Blowing in the Wind

CHAPTER 1 When I graduated from the eighth grade, for some unknown reason, I scribbled down in the yearbook that I wanted to be a dentist. Well, my society-conscious mother, Millicent McClain, read the quote and latched onto it like a Carapace snapping turtle. For the next four years, I had to endure hearing her tell everyone about how I was going to medical school and be a dentist. My dad, John McClain, who owned a small business, didn’t pay much attention to it; he never did about stuff unless it was about his work. Anyway, I figured sooner or later Millicent would forget about it, so I went along with her fantasy. However, I was wrong. She continued bringing the subject up to her social friends every chance she got. Gee whiz, I know some mothers liked to brag about their sons going to medical school but crap, weren’t even Jewish. My younger sister Lizzie, who mother said was precocious, thought mother’s bragging, about my future medical career, was funny. She knew it annoyed the hell out of me. Sometimes she’d dress up like a nurse, and parade around the house saying she was going to be my dental assistant. Mother thought it was cute, but it pissed me off. One day, Lizzie, who is five years younger than me said, “Rail, why don’t you want to be a dentist?” “Lizzie,” I answered, “I never wanted to be a darn dentist! Geez, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to stick their fingers in someone’s mouth. I mean holy cow, what sane person would, with all the halitosis and the rotten slimy teeth? Then you have to go in there and drill or poke around in that mess.” “But you wrote that you did in your yearbook.” “I guess I thought it would impress mom. However, I never believed she’d take it seriously.” “Ha, ha, ha, you were wrong,” she laughed as she skipped out of the room. Younger sisters are okay, but sometimes you’d get along just fine without them. I was an acne-free student when I entered high school, in Muskegon, Michigan. The school was an older two-story red-brick building in the downtown area located across the street from the city bus terminal. It made it convenient as I’d get on the bus one block from our house and end up at school. Throughout the four years of high school I mastered in sports and minored in grades, so I figured there wasn’t any way I was going to medical school. After graduation, about fifteen of we high school athletics decided to celebrate and take a trip on the Milwaukee Clipper. The Clipper was a large ship that ferried cars, furniture, and all kinds of merchandise back and forth across Lake Michigan from Milwaukee, Wisconsin and Muskegon, Michigan. The Clipper also catered to a few passengers as there were a few cabins and a rather small restaurant/snack bar. The Clipper left Muskegon in the morning, stopped in Milwaukee to unload and reload its cargo, and then returned to Muskegon later in the evening. We had a great time playing games, and sunbathing on the way over. When the ship docked, we went into the city of Milwaukee. Our goal was to tour a few of the larger breweries. The drinking age in Wisconsin was eighteen, and the breweries served free beer after you took one of their tours. We piled into cabs and went to the Miller, Schlitz, Blatz and lastly to the Pabst Brewery where we ended up in its end-of-tour Sternewilt Pub known for its bottomless glasses of beer. We had a gas, and by the time we got back to the ship, we were pretty high and in a party mode. We brought four cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon back to the boat for consumption on the return trip to Michigan. Needless to say, things got a little out of control. We were all singing, partying, and raising hell. One of the guys on our football team, Mart Younger, was a six-foot-three, two-hundred-thirty-pound lineman, and a cool dresser. He always came to school looking sharp. His mom made sure; she’d even pressed a crease into his new blue jeans. The color of his socks and his shirt would always match. He was known for his white buck shoes. In his shirt pocket, he carried a small plastic pouch, which contained a white powder bag. His white shoes were never soiled. As soon as he’d get a scuff mark on them, he’d whip out the powder bag and dust the smudge. On the way back home we were having a blast. Of course, while drinking the Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, many trips were made to the ships large head. For those of you, who aren’t savvy to boat lingo that means restroom. In the men’s head, there was an unusual object, which none of us had ever seen before—an automatic shoe shine machine. For twenty-five cents, you could clean and polish your shoes. You’d simply slip your feet into an opening at the bottom of the machine, inserted a quarter, and automatically your shoes were polished and buffed. When Mart staggered into the head and saw the machine, he thought that it was a great invention. He dropped a quarter into the slot and slipped his feet into the opening. He hit the start button, and the shoe machine started making a racket as it polished Mart’s shoes. Mart was laughing and chugging his bottle of Pabst. Three of us were watching as the machine stopped and Mart stepped back. “What the hell,” he yelled, as loud as Tarzan and hurled his bottle of beer across the room. It smashed into the white-painted steel wall. Mart’s white bucks were polished black. He started pounding and kicking the machine. Then he grabbed hold of the large, square machine, rocked it back and forth and ripped it from the floor. Lifting it up, he duck-walked it out the men’s room door. We stared at him like maybe he’d lost his marbles and then followed him. Mart was cursing as he grunted his way over to the ship’s railing, hoisted the machine and dropped it overboard. Then he beat on his chest like a big ape and shouted, “Take that, you f*****g miserable