate? Field journalists came to the DJ and snuggled up to
the director and co-director informing him about all that had transpired
that day in the government of Venezuela. This was a hands-on operation.
Serious matter. Even the smallest detail might prove germane. Each and
every note taken by by the DJ journalists was explored and evaluated. The
DJ correspondents had Venezuelan press credentials that let them pass into
the inner sancta of Venezuelan political tomfoolery, and the stringers over
and over and over again returned to their desks with political war stories
that confounded them and those who keenly listened to their testimonies. I
had Gonza!

One day while I was blue-penning copy at my desk, the Number Two Coot
approached me from behind and in a dry, almost sarcastic tone, uttered this
to me: “I see you have a beard.” Perhaps it was the hot temp of that day,
the stress that had accumulated after hours of reading and re-reading
written material, or my joy of being in love with Gonza that provoked me to
respond in the following—what I considered witty way: “I see you are
235
wearing Hush Puppies. Don't they pay you enough to buy a decent pair of
shoes?”

My assistant, a respectable, genial chap from Australia—I forget his name—

burst out with a laugh he just, with all his might, could not rein in. With
two short sentences, I had become a DJ folk hero at once. For the next two
weeks or so, when I came to work, DJ human resources would beam their
delights in the direction of me. Those two sentences would also make
happen my reassignment to the Minsiterio de Información y Turismo. A
promotion! As I was told in the Army, “If you f**k up, there is only one way
to go: UP!”

It is quite possible I was suffering from a post-traumatic syndrome that I

had become infected with while serving in Vietnam, or maybe some dioxin
had infltrated my brain—I cannot say why I would have articulated such
criticisms with respect to the co-pilot of the DJ. Here was a tested bloke.
Had access to OPEC (Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries)
meetings—a permission that would never be bestowed upon me even when
I worked at the prestigious MIT. Sure, he was an old fart. Not very
simpatico. Under normal slave conditions, such an utterance would have
appeared foolish, indeed. I was in love. I was riding high on the wave of
Gonza's friends and her palancas. I had felt confdent enough to roll the
dice. Besides, the CIA wanted to know about Gonza's friends, and who
would be best at furnishing them with such data?

Was I really gambling? I remembered that in the U S Army coverups would

be initiated by promoting funkies or those who goofed up. My letter to LBJ
about JFK's wife had removed me from the battlefeld. From then on I had
been assigned to even captain slots when I served as a battalion artillery
liaison offcer and after, as a brigade arty liaison offcer. Up I had gone. I
could never have thought that writing a protest letter to the president of the
United States would have reaped for me an advancement in my duty
assignments.

Incredibly, the pilot of the DJ came to me shortly thereafter—speaking to

me for the second time—suggesting that I go to MIT. There was an opening
there for me and I would be paid double that I was receiving at the DJ! I
jumped at it. They wanted to get rid of me. I had braved their infuence.
They wanted me to go away from them. But they wanted me to go away
236
without gnashing my teeth. Just as in the U S Army. Everyone is taken care
of. A motto of the United States' Army offcer corps: “We take care of our
own.” Even when they err. I erred! Even when they are a pest such as I
was! In my excitement to be paid double, it never dawned on me why it was
that the pilot and co-pilot of the DJ were the ones sending me to MIT.
What was this connection? Why did it exist? I was to soon fnd out.

Clem was the fourth Central Stupidity Agency hand I would have contact
with—dealings more intimate than those I had had with the D J persons
above me and WFB, Jr at NR. On the masthead of the DJ Clem was listed
as “director,” yet I had never seen him there when I worked for the DJ.
Clem was from Brooklyn, New York as I was. This really did not endear him
to me because I had not been to New York since 1970, and living in Florida
had introduced me to another way of living, thinking, and acting that I had
found saner and healthier than living in The Big Apple. For me, New York
was too quick for my body but too slow for my brain. New York made me
feel estranged from my being. Bertrand Russell had avowed that happiness
can be achieved if a human being is integrated within himself or herself,
and this comes about when a coordination between the conscious and
unconscious minds exist. To be content an individual needs as well to be
fused with society and that a positive knitting together of the two leads to
common objectives and affections. As much as I appreciated New York, I
could never attain there the peace of mind I had been seeking.

Clem was very much unsettled with himself. As other agents were, he, too,
was extremely intelligent and fuent in at least four languages and had a
knowledge of two others. And like many of his fellows, he was stressed and
quick—so nippy as to be on the verge of ill health. One day when I was
called to his offce to discuss the rewriting of a speech I was editing, he
jumped up upon his swivel chair, mimicked a monkey, and kidded with me
that he was going “bananas.” On different occasions, I tried to help him as
best I could to calm down –although I had had no success. People in the
offce told me he was diabetic, but I possessed no verifcation of this piece
of information concerning his health. It would not have surprised me if he
had been. He was always in a hurry. He downed his lunches dashing to
return to his desk, and I frequently saw him holding a telephone receiver in
each hand while he spoke to two people at the same time. He was a
workaholic.

237
Clem was Venezuela's media czar. Each and every word written about the
Venezuelan government passed his scrutiny before being sent out to the
world. He was always, always in contact with the DJ. MIT utilized ten telex
machines that hummed 24/7. Our newsrooms were the most forward-
looking I had ever seen with the exception of those in The Miami Herald. All
of the people I worked with spoke at least two or three languages with
varying degrees of profciency. Clem had to read all of their work before it
was transmitted. Articles, speeches, press releases....Anything and
everything originating from the Venezuelan government was checked and
double checked. It was handy for Clem to have me in his service because I
could spruce up the repeatedly dreadful English copy that he had to deal
with. I had no muscle to change any of the content of the articles—even
when they might have been considered awkward. And why should I have
had? Clem was actually paranoid about his control over printed material.
Often, I saw French, Italian, English, Spanish, German or Arab texts
spread across his desk which was constantly in a state of confusion.
Journalists from all over the world representing important newspapers or
television companies passed through Clem's offce unceasingly. The place
pulsated with excitement and energy. I remember speaking one afternoon
with Bernard Shaw of CBS who was one of the most kind-hearted
journalists I had ever met.

This was an epoch in which Venezuela was enjoying economic prosperity

and the nation boasted a pride never had before without the petrodollars
that were flling the coffers of the Venezuela government and the pockets of
the many corrupt politicians who were then, without shame, endangering
the stability of their country. There was a huge party going on. Money
seemed to be falling from the trees. When I went to the bank to collect my
pay, I came to the startling realization that I was being paid double that
which the DJ chiefs had said I was entitled to. When I brought this fact to
the attention of the bank teller, he told me not to worry because everyone
was receiving more than they deserved, too! Restaurants were packed in the
evenings. Discos were overfowing. Imported cars from the United States
and Europe lined the streets of Caracas. No one wanted to guess that this
party might one day come to an end.

During the intoxicatingly, capitalistically, maverick democratic years (1974-

1982) when some Venezuelans binged on the lucre culled from the
exorbitantly high petroleum prices of their liquid gold, I curried favor in an
238
affnity with one of Acción Democrática's most highly-puffed ministers and
overseer of Venezuela's Ministerio del Ambiente y de los Recursos Naturales
Renovables. My job for him was to translate, to correct old speeches penned
in English, and to help write new speeches for him. Just as two other
ministers I knew before him had done, he also slipped me, under the table,
freshly printed bolivares—paper money without much value.

Venezuela was in the pink of graft and corruption. And Caracas was their
capital. A time when all—except Venezuela's poor—were drunk on selling
and buying. All you needed was a telephone, a telex, and a rented room—
your “mini” offce. People were importing unrestrainedly. Whisky, cars,
electronic equipment, clothes—even two snowplows! If you named it, you
could buy it. Venezuelans were so “rich,” they qualifed to take out billion
dollar loans from banks in the United States and Europe which they still
have not been able to pay back. The feverishness was so overstated, my
friend Fernando, a government offcial, came running into my offce one
morning at MIT brandishing a copy of El Universal with the new, higher
posting of a barrel of Venezuelan petroleum, and blurted out, his eyes
fooded with tears—for all, especially for me, within ten kilometers, this
Spanish squawk: “We're going to f**k you gringos good!” Fernando could
not forgive and forget—as millions of his compatriots—the decades of
exploitation suffered under the thumb of foreign oil companies. His hate
was such that when I asked him, to calm him down, how is was going to go
about f*****g the gringos, he retorted: “We don't know yet, but you can be
sure we'll do it, gringo!” Little did we know, at that time, a Hollywoodish
actor was waiting in the wings of the White House soon to play his most
important part, soon to bring down the curtain on the Venezuelan
bacchanalia of the late 1970s and early 1980s.

Clem was poles apart the other Central Stupidity Agency personnel I had
known and who were excessively rigid in their opinions and very often
uptight, self-righteous and lacking senses of humor. Clem could surely be a
hard worker and a diffcult boss to toil for, yet he never asked his
underlings to do things he would not himself. He was a man you came to
respect. He had a kindness for others that reaped him support and
collaboration when dealing with those he managed. Clem had to do an
awful amount of extra work correcting the errors of his associates in his
offce. He would tear out of his offce to a meeting with the MIT minister
(Diego Arria) screaming fnal instructions to three or four of us on his way
239
to the elevator. He worked extremely diligently. Too relentlessly for his
physical well-being.

Each and everyone of the CIA agents I looked at carefully were driven with
a zeal that distinguished their moral fber. They were high-minded men.
Believers. Profoundly convinced the were performing a good turn on behalf
of their country. They were religious. Practitioners. They entreated, in
church and synagogue, to be able to do their best for the United States of
America. They sought protection from the enemy during their prayer
gatherings. They walked with four eyes checking out all angles. Overly
attentive. Curious. Intelligent. Thinkers both on a barstool and on their
feet. From their military experiences they had grasped the importance of
keeping their ties ft properly and their gig lines tidy. They could be
conservative dressers toting Samsonite accessories; or, they could be
fashion plates decked out in European tailored suits with Italian leather
briefcases and luggage. All depending upon the role they had been
enjoined to play. Their watches. Their pens. Their belt buckles. Every bit of
them attended to to execute the task delegated to be brought to a
conclusion in favor of the United States of America. The zealots, hyped
with putting on their best act, squirmed and oiled their way through the
labyrinth of details and enigmas indispensable to their superiors in
Langley, Virginia.

It was Clem that gave me the idea that the Central Stupidity Agency was
comprised of a “left wing” and not just a “right wing.” The right wing at
National Review and The Daily Journal had impressed me so much I just
concluded that they were all just a bunch of fuddy-duddies. Clem was so
much more open-minded than the doctrinaire parrots of the conservative
force, and if I remember correctly, he spoke well of JFK with me—but not
very revealingly about the assassinated president. It was not easy to take
Clem's mind away from his work.

It really makes sense that the CIA should boast confrontational divisions
among their operatives in foreign felds and at home in LangleyLandia. It
would be ridiculous if these henchmen of The American Dream went about
praising themselves all day without submitting their rationalizations to the
rest of the others who might disagree with them. After all, a good fght is
essential to their sense of self-importance and superiority. These are
idealists and an optimist is on the lookout for converts. They believe, as did
240
Hegel, that consciousness and the external object constitute a unity—the
one depends upon the other. What they experience is always opening out
and this unfurling results, eventually, in attaining an absolute idea. There is
a struggle going on. There is an opposite (antithesis) which engages another
extreme, and then the friction between the two leads to a more noteworthy
synthesis. This on-going process is the spirit of man and woman and none
of us are exempt from the human “mêlée.”

The diffculty that exists for the CSA and those who are impinged on by it
throughout the world is this: The Central Stupidity Agency has confused
philosophical idealism with religious unfeasibility and has opted for a
devout interpretation for accomplishing what it sets out to achieve on
behalf of the citizens of the United States of America. Of all the creeds
available to it, the CIA has plumped overwhelmingly for Christianity. What
is right for the CIA is ftting for the rest of the world. Christian Capitalist
Democracy is the model the CIA promotes wherever it spreads its soft and
hard power. Whether it be in Nagasaki, Hiroshima, Korea, Vietnam, The
Falklands, Grenada, Colombia, Israel, or Iraq, the CIA will push to get on
board those who might want to adhere to the doctrines of Jesus Christ.
They ardently enjoin their foes to enter its fold in order to enjoy eternal
peace and and happiness in another world. This insanity has garnered
more rivals for the United States than it has encouraged the globe to live in
freedom from strife with the world's most infuential nation. It will not be
long before the United States is knocked off its priggish ethical horse, and
if this tragedy is not exacted in the Middle East, it surely will be in Asia
where the United States of America has inseminated its disdain for others
of other statements of belief more than anywhere else on the planet.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Carlos Andrés Pérez was born 27 October 1926 in Rubio, Venezuela, a

prosperous Andean mountain village in the Province of Táchira which
fourished under the shade of its coffee plantations. He lived on a coffee
plantation called “La Argentina” that was owned by his parents Don
Antonio Pérez and Doña Julia Rodriguez. Carlos Andrés was the next to the
last child in a progeny of twelve, nine boys and three girls; and, the
children grew up playing among the coffee shrubs which burgeoned under
the protection of huge perfumed trees.

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CAP spent his childhood and the frst years of his adolescence in his native
Rubio, and completed grammar school at the Immaculate Mary School run
by Dominican fathers. As a youth he became interested in politics and ran
around the countryside fnding many other campesinos chastised by the
dictatorships that had ruled the country. CAP vowed: “The campesinos of
my village made a politician of me, and the campesinos of the entire country
will make me president of the Republic of Venezuela.”

The end of CAP's grammar school education would coincide with a severe
economic depression affecting the coffee planters of the region. The
dictator Gómez (Juan Vicente Gómez (1857-1935) was a friend of Gonza's
father who had been given rights, by the hardliner, to transport beef from
Maracaibo to Caracas. Gómez had an unquenchable greed for land, and he
bought up the best plantations one by one—including “La Argentina.” This
had been accomplished in connivance with German companies that
monopolized Táchira's coffee market and exploited the unpretentious
farmers of the time with usurious interest rates. Don Antonio Pérez
received no compensation for his plantation because the transaction to sell
it had been effectuated between Gómez and the German company that was
a creditor and compounded interest every six months until the debt had
become ten times larger than the amount received.

As an adolescent in Rubio, CAP proved his political acumen by overcoming

the opposition to his joining the National Democratic Party (PDN) and
organizing party nuclei. His tutor and friend was the now legendary leader
of the Resistance, Leonardo Ruiz Pineda. CAP was among the founders of
the Acción Democrática party and he gained the political friendship of his
old teacher Don Rómulo Gallegos as well as those of Rómulo Betancourt,
Raul Leoni, and Gonzalez Barrios.

CAP, who had married his cousin, Blanquita Rodriguez, daughter of

Manuel Rodriguez, the general Rodriguez of the One Thousand Days War,
saw his frst-born daughter Sonia for the frst time when he left the country
to go into exile. Curaçao, Barranquilla, Bogatà. A new stage in his life. In
the capital of Colombia he continued his studies at the Universidad Libre,
while the political storm that was raging in that country made the activities
of those who had not been friends of the conservative government very
precarious indeed.

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CAP attempted to reenter Venezuela illegally so as to join up with
Leonardo Ruiz Pineda, but he was arrested in Cúcuta and turned over to
the offcials of the dictatorship in exchange for the Colombian guerrilla
leader Eliseo “Cheíto” Velásquez who was killed as soon as he crossed over
what had been his way to freedom.

CAP was taken to Táriba is an iron cage that then was walled in brick. A
few bricks were intermittently removed to feed him. After days of
uncertainty, forever being transferred from one place to another in the
cage, he was sent to Puerto Ayacucho in the Amazon Federal Territory.
From there he went from the Andes to the Orinoco where he remained
until he was expelled to Panamá. He left Panamá, went to Cuba, and joined
Rómula Betancourt.

In 1952, Cuba's Prío Socarrás government fell and Fulgencio Batista forced
all Venezuelan exiles to leave the country. Costa Rica was CAP's next
destination. This country became his haven for peace and work. He served
as a journalist for La Republica in San José. From Costa Rica he made
contact with the heroes of the Venezuelan Resistance and formed his
political base with determination and patience. It was in Costa Rica that
CAP and the other Venezuelan exiles received the tragic news of the death
of Leonardo Ruiz Pineda assassinated on a Caracas street.

23 January 1958 marked the end of Venezuela's dictatorship. CAP returned

to his Fatherland and helped his party, AD, to win elections. During
Betancourt's administration he left Congress to serve as Minister of the
Interior. He had served as a member of Parliament since he was twenty-
three years of age, and subsequently was elected to four legislative terms in
the National Congress. He served as Acting President of the Republic at the
age of 39 years. He has headed the Acción Democrática party as Secretary
General being a leader with a defnite vocation for analyzing and solving the
issues of social reality particularly those concerning the best use of his
country's natural resources.

CAP's eyes and mine crossed many times in Palacio Mirafores when I was
with MIT, but I never had the chance to talk personally with him. He
always had a smile for me. There are very few political professionals that I
have met, or mostly read about, who possess or possessed CAP's allure. He
is a born leader and his effervescent personality makes you feel a part of
243
him—a portion you take away with you and always remember. And CAP
paid a high levy to reach the heights that he did. Without a doubt he is one
of the leading South American political fgures of the twentieth century,
and for me, outshines Betancourt effortlessly.

Clem and I were always sprucing up CAP's speeches, and I quickly came to
be acquainted with his style of writing and the thoughts contained in his
discourses and publications. CAP had a truly universal world view. His
passion oozed out from every sentence he wrote. He reminded me a lot of
John F Kennedy because he admired him so that he kept a bust of JFK on
his desk along with one of Winston Churchill. JFK's speech writer, Ted
Sorenson, had a fair with political jargon that went beyond the normal. Yet
I believe he (JFK) was not as convincing as CAP—pound for pound. (I
cannot confrm it, but I have read that WFB, Jr's son, Christopher, wrote
speeches for Ronald Reagan and had an offce in the White House.) And
CAP, like JFK, was not a saint. It would be ridiculous to think that eminent
individuals, who permeated the back rooms of Venezuelan politicians, were
pious or virtuous. Rómulo Betancourt always carried a gun with himself
and was a pistol buff who went shooting at the target range to keep his aim
precise.

I am particularly fond of a speech Carlos Andrés Pérez, as President of

Venezuela, delivered before the United Nations' General Assembly, New
York, 16 November 1976, and which is entitled A New Economic Order is
Essential for World Peace. It is an address that would not have been
appreciated by LangleyLandia and the Department of Hate, and I have
often wondered if Clem—under instruction from those two mental midgets
a t The Daily Journal—downplayed the importance of this discourse by not
sending it out to as many media groups as he should have. This oration is a
very important commentary on the state of affairs in Central America and
South America and is pertinent even at this moment—as I am writing this
sentence, 29 June 2004. I wish to highlight some of the ideas in that
document. The translation suffers somewhat, however, and the
interpolator/interpolatress is too faithful to Spanish syntax. We, at MIT,
would have performed more admirably for CAP, but he probably thought
Clem would have mishandled his phrasings to satisfy his bosses in
LanglyLandia! The speech was delivered in Spanish.

Excerpt 1
244
“One hundred and ffty years ago, when he foresaw that the struggle for the
independence of Latin America was coming to an end, Simón Bolívar
convoked the Amphictyonic Congress of Panamá. His objective was to
unite the Latin American countries emerging from the emancipatory efforts
of their people into one nation.

The Libertador Simón Bolívar had advanced the idea of forming a union of
nations—at that time restricted to his America, the mestizo—by more than a
century. The essential concept was based, as it is today, on a new ethic
which would serve as a guide for human actions. For this reason, his was
the frst attempt to form an organization of united nations....

Excerpt 2

...My voice and my presence seek to recall, with respect and with a deep
feeling for universal solidarity, those great principles of international action
which keep all Latin Americans together, and under whose inspiration the
countries that today are a part of the Latin American community achieved
their independence from colonial domination....

Excerpt 3

...Venezuela is a country that can affrm in the United Nations' forum that
since its independence it has not waged a war against anyone, nor does it
nurture any warlike purposes. It is for this reason that I feel very honored
to speak at this World Organization for peace and human brotherhood, and
to salute you, Mister Chairman, the Secretary General, and the
representatives of the nations on behalf of the Venezuelan people....

Excerpt 4

...We Latin Americans, and in general the people of the Third World, are
accused of becoming enraptured with fne phrases. But it is forgotten that
this was the teaching we received. For centuries we were enraptured by
powerful nations which gave us words along with trinkets. They spoke of
liberty, independence, equality among men and women, they spoke to us
about democracy, progress, and culture. However, in the majority of cases,
these words were not matched by what we received from those powerful
nations. And this is what the new generations born with justifed mistrust
245
are seeking today from us, the leaders of Latin America. This is also true for
the young countries present here which carry in their memories the scars of
this reality. It is enough to recall here, in this room the beautiful
documents, the agreements signed with sincere love for humanity, that now
lay in the archives of this Organization, without being respected or put into
effect by the nations that are best prepared and most obligated to do so,
those with the means necessary to carry out these commitments....

Excerpt 5

...In the last few years, we have seen the splitting apart of the old
international economic order which emerged from the Second World War.
It formed part of the peace imposed by the victors. For that reason its bases
were quickly eroded. It was an unjust system of relations based on
inequality and was designed to beneft those countries which had
accumulated the fruits of technical progress. The world political
equilibrium has tried to support itself on the base of peaceful coexistence,
which even in its name implies only a temporary truce. It established the
separation, the dismemberment of the world into antagonistic blocks.
Interdependence, as a solution for equality and cooperation among equals,
has not been the system of relationship applied among powerful countries,
or among them and the weak.

Today we all acknowledge—rich and poor, developed and underdeveloped

—that this state of affairs cannot and should not continue.The construction
of a New International Economic Order is required as a desideratum for
peace, which is increasingly threatened. If a New International Economic
Order is not established, the world political equilibrium will be seriously
endangered. The construction of this New International Economic Order is
a moral obligation for all nations, but especially for the developed
countries....

