CUT AND DRY

CUT AND DRY
By Charles E. Kraus

Sometime in 2010 ......

For a while there, say the first twenty minutes, when the blood was seeping through the towels, I was the least happy clown since Emit Kelly played the Garden.   Until the accident, I never knew you could use Mehron Clown White grease paint as a coagulant.

You may not consider my show business career very high end.  When I'm not writing, often, I'm performing.  Just a kid's act.  Clown, magician, more clown than magician now because the make-up reduces comments about my age.

Kids-show people either stay in town and entertain at birthday parties or they move from school to school, library to library, recreation center to state fair, from festivals of the arts to festivals of the darts.  It's quite a circuit.  They get in their cars, drive three hundred miles, unload, set the stage; the "stage" might be a field, a room, or just a portion of a busy library with the kids seated on the floor.  They amaze, possible amuse, strike the set, drive to the next gig or find their motel, then dine at McDonald's.   OK, make your demeaning comments.  Just keep in mind, during my summer road trips -- if I do a show or two a day, I can make a living.

I hit the motel in San Jose one night late summer. I'm about fifty-five years into my career.  Not many "new" customers.  But the regulars still like me.  They phone my wife, and using just enough tact to avoid direct questions such as, is he still alive and vertical, ask if I'm available for a performance. San Jose calls.  I respond, and so here I am yet again.

I'm scheduled for the Cambrian Library, on Hillsdale Avenue.  The program is not going to attract Silicon Valley's affluent tec-tots.  Most likely I'll face a room full of Hispanic and Asian children from hard working everyday families.  Deal me in. Doing shows is my therapy, my self esteem, possibly my ticket to a Heavenly venue.

I reach the motel the night before, coming in from two library performances in San Francisco.  Shows are easy, but you try parking within blocks of the Chinatown library. You try the 101 South during rush hour.   Hitting San Jose feels like a milestone.  Before exiting the car, I glance at the dashboard temperature gage -- the one estimating how things are doing outside, beyond mobile air conditioning.  Hundred and twelve.  Hundred and twelve?  Naw ... Chinatown was in the eighties.  I open the door.  Hundred and twelve.  Confirmed.  By the time I reach the room, nothing much is left in me.  Uncle.  Enough.  You win.  Go away. Leave me alone.  See you in the morning.  We are currently closed for repairs.  Lights out.  Is the unused portion of the day returnable for a full refund?  I'm think the Motel Six air conditioner was purchased from a bankruptcy sale at the Motel Four and a Half.  The only thing cool about it is the retro 1980's design.

Cambrian is a 10:00 a.m. appearance, meaning I have to arrive by 9:00.  Such arrangements are stupid, always.  Libraries DO NOT OPEN until 10.  You'll find me pounding on the door at 9:30 hoping my paradiddling will remind staff I'm not some street guy asking to use the facilities. 

Actually, the setup begins the night before.

Motel Six, at least this one, does not provide an ironing board.  You free a pillowcase or two from other responsibilities, spread these on what passes for a nightstand, apply your travel iron and perfect your costume.  Ironing a clown outfit on a two by two table, you assume that each time you rotate the pants, the pillowcases will shift, bunch up under the garment, or fall on the floor.  You are correct.  Don't forget to prepare the scarves for the flag trick.  "Here I have a red scarf, a blue scarf and a white one.  Bingo Presto .... what's the magic word?   READ!  The silks blend into a genuine American flag!"  The scarves are a little threadbare.  I've taken to waving them around; in motion they look just fine.

Not trusting the front desk, I set my cell and the radio-alarm clock for Seven.  No.  Seven sounds awful. Seven-thirty. Plenty of time to wash, shave, load the car. Breakfast.  Not McDonalds.  Not again.  Subway has the egg thing sandwich.  Not so much "egg," sort of a flat, circular yellow disk microwaved into edibility. The route has been looked up on Google Maps.  No printout.  No printer.  This is before GPS.  I write the route down and put the scrap of paper into my puppet's mouth.  I take the puppet, I have the route with me.  Unless Biscuit The Dog eats it.

Next it is morning.  Man I hate early shows.

I have a laptop.  A cheap one.  Acer.  Its old enough so the battery is permanently deceased.  If you hook the unit to the wall current, you can still run things.  I plug it in, navigating to NPR.com.  The bedside radio only picks up Country stations.  Also revival meetings.  The Acer, even when it was in its prime, full blasts audio by whispering.  You listen standing still, devoting your attention.  The cord is short and the only working outlet over by the TV.  I want to hear the news and shave.  Simultaneously.  From the bathroom, NPR sounds like a trace element.  I catch the gist of stories, but need to fill in details with imaginary facts.

I retrieve my razor and dollar store foam.  Let's light up the place so we can catch a glimpse of the old unvarnished -- pre-clowned - face.  Little stubble removal before applying the white.  Clown makeup is my version of a reality distortion field.  Eat your black heart out, Steve Jobs.

Turning on the bathroom's florescent creates its own distortion field, a sort of hum/crackle further degrading NPR's meek audio feed.  Strangely, the Acer can broadcast the static at a much greater volume than mere conversation.  So, OK, I'm flexible.  The military taught me how to assemble an M16 while blindfolded.  Surely, I can shave without benefit of the bathroom light.  Despite my fading memory, I recall where I put my face.

I'm scraping the razor through the lather as Bob Edward's replacement -- many replacements, years of them, but each time I listen, I'm still expecting Edwards, helps me feel I'm informed.  It's early.  Not paying much attention to my facial maintenance, I'm alternately catching the news and taking a mental inventory of my puppet routines. "These kids are members of the Summer Reading Club." "Oh," says Bones The Dog, "I though they were part of the summer eating club."  I'll use that.

