H.B. Berlow's Blog, page 10

THE EMBARRASSMENT OF YOUTH BECOMES THE WISDOM OF AGE

As I look back upon years of writing, there are significant points that pop up in my memory, reminders of changes or advancements or even epiphanies. It’s tremendously important to recognize where you came from as a writer in order to better understand where you are.

I had a discussion with my wife about a short story I wrote in college and it drew me to a low point as a writer. You know, the one where the young lad, full of piss and vinegar, realizes he has no true comprehension of the craft of writing. Yeah, that one.

I was fortunate enough to be recommended for a graduate level writing course while attending the University of Miami. That alone bolstered my ego that a very high-ranking member of the faculty considered my work to have merit. The class was taught by Lester Goran but the real bonus was his close friendship with Nobel Prize laureate Isaac Bashevis Singer. The way the class worked was you were required to write two short stories. Goran would provide the academic instruction and grade your work. When it was time to present it to the class, you would sit next to Singer, who had an honored position at the head of a long conference table. I guess you could say the real grade came from his comments.

So, here I am, a senior hanging out with a bunch of graduate students. A well-respected writer as the primary academic. A Nobel Prize winner as the commentator of your work. This was it. This was my opportunity to shine. I took to heart Singer’s comments of “writing from the home” without fully comprehending their meaning. I was young, didn’t have a lot of life experience. What I had, I used.

The first piece was a blatant rip-off of a very early Tom Hanks t.v. movie called “Mazes and Monsters” because I was playing Dungeons and Dragons at the time and actually nearly flunked a class for not attending as often as I should have. That was followed by what can only be described as a soft-core “adult” story of a brief relationship with a flight but highly sexual woman which I wrote because, well, I had a brief relationship with a flighty but highly sexual woman after breaking up with a girlfriend of the prior year.

I must have known how pathetic the efforts were because I can recall forty years later how much I cringed sitting near this venerable Jewish writer and reading nothing further than tripe. “Writing from the home”, as I came to realize in later years, was not defined as writing about what you know so much as writing about yourself as you come to understand who you are as a human being. The plot can be anything. It is you as an individual that must come through.

This is an ongoing process to say the least. Nevertheless, at this point in my life, I am more acutely aware of who I am, the essence of my being, enough to infuse my understanding of humanity into my work. I can only fault an eager 21-year-old for not having lived enough to comprehend that. The opportunity, as it turns out, was not wasted.

“THE DAY OF CALAMITY” – EXCERPT #3

            There was one distinctive couple I met at a social function at the temple even though they were not affiliated with it. Bradley Wolrebinski was a Polish Jewish émigré who wrote lurid crime fiction under the name R.C. Donnelly. His wife, Svetlana Halonen, was a half-Russian half-Finnish artist who had an astounding greenhouse in the back of their opulent home on Park Place. I was never aware of them having gainful employment nor being involved in anything unsavory or illegal. Somehow they threw lavish parties, attended all manner of citywide events, and were both crazy as loons. It was possible the art world was more profitable than many others would have you believe. I was closer to them than to anyone other than my father.

Due to his avocation, Bradley’s mind thought in criminal terms, the devious and nefarious being an explanation for just about anything, including why the Orlando, Florida Army Air Base lost last year’s National Baseball Congress Championship. It was the unique quirk that allowed him to write his stories. I could never be sure if he genuinely had a criminal background or was associated with anyone who did. The uncertainty led an air of mystery to his gregarious persona. When it came to formulating a plan of attack, I chose to consult with him rather than Mendenhall or Gunsaullus. Unlike the movie detectives, I was not about to commit a breaking-and-entering to acquire information. Beyond the legal aspects, I could not bring myself to perpetrate a crime to catch a criminal. From Amos, it is said to hate evil, love good, and maintain justice. I wouldn’t be able to do that from a jail cell.