Excerpt 6

...An international intrigue created by transnational interests and by some

developed countries, propagated the story that we petroleum producing
countries are responsible for the infationary effect being felt throughout
the world. It is not necessary for us to deny the validity of this because the
world authorities have already begun to deny it at United Nations'
246
headquarters....

Excerpt 7

...To elevate the purchasing power of underdeveloped countries is in itself a

beneft for industrial economies. Failing to understand this is contributing
towards disturbances in the world economy and is damaging to all groups.
For this reason it is equally unacceptable that arrangements concerning the
international monetary order be fashioned solely for the interests of one
group of nations...

Excerpt 8

...We developing countries not only rely on the negotiating power which
petroleum has given us, but also on the moral force of the Third World's
unity.We have decided, as we have reiterated, to use it it in a reasonable
but determined way. It must be grasped that a lack of understanding will
place the world in grave dangers which if they should materialize, would
gravely affect the economy and the very life of all nations, particularly those
that possess greater wealth. It is inconceivable at this point of civilization to
continue thinking that the hopes of hundreds and millions of men and
women who live under subhuman conditions—or close to it—can again be
frustrated. What is spent on the arms race of great powers, who continually
speak of disarmament, could be used to solve substantially the problems
confronting humanity....

Excerpt 9

...Allow me to mention two points that are elementary in the North-South

Dialogue and that are in need of urgent decisions. I refer to the maintaining
of purchasing power for export revenues of developing countries, and the
easing of foreign debt. International economic hypocrisy has a name: Aid.
It will never be a source of revenue necessary for development—that can
only be obtained by just and equitable terms of trade. The servicing of
international debts contracted under such unfair international conditions
will nullify the benefts of foreign aid and international trade under the
terms which are applied today....

Excerpt 10
247
...It is necessary that we speak an undeniable truth and unequivocally
defne the reality which fully affects international justice. The great
monetary decisions—fnancial or commercial—taken by this organization
(United Nations) continue to be manipulated or governed by the
industrialized nations, those who truly retain the power of decision.

Venezuela respects the interests of the great nations. But we have to

acknowledge honestly that if economic power is not divided in forums
where we adopt fundamental decisions determining the rules of the game
in international relations, our debates will continue being formalities and
will continue to expand the wave of great frustrations which will fnally lead
us to disaster....

Excerpt 11

...This dramatic situation, which is the reason for the confusion being
experienced by today's world reminds me of a phrase spoken many years
ago by Winston Churchill. It was an exceptional expression of the man and
one worth remembering by mankind. In his long and bitter struggle, he
once said while referring to his opponent: 'He lives the strange paradox of
being decided only to be indecisive, resolved to be irresolute, frm though
wavering, solid though fuid, all powerful to be impotent.' Can this be a
defnition for the organization of the United Nations, when referring to the
practical results of its noble planetary action? In the Third World we refuse
to accept even that possibility. The United Nations must be the great power
of the world, which has to select and defne the future of humanity. It
would be a painful and sad paradox if the United Nations should adopt a
future which has not been chosen by its human family. Power consists in
the capacity to share the future. The decisions of this World Assembly
should reach the organizations where economic power is concentrated in
order to change the existing order. This will grant all countries of the Earth
the right to participate in monetary decisions, transfer of resources and
technology, or commercial negotiations....

Excerpt 12

...Terrorism has no possible justifcation, no matter what its inspiration

might be. We cannot deny it: it is the dramatic proof of the non-existence
of peace...
248
 I frmly believe that violence stemming from a criminal act can never
be a political act. No cause, however noble or justifed, can be
intermixed with events which associate or identify it with
manifestations of crime or offenses against humanity. It is not
inappropriate to recall the painful drama we witnessed near our
country when a commercial plane of the Cubana de Aviación line
suffered an act of terrorism which took the lives of 73 Latin American
countrymen, many of them young athletes who had visited us and
won the admiration of all Venezuelans....

Excerpt 13

...The fgures quoted on military expenses at different meetings here are

impressive. The traffc of arms has too many incentives and especially
involves and affects developing countries. International corruption has
become closely related to the trade of arms. The confict among blocks of
nations also shows a link to this trade, which is chiefy directed at
developing countries.

It is necessary for the world to start learning about peace, to create a new
conscience in human beings, to educate man from from his earliest school
years on the peaceful use of his strength. It is necessary to turn the
emphasis in the history books of our countries and mankind away from the
wars and hatreds that have divided mankind. They encourage chauvinistic
forms of nationalism that keep old wounds open and encourage false
national pride.

The Manichean game of good versus evil leads us to war. The idea that a
right exists above the rights of others is an act of war. That is why
dogmatism is dangerous. We have the sad remembrance of the Cold War
that was based on this kind of idea....

Excerpt 14

...Latin America proclaims the need for (sic) new mechanism that would
serve as a base for a new dialogue with both the industrial and and socialist
worlds. I tell you that a world divided in blocs is also responsible for the
misery that overwhelms a large portion of the population of mankind.
World solidarity cannot permit the division of spheres of infuence, and
249
much less an evasion of responsibilities to mankind by any bloc or group of
countries. This is the new dimension of the debate that has been
established by the Third World's presence in the making of decisions....

Excerpt 15

...An Action Committee has been formed for implementing a multinational

project to produce a high protein food supplement to contribute to the
elimination of malnutrition among Latin American children. I am honored
and pleased to have proposed this idea, which is today unanimously shared
by Latin America. In addition, an Action Committee has been started to
create a fertilizer company which could satisfy our region's needs for large
scale production of foodstuffs.

Malnutrition is the scourge threatening the fate of more than three-fourth's

of humanity. This Latin American initiative should be considered as an
alternative for the developing countries of Asia and Africa. For it is the
battle against malnutrition which is going to allow us to become active
participants in the human society we are trying to build, and in which we
have irrevocably placed our destiny as free and sovereign countries....

Excerpt 16

...The nationalization of the iron ore and petroleum industries have

returned to Venezuela its control over natural resources which could not
continue to remain in the hands of non-Venezuelan interests. Our conduct
in the nationalization process followed norms of mature and strict
international ethics. Furthermore, the nationalizations were frmly based on
conservation policies which the Venezuelan state is applying to the
management of all its renewable natural resources.

The waste of natural resources is incompatible not only with the interests
of a particular country, but also with the future of man and the world. For
this reason Venezuela's Environmental Law has incorporated into the
judicial system the most demanding norms which have an immediate and
practical impact on the rational and intelligent use of nature, and which
blocks the careless utilization of waterways which are now in danger of
utter destruction.
250
The defense of nature is inherent to the democratic system. Democracy
includes basic principles of social conduct which also refect an attitude
toward nature.

I have spoken as the man I am, as a Latin American and as the president of
Venezuela. Venezuela is a country historically prepared to serve humanity,
to turn words into action; it is a country which places its resources at the
service of its people, at the service of Latin America, at the service of
humanity. We Venezuelans are here in the United Nations to fulfll the
mandate which Simón Bolívar gave us more than 150 years ago.

I wish to end by reaffrming my faith, the faith of Venezuelans, the faith of

Latin Americans, in the United Nations. We have the conviction that
necessary and attainable agreements exist among the diverse peoples who
make up the family of men. Cooperation is the only valid answer to the
immense challenge which we have before us. We fnd ourselves facing a
grave danger, one capable of destroying human life on the planet. But we
are also facing opportunity. We want to be a nation of free men among
nations of free men.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

* * *

I wish to reiterate that this address was delivered in 1976, and I would hope
that the extracts presented here will provoke my readers to glance at the
entire oration that I am sure can be obtained from the United Nations'
archives. I am truly sorry that I could not have been the one to translate
and edit, even working with others, on the transformation of these
important ideas into a more persuasive and effcacious writing style.

Carlos Andrés Pérez is a revolutionist and throughout his life he sought the
backing of the poor people he knew well and who had been exploited by
dictators not only in Venezuela, but in other countries in South America
and the world. He derides all forms of exploitation and sacrifced his life
more than once being faithful to his ideals. His knowledge of politics and
political science includes statesmen who have left us with their blots of
intense struggle and sacrifce to achieve the dreams of all sane men and
women: a lasting peace for humankind.
251
CAP condemns conspiratorial groups of all types who desire to capture
political and economic power fof their personal aggrandizement by ill-using
the labors of others often victims of social and economic injustice. The
stench of blood shed by innocent souls discriminated against in South
America reeks wherever one walks there, and suffering today still is the
order of the day.

CAP is not attempting to impose his will on the course of History. He

cherishes the idea of a human community in which we all live to help each
other achieve what is best for all peoples by consuming the natural
resources available to us on this planet in a judicial and intelligent manner
and attempting, at the same time, to leave to our children a future more
promising than the one we ourselves now possess. He wants a sense of fair
play to be the standard for all peoples to adhere to. He loathes greed and
waste. He does not yearn for a perfect society, and there is no doubt that
social justice is important to his vision of History. And rightly so.

Many will accuse CAP of being a Utopian and an idealist impractically

proposing ideal social and political schemes. CAP is keen to the various
conficts that have divided humanity for centuries: the clashes between
man and nature, between man and man, between freedom and need, and
between individual and society. There exists a rift between what interests
the individual and society—at large. If we lived in harmony and succeeded
in the elimination our differences, we could have a more serene
environment in which to live and the diseases of chauvinism and
nationalism would dissipate into thin air.

Because the wealth of Venezuela is derived from the national resources the
country is abundant in, CAP envisions the prerequisite of a judicious use of
these commodities so that they might beneft the generation now living and
those to come in the future. He harbors a beautiful sentiment of
conservation and well-thought-out practices to preserve and develop the
riches his country has at its disposal. He does not appreciate foreign
interference in the expansion of his country's prosperity, but at the same
time he is open to modern technology and the friendships mutual
cooperation might foster. CAP's view of life is not “hippie;” rather, it is
rational and considerate of the human qualities of all human beings. CAP
thinks we can do better. And he wants us to ride high on this dream.

252
If one has never lived in a Third World country, it is diffcult to understand
the dream notion. Half the world is living with less than two or three
dollars a day. What are they left to do? We should be grateful that these
individuals can hope and refuse to resort to extreme measures. Oil
executives and Department of Hate offcials are not going to break down
and start building schools and hospitals for the Third World. CAP wants
them to do so. He wants them to share in eliminating the human suffering
and injustice that is tearing all of us apart and threatening the globe with a
maverick contempt. CAP wants impartial treatment for all. He wants even-
handedness to rule the day. Without it, he is saying in 1976, we risk
perishing in the spoils of the soup we have brewed for ourselves.

CAP sees humanity preoccupied with its privileged interests. People do not
work for the beneft of all. They toil for themselves. They wear a mask of
false consciousness. People cannot see what is real while they are
enraptured in their own selfshness and detailed concerns which belong to
them alone. With this stance people cannot trust one and another. They
cannot willingly cooperate among themselves. CAP wants people to be free
to live their lives in peace and goodwill. There is not one ounce of ill will in
any sentence of CAP's brilliant speech before the United Nations. No one
can say that there is. No one can deny that CAP is as democratic as the
Declaration of Independence and more so. But, no! CAP is living in exile
again! He has been banished from his beloved Venezuela! The Daily Journal
clan certainly did not appreciate his social antics, and they reported him to
the Department of Hate and ascribed to him some soubriquets that would
garner for CAP the wrath of the United States' government. Our “pinko”
CAP is an enemy of the United States of America!

I would be the father, Ramón Escovar Salom, of my best friend, Ramón

Escovar León, who would destroy the political career of Carlos Andrés
Pérez and banish CAP from Venezuela for good leaving me in a paradox
that would impress a great deal upon my intellect the incredibly alluring
subject matter concerning the abyss that exists between the individual and
society and the interrelation of the two phenomena.

CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE

John Sullivan was a tall, solidly-built Central Stupidity Agency operative

who had as his AO (Area of Operations) the whole of South America when
253
I frst met him at MIT. He was not fxed to any duty station. He scrambled
about South American capitals using Business Week as his cover. I met him
for the frst time when he had stopped to check up on the goings-on of
Clem and the two DJ buffoons. We met up outside Clem's offce, and after
a brief tĉte-à-tête, he left me so: “Let's have lunch some day.” John was
very sure of himself. He wore the troubles of the world on his shoulders.
He was strained. He had a mission. He was self-righteous and a tad
arrogant and reminded me of what I had heard about William F Buckley,
Jr.

Ever since my Gainesville Hilton Hotel call to the Central Stupidity

Agency, I had been waiting for an “insurance man” contact, and I thought
this John Sullivan might just be him—Business Week credentials
notwithstanding. After munching on this possibility, I was almost
immediately reminded of a short blurb I had read in the DJ warning other
agents throughout South America that Soviet moles had been discovered to
have infltrated United States' intelligence organizations. I had to be
careful, I calculated, to wait to hear those two “magic words” from any new
arrival with whom I would communicate: insurance agent.

Well then, I was sincerely buoyant to know that maybe, fnally, that
“insurance agent” was about to contact me. My curiosity was at its peak.
What might the CSA offer me? It could not be much I cogitated. After all, I
had received no training at Langley or Quantico and I knew that I was
really nothing but a novice with a very fanciful mind, and could not really
admit that I, in reality, wanted to work for the United States' intelligence
unit famous throughout the world. Perhaps I just wanted to know that I
could be accepted—that I complied with the rigorous entrance
requirements. The U S Army had thought I would be a valued intel type.
But the CIA. This must be a dream of sorts. I had protested against the
Vietnam “War,” and even went above my superiors' heads to the President
of the United States to vent my antagonism toward that daft police action.
James Bond movies kept ficking through my brain.

The next time John Sullivan passed through Clem's offce, he greeted me
but did not mention anything about a lunch or dinner invitation. I was
drooling to hear that we were going to break bread at lunch or dine
together. I had been holding my horses for months to know what that
“insurance man” had to offer me. But, before all, I had to hear those two
254
enchanting words: insurance agent.

It would never come to be. That John Sullivan, trim and decked out with
muscles, would by no means come to reveal to me the solicitations of the
CSA. I did not ft the bill. I did not qualify. I was not sought after.

Years after this disheartening occurrence I was cuddled up reading, in

1982, The Collected Dialogues of Plato (Including Letters edited by Edith
Hamilton and Huntington Cairns, a Bollingen Series LXXI published by
the Princeton University Press, 1980) in the lounge of the Tamanaco Hotel.
A Polar beer bottle and an up to the brim glass was on a table in front of
me. I puffed on a Cuban cigar. I was relaxed and kept thinking that if I had
continued to study philosophy, I probably never would have wound up in
Vietnam and Venezuela and thus would have been spared a great deal of
physical and emotional suffering. Being of a philosophical bent, I
concluded I should make the best of things even if they meant being
adverse and contradictory. Many beautiful things had happened to me
during my lifetime, and maybe one day my luck would change for the better
and offer me even more—but, hopefully, less stress.

The Collected Dialogues of Plato contain 1,743 pages—index included. I had

read Plato in the university, but not much of him to even remember
something about him. Toting this tome to the Tamanaco Hotel every
Saturday would give me a chance to reread what I had already digested and
would bid to me a chance to read what I had not and learn more about this
philosophical giant. The satisfaction of assimilating the complete works of
this legendary philosopher enticed me to hunker down, to turn my mind
off to my losses, and look with pleasure at the fact that while I was totally
alone in this world, I was still breathing, still functioning, and still capable
of making something of my life. I had but one way to go: UP!

Henry Miller said, I once observed, that he had read more than fve
thousand books. I have read a great deal, but no that much. Every time I
pick up a book—and I select shrewdly—I make a promise to myself that I
will fnish it. This habit has become so ingrained in my being, I think I can
count the number of books I have not fnished. I detested War & Peace by
Tolstoy and did not pass page 50. I loathed David Copperfeld by Dickens
and did not pass page 90. I could not fnish a couple of volumes by Ernest
Hemingway. I had not selected these books thinking I would not have
fnished them. It is truly diffcult for me not to bring to an end a book
255
simply because those I have selected usually are well worth reading—or
have been said to be so. My reading interests are enormous, too. I can
absorb, philosophy, psychology, psychiatry, economy, political science,
biography, and good journalism such as one fnds in Le Monde Diplomatique
a n d The Times Literary Supplement. I would never have thought, before
reading them, that Tolstoy, Dickens, and Hemingway—considered among
the world's greatest writers—would turn me off to them so completely, so
unhesitatingly.

Plato, I am almost ashamed to say, disappointed me tremendously. And I

have no idea why. I have read many philosophers in my life, but Plato and I
just did not hit it off. David Hume, my favorite philosopher, is extremely
diffcult to digest and so is Kant. I do not claim to have an understanding of
both of them, yet I can appreciate their writings and have the urge to
continue reading along with them. Plato was a tedious affair, and The
Collected Dialogues of Plato is one of those so few books I have not
completed. I reached page 214 and stopped dead in my tracks and Plato's
there. In fact, I remember now that when I would go to the men's room in
the hotel, I left the book, that was fairly expensive, on the table where I was
sitting hoping someone would steal it and give me the perfect excuse not to
fnish it!

In the margins of the book I made some comments on what I thought about
these “philosophical gems” of Plato: “And would you rather have feet
which are voluntary or involuntarily lame?...And is not blinking a defect of
the eyes?...Then in a race, and in running, swiftness is good, and slowness
is an evil quality?...” Ad nauseam.

Perhaps Plato had been educated by the Jesuits! Plato reminds me of a

passage in Stendhal's The Charter House of Parma: “Herein lies the
crowning achievement of a Jesuitical education, the formation of a habit of
paying no attention to those things which are clearer than daylight.” I enjoy
reading philosophy so much it pains me to realize that I cannot prize
Plato's writings.

One Saturday afternoon when I had gone out into the pool area of the hotel
to take a break from reading Charmides, I found on my return to my book
John Sullivan sitting in an armchair in the bar's lounge area. We both
looked surprised upon fnding each other. He greeted me with a curt: “So,
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you're still here.”

I have kept copious notes on the foremost events that I beheld during my
stay in Venezuela, but I did not take down, word for word, the exchange I
shared with John Sullivan in the Tamanaco Hotel a couple of years or so
before I left Venezuela for good on 1 May 1983. But I can summon up the
main topics we chitchated over that Saturday afternoon.

I thought it would be wise to take the initiative so I reminded John that he

once had invited me to dinner but had reneged on his promise. He balked.
Told me he had a date with a Portorican lady, but before I could let him off
the hook, he caved in and invited me all the same. Understanding his
embarrassment, I insisted again that it wasn't necessary for us to dine that
night—we could on another occasion when John was in his AO again. No,
no! John wanted to give me the impression that he was a man of his word.
Like most secret agents in the feld and not behind a swivel chair, John also
valued the virtue of being precise. When you are meticulous you can count
your accomplishments with satisfaction without regretting later that you
had left something out. John was overly scrupulous. As we dined I would
get an inkling into why he was so.

These citations which I recall are not necessarily in chronological order:

John led the conversation for most of the time we sat together. The lady
with us at the hotel's restaurant table hardly ever uttered a word, nor did
she appear peeved—didn't even, I think, hide any sentiment of being
annoyed at my presence—and this caused me to think that she was an
employee (underling) and not a romantic chum of John. John mentioned at
table that he was divorced.

“First thing each morning I go to mass and communion....” John told me

that it was especially easy to fnd Roman Catholic churches in the early
mornings throughout South America—easier than coming across them in
the United States. His revelation made me think immediately of William F
Buckley, Jr, and I informed John that I had worked for WFB, Jr's National
Review in New York when I was a lad of sixteen and seventeen. He said:
“Bill Buckley is a sailing mate of mine!” I reacted surprised. Just imagine!
John gossiped about many things and his speech was rapid fre and
obsessive. He was verbalizing at one point—I don't recollect the actual
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thought he had rolling before us—when he mentioned “The Company” as a
reference to some fact he had mentioned. “The Company” was not
“insurance agency” so I had to remind myself that I could not voice
anything about my Gainesville Hilton Hotel conversation, and I
clandestinely wished John would eventually, during the meal, come up with
those two magic words. He never did.

Another slip of John's tongue was this: “The Middle East is going to blow
any day now!” That statement would stay put in my cranium for decades,
and all through the eighties and nineties hardly ever a week had passed by
when I would open up on the Internet a Canadian, English, French, North
American, Spanish, or Venezuelan newspaper expecting to discover that
World War III had begun in the Middle East exactly where John Sullivan
had preached it would that day in the Tamanaco Hotel in Caracas. When
the Twin Towers were attacked frst in 1991 and ten years later in 2001,
John came to mind immediately.

John made another personal “leak” while we were discussing the food
which had been served to us: “I eat to go on. I don't enjoy eating.” When I
made a cute “Didn't your mother breastfeed you?” aside, I thought John's
date from San Juan would bust a gut trying to hold in her laughter that she
did not want to express, and that restraint convinced me further that she
was a subordinate and not a person passionate for John who had given me
the notion he was in his mid-forties at the time.

After dinner, the Puertorican lady left us and John accompanied me to the
front door of the hotel. It was close to eleven o'clock. He asked me how I
was going to return home. “Like always,” I said. “By bus.” John let me
know that it was not wise to travel on buses late at night in Caracas—as if I
didn't know—hailed a cab for me, and put 15 bolivares (Business Week
expense account) in my hand. I thanked him for the evening spent together,
and gave him one last chance to utter “insurance agent.” He stood stiffy,
robustly. He was doing something he had to do. His frame was solid,
athletic. I could see that he had been trained to defend himself with his
hands. I shook his hand. I entered the cab and as it drove off to La Florida
I had the sensation that my world had crumbled on down on me and I felt
again as lone as I had when I bereaved Gonza for well over a year. I had had
once the feeling that my country had betrayed me and that was when I
served in Vietnam. For me, the no-show of the “insurance agent” was a very
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bitter pill to swallow, and I have often checked off the infdelity logically
reasoning that an administrative foulup was at the source of this oversight.
“We Take Care of Our Own” was lost on me, nevertheless. I had been left
on my own. In the cold. And from that day on I have never convinced
myself that Clem and John Sullivan were not two of the Soviet moles The
Daily Journal had put its readers to the wise about. Nabokov wrote that
spies get shot. Then again, I didn't want to be under the thumb of a CIA
boss, “handler,” always telling me what I had to do. But later, when I had
absorbed all that I had reported in The Hippie Lieutenant: Vietnam “War”
Remembrances, I knew that my allegiance to the United States could not be
honored in any way possible.

CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO

I enjoy a daily routine that I have followed for decades and hope to hold
forever. It is always being interrupted by one event or another, but never
broken long enough to make me lose it or forget it.

I awake at about 5:30am and listen to the radio or television until I sit up
and meditate for twenty minutes. Up to the time that is eight o'clock, I
perform a series of exercises including calisthenics, jogging in place, and
light weight-lifting. Then breakfast. After these ritualistic performances, I
head for the shower continuing to think about ideas for living, for writing,
for studying, for whatever.

The shower, or bath which I prefer, conjures up many intense feelings:

they can be frightening or euphoric in construct. I have self-analyzed these
impressions through some psychoanalytic systems of thought, and I know
why they come about—at times, when they will come to pass. The reasons
are not crucial to this writing. My subjective responses spring out of the
mucky imprints of my life that lie fxed below my consciousness and, as the
years pass, occasionally melt away involuntarily. Nonetheless, there are
many of them simmering, and they do not disappear as swiftly as I would
like. They are “down there,” and every so often signal to me—through
bodily tremors and nervous tension—their desire to fnd release in a
defnition of their reality. The screams for escape tell me I must begin to
assort my notions, because if I do not attend to these hidden predilections
which may not pass away with time, I will suffer painful consequences for
my neglect. These psychic reactions demand immediate concentration.
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The action or process of stating, of describing, of explaining, or making
defnite and clear is best done by me when I take pen or pencil in hand and
write. I do not know why. And I am not always prompted to write when I
am psychically devoid of tranquility or composure, but when I do write
about what I am cajoled emotionally to create, I feel a sense of well-being
for both confronting what I could not have faced before, and for explicating
something which others might enjoy braving with me and which they might
fnd relief in as much as I do.

On 7 June 1979—a balmy, cloudy Sunday morning in Caracas, Venezuela—

as I emerged from the shower with a bevy of horrifying reminiscences of
the years I had spent in a Roman Catholic university and the United States
Army, I excitedly mulled over these bits of impressions knowing only too
well that they would eventually fnd their way to those pages that would
express an interpretative literary composition exclusively dealing with my
limited, personal point of view.

For years I had had darts of thoughts about some very bad experiences, but
on his tropical June morning all became “coordinated” for me. The way to
catharsis had been set in motion, and when I went out to have coffee and
mineral water in a local snack bar, I fdgeted and shook with anxiety about
my recently-discovered repressed ideas—now discharging and soon to be
defned.

The urge to commit them to paper for myself and my audience gave me a
confdent, good feeling. After many years, I was fnally going to react
against and brave the terror of buried bad memories. From this act I would
become stronger and more satisfed. My being would be cleansed. I would
go beyond, and in doing so, come closer to the core of my existence. My
enactment in purifying would enfold, and I would present it as a gift to my
readers.

A purgation of the emotions that brings about psychical renewal or release

from stress and tension is not easy to achieve. To begin with, it involves
work and keen, unrelenting dissection of the passions. But this effort is not
as diffcult as the struggle to keep a mental balance during the
unburdening. The strength of the checked passions—once they are ready to
let loose—plays havoc with good sense and clear thought, and their power
demands excruciating self-discipline on the part of the self-analyst. The
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hidden turmoil must be liberated gradually: it cannot burst forth as it
wants. The battle drains one. It leaves the emotions rent of any might. I
remember when I ousted the appalling mental souvenirs of the death of a
comrade killed in Vietnam in my The Hippie Lieutenant, I had to stop every
ffteen minutes or twenty minutes in between the paragraphs I had written
about him. The ordeal had been so exacting for me, I napped to gain my
nerve back and only then was I recharged and ready to continue.
Fortunately, the rewards far outweigh the rigors and throes. A sense of
well-being and courage forever remains to delight and enlighten and fulfll
once this tortuous road has been traveled to emancipation.

The undercurrents of pain that have seethed beneath my good sense until
now, far exceed the pleasant memories I took with me from Vietnam and
Venezuela. It cannot be said that there are no happy recollections for me;
but, they are not what what occupy my mind normally. The torments of my
psyche admit little of what was good in those places. Suffce it to say that
most things were bad for me in Asia and South America.

The alarming glimpses at these unfortunate mental records did not, until
now, appear in any organized pattern—they were disjointed and they often
came up from nowhere wholly spontaneously. They repeated themselves
intermittently, and throughout their lifetimes, there were lapses of long
months when they did not surface to vex me. I have collected these
revolting memories for more than twenty years, and they fall into general
categories. At times I felt as if I were in a state of confnement where my
mind had been worked over to be bent into shape to conform to some
ideology. Years of my life had been dissipated in a “gulag” of emotional and
mental restraint, and the cold winds and blinding snows which blew down
to chill my being, frosted likewise my mind's longing to ripen in
knowledge.

The panic that soars today when I think of years wasted under the grips of
these negative detentions more powerful than I was then, rips bitterly at my
temper. I console myself with the thought that I had both the courage and
the chance to disentangle my very being from such terrifying experiences
without losing my zest for life and my mental acumen which, before my
“escape” from these two places, had been often bulldozed within the
thought and emotionally uncontrolled environs of the United States Army
and the anarchy of a Venezuela falling apart at its seams.
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I had two great friends in Caracas. Ramón was the best companion I had
ever had in the entirety of my life. And I grieve for his companionship even
today. We had a wonderful time together and I could depend on him in my
greatest need. I doubt that I will ever again have an acquaintance so special
as Ramón.

But frst I want to write about my other “best friend,” Gerardo E Escalona
H, who when I knew him, was an executive with the Mendoza Group—one
of “The Twelve Disciples,” the dozen conglomerates that pretty much
manipulated the entire Venezuelan economy when I was a transeunte
residente there.

One day I was traveling with Gerardo and his secretary, Jenny, along the
carretera that rims around Caracas. It was a beautiful sunny day, Jenny was
splendidly fne-looking sitting in the back seat, and the City of Caracas was
set before us, down below, in a tremendously stunning panorama. Yet what
stands out in my mind the more when I think of that day is the fourth
movement, allegro con brio, of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony which rang
out all its joy, its hope from the stereo speakers in Gerardo's Mercedes-
Benz.

Gerardo had a collection of all the works of Beethoven, and he told me he

frequently listened to them when he was traveling to and fro his offce or
when he was on the road visiting clients outside Caracas. He was
exceptionally knowledgeable about B, and could summon up anecdotes
about the musical genius's life and emotional and economic travails that
plagued B throughout his existence.

Gerardo's love of B impressed me considerably. But it was Gerardo's

personality that convinced me to delve deeper into the maestro's music and
become, then, a lifelong devotee of B. The reason was this: Gerardo had
one of the most beautiful outlooks on life that I had ever seen in a person.
He was an authentic bon vivant enjoying life very much. He had a smile
ready for everyone, and could thereafter lead you on to take as much
interest in the task at hand that he himself possessed. A born leader. You
could feel good around Gerardo. He cheered you up and enabled you to
take an interest in life with all its troubles and disappointments. He worked
very hard for the Mendoza Group. I am sure that this South American
multinat appreciated the fact that one such as Gerardo was associated with
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it. I have tried to contact Gerardo by email, but have been unsuccessful to
date.

Beethoven came to me at a very crucial point in my life. The loss of Gonza

had devastated me. I was truly depressed and forlorn without her, and
wherever I went, for a very long time, I drooped with a long, crestfallen
posture—not the ponderous hands clasped behind one's back—the bearing
of the Romantic Figure that B epitomized for all of his followers. The music
of B rescued me from the nosedive I was faltering in over the passing away
of Gonza. B gave me the courage to resurface and pick up the pieces. His
music propelled me to exit my suffering and reach out for a more rewarding
life. I cannot envision that even a psychiatrist could have helped me as
much as B unless he or she had been a veritable mastermind of their art.
The furore and passion and feelings of celebration that B's music
encompasses is truly one of the greatest artistic achievements of all time.

I bought two books, Beethoven by Maynard Solomon and The Beethoven

Companion edited by Denis Arnold and Nigel Fortune, to help me
understand B better. Listen to this quote from Beethoven, on page 315 of the
1979 edition:

“If we lose our awareness of the transcendent realms of play, beauty, and
brotherhood which are portrayed in the great affrmative works of our
culture, if we lose the dream of the Ninth Symphony, there remains no
counterpoise against the engulfng terrors of civilization, nothing to set
against Auschwitz and Vietnam as a paradigm of humanity's potentialities.
Masterpieces of art are instilled with a surplus of constantly renewable
energy—an energy that provides a motive force for changes in the relations
between human beings—because they contain projections of human
desires and goals which have not yet been achieved.”

Professor Solomon gives us a memorable profle of B and his great effort to

achieve Joy through Suffering. And it is not that B was always looking to
put up with misfortune: His life was indeed diffcult and flled with
injustices including a father who, coming home drunk in the middle of the
night, would waken his teenage son and order him to play the piano. In
addition, his hearing problems did not permit him to have an easy life.

Solomon reminds us of what Schopenhauer said about B: “He speaks the

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highest wisdom in a tongue his reason (Vernunfy) does not understand.”
And Roman Rolland said: “He is the grandest and the best friend of those
who suffer and struggle.”

Denis Arnold believes that Music expresses a popular feeling against

tyranny. So, B's Music might be thought to be full of heroism and pluck. B
is heroic. He is proud and plods eagle-winged through the airs of Music. He
offers us a majesty of harmonies and the combinations of simultaneous
musical tones in chords that resounds. B is sweeping. Prodigious. Stately.
His temper provokes. He is dashing. Tempestuous. He can be haughty, but
for the tenets of Music. Towering. Versatile as no other has ever been. He
gives us startling restylings.

If you have not had the chance to acquaint yourself with Beethoven and his
hallelujahs of deliverance, please do so immediately. You will not be
disappointed. B can help you as he has helped many others. Let me give
you an example:

When the Italian coach Giovanni Trapattoni was leader of the German
Bayern Münich soccer/football squad, he fell upon Beethoven when a
friend suggested to him—in order to help him overcome the enormous
grief he had been suffering over the death of his mother—that he listen to
the symphonies of B. Trapattoni, whose sister is a nun and who had
sprinkled holy water on the football pitch for the Italian national team
when it played its losing effort at the World Cup competition in Korea,
found an immense solace in Beethoven while adjusting to that fact that his
dear mother no longer existed. I have heard, through the years, many
similar stories about the healing effects of Beethoven's Music. I recommend
B to all those who are struggling and suffering. Please proceed with
persistence. Ask someone who knows about classical music to set you on
the right pathway to Music. Read Professor Solomon's Beethoven. I
suggest, too, that you institute a The Beethoven Society in your community.
In that way, the Music of the Great Romantic Genius, can be proliferated
among a larger number of enthusiasts.

Gerardo was kind enough to try to get his friend “The Elvis Presley of
South America,” José Luis Rodriguez, to take English lessons from me in
order to help me further recoup my strength after Gonza's loss. José Luis
was visiting and recording in Miami ever so more frequently in those days,
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and Gerardo hoped that he might be interested in learning English with
me. His efforts failed. But it is important to me that I put in a plug for this
exceptional talent whose music is well-known now throughout the world. If
you have not had the stroke of luck to listen to the music of El Puma, ask a
friend who knows of him. And listen to Voy a Perder La Cabeza por Tu Amor
and Este Amor Es Un Sueño de Locos and you will, too, join the legions of
fans who value El Puma's music.

The last time I saw Gerardo and his wife Sandra was on 26 April 1981 when
I attended the baptism of his son, Freddy Enrique, who had been born 20
April 1981. I hope this manuscript is published so that Gerardo might have
an opportunity to contact me. I would like very much to thank Gerardo for
“introducing” me to Beethoven, and for instilling in me the vigor to prevail
over those circumstances I had thought were more overwhelming than they
were in point of fact were.

Ramón Escovar León, son of Ramón Escovar Salom, was the best friend I
have ever had. In fact, I think I would have left Caracas way before I did
had it not been for Ramón—often Ramóncito by his family and colleagues
but never by me. He was an eccentric character, super intelligent and kind
and generous with me while I lived for almost eight years in Caracas. When
I left Caracas I could not bring bring myself to visit him and say goodbye to
him, Coquito, and the children, once and for all because I had it in my
heart to be able to return to visit him and keep on being his friend. The
years and other contributing circumstances prohibited this aspiration.
Perhaps we will be reunited once again in the future. I surely hope so.

Before I tell you about Ramón I must give details about his father in whose
shadow my friend had to revolve in this world. No one will ever understand
Ramón without frst being familiar with his father.

Ramón Escovar Salom was born 23 July 1926 in Barquisimeto, Lara,

Venezuela. He is the son of Dr Ramón Escovar Alvizu and Ana Salom
Iribarren. He received a doctorate in political science and a law degree from
the Universidad Central Venezuelana in 1949. In 1948, he married Carmen
Delia León Garmendia, who held a degree in library management. They
have three daughters and one son: Elisa Escovar de Naranjo, a lawyer,
Ramón Escovar León, a lawyer, Leonor Escovar de Cardot, a psychologist,
and Maria Gabriela Escovar León, a journalist.
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RES was Deputy to the Legislative Assembly for the State of Lara (1948);
Senator for the Federal District (1959-64); Deputy for the Federal District
(1964-69, 1969-74, and 1974-79); Member of the Finance Commission of the
Senate of the Republic (1959-62); President of the Commission of Foreign
Policies of the Chamber of Deputies (1964 and 1968); Member of the
Commission of Economy of the Chamber of Deputies (1969); Member of
the Commission of Defense of the Chamber of Deputies (1966-69); and
Representative of the republic of Venezuela with the rank of ambassador at
various international conferences. He was Minister of Justice (1964-66),
General Secretary of the Presidency of the Republic of Venezuela (1974),
and Minister of Foreign Relations (1975-77). He had been frequently
referred to as a potential Venezuelan presidential candidate.

He holds the title of Professor of Constitutional Law on the Faculty of Law,

Universidad Central Venezuelana. Professor of History and Political Ideas
on the Faculty of Humanities, School of Social Communication,
Universidad Central Venezuelana. He served as director of the School of
Law, Universidad Central Venezuelana (1958-59). He is a member, elected
unanimously, of the Academy of Political and Social Sciences of Venezuela.
Honorary president of the School of Diplomacy, Madrid, Spain. He held
the Simón Bolivar Chair of Latin American Studies, University of
Cambridge, England (1982-83).

He has published the following books: La Universidad y La Construcción

Nacional (1961); Orden Politico e Historia de Venezuela (1966); La Justicia y La
Acción (1966); La Ventana de Papel (1971); El Amparo en Venezuela; Evolución
Politico de Venezuela (1972); America Latina: El Juego sin Fronteras (1973);
Campo Afuera (1976); and, Acción Interatlantica: Venezuela en España, España
en Venezuela (1977).

He has been a columnist (La Ventana de Papel) and collaborator of the

Venezuelan daily newspaper, El Nacional, for more than ffty years.

He is fuent in English and French.

RES has received numerous decorations and honors from Venezuela,

Argentina, Brazil, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, France, Guatemala,
the Holy See, Honduras, Hungary, Iran, Qatar, Kuwait, the Netherlands,
Mexico, Peru, Saudi Arabia, Spain, and Yugoslavia.
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RES's political views are something else more important than the myriad of
academic and political stations he conquered during his life. Remember
that Venezuelan politics is a rough and tough concern. Back stabbings are
the order of the day. And RES, I would guess, has spent more than half his
life under the protection of body guards and armored FORD LTD
limousines—the Venezuelan government car of choice for most
chauffeured political leaders in the 1970s and 1980s.

When I departed Caracas 1 May MMXX to live in Italy, I brought with me,
among my personal belongings, a heap of notes and articles I had
accumulated during my sojourn, and among those memorabilia, that I
intended to utilize to shape a book, were various newspaper articles written
by RES for Caracas's El Nacional newspaper. He had enjoyed a long
collaboration with the daily, and in the 1980s he had manned a weekly
column La Ventana de Papel. This column was also the name of a book he
wrote and that had been published by the Monte Avila publishing concern
in 1971. I reread my collection of thirty-six of his articles written between 8
March 1982 and 14 March 1983. I also carried with me from Caracas fve
long newspaper interviews with RES conducted by various Venezuelan
journalists. It was the frst time I had read the commentaries in more than
three years, and I can confrm that much of RES's thinking was
incorporated in my manuscript about Venezuela, Men Without Honor,
Women Without Love.

My look back over of the pieces was a very interesting venture, and I am
proud to say that I was a friend of RES. His curriculum vitae brings to light
for us the image of an individual very well prepared and relentless about his
unease for Venezuela. His writings in El Nacional are proof that RES is not
only a more than excellent political writer, he is too, a formidable thinker
and an astute observer of both Latin American affairs and the matters that
were affecting the world in the 1970s and 1980s when I knew him. He is
well-read in English, French, and Spanish, has traveled through all the
world's continents, and brings to the Venezuelan people a Citizen-of-the-
World purview. As Venezuelan foreign minister, he met with heads of state
throughout the world, and in his apartment in La Florida one can catch
sight of photographs of him with Brezhnev, Thatcher, Queen Elizabeth,
Nixon, Reagan, The Pope and other notables with whom he had liaised on
behalf of his beloved Venezuela. Most of all, I remember RES as a
professor of law and political science—an intellectual probably unexcelled
267
in Latin America.

RES believed strongly that Latin America and the United States had to
begin on a newly formulated relationship fresh and distinct from the
existing alliance. The new coalition would focus on improving ties for a
peaceful partnership that would beneft both Americans and Venezuelans.
He proposed a scheme that would adjust to the realities of the times and
take into account the diverse modalities of living which the Latin American
peoples offer to not only their own neighbors, but the friends of Latin
Americans in the United States. Latin America must be recognized as an
historic entity and a dignity higher than that which it is considered today. It
is not a strategic “backyard” for the United States of America. He adamantly
makes his point and with pride and charm. Naturally, he did not always
receive accolades from United States' congressmen and women and
senators.

He looks upon Venezuela's petroleum industry as a curse. He admits that

the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries helps give the
petroleum industry a sense of worth and earns for it respect on an
international level. He rebukes Venezuela's use of petroleum claiming that
its system of administration is not only grossly ineffcient, it is also solidly
corrupt. These circumstances impact negatively on the country's growth
throwing into turmoil the Venezuelan political system. The wealth being
garnered from the petroleum industry is producing an excess of liquidity in
the country, and this unchecked process is producing a grave social and
economic infrmity that needs to be cured. The amassing of garbage in the
streets is thought of as a consequence of dynamic development! Without
garbage there is no progress! Bastante es mejor que demasiado. Venezuela
lacks enthusiasm. There is little motivation to work. Neither
authoritarianism or democracy has been able to effectively manage the
natural resources Venezuela possesses in abundance. There is social
disorder. Petroleum earnings give the Venezuelan society a host of trinkets
which do not substantially alter the structure of the nation's society nor the
luck of its people. In fact, the greatest beneft from the rise in petroleum
prices has been for the industrial nations themselves who recycled
Venezuela's retribution by selling civil and military equipment of all kinds
in order to feed the fantasies of the Robber Barons of the Third World.
Petroleum rains down an affuence upon the Venezuelan people which they
do not know how to deal with. There is a sense of banality that infects
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Venezuelans. There is no capacity to organize. No desire to confront the
existing problems with decision and boldness. This sickness RES calls
centralism and the tendency to absorb power in the innermost core of a
national administration is ill-advised and ultimately dangerous because
these concentrated seats of power are the same used by the hated dictator
General Juan Vicente Gómez. Why should Venezuela repeat that travesty?
To change, Venezuela must convert itself into a society of reward and
punishment. He or she who produces must be rewarded and encouraged. If
one does not churn out, penalties should be levied. To motivate is to
manage, it is the creation of a collective will, it is the suppression of the
general malaise that today taints the Venezuelan consciousness.
Venezuelans call for a new, formulated social contract and a renewal of
consensus. Venezuela is living in the Middle Ages of sort. A human being
in Venezuela is not represented as such. He or she is an ingredient that
constitutes a part of a “body, organization, or functional schematic.”

One of the central themes belonging to RES's would-be remake of his

dearly loved Venezuela is the return to an agrarian society. Venezuela
imports a large amount of its foodstuff, and this condition is a result of the
country's dependence on the easy money coming from petroleum
production. RES believes that if Venezuela would be self-suffcient and
wise concerning its food programs, the nation would be less vulnerable to
economic, political, and militaristic threats. He also accepts as true that if
agrarian reform was effectuated, the unrelenting evacuation of the
farmlands for the city would abate and the population of Venezuela would
be better distributed thus avoiding the explosive disruptions caused by the
concentration of people in the urban areas of the homeland. A grandes
males grandes remedias. Centralism has brought education, agriculture, and
industrialization to a dead end. Government institutions have squandered
their material and human resources and there are no obvious consequences
for their abuses. The country suffers this incompetence. The imbalance
that exists between the Earth and Humanity is Venezuela's greatest tragedy.
The return to agriculture is not meant to be some bucolic slogan. It is a
conceptual obligation. To maintain the equilibrium of political territory, to
decongest the urban centers, to regulate the cities and the farmlands, to
link industry with agriculture, and to increase the earnings of the rural
population is what all Venezuelans should be engaged in accomplishing.

269
Ramón Escovar Salom, in trying to ft together the pieces of his own
country and that of the world into one coherent parcel, was becoming more
discouraged in his later years. In his 10 March 1983 letter to me from
Cambridge University he expressed dismay for what was still going on in
Venezuela. In a 21 February 1983 article dispatched from England for La
Ventana de Papel, he was so despondent, I felt sorry for him:

“The extreme right is acquiring a tremendous power in the world, sustained

by an easy-to-get drug in circulation: anti-communism. In its name, all
kinds of campaigns are in force and they are already showing alarming
strength in some countries.