As I rinse away the lather, instead of a harmonious complexion, I'm finding blood.  Not, Oh, I cut myself while shaving blood.  I'm talking about a massive, serious, unnerving gusher.  Several of them.  My face, my neck, my chin;  I thought I was listening to the radio, but it appears I was actually participating in a knife fight.

A quick examination of the razor indicates that after years of using these devices then throwing them into my toilet kit, sans the little plastic sleeve you are supposed to slip over the blades, I've finally run out of lazyman's luck.  The edge is mangled, contorted, jagged. It's become miniature dagger.  Under protective cover of hot water and foam, the device silently shreded my face.  My neck is sliced.  My cheeks peeled.  My chin suddenly has a cleft.  I'm Kirk Douglas, in red.  Dad told me clowning was a cut throat business, but I don't think he had this in mind.

Using tissues and toilet paper faster than you can say 'bleed to death," I'm making absolutely no healing progress.  While applying pressure, I'm also thumbing through my belongings just in case I still have the first aid kit.  Also, I'm eyeing the clock.  Show time, or at least arrival time, is less than an hours worth of bleeding from just when I've run out of paper compresses and begun working the towels.

I have to get to a drug store.  Calling on skills I never knew I had, I manage to load my props into the car without dying, and head for a nearby strip mall.   Part of me is face focused, another aspect of my consciousness wonders how the Motel Six housekeeper is going to react to the cheery cherry accents that have been added to the bathroom walls, the counter and especially noteworthy, the Jackson Polk blood red treatment on the linoleum.  Does she call the authorities? Perhaps I should have left a tip.

No pharmacy, but thank Heaven for Seven-Eleven.  At only twice the price of a case of beer, I become the proud owner of a package of gauze.  Damn.  It is so late. This is when I should be pulling up to the library, not sitting five miles away grinding assorted dry goods into my face.

After a while, I'm either out of blood or have induced coagulation.  If I don't move at all, I don't bleed.  I blast the car heater hoping to dry the evidence.  A union man who loves scabs.   Reaching Cambrian, I sit in the car applying massive doses of Clown White, power it, and repeat the process until I've built a grease barrier that discourages bleeding while hiding the more grotesque aspects of my current effigy.  I create lips, redden my nose, add colorful freckles, draw a large heart on my left cheek, and blue arches over my eyes.  I take a red scarf from my prop case, twist portions around my neck, teasing the silk higher and higher then tuck the ends into my collar.   If you didn't know what had transpired back at the motel, you'd merely suspect I had applied my clown persona with my eyes closed.

There is little point in trying to explain my new look.  If the librarian suspects I'm camouflaging the results of a bar fight, or even a mugging, she's going to report me to some committee.  Not only will I never again perform for her, I'll probably never again perform for any library in the San Jose Public Library System.

The children's librarian is not a morning person.  She looks worse than I do.  At first she barely nods hello.  But as we walk to the community room, I catch her assessing her guest artist.  To distract, I point here, there, waving my arms, telling funny stories, remembering the program I presented last year with the kid who raised his hand in the middle of the show and asked, "where do I pee?" To which another kid responded, "in your pants."  All of this is met with silence. 

I am left alone to set the stage, a glance in my hand mirror reveals several of my wounds have uncoagulated.  Nothing exotic, but lots of oozing.  More dabs, more white.  Will the dam hold?  Will the show go on?  Will I succumb to iron deficiency anemia?

The kids enter.  Fortunately, their focus is on the balloon comedy and the puppet routines.

"Here we are, Bones, in the library."

"I thought we were in a strawberry."

You had to be there.  Unfortunately, so did I.

It was not my best performance.  It was also not my worse.  You might say it was a cut above the usual.  And then, it was over.

Exit the kids.  Enter the librarian ... my check in hand.

She spends a moment staring at me.

"That's amazing."

I wasn't sure how to respond.  What exactly was amazing?  My disfigured, slightly swollen face?   My show?

"Very creative," she continues, handing over the fee.

Exit the librarian.

I dare not de-clown until I've left the premises, or perhaps the state.

I cram my props into cases, load the car, pull out with all deliberate speed, driving just far enough to park in privacy.  Am I a wreck?  Does my face look as bad as it feels?  No.  I'm more or less OK. 

Interestingly, blood has mixed with grease paint forming designer swirls, multicolor, iridescent, textured patterns on the clown white.

Centered on my chin, appearing as if by magic, most likely droplet by droplet during the course of the show, a bright red star.

Wipes and makeup remover at the ready, a Motel 6 towel standing by just in case.  Let the de-clowning process begin.

DEATH IN THE DESERT, 50 FEE FROM HOME

My father died in September of 1985.  I wrote about him that December.

DEATH IN THE DESERT, 50 FEE FROM HOME

Other Views, LA Times 12/11/85

By Charles Kraus

My father died in the desert.  Actually, he died just at that point, 50 feet from the house, where the coarse, hot Nevada plains meet the man-made oasis called Las Vegas.

To the coroner, and to many who heard the details but who did not know the man, this was simply a case of an old guy walking too far and too fast through the rugged, sparsely populated, sun-beaten outskirts of town.

He’d lived in the area quite a while.  He knew or should have known, better than to chance a three-mile hike from the car stalled out in the desert.  His wife was waiting in the passenger seat.  She had counseled that tight money or not, it was better and safe for them to get to the pay phone up the road and call for assistance.  He rejected this.  He was determined to walk back to the house, and to his other vehicle.  He’d return for her shortly.

