Wisdom of the Aged by Craig Hattersley - HTML preview

The racetrack life did provide us a certain cachet amongst our peers in small-town Canandaigua, albeit of a somewhat seedy nature. We were those types. But for us, this seemed a step in the right direction. We hadn’t blossomed early into the athletic dudes who starred on the various sports teams, allowing them the glory of the day—and the honor of rubbing shoulders with the upper strata of town teens (karmic justice, however, that they would wind up in town selling insurance to the locals).

Nor did we fall heir to the emoluments of the monied class in town, trendsetters in fashion and thought. Though truth be told, a good portion of the burg’s wealth stemmed from eager participation in peddling illicit refreshment during Prohibition. We didn’t know these things then; we just experienced them. And scrapped hard to establish ourselves as someone to be reckoned with, on some level.

As is the wont of teen boys, we fought our obligatory fights, though with no one in particular who would embarrass us by kicking our asses. I made a stab at the wrestling team—as much for lessons in self-defense as glory—but found the going rough. A rather unmotivated pudgester weighing in north of 220, I actually won the competition to represent the team at heavyweight for our first scrimmage. But I quickly hit a wall, facing off against a man mountain who tipped the scales at more than 300 pounds. I danced around for a period and even led 2-1, until we grappled and I tried a fancy maneuver called the Chinese Slingshot—designed to quickly sling him over my body and land with me over him. Instead, his prodigious bodily inertia turned the trick move into a slow-motion disaster and plunked him flat on top of me. I could scarcely breathe, let alone move. Match over. As I got on the team bus afterwards, one wise ass quipped, “Nice flip, Hattersley.”

In the next wrestle-off to see who would be the team heavyweight (refereed by teammates as was the practice then), I saw I wasn’t to be the chosen one, beaten on a quick count when I tried a clever roll to escape. My teammates wanted Clem, who I had beaten in the first go-around, to be the guy, and that made it all too apparent. Fuck this. I left after showering and never returned. So ended a rather unpromising wrestling career.

Like most teens, I was basically pretty damn lazy. I never did more than it took to get by. I did just enough studying to get the grades, blessed with a memory that allowed for the storing of massive amounts of data for regurgitation come test time. As we settled in to high school, my GPA gradually climbed, allowing for the occasional problem as when once caught mentioning to some less benighted members of the class what might be on a forthcoming test.

Like everyone else, I took the courses counselors told me I had to take: “You want to be a lawyer? Okay. You’re in these classes.”

There weren’t any options; it was a package deal. High schools programmed students to make them presentable for college. And as we all knew, you either went to college and became something or ended up collecting garbage or digging ditches. Canandaigua High did offer a few classes for those not on the college track—things like metal shop—but kids in the class only seemed to produce an inordinate number of cool stick shifts. Besides, Uncle Sam had need of those not destined for higher education. Vietnam—ever a blue-collar war, as college students got a deferment—began to siphon off needed recruits, nearly 200,000 by the end of 1965.

The war remained a world apart in Upstate New York, a year or two removed from when body bags began coming home regularly, older brothers and then even classmates. We believed the stories told us by our leaders and felt that we, too, would do our duty if called upon. It was easy to share in the national hubris of the time when your ass wasn’t on the line. Besides, we just had other things to do. We were going to be something in this world, once we slogged through the unremitting boredom of required courses. Never have I had to fight so hard to remain awake than in two years of Latin, a must-have class for legal wannabes, taught by an older lady who droned on interminably in a lifeless monotone. Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres . . .

The tedium of Sixties high school required some acting up to stir restless teens from their lassitude—generally in the form of the elaborately planned prank pulled in class or on a hapless classmate. One mind-numbing math teacher, whose class fell just before a late lunch period, had waged war against students bringing snacks to class to ward off hunger, threatening detention and worse for offenders. So Carlito, towel draped over his arm, came into class one day, spread a table cloth on my desk, and proceeded to take monsieur’s order from a proffered menu, returning with a lunch tray from the cafeteria and puttering about serving me. To his credit, the teacher took it in good stead, laughing along with the class, as Carlito and I were two of his best students.