Private detective Harold Bergman stood as a testament to his former life as a Wichita Kansas policeman. Having endured the brutalities of World War II, he carries a slight but noticeable limp, a constant reminder of the battles fought on distant shores. As a Jew, his identity is woven into the very fabric of his being, but he cannot fulfill his father’s wishes that he become a rabbi, and instead faces a world where the laws of God and the laws of man don’t make sense, taking it upon himself to find the Truth and perhaps himself.

Harold finds himself entangled in the lives of a spoiled daughter, and the wayward husband of a devout colored woman. Their cases take Harold on a perilous journey into the depths of a dark underworld, where shadows dance with malicious intent and faith emerges as his sole weapon. Failure to wield it will usher in a day of calamity.

“The Day of Calamity” , The Wichita Chronicles Volume 1 will be released on November 29, 2023.

THE SCULPTOR OR THE POTTER

We are all familiar with the distinctive writing styles of The Plotter and The Pantser. The easy definitions are The Plotter meticulously outlines their forthcoming story, creates character biographies, maps out plot with rising and falling action, and may even go so far as to use index cards, a dry erase board, or the last technology. The Pantser flies by the seat of their pants.

I have described myself as somewhat of a hybrid. I have come up with a story line. I identify the primary characters. I have a faint notion of the ultimate resolution. The writing itself is mostly along the lines of a Pantser in that I allow the story to grow organically, in essence, listen to the characters tell their story. This concept is perplexing to some readers who believe that all fiction falls under the Plotter category.

However, in reviewing how I have written in the past, I have also determined two other distinct types of writers: The Sculptor and The Potter. These are my own designations as they relate to the Art world of which writing is firmly imbedded.

Sculptors take large pieces of raw material. They chip away at it, soften, refine, create curves and angles. They can see the final form from a large block of marble or other stone. The raw material is large, almost cumbersome. But the process involves refining.

The Potter sits diligently at a wheel. His raw material, wet clay, is handled either roughly to create a form or gingerly to shape it. Additional pieces of clay are added to, let’s say, add a handle to a water pitcher or another character in a display.

There are writers whose initial draft is 80, 90, or in excess of 100,000 words. This is especially true of those in the fantasy genre where elaborate worldbuilding is required. The aspects of a completely new society, if you will, have to be established. To what degree it supports the actual story is governed by the writer who typically chips away at that first draft, attempting to find a balance between identifying the environment and having the characters react and respond within that environment. I call these writers, of any genre, Sculptors.

I find that I have fallen into the role of the Potter. My singular goal in a first draft is to get to a minimum of 50,000. I know I won’t remain there. My second and third drafts are used to identify where the story can be fleshed out, not necessarily with colorful prose to describe surroundings, but more to show the main character’s deeper responses to the events as they happen. I clarify and tighten timelines. I attempt to ensure a character is not simply a deus ex machina. I build up the whole over the bones of the story.

These descriptions are not currently in popular parlance. However, it would be worth a discussion to see where other writers fall within these parameters. So, how about it: Are you a Sculptor or a Potter?

THE JEW IN THE TRENCHCOAT:

WHEN RELIGION BECOMES PART OF

HARD-BOILED CRIME FICTION

            It was a conscious decision to avoid the tropes of traditional hard-boiled crime fiction as exemplified by Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler when I began to write the first book of the Wichita Chronicles, entitled The Day of Calamity. In doing so, the focus was more on the main character than the style. Accordingly, the motivations and intentions, of both the private detective and the author, were different than what had previously appeared in print under this banner.

            The primary focus was the notion of being caught between the laws of man and the laws of God. This is exemplified by a man who is a former police officer as well as a Jew whose family had hopes for him to become a rabbi. The impelling action was World War II, a time when neither law and order was apparent and faith was tested. The choice to become a private detective allows for the semblance of investigatory procedure while exploring the depths of the human condition. And not necessarily in the underworld where crime is evident. The first book involves a businessman of great wealth whose motivations may not be as obvious as they appear and a missing colored maintenance man whose disappearance is the tip of the iceberg.