These facts are true, but limited, for my father died of something quite different than bullheadedness. He had pulled 71 healthy, hearty years out of a will to pack each with adventure, respect for the common-sense approach, a rejoicing in nature and a loyalty to his family.  He was unusually stubborn, but usually right.

A dabbler, a tinkerer, a sometimes writer, a sometimes inventor, and a serious naturalist, the last three decades of his life had been devoted to the reading,  experimenting and practicing of health conscious habits.  When health food consumers were called faddists, he qualified.  When the 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s saw an ever increasing awareness of the effects that diet and lifestyle played on the span and quality of a person’s years, he seemed to be ahead of the popularizers.  Always into the new and also into the old, as interested in long-lost remedies as the most recent speculations, he was fit and energetic, anxious to find out what was on the other side of the hill, and ready to climb it to learn the answer.

But now the guy who lay in the desert, dead, quite hidden from the nearby house, was my father - the health foods, the supplements, the well-toned muscles, neutralized by hot sun.  His wife had gotten to a phone, called a cab, and exhausted the roads and her pocket money directing the driver up and down each possible route looking for him.  All the while, his body waited for her across the road from the house.

Yes, he miscalculated.  He probably underestimated the length of the walk.  And he forgot that the relatively mid morning temperature would give way to a focused, diligent sunshine long before he could reach the protective shade of home.

It could easily be argued that determined old men, double-timing it through the desert on hot September mornings, are apt to over-tax their hearts.  The thought must have crossed dad’s mind once he’d gone far enough to know he’d let himself in for a more arduous trip than he had anticipated.  We’ve all had such realizations — in a car traveling a windy mountain road, on a airplane, on a ski slope, or perhaps in the desert — moments when we became aware of the commitments we’d just made, of the control we’d so willingly relinquished to destiny.  Somewhere out there in the back lands, along the dusty roads, or cutting through the hostile Nevada boondocks, five miles from the nearest casino, halfway between his waiting wife and his waiting home, my father discovered his situation.

And yet, I add up the details and reject the textbook total reached by others.  I think the man died of something noble and cherished, not of obstinacy or disregard for the obvious.  He died because he held fast to a particular set of beliefs, the ones that defined his uniqueness and his special earthly niche.

He was never an old man, not sickly, not diminished, not worn out or locked in.  His spirit had that ageless quality, one that gave him good reason to believe he could handle the walk.  Such thoughts had never failed him — and even at the end, they only missed their mark by 50 feet.

The Silent Treatment

The Silent Treatment
By Charles Kraus, alias Charles The Magician/ Charles The Clown
[published 2006]

Up until the time I stopped talking, my professionally trained voice was one of my proudest accomplishments. Over the years, the hair went, the stomach went, a lot of physical characteristics suffered the effects of age and use. But my voice seemed to improve.

Firm, strong, unique enough to be a kind of trademark. Then, it stopped trading. The doctor’s theory was that I had a slight hemorrhage during a performance. As a protective measure, my body decided to grow a polyp - a small nodule sealing the tender spot. Once established, this mass changed everything I said into a rasp.  The more I tried to work around the vocal distortion by altering my pitch, the worse my tonality. Eventually, every utterance sounded as if it has come out of the mouth of a truck driver who'd smoked for thirty years and sang heavy metal three nights a week in a bowling alley. Surgery was proposed. Then it was performed. Next, I was allowed to say absolutely nothing for two weeks. This was followed by four weeks of progressively increasing increments of dialogue. Progressive incrementation is easy. Silence —  that’ll make you scream.

To help me interact with the world during those first two weeks, I carried around a slip of paper, a proclamation: I JUST HAD THROAT SURGERY AND WILL NOT BE ABLE TO SPEAK FOR A FEW WEEKS. The information was to be shared with anyone who needed to know — cab drivers, waiters, cashiers. Additional conversation was accomplished via a writing tablet. The world would talk. I’d send it little notes.

Some folks were sympathetic. They’d pout when reading my proclamation, or screw up their faces in a show of compassion. A few pushed my hand away, assuming I was asking for money. Standing on line at the bank, I began to wonder what the teller would think when I gave her my note. Isn’t that what bank robbers do? Would she press some sort of panic button summoning the FBI? A Starbucks barista took my note, thanked me, and put it in her pocket. Perhaps she planned to save it in case she had a vocal cord operation. When I offered a copy to a Nordstrom salesman, he turned it over and wrote, “that’s too bad."

It was impractical to present my disclaimer in situations calling for passing remarks. If you look a stranger in the eye, you’rc apt to get a “hello, nice weather.” If you wait on line at McDonalds, the guy behind you might want to kill the time by chatting. It was just too ridiculous to respond to, “I think I’ll get the fish sandwich,” by offering a note about my recent medical adventures.

I did offer the written explanation during a rather lengthy ride on the Bank of America Tower express elevator that travels non-stop from the 1st to the 40"‘ floor. The women to whom I showed it, read my words out loud to the other passengers. They stepped away from me. Perhaps vocal nodules are contagious. Give him room.

On one occasion, when l’d forgotten to take my little note with me, I chanced upon an old acquaintance. We sat down together over coffee. He told me about his new CD burner, about a lucrative business deal he might be making, and about one of his kids needing to have a set of tonsils removed- There was a lot I wanted to say regarding doctors removing things from a person’s throat. But, of course, I said nothing. The guy never noticed. He talked for twenty minutes, proclaimed his joy at running into me, and went off to pick up his dry-cleaning.