My crowning achievement in tomfoolery, for which I was enshrined in Class of ’67 lore, involved Roger, a star lineman on the football team. Befuddled by an assignment whereby he had to write a letter to a friend in French (a class he struggled mightily in), he asked my help, knowing I had previously excelled in it. The fool. Enlisting the aid of an old French dictionary, I penned an impassioned letter to a girlfriend, making copious use of words such as forniquer and copuler, after the requisite shedding of clothing and such. He, of course, had no clue what it said and dutifully turned it in. As news of my exploit spread, I was celebrated far and wide amongst my peers. The French teacher, a rather small, foppish man, didn’t share in the hilarity, and stopping in the hall where I stood awaiting the day’s end, looked me squarely in the eye and said, “I’m shocked,” walking quickly away. Small price to pay.

The general approbation for my prank solidified a growing reputation I had built for sheer chutzpah. Where once I had relied upon less-savory skills to enhance my street cred—I had a flair for shoplifting on assignment to augment a meager income over winter months when the racetrack closed—I now could count some literary dash as coin of the realm. I still had to build some scholastic credit to bolster my dossier for the impending challenge: applying to college. I joined Chess Club, Latin Club, and made it into the National Honor Society. I became sports editor of the school paper, where I could terrorize athletes with my witty word play and caustic sense of humor. John Acquilano, a favorite history and politics teacher at Canandaigua High, recruited me as broadcast announcer for home football games.

Yet other impulses vied for my attention. Bro, two years my senior, had opted out of college life when he graduated in 1965, moving to New York City to live with Dad, who was teaching at places like Columbia, Pratt, and the School of Visual Arts while writing for Popular Photography. Bro landed a job working for the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency, a prestigious outfit, thus allaying Mom’s fears for his future prospects. But unbeknownst to her, he also began hanging out in the West Village, where bands like the Luvin’ Spoonful and the Blue Magoos played to growing audiences. Dylan hung out, the Doors were beginning to get radio airplay, and the Fugs were a must-see on the college scene.

Bro abruptly quit the ad agency, growing his hair long and working instead at the Night Owl (a live-music club on Third Street, site of much hipster ado). Mom naturally flipped out, railing at him for blowing a promising career in advertising. Ever a trendsetter, she was in the first wave of parents to crash on the rocks of the Sixties.

With her eldest son, she could write it off. He was as rebellious and cantankerous as she, probably just a black sheep. As the number-two son, always able to succeed despite all-consuming laziness, I still aspired to riches, planning to retire a millionaire at thirty to a life in politics. She still had me to pin her hopes on.

As I diddled my way through the remaining two years of high school, I’d look forward to Bro’s visits from the city. The long hair gave me pause initially, as it struck me as somehow unmanly at that point, stuck as I was in ruling mores. But the girls in my class just loved it. He’d come to visit at school on occasion, and the girls would all bubble up around him. There had to be something to that.

His visits also meant I’d hear the latest music from the burgeoning Village scene—and maybe get high as well. In those days, smoking pot wasn’t something you did lightly, and for good reason: If you got busted, it could mean twenty years to life in Nelson Rockefeller’s New York. Any trysting with the demon weed gave rise to extreme paranoia. You pulled the joint out from the inside of your shoe when you stood poised to run in the middle of the pitch-black football field with two hundred yards of open ground all around and a hundred directions to run.

Yet the times were a-changing, and as a desultory high school career wound down, a vague uneasiness settled in. I had coasted through senior year, adding on extracurricular activities to pad my flimsy résumé, but the feeling grew that nothing would ever be the same. Despite my flip waggery and assumed devil-may-care attitude, I had managed to stay out of real trouble long enough to actually graduate third in my class, something I counted on to propel me into a good college—wouldn’t it? But that would entail some real work, as prevailing wisdom said that if you thought high school was bad, just wait till college. High school hard? Shit.

Nevertheless, since I planned on untold riches in life, I figured I’d shoot for the stars and go Ivy League. So I sent applications to Harvard and Dartmouth. My politics teacher, who’d been sort of my guardian angel (that is, he saw something in me despite my being such a wise ass), talked me down: “Don’t be counting on that. You know, Syracuse U. has a good law school.”

I don’t remember ever hearing a thing from Harvard, though I undoubtedly received some sort of form letter expressing regrets. Dartmouth thought I merited some amount of consideration and put me on their wait list, for what little that was worth. Syracuse, just ninety miles down the road and a far more prudent, economical choice, beckoned, and I became an Orangeman, working on a dual journalism/political science degree. I’d graded out well enough to receive a chunk of scholarship money and only had to borrow a couple grand. Like most kids at the time, that’s what you did—just visit the bank with your parent and sign some papers.