It is the obligation of all intellectuals to keep a cool head during this new
drama. For those who adhere to this thinking we cannot simply respond
with simplistic ideologies which oppose the hard-core right wingers. Our
only strength is the freedom to think, to perceive and feel, without
succumbing to whatever type of dogma, to those without myths and without
parochial loyalties to presumptive safe havens.

There exists an active fascism in the world with a might that is growing by
leaps and bounds. It is for this reason that the German political leadership
is indeed very worried. Today, in the world and Europe, there are many
fssures no less open than they were ffty years ago.

It is imperative that each generation retrace its own steps and errors
through the footpath of its ancestors. Confronted with such grave risks, our
society has to conduct itself in the same way it did ffty years ago.
Sometimes it seems as if the Second World War never happened. The
extremisms are returning. Central America is there to offer us a partial
depiction of the more horrendous and widespread dramas that are bound
to transpire.”

At the time I thought RES was under a great strain, that the English fog
had demoralized him. I could not guess that Ronald Reagan and Margaret
Thatcher were embarking on a Reign of Terror that would terrorize a good
part of the whole world for decades, and that contagious supremacy would
have been in large part heralded by a neoconservative movement backed by
William F Buckley, Jr and his diehard cohorts. When I saw Pat Taylor
Buckley, wife of WFB, Jr, in an edition of the Spanish magazine Hola
270
bathing in Mexican waters with the president of the United States, Ronald
Reagan, I realized that Buckley held the ear of Reagan who often repeated
to the press that his favorite magazine was National Review. Buckley, also
author of McCarthy and His Enemies, was out to vindicate Senator Joseph
McCarthy and in doing so he would help to create another political attitude
characterized chiefy by opposition to elements held to be subversive and
by the use of tactics involving personal attacks on individuals by means of
widely publicized indiscriminate allegations especially on the basis of
unsubstantial charges. Oil-wise WFB, Jr, close friend of other petroleum
magnates, George Bush I and George Bush II, would assist, with his
National Review, in fomenting an anti-Islamic aura of odium (Christian
Capitalist Democracy) seeking to enhance his idea of the superiority of
Christianity—specifcally Roman Catholicism—over the religious faith of
the Moslems including the belief in Allah as the sole deity and in
Muhammad as his prophet. John Sullivan's prediction that the Middle East
would “blow any day” would come true more than twenty years later. But it
was Ramón Escovar Salom, in his La Ventana de Papel column of 21
February 1983, who would frst put me shrewd to the new found ultra
conservatism that would eventually lead humanity to the brink of the Third
World War. Listen to Carlos Andrés Pérez, arch enemy of RES, at an
exchange of toasts with President Carter at the White House State Dinner
given in CAP's honor 28 June 1977 and which Clem and I “doctored” for
release to news agencies throughout the world:

“Mr and Mrs Carter. Mr Carter, you said at the University of Notre Dame
that the United States can no longer separate the traditional issues of war
and peace from the new global issues of justice, equality, and human rights.

You also said a peaceful world can no longer be defned within terms of
strategic balances of equilibrium, or by confned areas of infuence, or
blocs, or military alliances. Peace is not only the absence of war. The true
meaning of peace is the incorporation of the Third World into an
international order where all nations that comprise it might participate.

The order imposed by the victors of the Second World War no longer
exists. Human rights cannot be spoken about, referred to as respect for
physical integrity and political liberties. Human rights entail the right to
life, to well being, and to the individual dignity of each and every being.
Today, these basic rights are fagrantly violated by those responsible for the
271
world economic order.

Venezuela looks with well-founded optimism that the policies of the United
States have been taken into your hands and your interest is for the defense
of human rights. We Venezuelans, and all peoples of Latin America, hope
that this courageous and frm position is going to help break the chains of
oppression in the lands of the suffering.

But we also believe that the Latin American dictatorships have a reason for
their existences because of the economic instability generated by the unjust
economic order in the world.

Permit me to reiterate, Mr President. The effectiveness of human rights, in

their most noble and complete meanings, is summed up with the respect
for the right of economic development for all peoples giving them access to
basic commodities, employment opportunities, and to fair accessibility to
the transference of technologies and capital.

The possibility of democracy and human rights for all peoples will be
impossible as long as social tensions are experienced by such a great
number of nations in the world. Dramatic economic differences exist today.

It is foolish to expect democratic development and implementation of

human rights in an international order as deeply anti-democratic as the one
that exists today. The democratic transformation which your enlightened
international policies search for cannot be reached without the elimination
of the economic structure and the privileges which characterize that
international order.

The hopes that I place in the present policies of the United States are
dependent, in the frst place, on the establishment by the United States of a
needed link between ethical principles and aspirations. There must be an
adequate understanding of world problems and their risks, political will to
confront them, and attention to the reality that peoples live with, so often,
only formal and hypocritical relations between themselves and their
governments. Mr President, you are gaining the esteem and admiration of
the people of Latin America without kowtowing to the decayed diplomacy
of half words and euphemisms.
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The efforts of the Third World favor dialog and cooperation on behalf of
the establishment of the new international economic order. But they have
not been given satisfactory answers from the industrialized world including
the United States.

The less than encouraging results of the North-South Conference indicate

that the industrial world refuses to recognize the need to transform the
existing structure of privileges. And they also demonstrate that the
industrial nations do not yet perceive with suffcient clarity the dangers
inherent in this grave matter.

You, Mr President, with exceptional vision, have begun to speak another

language. Without expressly saying it, you have come to realize that
selfshness has presided until now over the tepid conduct of the great
nations.

It is necessary that the industrialized nations understand that the order of

priorities no longer has as its primary concern the East-West confict and
the stabilization of the traditional power blocs. Major efforts must now be
exerted to resolve the North-South confict in order to create a new
international order of justice and equality for all.

It is necessary that the industrialized world understands that the creation of

that new world order demands bold initiatives to solve global problems.
Important changes in the living standards of the rich nations are in order.
Wealthy nations can no longer exploit poor nations.

(APPLAUSE)

The distribution of conventional and nuclear arms throughout the world

gives impetus to the vertical proliferation of many different types of arms
which are chiefy the possession of the industrialized nations. Modern
military technology offers specifc problems of enormous complexity. We
believe that if the political will exists, these problems can be overcome.
Détente and arms control are necessary conditions, but they are not
enough to build world peace upon a solid foundation. To assert otherwise
is to give military matters an autonomy they do not deserve, to give them
priority over political concerns, and to disengage politics from social
matters which could lead to a repetition of the mistakes that in the past
273
have only led to failure and tragedy.

The Third World wishes to cooperate and negotiate. The other alternative,
deplorable as it might be, is confrontation. Nobody desires confrontation.
But it might be resorted to by many. From here stems the enormous
responsibility which the developed nations have before them. If a
confrontation is created with the Third World, the developed countries
must recognize that an indivisible solidarity, that already exists, will rear its
head in opposition.

Global reform is needed to avoid this catastrophe. No regional solution will

resolve this tension. The new international order must be democratic and
based not only on economic changes but on new ethical premises. This is
essential because there is another dramatic reality which the great nations
have not yet met head-on. The world is not an unlimited reservoir of
resources. Exploitation cannot continue in its present form giving more and
more to the industrialized nations while encouraging irritating levels of
waste and maverick consumption.

The technological civilization with which we live today might well be called,
unfortunately, the civilization of waste. It is established upon a basis of
irresponsible arrogance. There are those who want to appropriate without
limit all the resources of Nature and consume them as if they would never
deplete themselves. Fortunately, voices such as yours, Mr President, are
beginning to make themselves heard. You denounce these abuses which
harm the beauty of our planet, and you deplore the lack of foresight that
threatens further damage.

To begin with, we must criticize the way of life of the industrialized

societies. They are greedy consumers of natural resources. The survival of
humanity is here at stake, and consumers perform in a way contrary to good
sense and against their own interests. The principles of classical liberalism
and traditional capitalism have been drastically revised. The
implementation of taxes, social security, urban planning, and the attempts
to curb monopolies, tell us that the world is calling for a drastic change—a
new society.

The international order must accept the notion of transformation, too. We

are slowly but surely beginning to come to the realization that international
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controls must be implemented to guarantee nations their economic rights.
It is imperative that all countries in the international community accept a
code that regulates the actions of transnational companies which have often
weakened and usurped the national sovereignty of developing nations and
have deeply eroded morals by employing a systemic policy of bribery.

Petroleum, a privileged resource, has caused producing nations as well as

the members of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries to
assume a unique responsibility that affects all of mankind. OPEC has
instilled awareness in all of us that there exists an interdependence in the
world. OPEC has highlighted for us the vulnerability we are faced with, and
it has made it very much more diffcult for the developed world to continue
to exploit the developing world with abandon.

OPEC's actions have made it clear that there exists outstanding

contradictions in the present world order. It has also pointed out that there
exists opportunities for dialog and understanding throughout the Third
World. OPEC's objectives do not entail the systemic increase in petroleum
prices. On the contrary, they seek to establish a new international economic
order with justice and freedom for all. That is why I dare to affrm that it
will be impossible to disrupt the unity of OPEC. No one has to fear it. And
the reason is this: OPEC acts responsibly.

Mr President, Mrs Carter, please let us talk about these and other problems
which concern the bilateral relations of our countries, Latin America, and
the Third World. We must also discuss other aspects of world politics
which are of common concern. We must consider the hidden conficts that
exist in our hemisphere, the possibilities for their resolutions, and the
responsibilities of the United States of America and Venezuela.

At this friendly dinner with so many kind people in attendance, I have

referred to those fundamental aspects that commit nations and
governments to create a new world order—evenhandedly designed for the
beneft of all citizens.

We believe that a special accountability falls on those nations which, like

your own, are a determining factor on the international scene and which
defne the political and economic rules of conduct. That is why I have tried
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to convey to you and your great people a sincere and friendly message with
the conviction that the true path to peace must be through understanding
among all countries with the intention of insuring international justice.

As you yourself have said, peace can only be achieved on the basis of a
faithful observance of human rights. Only that gives an authentic sense to
men and women's lives on Earth.

Venezuela joins the United States of America, Mr President, strongly

desiring that you might achieve your noble purposes. With you we seek
justice, the defense and promotion of human rights, and a frm opposition
to the proliferation of nuclear arms.

We long for a democracy that will serve high ethical standards and
humanistic principles. With that trust, Mr President and Mrs Carter, I
propose a toast to the success of just and noble ideals, to the great nation of
the United States of America, and to democracy in the Western World.”

CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE

Ramón Escovar Salom told me many anecdotes about the political

celebrities he had encountered both as a Venezuelan politician and a
private citizen studying international law and political science in all parts of
the world. One tale rushes forward in my mind and it is about Queen
Elizabeth. When he was Venezuela's Minister of Foreign Affairs, he
accompanied President Carlos Andrés Pérez to London where the two of
them represented Venezuela on a state visit. Naturally, there was a state
dinner, and for the frst half hour the Queen spoke to President Pérez
through an interpreter. When precisely thirty minutes had elapsed, the
Queen turned to RES and was almost fabbergasted because he, RES,
could communicate with her in The Queen's English! He belly-laughed
with me over this experience, and in his eyes, there was that twinkle of
delight that usually came to his mien when he could demonstrate that not
only Venezuelans had something to be proud of, they could be proud to be
Venezuelans under some of the most tiresome of circumstances. RES was a
“pusher” of what he thought was best for Venezuela, and he inexorably
attempted to convince others all over the world of the great potential
simmering in the hearts and minds of the Venezuelan people. Conceivably,
this might be his most remarkable of contributions.
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I think RES was a better ambassador for Venezuela than he was a political
scientist, law professor, politician, or sometimes pan-South American
intellectual. He was a short, stocky, balding man on his way to his sixties
when I knew him. Strong, too. Woke up at four in the morning to go
jogging—always accompanied by two bodyguards. He enjoyed listening to
the birds as he ran at the foot of the Avila mountain that was nearby his
luxurious apartment flled with books and keepsakes and photos of days
gone by. He had a charm about him. Behind his thick-rimmed black, Henry
Kissinger-like glasses, there rested a brain quick with a retort, eclectic in
subject matter, sensitive to listen to others' opinions, and exceptionally
equipped with details and statistics about his beloved Venezuela. His
confdence in himself was well deserved. He was not conceited, but people
could confuse his intelligence with a power they thought he might desire to
brandish. He was too intelligent to think that he could be condescending.
There was even a streak of humility in him, but he repressed this intuitive
feeling because he did not want to come off as a wimp when representing
his Venezuela in the limelight of the world's scrutiny. He imbued strength
because he was strong. He was respected because he was alert and
thoughtful to the opinions of others. He was read widely because he could
communicate very well with words. But he did not know how to lead his
country.

RES had grown up in a comfortable, sheltered atmosphere permeated with

a mixture of relatives dedicated to learning (writers and radical poets),
conservatives, oligarchs, and high-ranking military leaders. His family tree
bloomed with free thinkers and Voltaireans bent on devoting themselves to
trouncing the spirit of intolerance in Venezuela. This “movement” was
singled out, in the city of Barquisimeto, with the sobriquet “Imprenta
Escovar,” The Escovar Printing House, and from the loosely knit grouping,
a culture of respect for study, refection, and speculation was implanted in
the upper-class of Barquisimeto and in the character of the youthful Ramón
Escovar Salom. RES's great-grandfather, Andrés Guillermo Alvisu, founder
of the frst newspaper in the Venezuelan state of Lara, sustained the faction
with the backing of his oligarchic friends. On his mother's side, RES's
pedigree is blue-ribboned with with conservative military fgures: the
generals Bartolomé Salom and Juan Guillermo Iribarren. RES's father, the
lawyer Ramón Escovar Alvisu, was a humanist. RES enjoyed the good
fortune of living between the fringes of open-mindedness and closed-
mindedness, and fanked by these two dispositions, he was obliged to
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become skilled at contemplating and synthesizing—invaluable qualities for
a man of the law and affairs of the state. And, naturally, his political
dexterity served him well when he scuttled through the corrupt and
muddled halls of the Venezuelan partisan systems of government. No one
can say that any Venezuelan politician merits to be honored with a landing
zone for pigeons in the middle of a square. It is hard enough to keep from
being shot at. Ramón Escovar Salom is still alive and this says a lot.

Perhaps he fell into the wrong crowd. By the wrong crowd I mean Henry
Kissinger, David Rockefeller, Arthur Schlesinger, Jr, Margaret Thatcher,
and other conservatives sailing in the wake of the huge intransigent
political vessel captained by Ronald Reagan. (Dime con quien andas y te dire
quien eres.) RES had pictures of all these characters posing graciously with
him. There were many other stalwart personages situated on the table and
some book shelves in his den where we met to practice the English
language in anticipation of his up-coming stretch at Cambridge University,
England, where he would head the Simon Bolivar Chair of Latin-American
studies. We used a book, Tense Drills, by Longman, that he detested. When
I told him he needed these exercises to sharpen his grammatical acumen,
he took my advice grudgingly and went to work with me as I helped him
heighten his language profciency. One could discern that he was a very
disciplined learner, and it was a pleasure to teach someone who wanted, at
least, to cooperate with me.

I have met individuals throughout my life who took pride in showing off
the famous people with whom they have been photographed by placing
these pictures of these glamorous fgures and occasions on their desks, on
the walls of their offces and homes, and even in other places less dignifed
or appropriate. All of us possess some form of self-importance, and those
photos render to us some sort of compensation or other that was vacant
before in our personalities or the circumstances of our daily lives. I am
certain—and I have seen it—that senior executives of large corporations are
convinced that their photo with a United States' senator or a famous actress
or actor or sportsperson will reap them fnancial reward from the sales that
might be generated from the associations made by prospective clients with
the strategically-placed photographs. This is a part of life, a part of the
human peculiarity. Sometimes it is a source of enormous amusement to see
how silly people can be when they are striving to attain something they
themselves know not what they are looking for!
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This was not the case with RES as I eyed the many photos he had put on
view and then tried to eke out from him—in some way—his rationale for
having them. He was not with airs of self-importance. The snapshots were
there to show others, particularly the Venezuelans who had come to visit
with him or interview him, that they, as Venezuelans, had a place in the
Sun anywhere throughout the world—if only they would choose to make
something of their lives by dedicating themselves to being industrious and
docile to some discipline rewarding for themselves and their nation. A
highly admirable quality in an intellectual, I thought at the time. RES
wanted to sharpen his English so that when he arrived in Cambridge he
would be even capable of embarrassing others because they did not speak
the language he had been born with. RES knew—as well as I did—that to
have under your belt another lingo is one of the most bountied experiences
for any thinking individual.

Another interesting story that RES recounted to me was one about Henry
“The Carper Bomber” Kissinger. One early morning the two of them were
returning to The Carpet Bomber's room at the Caracas Hilton when
“Henry” suddenly proposed to RES that if he wished to meet Raquel
Welch, Henry would take him immediately to her suite that had been on
the same hotel foor as his. Henry went right to her suite's front door and
started banging as a crazy man just might have done. A coy, heavy-eyed
Raquel fnally answered the door, and before the two politicians, at almost
three in the morning, there stood in a Hilton bathrobe the famous young
actress. Henry presented her to RES and then told her she could go back to
sleep! It must be great to overthrow governments at a whim and wake
Raquel Welch up in the middle of the night when you want! RES didn't
appear to relish this experience very much, and I was glad for him that he
did not. He also told me The Carpet Bomber was a voracious eater of
chocolate, and had supplies of it in his presence wherever he went. Again,
the impression RES gave me was that of an individual inordinately
interested in being an acquaintance of Henry Kissinger more for the sake of
Venezuela than for his own interests. Another point scored for RES. (Estas
en las nebulosas.)

With all the merits weighing in in his favor, it would be absurd to hint that
he was not haunted with certain weak points. In one of his newspaper
articles (Cada ciudadano un soldado; 13 April 1982), for instance, he glibly
presented a unique and simple model of a national defense that could serve
Venezuela very well: that of Switzerland's! He rationalized that since
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Switzerland has never been invaded, Venezuela should emulate its example
so that it also might be safe from aggressors trying to compromise its
sovereignty. He went further on to explain that each and every Venezuelan
must become a soldier, and if that pipe dream had been brought to fruition
Venezuela would be out of harm's way and respected by other nations
throughout the world. He reminds us in the article that every Swiss citizen
has a vote for democracy and a military aptitude for defense. A wonderful
combination! Because each and every country has its individuality and a
concrete interest in military strategy and tactics, so too, should Venezuela
and, by copying the Swiss model, that would create Venezuela's best
realignment. A Venezuelan has the right to vote. He or she should have the
right to defend their country, too. (A grandes males grandes remedios.)

Perhaps The Carpet Bomber had tantalized RES with enormous arms' sales
for the “security” and “peacefulness” of the often-starving Venezuelans.
Perhaps the Rockefeller family had instilled in RES's political and
economic sinews the spirit of thick-skinned, dog-eat-dog capitalism that the
Rockefeller family itself enjoyed in Venezuela with its mammoth land
holdings and other investments including the CADA supermarket (a chain
of food outlets spread all over Venezuela) down the street from my quinta
on Avenida Chaguaramos. Perhaps Arthur Schlesinger, Jr had promised
RES that he would write about him in his history books! RES would have
done almost anything to keep his Venezuela on the map. (Anda con pie de
plomo.)

In another article, Estudios militares y defensa, penned 17 May 1982, RES

made this blanket statement at the close of the piece: “The approximation
of the civilian population to the military culture, as is the military
population close to that civil, ought to be a basic principle in a world of
expanding interdependence.” In the same writing he recommends that the
teaching of military dogma should be incorporated within the civilian and
democratic institutions of Venezuela. RES is defnitely a hawk in making
these assumptions, and the very fact of the matter is that the Venezuela that
is a part of us all today is, in reality, a military phenomena! And not the one
RES speculated it would be. (El remedio resulto peor que la enfermedad.)

In Guerra y politica exterior,composed 7 June 1982, he offered this

observation: “The idea of a Latin American army originated years ago
when some thinkers came up with the romantic idea of uniting Latin
America.” Here, too, he refers to the Falkland Islands' (Malvinas) “war”
280
which he believes will change the attitudes of Latin American thinking
regards homeland security, and might even lead to another resurgence of
authoritarianism or open and declared fascism.

I n En Cambridge, scribed 15 November 1982 in England, much to the

delight of his friend “Henry,” RES makes this fat out declaration: “I
passed the two best years of my life in Cambridge, Massachusettes at
Harvard University.” ( ! ) There is no doubt in my mind that RES absorbed
much of his conservative thinking at Harvard hobnobbing with political
science eggheads and editorialists for Foreign Affairs and other fonts of
United States' foreign policy famous for their various forms of persuasion
and international arm-twisting. (The people of the United States are a
wonderful people—if they are not bombing you!) RES returned to
Venezuela from Harvard with a mindset cautiously cultivated for him by
exceptionally intelligent professors and political thinkers who pleaded their
cases before him convincing him of the moral supremacy of the United
States of America. RES bit the bait and remains today—even with some
whimsical reservations—essentially a pro-US hawk. Maybe he had no
choice. Maybe he was enraptured with promises of warlike trinkets and
shining political concessions for his beloved Venezuela. Maybe he was so
bulldozed to stand up for his Venezuela before those he knew—behind his
back—nicknamed Venezuela “a banana republic.” He had to offer
indulgences so as not to squander his pride. Who knows? The result is that
RES comes off as a certain type of conspirator who sided with the gringos.
He, and many others in his party, Acción Democrátia, would pay for their
pro-gringo stances in the years to come. But not Carlos Andrés Pérez!
(Cada quien tiene su maniera de matar pulgas.)

Responding to questions asked of him in a newspaper interview conducted

by Luis Buitrago Segura when he won the Otero Vizcarrondo Award for
the best editorial written in Venezuela in 1981, RES said: “My sentences
are short, without appendages. Constructed around the verb, the subject
and the predicate. Frequently, I use the colon, but hardly ever the semi-
colon. I attempt to be clear and direct so that the sentence or the thought
has the effect of being a blank shot.” RES's rhetoric is strident, rigid, and
calculated. His language struts.