            Quoting scripture (The Torah, the Talmud) is a reminder of the moral upbringing of a first generation American by Eastern European immigrants. My own mother’s stories of her family speaking Yiddish in the home and English outside of it resonated as I constructed the story. Our main character is of two worlds both culturally and philosophically. The approach to solving the cases he has taken on are, however, in keeping with his training as a policeman. This sets up an ethical inquiry as to the nature of Justice and Retribution.

            By the same token, there was never any intention of creating a metaphysical detective story, although The Day of Calamity does share some traits with that subgenre. When you consider Durrenmatt’s The Pledge and see the determined efforts of Matthai to prove a serial killer was at large, the elements of a procedural are evident. However, right from the start, Durrenmatt subverts the reader’s expectations by the simple addition of a subtitle: Requiem for the Detective Novel. The act of attempting to solve a crime is secondary to the mental and physical degradation of a former inspector. There is no tidy resolution to assuage the reader that Good always triumphs over Evil. While this makes for good story-telling within literature, it may not be satisfying enough for publishers to risk alienating contemporary readers.

            Umberto Eco’s oeuvre contains densely researched and erudite concepts whether they involve Kabbalah and conspiracy theories (Foucault’s Pendulum) or a 14th century murder mystery set in an Italian monastery (). Both works play out in the same investigatory pattern of the traditional detective novel but then undermines it with aspects related to philosophy and mythology. The resolutions to each, once again, do not necessarily provide a complete and fulfilling denouement but rather cause the reader to ask further questions.

            The most basic example of a work of metaphysical detective fiction is Crime and Punishment which concerns itself less about the apprehension of a murderer and more about that individual’s attitude toward his crime. While these examples are all part of a greater body of literary work, there is less of a design with The Day of Calamity to be completely philosophical as opposed to using the preconceived notions of a genre to reflect personal introspection. This is true of both the main character and the author. In one regard, Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge contains more of the soul-searching aspects I sought without the crime element.

            After completing the four books of the Ark City Confidential Chronicles, I realized there was an inherent value in crafting historical fiction. I could dispense with complex technology often used for investigative purposes and focus more on deductive reasoning and logical evaluation. The main character in that series was a facially scarred World War I veteran with some secrets from his past. He grew and developed over four books comprising a twenty-year period. I came to know him as he told me his story.

            What I wanted for a new series was someone closer to my own sensibilities, though of a different historical era. What is it we could share and yet be separated by nearly eighty years? The first thing was religion. At the time of his inception, I hadn’t contemplated the extent of Jewish policeman or private detectives in fiction. While there was no consideration toward making some kind of breakthrough, it was for me a way of bonding with the character. Accordingly, the name I gave him mirrored my own: Harold Bergman.

            To create a private detective, I realized he could not come upon that profession in vacuo and had to resort to something which gave him a background. Unlike being an investigator for the District Attorney (like Philip Marlowe) or employed at an agency (like the Continental Op), I chose to make him simply a beat cop in Wichita who had hopes of making Detective grade. There was also a conscious decision to move him from a small town in Kansas (Arkansas City) to the city where I live for ease of research and which also provided a wider range of businesses and character types.

            A policeman doesn’t automatically become a private detective unless he has a falling out within the department or made an egregious error warranting termination of employment. Given the desire to set up a moral conflict, I chose neither. The intervening act was World War II. It was easy to imbue a sense of patriotism in a young man whose parents found pride in their adopted country. However, I also felt that a physical defect would defer the action aspects of the plot to more contemplative ones.

            The question then begs: Did I make him Jewish to “resemble” me in some fashion or for ulterior motives? The answer is a combination of both. As the intention was to create a moral and ethical dichotomy, the character’s faith was very much a significant trait. While it has been close to fifty years since my bar mitzvah, I am aware of and understand Judaism far more acutely than other denominations. There was also a need to determine how much of that faith would be imbued within the story, how much of his dilemma of faith would play a part whether through motivation or impedance.