Pen and paper proved hopeless substitutes for the spoken word. My wife would explain why she planned to hang the new painting over there. I’d get out my pen and paper, set to address aspects of her pronouncement, ready to state why I thought the painting belonged in the dining room. But, by the time I‘d gotten half a dozen words into print, she’d have started on her second burst of discourse. It wasn’t just my wife. Everyone had more to say than I could reply to. It was folly to try more than a “yes” or “no.” Even if I could have written faster and spelled better. my thoughts would lack nuance. Spoken words are presented. They come out loud, or sofi, with a hint of skepticism, filled with joy, relief, compassion. This doesn’t happen on paper.

I missed speaking. When I talk, I hear myself. It’s a kind of self‘-feedback that helps me know I’m alive. Fortunately, the silence is over. I’m all healed and can talk as much as I’d like. Of course, there are precautions. The doctor wants me to stay away from aspirin or other blood thinning products to help avoid any more hemorrhaging. In other words, I have a choice, I can keep my voice healthy, or I can keep my heart healthy. I’ll probably opt for maintaining my voice. Hell, if I do have a heart attack, at least l’ll be able to scream for help.

Woodstock Days

Woodstock Days
By Charles E. Kraus

Late 1960s:

My father, who had voted for Kennedy, then for Goldwater, was experimenting with right wing politics. He was highly intelligent but also impressionable. You might say Dad knew a lot and that some of what he knew conformed to reality. He was one of those shy, soft spoken individuals, good-natured unless and until you pushed a hot button issue. The Vietnam War, for example. That brought on his high voltage outrage. It was difficult to believe his two personalities wore the same pants.

Our country was undergoing a generation gap. The press had proclaimed it; younger folks and their more experienced elders weren't seeing eye to eye.  The media's narrow focus on rebelliousness vs. stodginess, colored by dogmatic phrasiology such as never trust anyone over thirty, widened the schism.   According to television coverage, America seemed to be in a state of near anarchy.  Strangely, out there in day-to-day actual life, things seemed pretty stable.

One evening, I was taking my girlfriend to a movie playing in midtown Manhattan. My father lived in the area and for some foolish reason we had arranged to meet him for dinner. I'm guessing I thought he would be impressed by my choice of girlfriends, and that my date would be impressed with my choice of fathers. Things turned out quite differently. That happened when the conversation moved from menu selections to Hồ Chí Minh.

Like the majority of our cohort, Tracy and I hadn't taken to the streets or burned any flags.  But we identified with the more active members of the youth movement, those whose endeavors qualified for media attention.   Ours was a theoretical rebellion --  rhetorical outrage against war, against inequality,  hypocritical politicians and greedy capitalists.  When asked how to achieve a better world, our answer reflected a popular song, If We Only Have Love. Love was the cure. We were unsure about implementation.

Dad was having none of it. He countered with a diatribe of historical facts, statistics, specifics, names, places, dates, and authorities. We offered no rebuttal. We were sincere, but clueless.

Years later, thinking back on that evening, I realized that much of what my father spouted was gibberish packaged as gospel. He didn't know what he was talking about, but won the round because we were naive and massively under informed. We mistook his authoritative sounding oratory for wisdom when it was just some stuff he had read in Buckley's column.

Over time, most people mature.  A chair caning guy I knew during our bohemian past became an accountant.  His ex-wife evolved, morphing from earth mother to nurse practitioner.  Some people merely adjust.  Ultra conservative David Horowitz, a red diaper baby who considers himself a founding member of the New Left, moved to the far right.  Evidently, he likes extremes.  In the early 60's, radical student Tom Hayden wrote the influential Port Huron manifesto.  Later, he calmed down, married Jane Fonda and settled into his role as state legislator, representing the republic of Santa Monica, California.  A shanty town if there ever was one.

Absorbed into stability, I've attempted to become an informed, reasoning member of society.  It turns out this goal post is not easily reached. Facts are slippery, need context, contradict one another.  Science, with its evolving theories, religions with their competing theologies.  It's enough to make you watch another sitcom.

Forty-nine years ago this week, Trump and I were not at Woodstock.   Though I didn't go, I wished I had.   Trump never identified with the youth movement.  That August he probably spent his evenings visiting exclusive New York night spots.  Not dancing of course; according to his draft deferment, the bone spurs in his feet would have prevented him from taking to the floor.   In any event, he was not the hippie type.  He did not wear tie-dyes; he worn ties.

Having matured, or at least aged, I'm leery of gurus and ethereal solutions. I tend to put my faith in practical wisdom. But I am proud to have been a kid who believed better, idealistic, angels could make a difference.   I still do.  Love, as in All We Need, is rarely practical.  But a touch of altruism is essential.  It's one of the tools.  I now realize that shaping the future also requires coordinates.

Despite current conditions, I have hope. After all, my father did not remain a conservative.  Reagan talked him out of it.

CALL FORWARDING

CALL FORWARDING 
Land Lines                        

By Charles Kraus

I first became aware of the telephone when I was about three-years-old.  Mom and I were in the kitchen.  She was talking and talking, but it didn't sound like her words were for me.   She gripped this sort of black banana shaped thing, holding it up to her face, transferring the device from hand to hand as if prolonged contact caused discomfort.  My mother seemed to be speaking to the wall.  All of a sudden, she lowered the banana and said, "say hello to Aunt Helen."

I was confused by telephones then, and have been ever since.

--------

Like many but not all of our neighbors, we owned -- that's not correct -- we leased a telephone.  In the 1950s phones were part of the service plan.  The phone company owned them, you used them.  