And so did his wife Carmen Delia when she recurrently came into RES's
den to offer us refreshments which were later delivered by a domestic
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helper. She was a stern looking individual, fne-looking, and extremely
well-mannered. About her was an air of distinction. Because I never got to
know her more intimately, I could not say that she was a dignifed woman
even though she looked as if she were. She carried the past of her military
lineage. And very surprisingly to me, she conducted herself with her
husband by being over confdent and even domineering! RES wilted in the
beams of her radiance. (Detras de todo gran hombre siempre hay una mujer.)

CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

Ramóncito, Ramón Escovar Leon, my best friend ever—and I never called

him “Ramóncito” because I thought that “pet” name was demeaning as it
always was being used before him to signify that he was the son of Ramón
Escovar Salom—lived in the shadow of his father. In his case, this was
more of an encumbrance than it was an advantage; yet, it was not a so
debilitating load that it would interfere with his normal activities and
personal maturation.

I have known throughout my life many sons and daughters of famous

and/or successful individuals, and these characters, very often tragically,
had to adopt to a lifestyle that the rest of their peers would not. The
pressure is on the offspring of prominent people, and these kids must fght
for their space in the limelight often crudely directed at their mothers and
fathers, These personalities must be constantly bolstered psychologically so
that they feel that they are an important part of the life of a celebrity who is,
too, very important for others. If not satisfed in this regard, and the son or
daughter is left to go on alone without parental support, it is easy for he or
she to wander off the path of normality and take to a life of rebellion
without a cause or, worse, without common sense. It is not infrequent that
these adolescents fnish their lives disastrously having caved in under the
burden of the gloom they feel they have had to carry.

REL suffered this agonizing tension and I am sure he still does. But his
albatross was not the kind which would do him in. In fact, he had a very
close relationship with his father and never felt that he wanted to abandon
him to follow the trail leading to his own vainglory. The reason was simple:
both wanted for each other the chance to become president of Venezuela.
REL wished his father RES would reach the pinnacle of Venezuelan
politics, and RES longed that his son REL would do the same—would
follow in his footprints. We have seen a bit why RES never became the
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Venezuelan president. Now we will grasp the reasons why REL let the
Presidency of Venezuela slip through his fngers in the most ridiculous
fashion.

Ramón Escovar León did more for me than any other individual had done
before for me. I could spend the rest of this manuscript thanking him. I
suppose we took a liking to each other at frst simply because we had so
little in common. I was a New Yorker. He was a Venezuelan. He was an
important lawyer and up-and-coming political fgure. I was not. I spoke
English. He spoke Spanish and broken English. He loved English. I loved
Spanish. He did not have to impress me. I did not have to make an impact
on him. He didn't ask for business from me. I did not seek dealings with
him. We were relaxed in each other's company, and we subconsciously
thought we had it over others who had made a habit of being human
parasites upon each other.

Ramón's generosity was dazzling. Wherever he took me, he picked up the

bill even when I offered to chip in. He paid the highway tolls, the
restaurant bills, the locker charges at his club, the parking tickets, the
concert tickets...you name it..and he did not charge me one bolivar of legal
fees for the transeunte visa he procured for me from the ministry—a feat for
which other foreigners had to endure weeks of excruciating Venezuela
bureaucracy at a cost of 10,000 bolivares.

If we went to the beach together, he would come to my quinta to pick me

up. Coquito, his beautiful wife, sat up front in their Chevrolet Caprice (a
ritzy car in Caracas those days) and I played with the twins, Ramóncito and
María Victoria, in the back. The radio blared with salsa and cumbia or
popular tunes from the United States and England. If I tried to teach the
kids the English alphabet, they would burst out laughing and I would
eventually join them in their frolicking. We became very close and I
thought nothing of acting as their babysitter if Coquito and Ramón were
engaged in conversation with friends at their club.

Sometimes Ramón took me to his father's club located not too far from his
own. RES and REL presented me to Venezuelan political notables as I
were one of their relatives, and I still—to this day—cannot imagine why I
had been bestowed this admiration so gratuitously. Regardless, what
remains more fxed in my memory today is the good times I had with my
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friends. And playing with the children in the back seat while being driven
down to the beach from the high-up city of Caracas, is one of the most
memorable occasions that I cherish from my spell, often turbulent, in
Venezuela. I am inclined to believe that I would have departed Venezuela
years before had I not had found the friendship of Ramón and his family.
In many ways they taught me a very valuable lesson for living my life: the
importance of friendship and the magnitude of self-satisfaction that comes
with taking the time to share yourself with others.

I often went to Ramón's law frm to teach him some English or help him
with a translation he needed for a legal case or study he was pursuing for
the university where he taught law. He had hired an Italian secretary
because he wanted to learn Italian. Many Italians—along with Spanish and
Portuguese immigrants—lived in Caracas and other Venezuelan cities.
Ramón was an excellent speaker of French as was his father. When clients
stopped in unannounced to visit with Ramón, he would politely excuse
himself and apologize for the interruption—had that been necessary. Ramón
wrote, sporadically, articles for El Nacional but he did not have a regular,
weekly column as did his father. When Ramóncito and María Victoria had
their birthdays and the society page journalists from El Nacional and El
Universal came to cover the elegant event held in the Caracas Country Club,
my picture appeared with the family in the next day's edition. Wherever we
went, Ramón told people that I was an excellent English teacher and
translator and he recommended me highly. I, time and again, felt
embarrassed. Ramón invited me to his family's weddings, and often at these
social events very important Venezuelan political personalities—known to
all of us in Venezuela—were invited guests. If the United States'
ambassador did not make an appearance, one of his representatives was
sure to attend. Outside in the street where the celebration was being
conducted, limousines and police cars crowded the area, and inside the
bodyguards of various dignitaries huddled near doors and windows keeping
a close watch on their responsibilities.

I remember when Mrs Carter came to Caracas for a state visit and I was
assigned to help coordinate the calendar of events, I saw the SS agents,
about ffty of them, with their suspicious-looking countenances, in Palacio
Mirafores protecting Mrs Carter while she gossiped with the wife of Carlos
Andrés Pérez, Blanca Rodríguez de Pérez, an apparently caring woman who
forever had a smile on her face. These secret servicemen wore black, green,
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and yellow lapel buttons, were wired with earphones, and always next to
some of them there was an attaché case flled with who knows what
armaments. The SS agents were very athletic looking, and they checked me
out by observing the three carnets I had attached to my suit from the
United States' embassy, the Venezuelan Ministry of Defense, and the
Ministry of Information and Tourism. Bodyguards were individuals I
frequently came across every day while I was in Caracas.

Ramón never had a bodyguard when I was with him. He was, however, a
very athletic type who was in top physical shape. He was a jogger. Played
tennis to win. Every year he entered the Caracas running marathon and
often came in ranked among the best ten. He was muscular and alert as a
fox. Piercing eyes. An athlete. He lived his life burning high proteins, and
the only time I ever saw him with a glass of alcohol in his hand was when
we all were nearly killed in an airplane crash on the island of Los Roques.

The occasion for our jaunt for the day to Los Roques was the seventh
wedding anniversary of Ramón and Coquito. Coquito's brother was
president of a very not inconsiderable company, and he gifted Ramón and
Coquito, for the day, one of the planes his company used for business.
Ramón picked me up at my quinta with Coquito and the children, and we
were off to Carlotta, a small-craft airport almost in the center of Caracas.
When we arrived to the Cessna Tri-Star, we met up with the two pilots and
the wife of one of them. I was a little taken back when I saw a case of Polar
beer with four six-packs wrapped inside it. I wondered if Ramón was going
to break his perennial habit of not drinking alcohol to commemorate his
seventh year of itching. But this was not so, I quickly discovered. The beer
was for the two pilots! We took off and not far off from an hour we were
landing on the incredibly beautiful isle.

Los Roques is part of an archipelago and it is surrounded by very nearly

white coral. This area enjoys an all-year-round temperature of 82°F/28°C
and one can, without a doubt, live there an experience further from the
ordinary. Los Roques is a national park, too, therefore it is not equipped,
thank goodness, to accommodate tasteless mass tourism—YET! There are
some posados (ex-residences of fshermen transformed into little bungalows)
where one can stay, but getting reservations is a trying task. The islands,
nevertheless, serve as anchoring places for yachts which happen to be
passing through the locale. The rich blue sea lays siege to the minute
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islands. The landing strip—when I was there—was not asphalted, but I
must let in that it was rather smooth, and our landing was not in any way
unnerving or dangerous. We beneftted from a perfect touchdown, and
when the bulky cabin door swung open, the clement swishes of the tropical
airs swept through my nostrils and I immediately thought of that day when
I stood on the steps, brought to us on our just landed jet at Fort Lauderdale
airport, and sniffed the perfumes of coco trees and sandy beaches and
redolent Florida fora and distinguished these odors with those of the
Bradford, Pennsylvania airport, where I had taken off some hours before,
bordered with melting snow, smelling with dead tree branches and their
leaves, and whiffed with the steamed vapor of the waiting room's heating
system.

It was about ten-thirty in the morning when all us moseyed excitedly to the
beach area once we had disembarked from the airplane that the pilots
didn't even think of locking up—there were so few people on the island!
Ramón directed the pilots to be ready to take off at 17:00 hours, and the
Venezuelan pilot, with his wife, accompanied the co-pilot, a Spaniard, to
another part of the island. Off they went with their case of beer. They went
so far, I lost sight of them.

Ramóncito and María Victoria—as soon as Coquito had taken off their tee
shirts and shorts—scampered into the crystal-clear waters and began
splashing and laughing and gamboling to their hearts' content. Coquito
screamed at them, without success at frst, to come back to her so she could
apply some suntan lotion to their baby skins. The sun was scorching and
bright in the cloudless Caribbean morning. Ramón and I watched the
children's show at the water's edge ready to jump in after them if they
wandered too far away from us or were caught by a wave or two not as
gentle as most of the others had been so far.

I looked at the horizon. There was a ship or two. A pair of rowboats were
off some two-hundred meters from shore with nets cast into the bluish-
green waters. The bedazzling sunlight bounced off the milky white
sandbars with such an intensity, I was grateful to myself for having
remembered to bring along my tennis chapeau which I usually used when I
sat for any great length of time at my beige IBM Selectric typewriter at
home. Ramón and Coquito wore sunglasses. The kids could have cared less
about the sun. They were going wild in the wavy turf and so squealing with
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delight, I kidded Ramón telling him that the youngsters might be heard all
the way to Caracas! Ramóncito and María Victoria charged out of the waters
at whim. Then they jumped back in. They were as free as fsh. I remember
reading in some child psychology book that children playing in the grass
perk up somewhat in Nature's presence and appear more alive, energetic. I
am sure the waters of the sea or a lake have the same effect—and not just
on children. Ramón, Coquito, and I knew very well that we were all pleased
as punch to be at this place within the inventory of the Universe and seeing
the children enjoying themselves so passionately only added to our
joyfulness.

When I walked into the sea, up to my waist, there was almost nothing to
see to my feet except a couple of pieces of foating plant life and my feet
themselves. The waters were glasslike. It was like being in a swimming
pool. When I ambled about, the sand below the water was as soft as
Johnson & Johnson's baby talcum powder. I looked back at the island and
guessed that there were only about twenty people in all, while less than one
hour by air from here, there were about four million people hemmed in
together in the ferocious, smog-laden Caracas. These were moments to
relish and I knew very well that this day would linger in my memory for the
rest of my life and that even sometime in the future, perhaps, I would be
writing about this experience as I am today, 30 July 2004!

Ramón went to order lunch for us in one of the shacks where the fshermen
were set up. After an hour or so, two fshers approached our blankets with
forks, napkins, bottles of mineral water, slices of lemon, bread, Coca-Colas,
and two plates stacked almost ten inches high with already peeled and
cooked flet pieces of lobsters which had been caught that very morning! I
could not believe my eyes! There were hundreds of dollars of lobster on the
plates and truly enough to kill all of us if we managed to wolf down all that
lobster. As we ate away with delight, I thought I was putting enough
protein in my stomach to last me for the rest of the year. I had eaten fresh
Maine lobster, not frozen, in a seafood restaurant in Boston when I had
served in the U S Army at Fort Devens between my junior and senior years
at university, but his treat was above and beyond anything that I could have
imagined. All I needed was a Cuban cigar, although I would never have
smoked in front of Ramón, Coquito, and the children out of respect for
their choice not to be puffed at with a Montecristo or a Cohiba.

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When the time came for us to saddle up and prepare to leave the island, the
sun was setting and the beginning of the end of the incredibly pleasurable
day was suddenly upon all of us. The kids were pooping out. Our sunburnt
skins were slowing us down. The lobsters had digested themselves and a
brand new hunger was about to growl in or stomachs. The kids began to be
a little cranky. With the heat letting up somewhat, we realized how really
hot it had been during the day, and we all looked forward to going home, to
be under the sprinkling waters of a refreshing shower where we could wash
from our bodies the saltiness of the atoll and then dream that night about
what had happened to us all that time. There was no doubt in any of our
minds—even the underdeveloped thinkings of the children—that we were
glad to be alive and had been capable of participating in this exquisitely
beautiful jaunt.

When the pilots and the lady with them met us at fve sharp at the place
where we had left the plane a couple of meters off the strip, I saw no beer
cans. The three were empty-handed. Venezuelans are great drinkers so I
guessed the pilots knew how to hold their own when flled up with beer.
What I did not like about the vibrations in the air was the fact that the crew
was very eager to get back to Caracas, and I had the premonition that they
were annoyed for having to wait until fve o'clock to do so. They jumped
into their cockpit seats, buckled themselves in, and looked at us as if to say
“Hurry up!” They never then said a word. I imagined they, too, were tired
from the hot sun and I yearned that they were not hungover from having
drunk so much beer. Coquito, Ramón, and I snapped our seat belts tight
and Ramón took hold of María Victoria and I sat Ramóncito on my lap—all
of us ready for the takeoff.

When I few in fxed-wing aircraft in Vietnam, and even before taking off in
helicopters there, pilots always warmed up their engines and revved them a
few times before rolling off into the air. This is done as a safety measure to
be sure the engines are in perfect working order and no glitches exist in the
aircraft's operating systems. Our pilots failed to do that. We taxied to the
airstrip, and as soon as the bi-motor craft was perched on it, they gunned
the engines and off we went. The beer...no warmup...the fact that no one
spoke to us...these mental notes jogged around my mind. I did not like this
rush. I looked to Ramón to get a reading of his emotions. He was not
smiling.

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Within seconds my heart would start beating so fast I thought it would
burst. We were in the take-off phase when one of the engines sputtered
shut. Seconds passed. I could see the pilots arguing. Another two seconds.
In their panic, the Spanish and Venezuelan pilots started fghting...hitting
each other! To return to the island? To continue on to Caracas? Seconds
more. Engine number two gives up. Down we go. If the pilots are drunk, if
the pilots are rude, if the pilots are uncommunicative, they have one merit I
know of: they know how to belly land. We are about to hit the water on a
mattress of thick marine fora. Ramón and Coquito are cognizant of the
danger we are facing. Ramón tightly hugs María Victoria and I hold
Ramóncito close to my chest. In about four seconds, I think, I could be
dead! Just like in Vietnam. That disgusting feeling of despair. The
knowledge that in seconds you might be dead or seriously injured—if
lucky. Your body tenses. Your muscles are taut to the peril. Many have
observed, when faced with death, that it is as if your life passes in front of
you. I don't believe this. At least as far as my own experiences indicate. In
Vietnam, I came within walking distance of death a few times—perhaps ten
or twelve. I even remember one or two times when I had not even noticed
that I might have been killed at that time and place which immediately
came before or after my presence. I laughed at those instances and quickly
surmised that I had been exceptionally lucky—so fortunate that I best
forget about the experience as soon as possible. When I was robbed at
gunpoint two times in Caracas, I feared for my life even more than when I
had been in danger in Vietnam. In Vietnam one most times always had the
chance to escape, react if death had not been instantaneous. But with three
men surrounding you with pistols—two of them pointing their revolvers at
your temples—you just cannot be certain that the possibility of surviving
the event unscathed is in your immediate future. Those two muggings were
perhaps the most frightening of all my touches with passing away into an
unknown state. So, when I saw the plane in diffculty, I was anxious to see
how the pilots were reacting to the situation more than I was interested in
seeing my life pass before me.

Once the pilots had taken the emergency into their years of experience, and
had assimilated the possibilities that existed to bring the urgent situation
under their control, I knew there was present a chance for our survival. I
was so much truly absorbed in wanting to know the outcome of this crisis, I
failed to think of nothing else but the likelihood of living to tell the tale.
And remember, all of this was happening in seconds.
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The pilots do their best to direct the motor-less craft to a cushion landing
upon the sea. I listen to the creaking of the fuselage as it wallops against the
atoll's waters. I trust that the pilots have turned off the the engines' ignition
system. I am not sure. Ramóncito and María Victoria are bawling with
fright. We are all frozen in hopelessness. I notice the strength of the fabrics
which make up the constituents of our seatbelts. I look to the cockpit. I
look at the window on my right side. I see spews of water heaving
themselves up from the plane's impact upon the sea's surface. The force
against the water is slowing the plane down. We maintain the slide—much
to my delight! I am waiting to see if the plane will skim to a halt without
encountering some obstacle in the water in front of us. At long last the
aircraft, now a boat, rocks to a stop and bobs a bit in the meter-high water
it has fallen upon.

Everyone is screaming. The kids are petrifed. I see blood trickling on the
skins of all of us. No one appears to be seriously hurt. No broken bones. No
one unconscious. I start yelling over everyone else's screeches that we must
get out of the plane immediately. Here is the danger of fre. I open the door
next to me and look down at the plant life which I swear saved our lives. I
turn around to grab Ramóncito and brace myself against the door with one
hand against a wall to keep my balance. The waves of the sea push the door
closed on the frst joint of my left ring fnger, and I feel an excruciating pain
that shoots all through my skeleton. In a matter of seconds, I'm in the sea
up to my chest with Ramóncito squealing with all his might. I am thong-
less. Barefoot. I feel rocks, pebbles, and who knows what as I start the long
walk to shore leading the way for Ramón, with María Victoria, and Coquito
—the two pilots and the wife, I forget her name. They are surveying the
crash site at a good distance from it. My idea is to get Ramóncito calmed
down, and he fnally does. I start laughing with him and we both begin to
feel good because we are safe from the plane—I keep telling Ramóncito
that the plane was very naughty that day—and we are coming up upon the
shores of Los Roques again. Ramóncito begins letting loose with a bevy of
words and tries to describe the plane crash site to me looking back over my
shoulder as I carry him to the beach. We are all beginning to regain our
composures, but the shock of the event is still heady in the front room of
our psyches. Ramón, María Victoria, and Coquito close up with Romóncito
and me, and we start telling each other what had happened to us this day in
that airplane—a tale that all of us will repeat over and over and over again
for the rest of our lives.
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When we come upon the shore there are about ffteen or twenty people—I
guess it is the whole village—who are waiting to greet us. They are excited.
Some are smiling, congratulating all of us for having survived our hurtle
into the sea. We all feel like heroes who have come back from a diffcult
mission accomplished. The village dwellers are vivaciously explaining to us
what they saw when the accident occurred, and it is uncanny to hear from
them what went on while we were taking off and dropping into the sea.

In the crowd are two well-dressed fgures, a man and a woman, who I
imagine come from the huge yacht docked at the bay. The man is the
president of Mercedes-Benz Venezuela, and he immediately recognizes
Ramón as the son of Ramón Escovar Salom. They shake hands and the
automobile executive offers us the hospitality of his yacht—even for the
night if necessary. Ramón wants to know if he can call his father in Caracas,
and he is assured that he can. The wife of the German car manufacturer's
rep in Venezuela tells us we were going about 140 kilometers an hour and
were two meters above the water when the plane began to nosedive. It hits
me hard to know how really close we were to being seriously injured or
even killed. And with all the commotion beginning to settle down within
us, we start feeling really scared now as the double-whammy comes full
turn.

Ramón views the party of two pilots and the woman with them approaching
our position, and he boils with an anger I had never seen in him before.
Ramón is strong, muscular. There is no doubt in my mind that he could be
violent—especially on this occasion. He waits at the water's edge with his
hands on his hips. The pilots are downcast and beyond a doubt
embarrassed. Before the three reach Ramón, he lets fy a bevy of hard
words—his rage really intense at what has happened to us. I make a dash to
Ramón and, looking him straight in his face, I speak to him in English so
no one understands what I am saying, I scream: “Don't let a brawl with
those imbeciles spoil your curriculum vitae! Let your father handle this!
OK!!!?” Ramón gets the message, kicks the sand, and curses in disgust. I
grab his elbow and turn him in the direction of the yacht to which everyone
has started to walk procession-like.

We arrive at the yacht. A bottle of Old Parr whisky is opened and Scotches
on the rocks are passed to all of us. Even Ramón swigs some whisky. The
kids are given sips, too. The after-effects of the trauma forcefully thump
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upon our minds. We get wrapped with blankets—printed with the famous
three-pronged Mercedes-Benz star—to halt our shivers.

The owner of the yacht tells us he thought we would all be killed. That hits
us like a bolt from the blue. More Scotches. Ramón wants to call his father
so he goes to the yacht's pilothouse to make his call. RES calls back within
a half-hour telling Ramón that a Venezuelan Air force plane will be sent to
pick us up in the morning. It is getting dark and no plane can land on the
make-shift landing strip that is not equipped with lighting. The president of
Mercedes-Benz Venezuela offers to put us up for the night, and Ramón is
truly grateful for the bid of warmth. We all thank him, and he orders his
cook to to prepare something for all of us to eat to make our stay even more
comfy. The kids are lightened up, and they yelp with joy knowing they are
going to sleep on a “big boat” for the night.