Carlito opted to pursue accounting at the New York Institute of Technology in the city, a credible business school; besides, he could hang around in the Village and see what was happenin’. In one of my last visits to the city before leaving for college, I helped him move into a room just off Central Park. It was one large bedroom—a converted attic on the top floor—but it also included kitchen privileges, which he shared with others. This was to be the first rest stop for countless friends sojourning to the big city for a weekend, making the 360-mile trek from Canandaigua.

Many of the journeys to the city were in search of something, even if only for a small piece of the New York City lifestyle. A lot of times, trekkers didn’t even know what they were looking for, only that they wanted to see.

When Carlito moved in, it seemed quite appropriate, so we redecorated his drab room with the landlady’s consent. Our grand concept involved painting two walls and the ceiling orange, the other two walls black. Needless to say, the landlady didn’t love the décor, but Carlito proved a model renter and he was a student. So, feeling secure he was not a potential ax-murderer or the like, she let it stand—and stayed, for the most part, away from the top floor.

Soon after settling him in, I left and headed to Syracuse. Belatedly, as it seemed that he was going to have all the fun (staked out his own pad and all), and I hated leaving and missing out. Carlito stayed to welcome the first wave of Canandaigua tourists and, almost incidentally, go to school. At that point, school was supposed to be the primary preoccupation. Events would yet make it a hindrance.

Then off to Syracuse, where I did what I knew how to do. I played the professional student, going to classes and taking the tests. A freshman’s awe of new vistas and what for me was a heavy workload muffled any protest: I couldn’t afford to entertain self-doubts. Cowed by the sheer weight of college, I felt only constantly in danger of falling behind.

But as the year wore on, I began to realize that college differed from high school only in intensity. It was the same old shit. In fact, with proper time management, I could get the week’s worth of work done on Sunday, leaving the rest of the time for more pleasant diversions.

That fall of 1967, weekends often revolved around Saturday football games. Syracuse had been a major power in college ball, culminating in a national championship in 1959. A series of all-star running backs powered the Orangemen, featuring the likes of Jim Brown, Ernie Davis (the first African American to win the Heisman Trophy), and Floyd Little. By my freshman year, however, the team foundered, poised on the brink of irrelevance despite moose running back Larry Csonka. Syracuse struggled to a 6–6 record.

Afternoons after the games, student frustrations boiled over in a riotous mass that descended on the green between frat houses, where kegs fueled emotions. At the time, you only had to be eighteen to drink, and a drunken throng engaged in a testosterone free-for-all. As spectators to the battles, my dorm mates and I moved from arena to arena, gathering around wild-eyed combatants until an unceremonious KO bade us venture on. On the perimeter of the thousands, nervous university and city cops stood vigil, a cordon of righteousness prepared to die to keep the riot from the city. A splendid time was had by all.

During the week, students turned to the business at hand, and I found myself growing more introspective, considering what I had become and what I’d rather be. Dorm life then was pretty settled. You had three squares in a university cafeteria attached to the living area, where you could eat whatever you wanted and however much you could cram in. You could pack on the pounds without much thought and many did. But I determined that I needed to change myself, and began monitoring my intake, then haunting the gym every night after dinner to work on my basketball game. After showering, I’d weigh myself and note the gradual improvement as I discovered the latent athlete emerging. College life began to work in my favor.

The dorm also provided me with the working capital I desired. Freshman English, a necessary pox on the lot of us, provided a chance for quick cash, as my pecuniary nature rapidly perceived. My graduation gift had been Mom’s electric typewriter as she had no money to give me and plenty of typewriters at work, and I parlayed that into spending money. I began by typing up dorm mates’ papers for them, making good use of the skills gained in a high school typing class and erasable bond to deliver a perfect product. But then I discovered where the real money lay: Papers for freshman English, a required subject, were the bane of college students. So I soon hawked my wares as a ghost writer, ready and willing to expound—to the required limit, for the required two-fifty-a-page fee—on virtually any poem or story in the freshman English syllabus, taking into account customers’ relative writing skills. I got so cocky doing it that I could guarantee a B on the paper if clients exhibited a certain artistry of their own.