One telephone per household was the general rule.  Most were located in the kitchen, though you could take the hand set into the hall or another room, as far as the length of wire connecting it to the base would allow you to go.  Such wires were always getting tangled, kinked up, wrapped around pieces of furniture, or becoming so knotted it was impossible to stretch them the full length.  

There was no such thing as "cordless."  The base was connected to wires in the wall.  The hand set was wired to the base.  Holding the handset to your ear and mouth gave you the ability to talk and listen, but only indoors.  Outside phone conversations took place while standing in public phone booths.  These were often messy, smelly enclosures, breeding grounds for germs, filth and graffiti.

Calls were personal and could not be broadcast via the yet to be invented 'speaker phone.'  Privacy was not a certainty.  Some unidentified person might just be listening in. Operators could. Also, neighbors.  This was particularly true if your phone was connected to a party line.  In many cases, ours for example, rather than having an exclusive phone number, members of your "party" had a group number.  Each household associated with the collective shared that phone number with half dozen other families generally located on the same block or in the same apartment building.

Each member was assigned an identifying ring.  Not an individualized tone, nor unique jingle, just a basic ting-a-ling.  All parties heard this alerted.  One ring followed by silence meant the incoming call was for the Smith family.  Two rings, the Jones family, three, your family.  Noting the appropriate signal, you picked up.  If  the call was meant for another family, you did not. 

Or, at least you weren't supposed to.  Party lines were the original unsecured lines.  It was best during telephone conversations to refrain from discussing anything you wouldn't want your neighbors to overhear.

To initiate a call, you lifted the hand set and listened for a dial tone. Perhaps one of your neighbors was in the middle of an interesting chat.  You hung up, but maybe you were slow and stealthy about returning the handset to its cradle.  Eventually, the line was clear. You signaled the operator, provided a number and asked her to connect you.

In the mid 1950's we got a rotary phone.  The base had a rotating disk containing finger holes that hovered above the numbers one through ten.  Printed in minimal font beneath each number was a portion of the alphabet.  Back then, "telephone numbers" were comprised of numbers and letters.  Prefixes, two letters indicating a location, were followed by five numbers.  TE6-0559 (Teaneck), HO4-7221 (Hollywood).  To dial a phone "number," the caller placed a finger into the hole corresponding to a particular digit or letter, then spun the dial clockwise as far as it would go.  Removing the finger, the disk rather slowly and purposefully returned to its original position. The process was repeated until each digit had been entered.  Watching that disk methodically return to neutral again and again, especially if your intention was to make a quick call to your girlfriend, was an excruciating exercise.

Phones were black.  Only black.  There were two styles, wall mount and free standing. Occasionally when attempting to hang up, you mistakenly returned the handset to the cradle at an awkward angle failing to disconnect.   Someone we knew, thinking she had completed a call to her mother, hung up in just such a manner.   Unbeknownst to our friend, the line remained "live" and her mom was still listening. The friend began telling us just how foolish her mother was, explaining the nuts and bolts of the woman's poor life choices!   That was a mistake.

There were hundreds of local telephone companies spread across the country, each with exclusive regional rights to phone service. Area codes for major urban centers had been assigned by the early 1950s, but placing long distance calls to out of the way locations often required operator assistance.  It was helpful to have a professional navigate the maze of regional gateways.  Except for urgent, last minute communications -- "It's a girl!,"  "Uncle Sid just passed away," "Can I borrow five dollars?," a great deal of forethought went into what you'd be saying during a long distance call.  They were charged in three minute intervals so you wanted to make sure you said EVERYTHING in a timely fashion.  Dialing from a pay phone meant the local operator would break into your conversation to warn you that your time was almost up. 

You'd be given the opportunity to continue .  All you had to do was make an additional payment.  Often, you declined.  Lengthy long distance conversations were considered frivolous.  They impacted your budget.  Besides, you probably didn't have the correct change. Instead you kept talking and talking, faster and faster, until the line went dead.

There were tricks that helped avoid paying, especially if the message you wanted to convey was prearranged.  Instead of placing an actual call to your folks to let them know you had arrived safely, you'd tell the operator you wanted to make a collect call.  This reversed the charges; the people you were dialing had to pay for the privilege of speaking to you.  But ..... 

I'd arrive in Chicago and get to a phone.  When the operator came on the line, give her my name and asked to place a collect call. Mom answered.  "Collect call?"  Before refusing, she'd milk the situation, pondering ... pondering.  "Where is this coming from?  Is he in Chicago?  Is everything alright?"  The operator could, if she chose, relay the questions to me in an effort to get mom enough information for her to make her decision.   Of course, by now, Mom had learned I'd arrived.  There was no need to speak with me, the message had been delivered.  My mother, not wanting to be thought of as insensitive, would very reluctantly refuse the call.  

My girlfriend used a more elaborate code system.  If she'd simply arrived safely, she would tell the operate that her name was Robyn. If there was a genuine problem and she actually did want her mother to accept, she'd state her name as Tracy.  At times when the operator asked who the call was from, she'd give her name as Marilyn Monroe.  That was code for something more complex, though I don't quite remember what.

During my freshman college year, I lived in a Boston dorm with a pay phones on every floor.  Students did not have personal phones, not in their pockets and not in their rooms.  Residents took turns using the public hall phones.  If one rang, it was answered by whomever felt like responding. More responsible students made an effort to locate the intended recipient, or to at least take a message and post it on the adjacent message board.  Good luck with that.