In the morning the military plane arrives like clockwork. Because the craft
lacks one space for me, I am asked to return to Caracas in the air-
conditioned yacht—an offer I happily accept not thinking once to grumble!
In all the furore of the last day's episode, I had forgotten to put my fnger
on a splint, and only when it was too late, I understood that it was
hardening into a slightly bent position. An orthopedic surgeon, who
examined my fnger when I returned to Caracas, told me he could operate
on my fnger and restore it to its original position by cutting the fnger open
and stitching the damaged tendons into place again. At the time, I was
studying the violin and I realized I could reach that chord, touched by my
left ring fnger, all the more easily now that my fnger was crooked a little
out of place! I politely declined the surgeon's suggestion with what I
thought was the perfect excuse to hide my lack of courage.

I cannot even conjecture how many times I have told this story both
directly after its occurrence and then subsequently in the years to come. I
am almost happy I have fnally recorded it, and I hope I will never have to
tell it again because now my readers can read all about it off these written
pages. The story is crucial to me because with it in my mind I will never be
able to forget the wonderful friendship I shared with Ramón, Coquito,
Ramócito, and María Victoria. The kids are in their twenties by now!
Incredible. I am sure that they were also bonded further together as a
family due to the breathtaking encounter they had been subjected to that
almost catastrophic-for-all day taking off from Los Roques.
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 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

There are many other memories linked up with Ramón which ramble
through my intellect, and I would like now to join more of them together
and try to come up with an amalgam, an identity kit, of him so that we may
enjoy this unique personality better. I say “only one of his kind” because
Ramón is special. He was brought up to be special and, while I was with
him, I can bear out the fact that he fought with all his might to be out of the
ordinary.

It is an understatement to say that Ramón “was born with a silver spoon in

his mouth.” He is much more than the classic “spoiled rich boy” profle we
read about in the newspapers or watch on television. He knew he had been
blessed with many opportunities, he took advantage of many of them, he
felt responsible enough to take the lead in assuming the chances that came
his way, and because his father was a very well-known Venezuelan political
and intellectual fgure, Ramón had a reputation to go on with and to do
justice to. He despised being called “Ramóncito” even when no harm to
him was intended, and I remain curious to this day to think he always
called his own son “Ramóncito!” His father set the way for him—both out
of love and respect for the family name and pride and deference to the
country they wished to serve. Ramón took seriously his task, to outdo his
father if he could. It was this obsession that drove him on and on, it was
this fxation that fueled his imagination, it was this passion that gave him
the power to desire more then more and more.

Ramón, consequently, had to be the best in whatever he set out to do. He

had to be the best in his class at law school. And was. He had to be the best
in a running marathon and came in close to frst position frequently. He
had to write the best article of the day for Caracas's El Nacional. He had to
be the best prepared law professor in the university. He was. That is his
style. And it derives from a long heritage of Venezuelan forbearers who
distinguished themselves in the annals of civic duty during Venezuela's
turbulent and problematical history. Ramón is proud. He, just like his
father, is even more swollen with superbia in being a Venezuelan.

I remember one day Ramón told me about his honeymoon. It was a lavish
event for him and Coquito. For two months the newly-married couple
traipsed around Europe as guests of Ramón's father's ambassador friends
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stationed on The Old Continent. And Ramón was pleased, almost
pompous, to tell me that he had spent more than $60,000 during that lavish
European sojourn commemorating his marriage. Venezuelans can be big
spenders, and if Coquito was the benefactor of this bacchanalia it might be
said she well deserved such attention—her beauty was overwhelming.
Wherever the two went throughout Europe, they were greeted with
homegrown fanfare—trumpet blasts sounded in Venezuelan embassies to
give homage to the son of one of Venezuela's most important political
fgures.

Of course, Ramón had to eat in the best restaurants. He had to be a

member of the best club in Caracas. He had to have the best credit cards.
The best Italian briefcase to carry his writs and contracts to his law offce.
The best fountain pens. The best gym shoes. The best tailored suits. The
best doctor. The best tennis racquet. The best wines. The best friends. The
best contacts. The best, the best, the best.

At times I thought Ramón might be being pulled under by his fascinations.

But, no. This was not so. He was so strong, both physically and mentally, I
came to believe that his Superman character had made of him invincible.
His physique was tuned to perfection. He was healthy as a horse. His
strength was superhuman and he took pains keeping his body in more than
excellent shape refusing to smoke or drink, and he ate the most hale and
hearty diet.

His mind was sharp. When I knew him he was not yet an intellectual as his
father. He could speak to me in English at an upper-intermediate level, and
he wanted earnestly to speak English whenever he could. If we were with
other people, or Coquito and the kids, we had to speak in Spanish. But,
whenever we were alone, Ramón just kept speaking in English and I had no
need of prodding him to do so. He spoke French fuently. When I left
Venezuela he was studying Italian diligently with his Italian secretary to be
sure he could speak that language fuently.

Ramón was an avid reader of heavy political science and law books and
journals. He had attended the Roman Catholic university, Andrés Bello, in
Caracas and he told me the Jesuits there had been very hard on him and
the other students who went to the institution of higher learning. If I went
to his offce to visit with him or give him an English lesson, he always had
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three or four Venezuelan newspapers on his desk, and an equal amount of
news and economic weeklies published in his country. He read Le Monde
Diplomatique and L'Express to keep abreast of European and international
affairs. When I was with him, he was still too young to have accumulated a
truly global perspective needed one day when he would lead Venezuela as
its president. Yet, he was well on his way to getting there and certainly his
father was preparing him well to be on the lookout for those particularly
interesting intercontinental dealings and accords which would reverberate
back upon the importance of Venezuela on the global scene. Venezuela, the
fourth producer of crude oil outside the Middle East, plays a very important
role in the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, and Ramón
would have to be up to the grade in being able to understand the complex
economic and political consequences of his country's dependence on the
income of its rich natural resource that keeps the country on its feet and in
many ways serves as a pest upon the South American country. With
Ramón's brilliant mind and exceptionally well prepared scholastic and
professional background, he was indeed very well groomed to eventually
take over a critical part in the government of Venezuela, and without a
doubt, the Presidency was in his mind as it had been in the thoughts of his
father who had failed at achieving that high state—the crowning
achievement of any political man or woman who serves his or her country.

Ramón did not go around saying that he wanted to be the president of his
country in the way Al Gore's mother (Smile! Relax!! Attack!!!) did for him
or John Kerry (felow students at Yale whistled “Hail to the Chief!” when
Kerry passed them by in New Haven) openly admitted very much before he
would actually have a clean shot at becoming president of the United
States. It was just understood by everyone who knew him that Ramón was
being coached by his father to be president. Ramón was not an ego-driven
personality. He was not arrogant. On the contrary, he could be very self-
critical of himself and one of his best qualities was his sense of humor.

He was an unconventional type. He liked to laugh and we shared jokes

together. He was exceedingly engrossed in learning about the United States
and wanted to know what made North Americans pulsate. With me, I
hoped, he learned a lot. I was very quick to break down some of the
cultural prejudices people have about the United States, so when I could I
let him know—and he did the same for me to help me understand
Venezuela better—with some plain facts or some example that I thought
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would help him understand. For example, he invited me to a really
spectacular restaurant in Caracas for lunch one day. While we were
ordering, he looked me straight in the face and asked me with the most
serious expression on his face not to request the waiter to bring ketchup to
the table! I was really taken back. I had not even thought about ketchup. I
explained to him the gaffe he had made and stunned him with this: “Did
you know that ketchup is a Chinese word?” He was shocked. Thereafter,
when we ate out together I would kid with him by asking the waiter to
please bring me a bottle of ketchup! Ramón got the message, and I
sincerely hope I did more to cultivate genuine, affable diplomatic relations
between Venezuela and the United States than the imbeciles at the
Department of State )Hate?) had ever done before or would do so in the
future.

Nevertheless, I would not have been able to take the time to elaborate on
North American mores without Ramón because he was an authentically
caring person and one with a very open mind, willing to listen, disposed to
learn, and attracted to improve himself while hoping to help others. He
could see things with a comic sense, too. He wanted to be happy and
wanted his family to be happy. To make his family and friends content to
be with him. If we were caught in a traffc jam, he would lambast
Venezuelan politicians in such a way as to make you think he knew nothing
about the ins and outs of the Venezuelan government. It was undeniably
hilarious for me to listen to his tirades and I was frequently tempted to ask
him how he would go about solving the Caraqueñan bête noire. I did not
want ever to let on to him that I yearned for him to someday make it to the
Venezuelan political summit, for one simple reason: he might think I was
trying to make a suggestion to him that he might think was not mine thus
spoiling our camaraderie. I am certain the idea of being president of
Venezuela was already embedded in his subconscious. I believe his father
was coaching him in a very subtle manner: not with dreams and words
about the presidency, but with facts and hard work planned well before in
order to attain that most noble of all Venezuelan political appointments.
The only time I wished I had ever worked for the CIA was when I thought I
could help Ramón reach his goal by speaking up for him with my superiors
in Langley.

As an up-coming politician, REL was equipped with a rare ability to appeal

to others and win them to his side. When he entered a room overfowing
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with people or when I saw him “seek votes” at a party we were attending
together, REL had that distinctive talent, important to any lawmaker or
policy maker, of swooping in to be noticed by everyone in the throng and
then, instantaneously, blend in with a modest group of friends and/or social
contacts out of the limelight all the while realizing the lights were on him.
This initial entrance charge into a room and then the subsequent refuge
into the warmth of a snug cluster, is an essential ingredient for cultivating
the truly charismatic political animal. Very few politicians possess this
inner twist. REL is crammed with this knack. He oozes an awesome sense
of confdence in himself, but he is unassuming enough to comfortably gel
with others. His father, RES, who did not hold this sway which is so
plentiful in his son, could not have asked for more.

The ace up Ramón's sleeve will always be his father. In a sense, Ramón
Escovar Salom is what made Ramón Escovar Leon the political package
that he is. REL could not have done it by himself; he could not could not
have arrived to the sphere surrounding the apex of Venezuelan politics
without sound advice and meticulous groundwork. Politics is an imperfect
science, and it is made even more fawed because inconsistent men and
women seek to stake the ground with their self-serving proposals for a
better world. This “better world” frequently turns out to be better for them
and not for their constituents! RES knows—probably better than the
majority of politicians in Venezuela—what the political count in Venezuela
is. And he knows that no one in Venezuelan politics is going to get very far
unless he or she shimmies up to the United States and those specifcally
interested in Venezuelan relations there and, particularly so, in
Washington.

RES put himself in a good position with the United States' powers to be, by
maintaining in Venezuela the neo-conservative posture cranked up by
Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher in the early 1980s which set the
hardball style of politics going at full speed as it would go so in the future.
His sojourns to Harvard University put him in communication with some of
the political science gurus of North American politics including “The
Carpet Bomber” and Stanley Hoffman.

RES brought my manuscript, The Hippie Lieutenant, to Cambridge

Massachusettes and showed it to Professor Hoffman who told RES to tell
me that he said “I think you are crazy!” What a wonderful compliment and
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the one that I cherish the most! Imagine, you can win the Nobel Prize and
academic accolades for concocting a bloody Southeast Asian confict that
will result in the deaths of millions of Asiatic peoples, and leave an
ineradicable blot of shame and suffering on a generation of your own
compatriots, and call any one of them “crazy” if they do not agree with you!

These individuals—and, of course the slant they sought to infuence RES

with—accepted RES into their fold where RES soaked up this personal
contact with some of the most celebrated North American “minds”
(mindsets!) on the political scene at the time. It was RES's way of trying to
bring respect to them for his beloved Venezuela. He desired strongly to
impress these university and governmental maharishis with his own ability
thus accumulating diplomatic points for his Venezuela—prudent notches
which might come in handy one day in the nitty gritty of diplomatic
connivance. Just as Gonza had snuck illegally through Venezuelan customs
$50,000 of Made in the USA ophthalmological goodies, so too RES passed
under the table to his fellow countrymen a porquería of Department of
State (Hate?) pamphlets (“Be Like Us” Vote for Democracy! Come On Let's
Make a United States of South America; Be Happy Forever! Vote and Go to
Church on Sundays;” and, “Let Christian Democratic Democracy Redeem
You and Make You Prosperous”.) Because RES was a naturally guarded
individual, it was easy for him to accept the new gringo world view that
Ronald Reagan and his political buddies and the editors of National Review
were brewing viciously in the planning rooms of the White House, the
Department of State, and the Pentagon. A new command was shortly to be
issued and its effect would last well into the twenty-frst century and reek
mayhem in all parts of our bleeding and gashed Earth and raise the Hate
Alert Watch to Bloody Red—its highest level ever.

Unfortunately, for both RES and for the United States' government, RES
had a falling out with his Acción Democrática party and Carlos Andrés Pérez
with whom RES often quarreled and disagreed with because CAP was not
kowtowing to the line Washington thought best for Venezuela. CAP was a
decidedly no nonsense type and had oodles of courage—perhaps too much
according to RES—to back up his convictions. They met head on and
RES's chances of becoming president of Venezuela dwindled almost to
zero and then nothing—he just could not lasso CAP. RES, a man with little
of the impetuosity that CAP had enormous reserves of, had to forego
becoming president, and thereafter concentrated on training his
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son, REL, to reach that goal he himself had failed to arrive at.

For the years that I lived in Venezuela, I sensed that the country was going
“bananas” with a ludicrous spending spree that the high oil prices of the
time had enabled the country to dabble in—and dangerously so. The
Venezuelan people, for decades stewing in the grime of poverty, wanted to
partake of the capitalist detonation that they were watching on television,
seeing in magazines, and hearing from Gonza and RES who had come back
to Venezuela from the United States with marvelous stories of prosperity
and access to spending abundance. Who could blame these Venezuelan
poor who could be proud to bring home a Japanese TV and feel that a
sense of dignity, as small as it might have been, was theirs to have, too! And
so what if their economic and political leaders were stealing more from
them than they ever could imagine? There was little less than corruption
and incompetence to show for all the petrodollars that had changed the
lifestyles of many Venezuelans and pushed up the country's greed level to
an embarrassing, vulgar high. RES wrote about this perilous waste in many
of his political columns for El Nacional. He was running scared over the
gross exaggeration. The image of the country was one that looked on the
outside rich and prosperous (garbage in the streets!), but the reality was
totally different. Stolen petrodollars were being stashed away in Miami
banks and Swiss secret accounts. Funding for sorely needed schools,
hospitals, infrastructure development, and other important expansion
programs were nowhere to be found. When I left Venezuela in 1983, one
dollar was valued at 6 bolivares. Today, 6 August 2004, $1.00 = 1920
bolivares. Broadly speaking, Venezuela had lost control of itself, and the
leadership of the country, under the tutelage of CAP, was losing its hold
over the nation and paving the way for the opposition to take over. And it
did.

RES and REL had to count their losses. Ronald Reagan had thrown down
the gauntlet, and as petroleum prices began to plunge and Venezuela had
diffculties trying to make payments on its multi-billion dollar debt, hard
times for the Venezuelan people began to take hold, and the route to
clamorous social protesting—some have called it civil war—had been taken.
Today, Venezuela is teetering on the verge of further disaster. Since I left in
1983—a good twenty years ago—the Venezuelan tragedy has been one
continuous disorder getting worse and worse.

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With all due respect to RES and REL, and their formidable educations and
professional lives, I want to take a moment or two to compellingly criticize
them and ask them both if they understand the meaning of the word
“politics,” that derives from the Greek politicos. I am being a bit facetious,
of course, but it is necessary that I be so in light of the desperate
circumstances Venezuela is foundering in right now as I write this
sentence. RES and REL made a tremendously grave political
miscalculation in speciously contemplating the course of action needed to
save Venezuela from the unbelievable, disgraceful dilemma it today fnds
itself embroiled in. But let me explain...

First, let us look at one defnition of “politics” that I retrieved from the
Merriam-Webster dictionary: “The total complex of relations between
people living in society.” Politicians, if they are swift in their thinking, seek
a consensus among all people they represent and who look up to them in a
spirit of hope for their inventiveness and dedication to the causes which
interest them and, in turn, draw the attention of the representatives
themselves. It would be nice to believe that there are peoples in the world
who do not detest at least some of their politicians, and this quandary—the
universal hatred that is being dealt politicians for their ineffectiveness—eats
away at the conventions of justice and equality for all that should
characterize our quest for a more peaceful world and an ambient for all
people safe and nurturant. So then, politics is a binding of people to the
people they have elected to represent them, and these lawmakers refect in
many ways the very people who have elected them! What the people want
is the politicians they get! This is so obvious for one particular reason:
politicians are elected for a fxed term and no more than a few years. Thank
goodness. This is a built-in safety valve for those individuals who might
have been wide of the mark in their original choice of a public servant. If
our politicians were of so high quality characters, there would be no need
to want to have them dismissed from our sight. And because we do not
trust our civil servants for even more than a few years at a time, we equally
have no confdence in ourselves! This seesawing is a sad commentary on
the democratic tradition that has ft in so comfortably, and not in the
majority of places throughout the world, in the industrial nations and the
so-called “civilized” nations which populate our planet.

In Venezuela, a country scarred by the hatred of invading conquerers and

asphyxiated by dictatorships of its own choosing, the democratic process
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has been worse than a series of ups and downs: it has been a development
fxed with setbacks which have eroded away the very foundations of the
country's egalitarian constitution. Today Venezuela is poised to notch up
another hindrance to the drudgery that has distinguished its tug of war to
attain respect in the world as a democratic entity. Hugo Chavez has been
frm and convincing—so far. The corrupt Venezuelan political system that
favored a society of elites at the expense of the majority of its citizens, is
now running into a wall of protest that appears to be stronger than the
oligarchies themselves. This remonstration has been festering in the spirit
of the underprivileged in Venezuela for decades, and it is almost
miraculous that the dissent had not broken out before this date. In the
nation that comprises a total area of 912,050 square kilometers with a
coastline of 2,800 kilometers, 30.5% of the population is under 14 years of
age. And for most of these individuals, citizens, there are no schools and
little by way of social services and other amenities the oil-rich country
might provide its citizens. 47% (1998) of the population is below the poverty
line, and the GDP per capita purchasing power parity is $4,800 (2003). The
Venezuelan labor force is set at 9,9 million (1999) in a population of
25,017,387 individuals with an 18% unemployment rate (2003). Venezuela
has an external debt of $20.8 billion. During 2003, bolivares per dollar
averaged 1,607.79. There are 4.1 million (1997) televisions in the country.
Large quantities of cocaine, heroin, and marijuana transit the country from
Colombia bound for the United States and Europe. Signifcant narcotics-
related money laundering activity, especially along the border with
Colombia and on Margarita Island, complicates efforts by law enforcement
offcials to combat crime. An active eradication program primarily targeting
opium is in vigor; and, increasing signs of drug-related activities by
Colombian insurgents on Venezuela's border have been recently reported.
The World Factbook:
www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/print/ve.html.)

I don't know what good Henry “The Carpet Bomber” Kissinger, David
Rockefeller, Arthur Schleslinger, Jr, Ronald Reagan, William F Buckley,
Sr, William F Buckley, Jr, the Department of Hate, et alia, have done for
Venezuela, but my guess would be indeed very little if I pass back to the
almost eight years I lived there (31 December 1975-1 May 1983) surveying
the living conditions of that poor country during the economic roar that
was at that time benefting the small percentage of Venezuela's rich and
prominent—including my beloved Gonza: The Twelve Disciples and their
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entourage. And, I am not so much interested in thinking about this
Harvard University-Central Stupidity Agency-Department of Hate troika-
like arrangement as I am at attempting to get to the bottom of why Ramón
Escovar Salom and Ramón Escovar León hobnobbed with these North
American goofballs so solicitously thinking so modestly about their own
compatriots whom they were sworn to represent and protect.

I think I have already made quite enough excuses for RES and REL and I
have also given some hint as to why they would be prone to consort with
powerful, diplomatic, and governmental fgures from the United States of
America. They truly had at heart their beloved Venezuela, and they were
out to put Venezuela on the map simply because it had been denied world
recognition beforehand. RES wanted to impress upon his political peers
throughout the world, as he met them personally, that Venezuela
commanded respect and not just because it was a major oil-producing
nation belonging to a highly powerful alliance called the Organization of
Petroleum Exporting Countries. He fervently desired to advertise the
cultural and artistic and intellectual qualities of his nation. He wanted to
enhance the tourist industry of Venezuela and invite millions of people
from all over the world to come to visit his extraordinarily beautiful state.
His personality and academic qualifcations allowed him to spearhead
interest in Venezuela, and wherever he went he was quick to talk up the
merits of, in his time, the most stable democratic nation in South America.

Why didn't his son, REL, become president of Venezuela? The answer is
easy: RES and REL isolated themselves from their very own people and
counted on the Acción Democrática party machine—in much the same way
JFK depended on Mayor Daley's structure in Chicago—to carry them over
the fnish line and do the necessary public relations and campaigning work
needed to win the hearts and minds of of the Venezuelan people. RES had
as much public charisma as a smoked mackerel, but his offspring was
decidedly more personable and tremendously more appealing to those
concerned with contemporary Venezuelan political and economic affairs.
RES remains a political sage who REL must, nevertheless, pin his trust on.

I remember when we all went to the beach together, and before arriving at
REL's private club located on the Caribbean Sea, we had to pass through a
particularly underprivileged area that reminded me of the northwest
section of Fort Lauderdale, Florida where I had worked in the early 1970s
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as a social worker. The poor people stopped to look at Ramón's elegant,
shiny car as we whizzed by them without any of us saying a word about
their desperate condition. I often looked to Ramón's face to see if he could
offer me some reaction to these drastic circumstances. RES never, never
mentioned this horrible reality that is typical of the panorama of Caracas
and all the other cities located in the country. One does not even have to
drive less than a kilometer, in any place located with the borders of
Venezuela, without tripping across some reminder that the majority of the
of the nation's population is living in extremely impoverished conditions.
In front of the Banco Central in downtown Caracas, poor people are lined
up on the sidewalk seeking donations, trying to bring to passers-by
attention their cancerous sores. Beggars who can walk swarm all over the
city soliciting alms. Kids roam the streets selling stolen goods. Theft is an
on-going, normal occurrence—a capitalist nuisance. You cannot wear
jewelry or expensive watches if you have the courage to stroll through the
streets of Caracas especially at night. And if you are a stranger to the city,
you best better maneuver with someone familiar with the city. Through the
night, you will hear gunshots going off incessantly. After parties, celebrants
must return to their cars with their hands on their pistols constantly being
afraid to be ensnared in a robbery. More than two-hundred people, at least,
are killed every weekend in Caracas, and the city's jails are overcrowded
with drug dealers, murderers, bank robbers, psychotically ill prisoners, and
ghastly examples of injustice and violations of the detainees' human rights.