The only trouble I encountered in this avocation was with my old friend from the Canandaigua football team, who’d won a scholarship to play for Syracuse. I knew the quality of his writing, so for his papers I’d just pop a sheet of paper in the typewriter and flail away for two pages, taking care not to use many big words. Easy money. It seems everything progressed smoothly for the first six papers I wrote for him, but then he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) afford the seventh, penning his own, an unfortunate move. The professor flunked him, realizing he couldn’t have written the first six, and he had to take freshman English again in the summer. His bad. Business was brisk in 1967.

A touch of desperation fueled my burgeoning business, as all felt the pressure to maintain grades and stay out of the draft, which increasingly demanded more inductees for our Vietnam venture. Our little brush-fire police action (how it was initially described) was cranking up into a full-scale Audie Murphy, Hell Is for Heroes feature. Not everyone in the dorm responded well to the strain.

My roommate, a hapless sort plagued by a dominating father, completely lost it that semester. Dubbed “The Fish” on the floor (to my “Country Joe”), he blew off everything, playing Monopoly and Risk through the night, eating delivered pizzas and drinking beer, then sleeping all day and skipping classes. After flunking out midway through the semester, he enlisted in the Marines. I’ve often wondered if George made it through okay. He had a bad habit of falling asleep drunk early in the morning with his record player set to play, over and over, the song “Birds of a Feather” by Joe South. To this day, I cannot stand to listen to that tune. For a semester and a half I roomed with my typewriter and a booming paper business.

My courses in modern American history and politics began to take their toll on me freshman year, souring my aspirations for political stardom—given the price you paid to suck up to the powers that be and their affluence. I learned therein of the roots of Vietnam, a war France waged to retain colonial hegemony in Southeast Asia (then called French Indochina). The French had refused to allow Vietnamese independence after World War II even though the Vietnamese had fought with allies against the Japanese. In eight years of war, France could not extinguish the desire for independence in its colony, culminating in its disastrous defeat at Dien Bien Phu.

In the Geneva Accords signed after peace talks, the world powers decided that the Vietnamese should in fact determine their own future. This was their Revolutionary War, after all, the fight for self-determination. But this couldn’t stand for the adherents in the U.S. to the domino theory of communism. (Eisenhower himself said in 1954 that if elections were held, eighty percent would likely vote for Ho Chi Minh.) So we were off to the races. Interestingly enough, only years later was it revealed, with the publication of a book by Robert McNamara (Secretary of Defense under Kennedy) that JFK decided the U.S. needed out of Vietnam and ordered the first one thousand troops withdrawn. Fifty days later, Kennedy died in Dallas along with that plan.

As my political awareness increased, so too did my desire to apply myself in new, righteous directions. And the campus quad, with its tables of youthful advocates hawking their political wares to all who would listen, attracted me with its missionary zeal. I pondered for a time joining the Peace Corps, made popular as it was during John Kennedy’s presidency. I had, after all, stuffed envelopes for JFK in 1960 in democratic headquarters at Mom’s newspaper office. But I wasn’t ready to make that big of a commitment. I opted instead for signing up with the Peace and Freedom Party and the Students for a Democratic Society, the SDS (a fact, I’m sure, duly recorded in an FBI file somewhere), attending a couple meetings to check it out.

Above all, these SDS meetings proved to be tedious: long, drawn-out arguments over semantics mostly, with one wild-eyed weirdo arguing vehemently for campus action—of any sort—to “show the man,” or some such. We dismissed him as an anarchist then, though in retrospect he was in no doubt part of the CointelPro Program we’d later find out about, just itching to break hippie heads and employing provocateurs to jump-start rioting. At some point, he ultimately persuaded perhaps half of the group (probably because of a growing boredom with the interminable meetings) to charge down and occupy the McDonald’s on campus. I went along and sat in the restaurant, but soon began to feel pretty silly. This didn’t really seem to me to be the way towards reform of any kind, and the college kids working there and haplessly watching were in the same boat as I (though maybe even in cheaper seats, if possible). And besides, McDonald’s was where I went to get my twenty-five-cent strawberry milkshakes. And since I had a quarter and believed more strongly in the freedom of milkshake, I bought one and left, ending my association with SDS.