There was a trick we used when we placed calls from the first floor phone.  After dialing, an operator would come on the line and request the appropriate coin payment.   Well -- don't tell this to a soul -- it was possible to slide a quarter against the wall of the phone, then push the coin down to a spot where a cable entered the box.  With a little practice, you could hit the exposed wire inside the cable housing.  Each time the quarter touched the wire, the operator thought you'd dropped in a coin.  You could slam that quarter against the wire again and again, receiving more and more credit.  The main problem with this was that practitioners had no financial incentive to keep conversations short. 

Phones did not have display screens letting you know who was on the other end of the line.  It might be something or someone important or in the alternative, a party you were trying to avoid. The only way to find out was to answer.  Often, you wished you hadn't.  We had a cipher ... ring once, hang up.  Ring again.  Hang up.  Immediately call a third time ... bingo, we knew it was ok to pick up the phone, that the caller knew the secret pattern.

The 'who is calling?' dilemma was solved when answering machines became popular.  If it was important, people would leave a message after the beep.  You could review the details  and decide whether or not to response.  But even though answering machines served such a useful function, it took a while for the public to feel comfortable with them.  Many folks were put off by the prospect of being greeted by a mechanical device.  It was considered uncivilized.  Almost rude.

Answering services, on the other hand, employed real live people who took your call when you were not available.  If you failed to grab the phone by the forth or fifth ring, the service grabbed it for you.  "Mr. Kraus isn't home, may I take a message?"  You could even arrange to have the receptionist forward calls to your current location.  How cool was that.

Of course, these services had their down side.  Messages were written by very busy people trying their best to reduce lengthy missives to short abbreviated bullet points.  The results were mixed. You'd check in and be offered garbled nonsensical incomplete summations read by a new shift of operators who were unable to provide context or clarification.  I called once shortly before noon. 

The receptionist started to tell me about an urgent message.  She said, "he wants to meet, but ....." There was a pause.  "Hold please." I waited and waited.   Several minutes went by.  She finally returned, reading me the complete message, which said, "he wants to meet, but you have to contact him by noon or the deal is off."  It was.

Answering Services weren't the only entities adapt at screwing up calls.  The phone company was perfectly capable of being incapable.  In 1973, when I moved to the San Fernando Valley, I wanted to keep my Los Angeles phone number. I'm an entertainer specializing in programs for schools and libraries.  My business was conducted from home. I'd invested a great deal of money in brochures and printed advertising.  Friends and business associates had been using my phone number for years.  Fortunate, for a rather outrageous fee, Pacific Bell was willing to reroute calls dialed to my old number, patch them through 20 miles of the hardwired lines that ran along endless telephone poles, and pipe them directly to my new location.  Terrific.  This was about a month before the Christmas holidays and I anticipated a lot of business.

Unfortunately the patching was more theoretical than actual.  Some patchwork quilts are so random they are called 'crazy quilts.'   The phone company's routing of my calls qualified for such a designation.  My phone rang endlessly, but not with calls from people intending to speak with yours truly.  Folks were calling Ted, or Judy, the cosmetic department or about a plumbing emergency. Who the hell was I, they asked suspiciously.  Potential costumers intentionally dialing my phone number were connected to law offices and lock smiths and bakeries.  Never to me.  I didn't practice law, didn't know the first thing about picking a lock, and the only thing I knew how to bake was my body when I visited the beach.

One Saturday, the following Spring, I was booked to perform at a private party taking place about fifty miles outside of Los Angeles. Knowing the freeways could morph into giant road blocks, I allowed for lots of drive time.  However, lots was too little and I found myself zipping along at over six miles per hour.  I was scheduled to begin my show at 5:00.  Surely there was a little flex in this. 

Five-thirty, even 5:45 would most likely be ok.  But parties only last so long, and if you are going to entertain the guests, you have to arrive before they leave.
 There I was in my car, the clock rotating faster than my wheels.  At certain intervals, mainly when approaching clogged freeway exits and their equally clogged entrances, a choice was offered.  I could leave the freeway and search for a working pay phone -- pay phones were subject to vandalism and poor maintenance, so the term "working" was significant.  Before placing a call to the host of the party, letting him know I was running late, I'd have to get some change.  Pay phones did not accept bills or credit cards, and I hadn't been wise enough to bring along telephone boodle.  All this would take time, making me later than ever, especially since I'd have to fight my way back onto the freeway.  The alternative was to just keep driving, which is what I chose to do, reaching the party shortly after the last guest had departed.

To avoid such mishaps in the future my wife got me one of the world's first mobile phones.  Early cell service was spotty, at best, but she thought the device might be helpful.  These "portable" phones were so big and awkward most people thought of them as strictly car devices.  If you were on foot, their size and weight made transporting one cumbersome at best.   Handsets resembled in-home telephones.  The truly challenging part was the battery. Think something the size of a shoe box, weighing slightly less than a golden retriever.  Having a phone in the car would mean never again hunting for a pay phone. This proved theoretical.   The cellular phone cost around $700, and ended up saving us about $40 before we finally shut it down.  It was too unreliable and extravagant for our budget.  A cost analysis indicated leaving extra extra extra early for distant shows and carrying a roll of quarters in the glove box was more cost effective.

At this stage of telephone-ology, people were still captives of the "land line."  We tried to look on the positive side.  There were benefits to using this old fashioned hardwired tool.

You just had to be creative.  For example, when necessary you could request an emergency interrupt.

Suppose, this is just hypothetical, you'd been trying to call your wife to tell her that instead of watching a rerun of the television show Father Know's Best, you were thinking that after dinner, the two of you should watch The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. But every time you dialed home, you got a busy signal.  A change in the viewing schedule was a really really important idea and you absolutely needed to share your preference.  You couldn't text. 