But where did REL ft in within this poverty-stricken populace?

Surrounded by the fraudulent perpetrators of an artifcial Venezuelan
government of which a small group, in cahoots with the United States of
America, exercises control especially for corrupt and selfsh purposes. Poor,
Ramón! He could wiggle and waggle throughout Caracas meeting one
political crook after another, return to his father that day, ask whether or
not the felons he had associated with that day were, or were not, in fact,
crooks, and then bide his time hoping, like a good Christian, that all would
turn out for the better later on. It didn't. His father would tell him with
whom he should have a lot to do with and with whom he should not. Never
once did RES suggest to REL that he get into the hearts and minds of his
fellow citizens, the Venezuelan people, and seek their respect and
admiration. No, Ramón had to be protected from the wolves in the
perverted Venezuelan political system, and there was no time to think that
the real majority of the nation, the poor and suffering, might one day, in
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the voting booth, click their votes for our Venezuelan Superman Ramón
Escovar Leon. It was as if Ramón suffered some sort of immense defciency
and had to be kept in a plastic bubble so that contact with his compatriots
was impossible.

In this isolation Ramón would also, as his father, lose the presidency of the
Republic of Venezuela even before he had made any effort to fght for it!
Here is a man perfectly prepped to assume the highest offce his nation has
to offer, possessing all the intellectual, physical, and ethical accruements
necessary to sustain himself successfully in that offce, and he let the
opportunity slip through his fngers. He let himself forget that about 70%,
of his country can vote, can rally behind him, can put their confdence in
his charisma, intelligence, sincerity, good will and kind heart. No, Ramón
must be seen huddling with powerful Venezuelan Robber Barons who are
as stupid as John Sullivan and William F Buckley, Jr combined! Ramón
must be counseled by his father to follow a safe, neo-conservative political
style that went out of fashion ffty years ago. He must do the “accepted
thing” and take the thought-to-be easy street to Venezuelan political
triumph. He must hook up to the seedy side, if necessary. He must mingle
with the status quo of Venezuelan sleaze and ineptitude. He must sublimate
his yearning to fee from the oligarchic elements with which Venezuela has
become victim to in its state of repression and stupor.

REL enjoyed an out of the ordinary disposition. He had the potential to be

heroic for one simple reason: he could have come to the realization that
being sick and tired of the depravity encircling him, he had the chance to
be a brave man—like CAP. There was in him that spark of courageousness.
I admired that about him. But, he needed help. Not his father's. To get out
of his rut, to carpe diem, to choose, to decide to be free, to authenticate
himself, to lend a hand to his fellow citizens in order to help them crawl
out of the hole into which they had hidden themselves, to face the light of
the day, to convert Suffering, as Beethoven did, into Joy—this was what he
had to do for Venezuela to be heroic. In short, Venezuela was in desperate
need of a Leader and not a sophisticated populist demagog.

J'accuse Ramón Escovar Salom and Ramón Escovar Leon of facilitating the
rise to power of Hugo Chávez! Yes, they abetted this Venezuelan
Bolingbroke in his efforts to fll a void in Venezuelan politics that was so
grand, any nincompoop in a uniform—even a United States' one-star
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general—could have taken over the inconsolable Venezuela. A country with
25,000,000 people, 90% of whom were living mostly in squalor and still are
desperate to be redeemed, while RES and REL are meandering about the
territory spieling out Washingtonian drivel advocating a Christian Capitalist
Economy—blessed by Venezuela cardinals and bishops and subsidized by
corrupt Venezuelan bankers! All Venezuelan politicians were promising
their constituents that they, too, one day, if they worked hard, will have the
funds to buy a Chevrolet Caprice, tailored Italian suits, and fy to Miami
and buy exclusive condominiums.

I cannot blame Hugo Chávez. I disagree with him on many counts, and I
will explain why. He is not the right man for Venezuela, and I think he
would admit the same to himself. But it is important to note here that
Chávez was instrumental in saving Venezuela from a fate worse than the
one that Venezuela is today enmeshed in. Chávez took rule—an awkward
control of an inconsolable social, political, and economic calamity—that
had had its origins in the years of turpitude of the Venezuelan existing state
of affairs that had deteriorated so drastically. Chávez, and his backers,
stepped in to short circuit a pending disaster worse than imagined by most.
The stability of Venezuela had never been before so in danger of extinction
as when this barracks' colonel, who loves baseball, came on the scene and
attempted to right the steady decline of his country. Chávez had become a
makeshift entity. The fact that he was so long in offce still refects the
seriousness of the Venezuelan predicament. I am certain he realizes this
more than any one else.

When the uneducated, fanatically patriotic Chávez usurped Venezuela with

his clique of comrades, Venezuela had been ruined by debt. Ruined by
greed. Ruined by degeneracy. There was no alternative for him. The
popular Venezuelan political parties were in disgrace. The country was
rudderless. The resort to military order, a common South American
contingency plan the Department of Hate had thought it had eradicated
from the sinews of the Venezuelan political muscle by bribing the
Venezuelan military establishment, roared its head up ferociously and put
United States' congressmen and women and US senators on the alert to the
possible loss of Venezuela not only as a “friend,” but as a supplier of the
black gold so important to the running of the United States' capitalist
machinery. The chief of mission of the diplomatic representation from the
United States in his embassy on Calle F con Calle Süapure, Urbanización
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Colinas de Valle Arriba, did, naturally, the most stupid thing imaginable:
he backed the Roman Catholic church, the bankers, the media, the
Venezuelan Chamber of Commerce, “The Twelve Disciples,” in toto, the
Venezuelan oligarchies! This only infamed the already dismal situation,
and today Venezuela is doddering on the brink of civil war. If Chávez loses
the 15 August 2004 vote, the knives of the opposing sides will be
sharpened, and the Venezuelan debacle will sink still lower into the mud.

And where is Ramón? Studying English? Studying Italian? On vacation in

Europe? Sojourning as a visiting professor at Harvard University? Having
his picture taken with Henry “The Carper Bomber” Kissinger? Reading the
latest edition of Foreign Affairs? Memorizing passages from National Review?
Watching CNN?

Hugo Chávez is not the proper guardian to lead Venezuela out of its rush to
downfall. This is so for a number of reasons: All things considered, the
end result of the Chávez regime requires that the world look upon
Venezuela as a governable political body, but this is not an existing
attribute. Chávez insinuates that oil is a commodity, a bribe, that can be
used in the event he does not reach his political goals; he promises to give
rights to all Venezuelan citizens that even the oligarchies themselves do not
now possess; he so forcefully pressurizes contrasting political factions; the
Venezuelan nation itself risks precipitating into a civil war; and, Chávez
jeopardizes not delivering his commitments just as his hated opponents did
when they campaigned in a more stable Venezuelan political environment.

The Venezuelan quandary is much more complicated than Chávez and/or

the resistance that is attempting to oust him. While the country is so
divided, the chances for a dictatorship fester all the more, and the hopes of
a nation vanish into thin air causing further fear and anger. The
polarization now in motion is a dreadful omen. Violence is seething below
the Venezuelan psyche. Too many people for too long have wanted and
suffered without aid. The injustices heaped upon the majority of
Venezuela's people have never been rectifed, and the citizenship is rash
with disgust, anger, and the craving for revenge. Hugo Chávez is closer to
this political reality than Ramón Escovar Leon pretends to be. Chávez not
wanting to relinquish his hard-fought-for power, does not want to admit
that he simply is a stopgap measure in the topsy-turvy Venezuelan political
roller-coaster that is rolling along at breakneck speed while the
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country is stuck in one of its most challenging periods of transition—
without direction, without good sense. If ever Venezuela returns to
resembling an enduring democratic state it will be due to the courageous,
though hip-shooting sweeps Hugo Chávez justifable swung at eliminating
corrupt Venezuelan politicians and businessmen, these happy-go-lucky
oligarchs, backed up by inept functionaries in the United States
government. It will not be accomplished by Ramón Escovar Salom or
Ramón Escovar Leon. They both have sat on the sidelines as their country
sank into gangsterism and unprecedented political turmoil.

I defy the Venezuelan people and my friend Ramón to refect, to think, to

calm themselves. I ask them to take stock of the auspicious possibilities that
they, together, can create for the future of Venezuela. I plead with all my
strength, that they look to what it means to be a Venezuelan. To review
their history of wretchedness and injustice and to seek to deliver to their
offspring a Venezuela more vital and caring for itself. I implore all
Venezuelan citizens to reach out and include hope in their agenda for the
future. To go again to those individuals who loved and believed in
Venezuela during their lifetimes and fought to enhance the potentialities of
the Venezuelan nation. Emulate them. Study their methods. Learn what to
do by observing their actions. Yes, this is a time to perform deeds, to
polemicize less. Hugo Chávez has given you many meritorious ideas to
foster fairness and generosity in the neighborhoods of Caracas. He has
stimulated his people to stand up and struggle for their rights. But he needs
assistance. He needs the help of all people living in Venezuela. He must
join with the professionals, educators, businessmen—yes, even The Twelve
Disciples—to lead Venezuela out of this abyss. The ruling classes of
Venezuela must admit their errors and exclusionary tactics that have
enormously contributed to widening the social, economic, and political gulf
that now tends to rip Venezuela apart. When all Venezuelan people
participate in joining hands together in a union of pride and intellectual
strength, they will then be traveling down that road to freedom and justice
for all.

Ramón, I beg you to come to your senses. With your never-ending talent,
with your intelligence, with your love for Venezuela, with your remarkable
political ability, I implore you to lead your country and save it from
draining itself in the waste of hate, violence and a lacerating rupture that
will bring untold torment to millions in your country. I ask that you join
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with your people “pressing their fesh,” learning how they live in the
barrios, noting what they have had to sacrifce so that a small portion of
Venezuela could do with an abundance, and I demand that you create an
atmosphere in Venezuela that will be healthy and prosperous for all—a
spirit that Ramóncito and María Victoria will be full of pride to enjoy with
you, Coquito and all Venezuelan citizens.

I know you are not happy with Carlos Andrés Pérez, but I request that you
re-read his speeches especially the one he delivered before the United
Nations in 1976. Learn from CAP. With all his defects, he is an expert at
appealing to the Venezuelan people. He realized more than most
Venezuelan politicos that it is the people you must have behind you—not
the backroom dealers and wheelers who feign political consensus. CAP had
that magnetism possessed by only a few in twentieth-century Latin
American politics. CAP was a natural born leader who had endured
immense physical and mental suffering when tortured by his opponents.
He risked his life for Venezuela and others responded trying to kill him for
his efforts. CAP erred along the way, but he profted from his blunders. He
picked himself up again and went on to the next obstacle. He wanted to
break down the walls of oppression and injustice frequently found in
Venezuelan politics which during the dictatorships that had kept Venezuela
in a medieval-like political and social abeyance with favors being doled out
to those intimate with the despots, fostered greed and corruption. CAP was
a fghter. He was an eccentric. CAP was impetuous in his efforts to remedy
the many injustices he had witnessed his beloved Venezuelan roar up to
defeat. He had courage. He thrashed about to attain a dignity that often
eluded him.

You, too, are an unusual personage, Ramón. In your heart you know what
you need to do. You know you must act, react. But you are tormented by
the idea of wiggling out of the intellectual and emotional comfort zones that
have been loaded onto your being. Ramón, this is not the time to be
cautious. This is not time to deliberate, to analyze. This is not the time to
dispute. You must act! You must organize! You must lead! Your nation is
on the verge of breaking apart into many pieces. This breach will show the
way to disastrous consequences for all Venezuelans. The estrangement will
bring further disgrace from all corners of the world when it is understood
that Venezuela does not possess the mettle to fght for its own destiny and
do what is best for its citizens. Venezuela will be dragged into the mud of
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public opinion, and hawkish factions in the United States will justify their
interventions to “save” your nation for you. The United States will
intercede—by force if necessary—to preserve the equilibrium Venezuelan
oil reserves consign to gasoline guzzling North Americans. Venezuela will
lose face and sovereignty, and will become an international laughingstock—
the butt of all jokes. You just cannot huff and puff at this dilemma, Ramón.
You have no choice but to discharge those duties you see ft to effectuate a
Venezuelan rescue. To put Venezuela on a course of action intelligent and
just. To offer Venezuelan citizens an olive ranch with hope and goodwill
spliced to it. To stand up before your people and explain to them what will
be the consequences of their disparate resorts to violence and destruction.
Ramón, I beseech you: GET MOVING!

You are going to think I am crazy when I make the following suggestion to
you! (What could be more crazy than to see Venezuela slide into the mire of
civil war because the two factions dividing Venezuela were so intransigent
that they refuse to talk to each other!) Here is my proposal: Ramón, please
go to Hugo Chávez and tell him you have a plan to bring Venezuela
together again and that you need his help to do it. Admit to him that
members of your own Acción Democrática party stole from Venezuela—but
probably not as much as much as Democrats and Republicans pilfer from
citizens of the United States of America! Be honest with him. Tell him you
and your father made mistakes. Tell him your party erred frequently. Tell
him, too, that the Venezuelan military establishment is not famous for its
clean living and fscal honesty! (I remember eating in the offcers' mess at
Palacios Mirafores, and I was impressed with the elegance and exquisite
Venezuelan cuisine offered Venezuelan feld and general offcers.) Let him
hear that up to a point he is right for screaming for reform in Venezuela on
behalf of the people in this splendid country. Let him know reform is
needed and urgently. Encourage him with your sincerity and intelligence.
Let him observe that there is more to leading a country than touching the
nerves of a segment of it—as large as it is—a part of the nation sadly fed up
with this and that, that and this. Let him understand that if he panders
exclusively to the injustices and sufferings his following has been victimized
by, he will never be able to fashion a national reformation credible and
enduring. But most of all, let him know that he cannot ramble on against
his opposition without he himself falling into the trap of demagoguery—a
dead end for all Venezuelans. If Hugo Chávez does not produce the goods
he has promised, he will be drawn into a political corner from which he
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will have to scratch and claw his way out of. Explain to him that he must
have your advice, your experience, your knowledge. Ramón, you are a
political strategist. Hugo Chávez is an infantry colonel and not a politician.
His politics is based on his popularity. And we all know that a political
party claiming to exclusively represent the common people is doomed for
the simple reason that it excludes an important segment of its constituents.
Populism might have made some sense in times gone by, but in our
complex world, which draws close to itself more and more each day, a more
sophisticated approach is required to bring together people to form
common objectives.

In a nutshell, Hugo Chávez must be recognized as an individual who did

Venezuela a very big, good turn. He agitated the waters of corruption and
indecency. He had the courage to stand up to a deeply-seated corruption
that was destroying Venezuela by eating away at its innards. He called
attention, in a very alarming manner, to an ailment that was trashing
Venezuela. But, Hugo Chávez, the whistle-blower, must now realize that his
term of offce is temporary—not intended to go on and on and on. His
mandate has to be transitory because if it is not, many Venezuelan
conventions, other than his own, will be compromised and risk elimination
in the passion of dissent and the revolt of the people that accompanies it.
These debilitating symptoms often prognosticate the demise of a political
entity. No one in Venezuela desires such a heartbreak. Explain this to him,
Ramón, win him to your side, and concoct a coalition that will win points
for you and lead you on, thanks to Hugo, to the Presidency of Venezuela.
Just walk up to Hugo, and shock him into disbelief! Then calmly explain
yourself. Only you can do it, Ramón!

CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX

When I had returned from Vietnam in August 1968, I knew then and there
something terribly wrong had taken hold of the DisUnited States of
America—that which I never would have dreamt about before especially
during my four years studying philosophy, military science, artillery, and
geopolitical strategy. During my university days I was safe and chaste, in
Towers of Ivy ten hours by train or car from New York City, at the foothills
of the Allegheny Mountains, and not far from the Canadian border. For the
time of my brainwashing, no one hinted to me that I would have found, in
Vietnam, half the troops drunk, drugged, and intolerant. That I would have
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found my worst enemy wearing the same uniform that I did. That I would
have observed myself being harassed by an infantry captain from Louisiana
because I read The New York Times—a subscription that my sister had sent
to me in Vietnam for my birthday. After a week in Vietnam, I had
understood why there existed a Hippie Movement. There had to have been
one!

It took a long time before I could verbalize my Vietnam experiences. And

not because I had been in shock at the time; or, suffering from some newly-
defned “syndrome.” No! I just could not run into—in the the State of
Florida to where I had fed from NY after coming home from Vietnam—
enough people who wanted to be honest about Vietnam with me. Worst of
all were the Vietnam veterans themselves. Most of them had cocooned their
psyches either in hate and revenge or the heaviness of silence. I had to
happen upon a place to put my thoughts in order. A place far away from
the DisUnited States of America. Florida was thoughtless, true. Yet it still
was not the best spot for me.

It was not Karl Marx so much as it was my desire to determine whether or

not the “bad guys” were really anymore worse than us, the “good guys,”
that had goaded me on to interest myself in Marxism. Because so many
insipid incidents had befallen me during my two years of active duty in the
United States Army and while my Venezuelan experience was slowly
fltering itself into my brain, I came to the conclusion that dust had been
thrown into my eyes during my youth and my university residences. I was
looking for something, someone to trust in. I had lost hope almost in
everything. I felt I had to begin all over again. Even the Roman Catholic
institute of higher learning I had attended had itself been subsidized by the
United States' government's funding to allow it to train some of us (Reserve
Offcers' Training Corps) to be converted into artillery offcers—redlegs,
The Friary that housed the Franciscan monks had been called by us “The
Hilton,” and whisky and wine bottles flled to the brim the dumpsters
outside the government-supported “playpen” for chubby, pedophilic,
brown-clad priests (100% draft-dodging clerics) who frolicked in the
ecclesiastical “tax heaven” thanks to a military force bound, in a short time,
to carpet bomb to death millions of innocent Asian people. I realized then
that in the United States, overfowing with the military-industrial complex,
I would never feel free to say what I wanted to express about Vietnam.

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But there was that still more important, crucial factor. Jean-Paul Sartre
and Bertrand Russell had been so passionately, so outspokenly repulsed by
the Vietnam confict, I could not myself think to waste away the seriousness
of the matter. Their presence on a world tribunal, chronicling the atrocities
committed by United States' military personnel and their allies in Vietnam,
stunned me. I felt depressed—to say the least. The philosophers made me
not forget. Millions of Americans have.

For a long time, I did not seek to protest; rather, I had hoped the people in
the United States would come to their senses and quit mesmerizing the
Vietnam tragedy into oblivion. That was wishful thinking on my part which
subsequently distanced me farther from the place of my birth. I was
downright frustrated with North Americans and their vain attempts to make
out of Vietnam something that it was not: a lost but just cause.

And, of course, my Venezuelan encounter also fueled my sensitivity to

injustice. I was beginning to put two and two together, and in doing so, was
reforming the totality of my political perspective. I had to question most of
what I had been taught up to this part of my life. I clearly was developing a
zeal to understand and criticize. And I was formulating what I think are
some particularly interesting insights into politics as I had once before
thought of it in the United States, Vietnam, Venezuela, and later, Italy. My
observations, naturally, were complemented by the heavy reading of
political and philosophically political thinkers.

My frst firt (1981) with the hammer and sickle blossomed in Caracas. One
day, I showed up at the Soviet embassy there brandishing a bouquet of red
roses, toting my manuscript, The Hippie Lieutenant, and dressed in the Hart,
Schafter & Marx suit I had worn at the Ministerio de Información y Turismo
and to the gala events I had once been invited to by Ramón, intent on
impressing the Soviets with my sincerity and respect for them and the
Soviet people.

At the front door of the embassy, I sucked in a deep breath, hoped the
Central Stupidity Agency surveillance cameras were turned on, gave the
United States' Department of Hate The Finger, about-faced, then rang the
embassy front door bell. I had the sensation I was making History—at least
for myself. I was. I was making my History! For the frst time in my life, I
was not making History for someone else! It was a beautiful sensation. (To
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do is to be: Sartre; To be is to do: Camus; Do be do be do: Sinatra.)

Soviet embassy personnel were both very cordial and very curious. I was
told I could not see the ambassador. Alexey Borisov, a journalist, came to
welcome me and speak to me. We spoke in both his broken English and
Spanish. He, too, was very kind and friendly. Later, I met Alexey's wife,
Natalia, and their daughter, Iliana. I told Alexey that I wanted to publish my
manuscript in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics because no one in
the United States wanted to publish it. (When Paul Fritz, once my literary
agent in Zürich, Switzerland read The Hippie Lieutenant manuscript, he
looked me in the eyes and said: “I can see why they would not want to
publish this book in the United States.”) Alexey said he would like to read
it. I gave him the copy. In return, he gifted me many books in English that
included works by Marx, Lenin, and other communist literary and political
notables. He put them all in a CADA shopping bag for me. When I
returned home, I began to read them enthusiastically.

After months of meetings and Soviet cultural events and gifts of reading
materials, I was asked to write some articles about Vietnam for Venezuela's
communist newspaper. I said I would prefer that any of my articles be
published by Pravda! (THINK BIG!) An interview with the vice-director of
the USSR's biggest publishing outft, Raduga Publishers—he had stopped
to visit with me on his way back to Moscow after a South American tour—
failed to yield results. I was invited to tour the USSR as a guest. I said I
would be happy to visit all communist countries in the world once my book
had been published and in circulation all over the world.