            Even a contemporary devout Jew may not be well versed in Torah, Talmud, or esoteric writings. As writers, we run the risk of including references that likely won’t be caught by the reader and may in fact interrupt the flow of the story. This, however, is an inherent problem in any historical fiction genre. There will be allusions to daily life and popular culture that is understood to the characters and unknown to the reader. What you put in creates an accurate presentation of the world of that time. How much you include will bring you close to the edge of acceptability.

            How I feel about the scriptural references is moot. Ultimately, the reader will determine whether it is too much for them to bear. The intention is to show the reader the mental and personal processes of a man of a different faith than what they are perhaps used to reading.

My own experiences with the Jewish detective start with Harry Kemelman’s Friday the Rabbi Slept Late featuring the suburban Rabbi David Small. While the rabbi has a relationship with the local, and Catholic, police chief, there is never any intention of making him out to be Sam Spade in a yarmulke. We witness how Rabbi Small’s Talmudic training allow him the wisdom to see the third side to every problem. His religious background has given him the skills to be able to be a detective without falling into the typical tropes associated with the genre. I felt that only about a third of that novel involves the crime presented. The conflicting styles of a man of faith and a man of the law are shown with neither being the greater.

            This was perhaps my impetus in developing my own story, even though I knew I didn’t want to write within contemporary guidelines, and I did not seek to restrict the main character from being part of the law enforcement community altogether. I then proceeded to Stuart Kaminsky whose main character, Abe Lieberman, is a police officer referred to as ‘Rabbi’ by his Irish Catholic partner, Bill Hanrahan, referred to as ‘Priest.’ There is a sense of 70’s comedy team about them. In Not Quite Kosher, Lieberman deals as much with his grandson’s bar mitzvah and a temple benefit as he does solving a murder and an escaped robber. It is filled with a variety of ethnic types and sets the tone of big city Chicago and environs. It is, however, a practical description of a contemporary Jew and less concerned with deeper moral evaluations. Nevertheless, Lieberman’s faith plays a significant role in defining his character.

            Faye Kellerman is an Orthodox Jew. Her Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus series involves a Los Angeles police detective raised Baptist whose birth parents were Jewish and who converted when he married an Orthodox Jew. From the outset, one can see the cultural clash within the Jewish community. In Day of Atonement, we see first a Rosh Hashanah gathering in New York in which Decker comes face to face with his birth mother amid various other family conflicts. From there, a case emerges when a young family member disappears. It is filled with words, phrases, and concepts that, though explained, might be hard for some readers to accept given their lack of experience with certain religious rituals.

            The first three examples are all contemporary. I had not discovered a Jewish detective from an earlier time, although I am certain one exists. For me, it was apparent the return from the war in Europe combined with the period would allow an examination of an individual looking for his place in the world, one which would soon see great changes in society, art and culture, technology, in essence, day-to-day life. While we can easily recognize sharp divisions within our own country now, I have less of a desire to be a commentator on the world at large than to follow the spiritual development of one decent human being.

            Additionally, then as now, aspects of antisemitism rear their ugly head whether in the form of adverse comments or questions that the uneducated use to disguise their bigotry. It is an element that does not go away in the fictional world largely because it still exists in the real one. Despite the ugliness of this aspect, it was the primary reason, along with my own ascribing to Judaism, that resulted in a private detective of the faith.

            Hammett’s work shows his background as a Pinkerton operative. It is methodical and detailed, showing the steps and stages of an investigation. There is a great deal of risk combined with a certain amount of bravado and daring. Chandler adds the element of literary writing, a sense of the detective as a modern-day Don Quixote, complete with flowery allusions wrapped in rain-soaked streets. Each had their methodologies and reasons. Neither gave much credence to faith or religion.