Texting hadn't been invented.  You couldn't use call interrupt. Phones weren't equipped to do that.  Fortunately,  there was a different available interrupt -- Emergency Interrupt.  You dialed "O" and the operator came on the line.  You told her there was a serious emergency and you had to get in touch with your wife, or your boss, or your bookie, right away.  You'd tried and tried to call, but kept getting a busy signal.  Would she please break into your wife's conversation, have her release the line, then connect your call?  The fee was steep, perhaps three dollars, but some things were important enough to warrant such a procedure.  Your wife and her aunt were chatting and all of a sudden a strange voice joined the conversation.  “This is the operator.  We have an emergency interrupt for Mrs. Kraus.  Will you please release the line and I'll patch Mr. Kraus through?"

Most of the emergency interrupt calls that I made were rather frivolous.  A few were serious enough to truly warrant the procedure.  It was reassuring to know the process was available. On the single occasion when an operator broken into a call I was making, hearing her voice felt powerfully invasive, almost as if I'd been robbed of my privacy.  Yes, I'd relinquish the line.  "Hello Mom, ok, ok, I'll make sure your grand daughter sends you a thank you note."

I have one last telephone experience to share.  It took place in the 1980s during a  transitional period when cell phones were becoming more and more prevalent, but people still thought of them as supplemental equipment.   At home, you had a "regular" phone -- a land-line.  Out in the world, you had a Nokia something-or-other.  Phone companies had reluctantly agreed to allow customers to purchase hard wired phones instead of renting them. Whoopee! This mascaraed as a corporate setback, except of course, that most phones were manufactured and sold by the phone companies, so instead of charging you a few dollars a month to rent, they charged to a fortune to purchase one.

Late in the decade, our family relocated to Seattle.  We leased a house at the north end of the city.  Strangely, upon moving in, we found a telephone on the kitchen counter.  The previous tenant had failed to take it.  Ah, a free phone.  And not only that, it was live!  It didn't bite or require feeding, but it was live enough to roar us a dial tone whenever we lifted the handset.  Amazing.   In those bygone days, telephones generally had their phone numbers printed on small placards fastened to the base. 

Sadly, our new tele had no such identifier.  We could dial out, but had no idea what number to provide to friends wanting to call us.

Obviously, I had to contact the phone company and establish service in my own name.  Fortunately, this could be accomplished by simply picking up the phone in our new kitchen.  

"Hell, phone company, I want to sign up for telephone service."

The fellow on the other end of the line (by then, even men had indoor jobs at the phone company) (the glass floor) ... The fellow on the other end of the line was extremely pleasant and professional.  He took down a brief credit history then spoke with me about a few options.  The QWest Phone Company could rent me a phone or sell me a phone.  He described several models and a choice of six colors.   I could have extensions in every room, or some rooms.  There were a variety of long distance plans.  Lots of possibilities.  Phone service had come a long way.  I made my selection.

"And your address," he asked.  I told him.  

"Sorry?"

I told him again.

"Well, I'm checking and there is no such address."

I glanced at the lease.  There was such an address.

"Sorry, no.  I can't provide service to that location because we don't show it as existing."

He's telling me this while I am standing in a house at that address speaking to him from a working phone.

"Hold on.  I'll go outside and check to make sure of the street number."

I did.  I was right.  That was the number.

I tried to explain that QWest had already recognized the address.  I WAS TALKING TO HIM FROM THE ADDRESS!

My sworn testimony did little to convince him.

Well, to make a long story longer, his supervisor finally admitted the exstence of our rental.  Unfortunately, the reason I had a live phone in my hands was because the line had been inadvertently powered up.  By mistake.  The technician was supposed to provided the new service to another house, down the block.  And, to add confusion to exclusion, "capacity" for the block had been maxed out. 

There were no more lines available for additional hook ups.

"Say what?"

He explained that in a few minutes, he'd be turning off the free service to our house, and could not provide new service until scheduling a crew to run an additional cable.  The supervisor estimated that it would take several weeks.  He was optimistic.

POST SCRIPT

Christmas was fast approaching.  My wife was set to contact our LA venues to see about booking a holiday show tour.  Linda was dedicated, plus we needed the money.  She spent three days -- I swear this is entire true -- stationed at an outdoor pay phone, a bag of quarters in her purse and a note pad in her hand.  It rained.  Off and on, it snowed.  From time to time when a normal person wanted to make a normal phone call, she relinquished her post. 

When someone could only take a show at 7:30 and that meant Linda would have to call the person who'd booked one for 8:30 to ask if they could use me at 9:00, she stood there, in front of Larry's Market, as cars drove through the lot, as kids sang, cried and screamed, as dogs barked, and used her rather expanded set of telephone skills to book the tour.  I borrowed a few of her quarters and bought her cups of hot chocolate.

Obviously, times (and phones) have changed.  Analogue, digital, SIM cards, broadband, wifi, 3G, 4G, ZillionG, I have no idea what this stuff is, but I probably use it or its antecedents every day.  A few weeks ago, my granddaughter -- she's three and a half -- showed me how to FaceTime.  Like I said a while back, telephones confuse me.

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Another Father’s Day -- 1983

Another Father’s Day -- 1983

By Charles E. Kraus
Published in The News & Observer, June 18, 2017 

This is a letter of sorts – to my father. It has been a long time between messages. Dad and I live very different lives, reside in different states, and hold different points of view about the frequency and level of communication required between parents and offspring.