machine.” The ship’s captain had Mart locked up for the remainder of the trip. When I got back home, my not believing that I was going to medical school, to study to be a dentist, ended. I learned I was going to be returning to Milwaukee. Somehow, even with my lousy grades, my parents enrolled me in Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. A college, which my mother proudly spouted, “It’s one of the finest dental schools in America.” It was the fall of 1956 when the freshman class was assembling in a huge auditorium. Two college professors were standing on the wide, brightly lit stage. As I took my seat, I was sitting next to a tall blond guy on my left and an attractive, studious looking girl on my right. I turned to the boy, “Hi; I’m Rail McClain, from Michigan.” He extended his hand, “Randy Shaffer. I’m a local and here on a basketball scholarship.” “Hey, that’s cool.” Then one of the professors, on the stage, asked for quiet. I looked over at the girl and whispered, “Hi,” she nodded and smiled. A tall, bespectacled professor spent about five minutes reading instructions. Then another began talking about college life. “Most likely, most of you are on your own for the first time. To fully comprehend that college is vastly different than high school.” He paused and surveyed the students sitting below him. “Please look at the person on your right and then on your left.” He paused for a moment. “Next year, one of them won’t be here.” I looked at Randy, who shrugged. Then I looked at the girl. She gave me a wry grin, like tag you’re it, referring that I was the one, who was going to be leaving an empty seat. After looking at them, I began to think about it. My mind started to think about that possibility. For the next few minutes, I didn’t hear much of anything the professor said. Later, when I received my heavy class schedule, my mind flashed back to that empty seat thing. So now I’m at the university and have been assigned to a midsized dormitory room with two twin beds. The second-floor room was painted an ugly pea soup green and had one window overlooking a parking lot. My new roommates already took the well-worn wooden desk adorned with an old metal desk light. The desk was facing the rooms, lone window. It was without a curtain but did have a dark green, pull down shade. On the opposite side of the room was a desk with many carved initials. It faced the pea soup colored wall, upon which hung a large copy of the last year’s calendar. Sheldon Salmann was a six-foot-two-inch beanpole with slicked back black hair. He was from Syracuse, New York. His old man was a wealthy hot-shot dentist, and he wanted his son to be like dad. Sheldon was studios; he was a book worm. Whenever I entered the dimly lit room, Sheldon was seated at his desk reading. My view would be that of Sheldon’s Vitalis soaked hair, combed into a ducktail. I knew Sheldon wasn’t like a gang member or anything. I only assumed that maybe the greasy hair bit was just a New York thing. He sure liked Vitalis hair tonic; he had a bottle about as big as a fifth of whiskey sitting on his old wooden three drawer dresser. The day after I moved in and became settled, I was doing push-ups on the tan linoleum floor of the room. I was trying to stay in shape because I thought I might try out for the college football team, of course without my parent’s knowledge. You see they threw me a curve ball by enrolling me at Marquette. Initially, I hoped to go to a small college and play sports. However, they shanghaied me. I thought about this while doing the push-ups and could visualize mother’s green eyes glaring at me if she knew what my intentions were. Boy, when she was upset, she could really stare. In between a pushup, a pair of well-worn sandals stepped up next to me. Looking up from the floor, I saw skinny little man dressed in a dark brown, floor-length robe. He had an agate-sized row of beads tied around his waist, which hung down almost to the top of his brown sandals. He looked down at me and said something like, ‘reemaklee.’ I had no idea what he’d said. I stopped in the middle of a pushup and looked up, “What?” “Reemaklee,” the man repeated. Having no idea what the heck he was saying, I raised my six-foot frame and looked down at the bald spot, of the five-foot-two-inch man. Besides his small size and unique dress, he had a baseball-sized, round silver earring hanging from his right ear. I stared at it. I’d never seen a man wearing an earring. “Reemaklee,” he said again in a high-pitched, squeaky voice with an Indian accent. It was a nasal voice which wasn’t helped, in the least, by the thick silver ring in his pinched nose. I was wondering if it hurt. Then my Vitalis-haired roommate stepped over. He realized that I had no idea who this little man was or what he was saying. “He’s a Jesuit Priest, and he wants to know if your name is Rail McClain.” “Yes, I’m Rail McClain,” I answered. The priest nodded. His oversized earring swayed back and forth. Through his small mouth and nasal passage, he squeaked out something, which sounded like, “Em yar koncla, Fada Wozr.” I stood dumbfounded shaking my head and looked at Sheldon. “He’s Father Woozert. He’s your counselor.” Sheldon said matter-of-factly. I grinned. “Oh, that’s what I thought the Father said.” Sheldon introduced himself to the Jesuit priest. Then after they shook hands, the monk-priest began telling us what he wanted. I was starting to get tuned into the monks’ speaking pattern and understood most of what he was saying. He was there to help me with my curriculum. For the next few minutes, the three of us stood in the middle of the room talking. The priest would say something which I sort of understood. Then I’d look at Sheldon, who’d clarify what the priest had just said. I’m sure if someone had been standing in the doorway, they would have found the conversation to be quite comical.