            Therefore, we begin at the point of their creations. The hard-boiled world of the detective with many of the nuances but without the standard tropes leaves us with an individual who is crying out for a defined motivation, a raison d’etre. Harold Bergman: a former policeman, a World War II veteran, a private detective, seeks out missing persons and hidden meanings, in both the world around him and his own life.The lack pf physicality as defined by his war injury turns our attention to the moral and logical methodologies. His Jewish faith is the overcoat he wears.

“The Day of Calamity”, The Wichita Chronicles Volume 1, will be released November 29, 2023

IS IT YOU?

Character names are important. They create an image before a description is even given. Take Edward Murdstone, the cruel stepfather in David Copperfield; Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s; Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; and Humbert Humbert from Lolita, to name a few. Personalities are often imbued by names. Whatever and whoever they are, the character’s name must be greater than the mundane.

I started with baby name guides to find first names or surnames that would be indicative of personality. Kevin: Irish for “handsome, beautiful.” Sarah: Hebrew for “princess.” Mark: Latin for “warlike.” Carol: English for “free person, or song.” After a while, that seemed too tedious. While it appealed to my poetic sensibilities, it didn’t allow for unique names that I was simply unaware of.

I moved on to the phone book. I could flip through, land randomly on a page, and find all sorts of names. The sonic quality at this point was more appealing. Finding a unique and real name allowed me to impose a kind of personality onto a character simply by how a name sounded. However, with the scarcity of landline phones and the almost complete disappearance of the phone directory, I needed to move on.

It then occurred to me I could engage my family, friends, and co-workers in my writing by using their names, or variations thereof, as characters. In writing historical crime fiction, I had a far greater number of male characters but worked with a higher percentage of females. While some were thrilled to “be in the book”, they did have to get over being a male character.

The first real person to make the cut, so to speak, was Heather Devore. We worked in two different departments which were about to merge. I unceremoniously approached her in the break room, declaring she had a GREAT name for a femme fatale and I would love to use it in a future book. Caught off guard, she merely responded with one request: that I make the character hot and sexy. Heather is a dear friend and one of my biggest advocates.

I have lost track over the last eight years how many known individuals have entered the realm of literary infamy. When I think about it, I might give someone a heads up. Perhaps they buy a copy, read through, looking for the villain or victim they might be. Maybe they ask “Is that me?”

“THE DAY OF CALAMITY” – EXCERPT #2

            I worked my way up to the King’s X over on 1st and Broadway and took a seat at the counter. That was where I first encountered Jennie Palmer roughly six months earlier. Even though she recently graduated from North High School, her mind worked like a forty-year-old dame who had seen a thing or two. A wizened girl of the street who didn’t have secretarial college in her future. Just as easily, she would fall back into sweet and innocent mode if it suited her. Her arms were in constant motion, whether it was wiping down the counter, pouring a cup of coffee, or scooping empty plates away from satisfied customers. Her mind worked as deftly and too often more quickly.

            “Cheeseburger and coffee, Jennie.”

            “Good thing you ain’t Kosher with that milk and meat thing.” She was right. I thought about all the culinary delights I would have to give up if I followed my religion a little more strictly. That would include the delightful ham-and-Swiss on rye from the Old Mill. My attitude was the Lord was more concerned about following His laws than His menu. Maybe it was a rationalization. Since He hadn’t struck me down thus far, I figured on following the dictates of my stomach.

            The lunch crowd worked their way in and out of the small café as I wiped meat grease off my chin and got a couple of refills of java. No one from the place begrudged me a spot after I smacked down an attempted robber last winter. I had a permanent reservation even though this wasn’t the Ritz. Jennie finally came back and leaned her elbows on the counter, staring at me like a starry-eyed bobby-soxer.    

            “You know a lot of gals who hang out at the jazz clubs?” I asked casually.

            “Oh sure. It feels daring and dangerous.”

            “And who doesn’t like danger, right?”

            “Oh, not me. I like gentle, mellow crooners. Give me Freddy Martin and Eddie Howard any day of the week.”