One day Alexey invited me for a drink in a nice bar in downtown Caracas.
We talked about my book and life in the United States, the Soviet Union,
and Venezuela. Two things from that meeting are fxed in my mind. Alexey
frequently referred to the Venezuelan people as “stupid” individuals, and
this puzzled me. Alexey was a journalist, and a seemingly sensitive person,
but surely he had to think his function was also a diplomatic one, and such
comments indeed were not proper. After a while, while we sipped on our
Scotches, he took out a mini vibrator used to give pinpoint massages—if I
remember correctly he said that it had been produced in the People's
Republic of China—and he passed it to me to try! The device was made of a
beige plastic and I examined it and turned the battery-operated object on. I
then turned it off, put the object on the table before me, and applied the
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fngerprints of my right hand, one by one, thumb to pinkie, as they do at a
police station booking, being careful not to smudge my fngerprints. Alexey
was startled. When I had fnished, I looked him straight in his eyes and
asked: “Do you want the prints of my left hand, too?” Alexey turned
communist red with embarrassment and put the little massager in his right
jacket pocket. He didn't say another word about it. Neither did I. He
switched the topic to Venezuelan politics about which I dazzled him with
my insights and notable acquaintances.

My contact at the Soviet embassy in Caracas, after Alexey, was a high-up

functionary named Yuri who was in charge of the commercial section. He
spoke excellent English and he told me he had been once an executive with
the Russian gas company. When I kidded him by saying he must have done
something terribly wrong to have been stationed in the Caracas embassy,
he belly-laughed and we immediately became friends. I called Yuri
frequently to learn whether or not any progress on the publication of my
book had been made. Each time he informed me that nothing yet had been
decided. Then, one day, I was astonished to hear from him that it had been
settled on that my book should not be published at that time because
Ronald Reagan, who was fresh in offce at the White House, might be
offended at what I had to say about Vietnam! Yuri told me, on the
telephone in my quinta, that the USSR and the US were on a honeymoon
of sorts and the publication of my book might spoil the happy dreams the
two love birds had been reveling in! I couldn't believe what I had heard and
immediately thought Yuri had found the perfect excuse to keep me from
calling him so often. I would have given my right arm for my book to spoil
Ronald Reagan's life!

From that time on, I went it alone again without Soviet embassy pals,
signed up for a Russian language course at the Centro de Amigos de la
Cultura y Ciencias de la URSS, and wished that the Cyrillic alphabet would
not drive me looney. I still kept it in the back of my mind that one day my
book would be published, and I even entertained the idea of visiting the
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics at their expense. Every Saturday, on my
way up Avenida Los Mangos to the Centro, I took in the aromas of the
splendid tropical vegetation, fowers and trees doting the elegant La Florida
residential zone, sipped on my café con leche, and refected on my state of
being: no country, no money, no ideology. It was one of the happiest times
of my life! Truly Henry Millerish.
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At the Centro, I paused a bit—I think—at what it means to be a communist,
and I must admit that in this fraternity of all races, all ages, I enjoyed one of
the most beautiful of comings-together I had ever known. Everyone was
very friendly. The people were distinctly open-minded; they were not
chauvinistic. I felt as if I had been at a cocktail party in The Big Apple. The
individuals who surrounded me were internationalists. Worldly orientated.
They mused in terms of propinquity, and everyone had a right to be part of
that grouping. All beings on Earth were accepted for whom they were—not
to what they belonged. This sat well with me. (Much more “catholic” than
the Roman Catholic church!) I just knew I was welcomed in the company of
my comrades, and I have never again embraced such a human tie to
harmony with itself and others. For a few months, I rode high in the
exquisite balloon of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, way up there
in the air, chasing my dream across the sky, where the world's a nicer place
to be. I could fy! I could fy!! I could fy!!!

As I write this page in Calenzano, Italy (11 August 2004) I am anxiously

waiting to see the results of the Venezuelan referendum to be held Sunday,
15 August 2004, pitting Hugo Chávez against the Venezuelan oligarchies
backed by the Roman Catholic church, The Twelve Disciples, the Central
Stupidity Agency, and the Department of Hate, and I know that I have,
“under my belt,” more than twenty years of study and refection upon the
thirty-two years I lived in the United States, one year in Vietnam, and
almost eight spent in Venezuela. I am confdent with my observations. I
believe I understand Venezuela all the more because I have lived in other
social bubbles. I can make comparisons, contrasts that others, without my
experiences, cannot.

However, I must admit that whatever conclusions I am capable of drawing,

the political and economic quandary that we fnd ourselves embroiled in at
this time and place in History, far outweigh any happy thoughts one might
offer. So, we might be strong and literally fght on to survive in this hostile
environment.

In my own frequent moments of hopelessness, I am not inclined anymore

to pick up a philosophical or political treatise to probe for some intellectual
succor which might relieve my feelings of forlornness. One remedy I have
found is to listen to songs written in the past. For example, Spandau Ballet,
1986. And I cry. Yes, I have even sobbed once or twice listening to
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“Through the Barricades.” I have never listened to this tune without tears
coming to my eyes. Listen with me to the words:

THROUGH THE BARRICADES

Mother doesn't know where lovers go

She says it must be youth that keeps us feeling strong
I see it in her face that's turned to ice
And when she smiles she shows the lines of sacrifce

Now I know what they're saying

As our sun begins to fade
And we made our love on wasteland the through the barricades

Father made my history

Fought for what he thought would set us somehow free
He taught me what to say in school
I learned enough by heart
But now that's torn in two

Now I know what they're saying

And the music of the parade
And we made our love on wasteland
And through the barricades

Born on different sides of life

We feel the same
And feel all of their strife
So come to me when I'm asleep
We'll pass the lines
And dance upon the streets

Now I know what they're saying

As the drums begin to play
And we made our love on wasteland
And through the barricades

Oh turn around and I'll be thereafter

Oh there's a scar right through my heart
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 But I'll bear it again

Oh I thought we were the human race

But we were just another borderline case
And the stars reach down and tell us
There's always one escape

Oh I don't know where love has gone

But in this troubled land
Desperation keeps us strong
The brightest child is full of soul
With nothing left to lose
There's everything to go

Now I know what they're saying

It's a terrible beauty we've made
So we make our love on wasteland
And through the barricades

Now I know what they're saying

As our hearts go to their graves
And we made our love on wasteland
And through the barricades

CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN

I have a friend who is a philosopher. He does not even know I exist. He is

an “intellectual acquaintance” of mine. His name is Peter singer. I have
coiled up reading him, puffng on a good Havana and sipping on a
sumptuous Beaujolais or Chianti, during some of my most melancholic
moments in Caracas and Calenzano. You must read his Democracy and
Disobedience and Animal Liberation and Ethics—at least. The last I heard
about him he was teaching philosophy in a university in Australia. With his
help I want to review some of his observations which I believe are pertinent
to the diffcult times we are simmering in, and demonstrate to my readers
that when one is not prevailed over with desolation—when the world
appears not to be a place with a future to it—it makes sense, as Bertrand
Russell would have said, to refer to hope as a logical alternative.

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It is diffcult to think that scientifc discoveries might be churned out
constantly about economics, sociology, and political science. Perhaps all
that has to be said has been said? Throughout history attempts have been
made to do so, to say more and more. Yet no philosopher nor philosophy
has been able to sum up what the foremost components of human activity
are or even pretend to be. Theories abound. They are important to us. They
help us to analyze ourselves and augment the knowledge we already
possess. Philosophy is an on-going knitting of a sweater of ideas that will
never be fnished. Each and every stitch makes a contribution, but that
pullover will never be worn. Even the greatest of thinkers will never admit
that their corpora are the fnal says in philosophical contemplation. We
think to survive and we enjoy when we have prospered. One philosophical
method might dress itself up in one fashion while another vests itself in
another style. We are foolish to follow blindly any single method of
thinking.

If we are to understand that we are living on a planet not rich, to any

further extent, with the natural resources essential to satisfy the needs of
the more than 6,000,000,000 (2004) beings living today, then we are not
surviving and there is no enjoyment. If we cannot get pleasure from that
which surrounds us, we are doomed, eventually, to self-destruction. We are
committing a sort of mass suicide of negligence. This obviously does not
contribute to our continued, blissful, hedonistic existence.

What must be done to reverse this tendency?

What must be done to survive?

What must be done to fnd hope in out activities?

These are serious questions that will not be answered by upright green
arrows that celebrate the advances of the Dow Jones Industrial Average or
the National Association of Securities' Dealers' Automated Quotations'
System indexes. Economic progress is not an indicator of human
endurance. Pockets of opportunity for the not many cannot make the day
for humanity. The cults of the privileged classes are both self-defeating and
criminal. There exists a horrifying distortion that threatens the very
existence of what we have believed, erroneously, to be a stability fought for
ever since the Industrial Revolution put into our minds the concept of
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unrestrained capitalism. We are pushing capitalism to the wall. Listen to
John D Rockefeller: “When my shoeshine boy gives me a tip on a stock, I
know we're in for trouble.” Or, John Kenneth Galbraith: “The success of
capitalism is its failure.” Again, JKG: “The responsibility of a nation is to
guarantee that poor people have enough to eat and work for without
disturbing the rich. Only an imbecilic conservative is truly conservative.”
And JKG is a candidate for the Nobel Prize in Economics! (I hope he never
gets it!) Let's face it, since 11 September 2001 we have heard a lot less of
this haughtiness. N'est-ce pas?

We need to alter the understanding of our own nature! We have to

intensify that what we mean to be free. In other words, we are doing
something wrong—and we know it! We have to change. There is no
alternative for us. We cannot continue following the course of our own
obliteration—unless we are truly mental defcients.

(Professor Singer poses for us many interesting conclusions from his

research—ideas dealing with distinguished economic theories and their
advocates, and how they relate to the individual and society. His insights
are remarkable and sensible. His books have to be read.)

Whatever economic system we allude to—whether it be those of Milton

Friedman, John Kenneth Galbraith, Paul Samuelson, Lester Thurow, John
Keynes, et alia—all of us will certainly claim that what we want to attain is a
sense of freedom not only for ourselves, but for the masses in society with
whom we rub shoulders every day. The most dog-eat-dog moneybags wants
to walk down the street without being knifed or shot at for his wallet. The
tenuous balance needed to maintain a sense of civility among ourselves, is
everyone's wish. I remember when I arrived at Montecatini Terme in Italy
in May 1983, I could walk in the parks there at three o'clock in the morning
—a feat I would never have even thought of having a go at in Caracas and,
of course, New York. I am stunned to see how the residents of Montecatini
Terme take this freedom for granted and, further, are so occupied with
complaining about other things in their lives so much so that they appeared
to me to be as unhappy as the residents of Caracas were with their
dangerous lifestyles. Nonetheless, liberty is that which we instinctively hunt
for and for many individuals, economic lucre and free will have become
one and the same. To say the least, freedom is a concept much more
complicated than even Nobel Prize winners for Economics are wont to
319
acknowledge.

Economy. Where is it? It is so elusive, no one can put his or her fnger on
it. It is some force that is running amuck—for the few. It is a banshee. Put
your money down. Pray for it to multiply like wines and fshes. Buy a lottery
ticket. Become a multi-millionaire. Billionaire? Join the hoard of rich
spilling over the banks of debt and defcit. Borrow! Yes, have a loan so you
can save! So you can deduct. Loopholes. Black holes. Is this what we want
for our children? So be it.

Surely the affuent are not that brainless. Or are they? For he or she is also
victim of this travesty. Just ask any mega-millionaire rock star or football
player or Hollywood star what it is like living all day long with bodyguards'
admonitions and accountants' cellphone calls pounding one in the ear. The
most formidable misfortune of the rich is that they are in the minority! And
every day they are called upon to spend more to protect their privileged
state. In their desire to promote their system that has made them well-to-
do, they have taught millions of people—through their media marvels and
cinematic misinformation—to seek, scream and steal for, if necessary, the
spoils of the capitalist menagerie with its brimming to the top of infnite
economic possibilities for an unbounded number of unrestricted
entrepreneurial enthusiasts.

The confict that exists between individual interests and the common good
has been debated throughout times gone by and by such major fgures in
Western political thought as Hobbes, Locke, Hume, Rousseau, Hegel,
Marx, Russell, and Sartre. It emerges that it is far more diffcult to harp on
the expectations we might presume to come from human beings than it
would be to dwell on those which we might assume derive from what we
could suppose to be those best for the common good!

Is human nature fxed or does it fuctuate with the economic and social
conditions imbedded in each historical time frame? If we admit that human
nature is fexible why can it not, then transform itself and eliminate the
human characteristics of, for example, greed, egoism, and relentless
ambition? Can society be motivated to achieve what is good for all in society
instead of concentrating on their individual common interests? If so, could
this be a way in which the interests of the individual and the common
society can be synchronized? Can we assume that our intellectual and
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esoteric lives are entirely independent of our economic existence? Is it
logical to desire that we all can come together and live in peace and quiet?
Now? When? Why?

We continue to hanker after consumer goods. It is not only self-indulgence

that is pushing us on. We want status and even the power that is associated
with it. What society has been able to abolish the distinction between ruler
and ruled? Is the prevalence of hierarchy a curse upon the human race?

EPILOGUE

16 August 2004. As this manuscript comes to an end, a sort of coincidence

has just happened. The CNN and BBC newscasters are announcing that the
referendum voted upon yesterday in Venezuela has resulted in a
resounding NO! An upshot in favor of Hugo Chávez. There are two points
that should be emphasized in relation to this momentous Venezuelan
political accomplishment.

Hugo Chávez has dealt a severe setback to his opponents that, eventually,
will eventuate in polarizing further Venezuelan society. Chávez has slapped
in the face a host of individuals and associations which for years decided
the economic and political fate of the Venezuelan people: The Department
of Hate, the Central Stupidity Agency, the Roman Catholic church (Are you
happy that Church and State are not separated?), The Twelve Disciples,
David Rockefeller, and other important bankers all over the world, Henry
“The Carpet Bomber” Kissinger, Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher,
Jimmy Carter, George Bush I, George Bush II, William F Buckley, Sr,
William F Buckley, Jr, John Sullivan, Clem Cohen, the gang at The Daily
Journal, and so many others who have struggled to keep the Venezuelan
people in check and the oil fowing smoothly to North American gasoline
stations at rockbottom prices.

Two. Chávez has flled a void. Yet, he will never be able to turn Venezuela
around without the help of the Venezuelans themselves. Most Venezuelans
are uneducated and unsophisticated after being “kept down” for most of
their lives. Venezuelans do not have the “luxury” to fght a devastating civil
war. Their only option is to join hands in a coming together that would
unite Venezuelans in a spirit of respect and cooperation for all of them. An
impossible feat.
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I feel sad for RES and REL both of whom have had to sit on the sidelines
during one of Venezuela's most signifcant of crises. It is frightful to me
that Ramón still does not possess the “common touch” so important for a
politician predisposed to lead his country democratically and with respect
and dignity. Had Ramón and his father cultivated a political affnity with
their people decades ago, it would be Ramón today guiding the Venezuelan
people to achieve progress and opportunity for all, and not Hugo Chávez
screaming from a window in Palacio Mirafores to his exuberant and rowdy
followers all of whom will eventually betray him.

I have always been amazed at the highly authoritative character of

reactionary individuals whom I have personally encountered in my life
whether they had been priests, bishops, politicians, conservative editors of
political journals, FOX television broadcasters beating their drums of self-
righteousness and always being in the right, and other typecasts of the
diehard right who have recently ridden on the crests of those waves of
political and economic privilege not reserved for the majority of most
Earthly mortals. I think back to William F Buckley, Sr, “The John McEnroe
of the Petroleum Industry.” I am truly bewildered by this man's highly
commanding temperament and his fanatical self-righteousness.

There is a frightening streak of goody-goodness embedded in the

consciousnesses of the American people. A sanctimony that has
exaggerated itself so much, there is little left for North Americans to do but
play the rough guy and lose friends. The joke going around here in Europe
is this: “The North Americans are a marvelous people—if they aren't
bombing you.” The hawks have scratched and bitten the doves. The
satellite channels are flled with pompous ultraconservatives chewing their
gums and disseminating enough hate to keep stoking the fres of aggression
and revenge against the non-seen Specter of Terrorism. The richer they
are, the more they fear to lose. So, is it not natural that these cantankerous
old farts should propagate violence and bloodshed through war in order to
invent in their minds an enemy they and their sons and daughters will
probably never meet on the battlefelds of their xenophobias?

What makes these personalities more than poco loco is their ideas about
foreigners. I serve up the examples of Central America and South America.
We must closely examine the sentiments of the Self Righteous Right
because, in many ways, their prejudices still hold sway with a considerable
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fragment of present day North American militaristic, diplomatic, and
economic exponents who guide, rather ineptly, United States' foreign
policy holding frm to the notion that the United States possesses a moral
superiority over others.

This particular case in point, Central America and South America, might
be used as a benchmark to gauge the incredible disaster United States'
foreign policy has created for itself. I contend that in establishing a foreign
policy of arrogance based on a schizoid fear (soft power and hard power), a
dangerous reputation for North Americans has been fxed in the minds of
peoples living “south of the border.” Central America and South America
share an idea that slumbers agonizingly in hate and frustration against the
North Americans. Yet, there is too, a knee-jerk hope for a release from the
enduring torture of years of economic abuse and exploitation, an
appreciation that seeks to eradicate that which threatens the ideals of
peace, harmony, and cooperation essential to a productive coexistence
between North America, Central America, and South America. The mostly
underprivileged people whose governments do not possess the wealth to
pull them out of dire poverty, are simply asking to be heard and to be
respected as human beings.

The ultraconservative possesses abnormal convictions concerning Latin

American peoples. The preponderate quantity of them have not the natural
talent necessary to reason clearly when discussing Latin American people
and their diffculties. Quod erat demonstrandum, it does not matter what is
thought about Latin America. Since the traditionalists do not have the facts
or conditions necessary to be aware of the plights of others, they are not
prone to be empathetic. Friendly dictators, “educated” individuals of a
special class, those who have gone to Roman Catholic universities in the
United States and Europe, enjoy an immunity of sorts. They blend with the
thinking of the well-to-do business community and totally disregard the
wants and needs of the citizens they are responsible for. This is an
inherent, settled habit. In fact, men and women, “south of the border,”
“display weakness when a crisis is brewing...they panic, they clutch...”so
said William F Buckley, Sr....The best way to handle these Latin characters
is to use a frm, conservative hand, We may, then, imply that illicit activities
in collusion with dubious types is a God-given right of the Department of
Hate and the Central Stupidity Agency.
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The United States has frequently nodded tacit approval at those incited
revolutions, often kindled by their own secret activities, that they consider
“fair play” in dealing with these Latin varmints. And should these “rascals”
injure some wealthy, important United States citizen, an invasion force has
the right to put to death the offending parties. Might makes Right. Yanqui,
go home! Gringo, go home!

Yes, these diehards ft the racist profle. They are defnitely xenophobic
whenever they step out of any rich man's club or North American embassy
that shelters them from the realities of Central and South American life. It
is distressing to say that the majority of the North American colony in
Caracas possessed a penchant for avoiding contact with the common
people of Venezuela unless they were individuals with whom business was
to be done or politics was to be promoted. These North Americans orbited
around the embassy of the United States and wanted to feel safe and comfy
in the bosom of the military, economic, and political power of the United
States.

Relations between North Americans, Central Americans, and South

Americans is an intriguing topic. An extremely complicated subject of
discourse. While we are minimally separated in distance from each other,
we are light years away from clasping hands in a spirit of goodwill and
friendship. For this unfortunate state of affairs, we may thank the
conservatives and neo-conservatives who share a syndrome of disdain and
disrespect for the dignity of all men and women unless they measure up to
their fathead and spurious notions of justice and equality.

I challenge all members of the conservative's cult of privilege classes to

come to any city in Central or South America to proclaim their prejudices
not among the friendly, “educated” Latin American wealthy classes who are
pals of dictators and corrupt government offcials, but to mingle in the
midst of the inhabitants of the barrios and favalas. There, I dare them to
preach their messages of selfshness and loathing and dog-eat-dog
capitalism to the submerged ninety percent of Spanish-speaking people
who are social, economic, and emotional convicts.

It would be unfair and incorrect to assign to eccentric millionaires and

billionaires, their family members, and the neo-conservative “movement”
the onus for the formation of civilization's large-scale aggression,
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destructiveness, and perverted senses of supremacy. Exploitation and social
manipulation are age-old human conditions, and they have done more than
anything to produce the long line of sadistic and vicious maniacs who have
inhabited our Earth. These tempers of mind stunt the growth of human
self-activity, human creative ingenuity, and human needs and capacities.

Yet North American neo-conservatives, neo-McCarthyites, have had too

much of a share of pessimism and nihilism to offer. They have grouped
together to form palsywalsy social, cultural, religious, economic, and
political ties which serve the inclusive general concept that a government
should dole out political and civil honors according to wealth. The
conservative is not interested in offering a fair shake to his fellows, and he
excludes them from his or her power circles with the justifcation that life
demands a political philosophy which exalts the nation and a select group
of individuals above all others, and that severe economic and social
regimentation and the forcible suppression of the opposition, are necessary
measures to exercise stringent control over the masses who are considered
inferior to the “nobler” and “more privileged” conservative.

I deny this philosophy and its aspects of myopic gloom fortifed with
structures of deceit. I look for programs which show liveliness and interest
in good things. Which look with hope to the future. Which signal danger,
but communicate emotion and understanding.

“Human behavior leads to make-believe, disequilibrium, frustration, lies,

or, on the contrary, it becomes the source of rewarding experiences, in
accordance with its manner of expression in actual living—whether in bad
faith, laziness, generosity, and freedom.” (Simone de Beauvoir)

I wish that all people enjoy their lives in a spirit of generosity, lucidity, and
freedom; and, I beg all North American conservatives to come to their
political and human senses and yield to the ideal that all men and women
belong to the same community where equality and justice for all is the
common good.

* * *

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 Authored by Anthony St. John
22 September 2020
Calenzano, Italy
anthony.st.john1944@gmail.com