When I was a kid, the Father’s Day presents I purchased were mostly books, because I knew that my dad appreciated ideas. But we rarely got into the “idea” behind Father’s Day. Each of us pretty much considered it a gimmick, a drummed up sales tool designed to market greeting cards and cheap sentiment.

The word love has not been a part of my dad’s vocabulary. He was taught to be stoic, to be a hard worker, a decision maker, and the master of his family. I’m certain he believes that in order to address these roles, he needs to distance himself from matters of the heart. Glimpses of tenderness that might spend a fleeting moment revealed in an unguarded smile or moist eye are quickly camouflaged by a demeanor calling for cool headedness and a rejection of things emotional.

Over the years, we’ve come to understand each other in ways that only best friends are able to do. But dad and I have gone our entire relationship without saying how much we care.

It is because I have my own kids, my father’s only grand children, that I am beginning to learn about celebrating Father’s Day, both as a parent and as a son. My daughters are too young to notice the crass commercialism involved in holiday merchandising. They cook me and make me presents, or buy them at the market, and the little cakes or trinkets turn into treasures and tasty morsels, enhanced by the enthusiasm Becca and Danielle bring to the day. The profit-makers of the world may be “using” my kids, but it turns out, my kids are “using” them right back. The girls see this day as an opportunity to express their love. So be it if they do this by drawing pictures or buying me garage sale rejects. They help me to know just how wonderful it feels to be appreciated. And they make me want to pass along my own expression of love and gratitude to their grandfather.

Dad: When I was 7 you took me to the magic shop and introduced me to a great hobby. When I had a troubled summer, you planned us some long hikes and showed me the beauty of the forests. When I was in the service, at war, you wrote me letters and sent me packages. You’ve helped me to feel good, to feel better, to feel proud. You accomplished these things in silence, with a quiet tenderness that is part of your style.

You taught me to hold back the tears, insisting that they were not an appropriate reaction to anything short of catastrophe. I believe the admonishment that you and most of the dad’s used back when was, “stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Yet, when I got sick, and you had to retrieve me from camp, prematurely ending my summer and my summer friendships, I sat curled up in the rear seat of our car, bawling all the way from New Hampshire to New Jersey. As I recall, the only thing you said was, you were sorry. Then you leaned back and gave me a pat on the shoulder. It helped. Sometimes, when things get hard, I recall that gentle touch. It still reassures.

You were taught to express love through actions. That’s a fine way, one I have adapted and incorporated into my own life. Only, I’ve decided it is time to add another technique. Your granddaughters have shown me a method of communicating feelings that is immediate, and extremely effective. They look me in the eye and tell me they love me. I look them right back and say, I love you, too.The News & Observer 

I’m not with you today, but I thought I’d tell you, and anyone who happens to be reading this, that I also love you, dad. Happy Father’s Day.

POST SCRIPT: I wrote the above many years ago. My father died before it could be sent, and the pages were mislaid. I recently came across them and publish this belatedly, thinking I should add an an additional thought:  Hey dad, turns out they created Father’s Day for several reasons: to sell cards, to express love, and to remember.

Trump Apologists, Tomorrow Is Vague

Trump Apologists, Tomorrow Is Vague

By Charles E. Kraus

Ronald Reagan was the original Teflon President.  By any reasonable standard, at least to his core supporters, Trump is Teflon coated in Vaseline then sprayed with Pam.  As far as his followers are concerned, the things our President says, does, or doesn’t do, are beside the point.  

What is the point?

Mainstream pundits have been trying to find it, to explain Trump’s undiminished baseline support.  I get a sense that many who attempt this mission have never actually met a Trump enthusiast.  

Most of the explainers are hung up on the illogic of it all.  The newest latest Trumpism is reported then a contradictory pronouncement from Trumps inexhaustible warehouse of conflicting statements is brought to our attention.  He said yes then he said no, promised this but delivered that.  Surprise.   

Among the persuaded, President Trump’s disregard for the truth has made him a folk hero.  The subject matter is not fact checking, it is believing.  It is faith based.

Many years ago, returned from a Nam stint, I was stationed in Little Creek, Virginia, attached to an outfit the Navy called Inshore Undersea Warfare Group Two.  Trump and I are about the same age.  In those days, he was attached to the New York night life and some assignments his dad gave him.

The country had mixed feelings about conducting a war in Vietnam and this political turmoil was reflected in activity on the streets and college campuses.  LBJ refused to run again.  Gene McCarthy and Bobby Kennedy wanted a shot.   Kennedy got one.  He died on June 6, 1968.  By then, John Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had also been slain.  There was a lot to think about if you wanted to visit your mind.  Many did this, others altered theirs. 

The day after Bobby’s assassination, I overheard an interesting conversation between two of my fellow enlisted men.  They were Southern.  Religious.  Poor.  Reasonably hard workers.  Not well educated, but capable of being practical.  Ordered to complete a chore, they’d figure out how to accomplish it.  The military offered them supervision.  Without assigned tasks, they floundered.

Disheartened by the Senator’s death, one said to the other, “now that he’s gone, I guess I’ll have to vote for Wallace.”   The other agreed.

Some people deal in facts.  Some in gut feelings.

If you have goals you plan to achieve.  If you expect something from the future, not the distant future.  From tomorrow.  Next week.  Next year.  Then you believe in some level of objectivity.  Facts get you to your desires.

If tomorrow is vague and life seems to be filled with obstacles, frustration and unhappiness, you may feel that facts work against you.  That it doesn’t do any good to manipulate them.  You may decide to cast your lot with attitude and hyperbole.  In an indifferent world offering few options, this strategy may be more satisfying than trying to face tomorrow by assessing today. 

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Published by The Oregonian 6/9/17