            Anyone listening to our conversation would have thought young Miss Palmer to be a shy and assuming maiden. However, as she decided not to attend college, she worked as often as she could, breakfast shifts, lunch shifts, or the late-night crowd. She saw things and heard things about parts of the city I did not have access to, while no one paid her any mind. Those qualities made her an invaluable resource for me. Her disarming smile opened doors a mug like me found closed.

            “Maybe a few of these gals come in for an after-hours bite?”

            “Maybe a few.”

            “High on hooch perhaps?”

            She stood up straight, those starry eyes now clear as the sky after a summer rain.

            “Or other things.”

Private detective Harold Bergman stood as a testament to his former life as a Wichita Kansas policeman. Having endured the brutalities of World War II, he carries a slight but noticeable limp, a constant reminder of the battles fought on distant shores. As a Jew, his identity is woven into the very fabric of his being, but he cannot fulfill his father’s wishes that he become a rabbi, and instead faces a world where the laws of God and the laws of man don’t make sense, taking it upon himself to find the Truth and perhaps himself.

Harold finds himself entangled in the lives of a spoiled daughter, and the wayward husband of a devout colored woman. Their cases take Harold on a perilous journey into the depths of a dark underworld, where shadows dance with malicious intent and faith emerges as his sole weapon. Failure to wield it will usher in a day of calamity.

“The Day of Calamity” , The Wichita Chronicles Volume 1 will be released on November 29, 2023.

THE DREAM

We’ve all had dreams that have startled us, shocked us, amazed us, perhaps even frightened us. You don’t need to be a Freudian or a Jungian to engage in amateur dream interpretation. I did that quite a bit for family members 15 or so years ago. It was likely more my creative side and penchant for making up stories that allowed me to present a reasonable explanation, if you will. I was nothing like Old Testament Joseph however.

But what about when you have a dream that seems significant somehow? There is an element that you recognize could be telling you something, not necessarily issuing forth prophecy, and not as grandiose as Jacob’s Ladder. When those random events occur, it is important to write down what you remember because the feeling doesn’t depart, just the facts.

A little over a month ago, I had such a dream. Brief and vague, one element stood out. There was a reference to a local poet I know. I can only recall hearing her name mentioned. But there was text that I was looking at. While the rest of it was blurred, one phrase was clear and in capital letters:

I AM NECLUSUM

Naturally, I was struck by this brief dream and remembered it when I awoke. It was two days later I wrote down the words I saw, then had doubts as to whether it was NECLUSUM or NACLUSUM. Either way, it was transcribed.

Still later, I did a Google search for each word but came up with limited results. For the former word, there was nothing but references to “nucleus” and for the latter word I found various permutations of the chemical compound NaCl, sodium chloride, or table salt. I had to laugh thinking that if I were salt, who was pepper?

I told my wife about the dream. She was fascinated and also shared my discouragement. She knew that I would keep pressing on the matter. And I did. By simply using Google Translate, inputting the words and allowing it to detect the language to provide an English translation, I had some success.

Naclusum in Latin means “closed.” Neclusum in Latin means “not locked.” The first mystery unraveled. But because I did not write the word down immediately and now have no absolute recollection of the exact spelling, I am left with two possible phrases in this dream:

I am Closed.

I am Not Locked.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t have an Indiana Jones type ending. I had a fascinating, almost revelatory dream, recalled enough to make further research interesting, and determined two possible meanings. Why such a phrase would stand out in my dream and what its ultimate meaning may be remains clouded at this time.

Songs to Play at My Funeral

No, this is not some sort of morose post nor a pre-planning mechanism. But, how many times have you been asked or come across a poll about your favorite books or movies or songs? Maybe not even a list but a singular favorite. Then you realize you’ll never be able to read all the books, watch all the movies, or listen to all the songs you want to in one lifetime.

And choosing an absolute favorite is like asking a parent to choose a favorite child. Our lives run the gamut of preferences; what we enjoyed as children might not be as enjoyable as adults. Perhaps we come full circle and like the things of our youth all over again.

When I reference songs to play at my funeral, I’m thinking of those tunes that have had the most impact in my life. They might not be favorites. “Peg” is one of the most exquisitely engineered songs I have ever encountered. “Hotel California” both lyrically and musically still rock me to the core. On the other hand, I could not think of a more peaceful instrumental than Erik Satie’s “Gymnopodie No. 1“, graceful and serene. But the following three songs resonate with me more.

I have been a fan of Stevie Ray Vaughan since 1988. His powerful blues-rock style was balanced by jazz like riffs and soulful intensity. My friend got us tickets to see him at Lake Compounce, an amusement park and entertainment venue, on August 16, 1988. When I heard Rich got us tickets in the third row I was stoked. Then, when we got there and saw the stage was, like, 12 feet high, we realized our view was going to be limited.

Remember: this was before the internet and the opportunity to see the seating chart or real-time views. We never saw drummer Chris “Whipper” Layton, only barely saw keyboardist Reese Wynans, often saw bassist Tommy Shannon, but did get good views of SRV.

The most impressive was when he sat on the edge of the stage, the warm summer breeze blowing over his silk shirt like waves on the ocean, and that wide-brimmed black hat almost covering his face because he was looking lovingly at his guitar while he played.

The song? “Riviera Paradise.” It was the last song on his “In Step” album, the first he produced after getting clean and coming out of rehab. It’s an instrumental that rolls over you sweetly and then takes you on a journey of introspection. I adore the musician and, I believe, have all his albums. This song will always stand out for me.

From 1990 to 1994, I was involved in the Boston poetry scene. Until my forays into fiction over the last eleven years, I focused on verse. It was then I discovered Charlie Parker when I bought a four disc set of the Complete Dial Sessions from a used music store in Harvard Square.

Used? It was still in shrink wrap. And from reading the liner notes and listening to the music over and over again, I could learn about Bird’s life of which his music was an integral part.

I fashioned an epic poetic work based on his life with three separate voices, using the songs at key points to move the story along. It was recited as a work in progress on a late night Tufts University radio program, performed live at a poetry venue in Cambridge, and finally recorded on four-track analog tape (since transferred over to disc).

The key song was “Koko“, the moment when he discovered his style and became who he was musically. In his words:

“I remember one night before Monroe’s I was jamming in a chili house on Seventh Avenue between 139th and 140th.  It was December 1939.  Now I’d been getting bored with the stereotyped changes that were being used at the time, and I kept thinking there’s bound to be something else.  I could hear it sometimes but I couldn’t play it.  Well, that night I was working over “Cherokee”, and I found that by using the higher intervals of a chord as a melody line and backing them with appropriately related changes, I could play the thing I’d been hearing.  I came alive.”

“I came alive.” That says it right there. I have moved on to fiction and have not taken up the quill and scroll for a while. However, immersing myself in music and poetry and being surrounded by others of a similar ilk is likely when I came alive as an artist.

A charming romance called “Frankie and Johnny” is based on a two-character play by Terence McNally titled “Frankie and Johnny at the Clair de Lune Cafe.” Both works involve Debussey’s classic tune “Clair de Lune“, more formally titled Suite bergmanesque. I’ve heard it as a solo piano work as well as arranged for piano and orchestra. It is hauntingly beautiful, even painfully so.

I’ve never seen the play but my wife have watched the movie with Al Pacino and Michelle Pfeiffer many times. It’s simple, sweet, with many quotable lines and unique New York characters. I guess it’s the love story part, two people coming together, one desperately wanting to love again, the other uncertain if it is ever possible, that grabs me by the throat.

The music, more than the movie, turn my attention to my spouse of twenty-five years. We plug along. We survive. We thrive. We live. And we love.

Hopefully, I am a long way from my funeral. What I choose to focus on are those pieces of art that I have encountered or experienced throughout my life thus far that hold a special place in my heart until I am here no more.

“THE DAY OF CALAMITY” – EXCERPT #1

It was practically a miracle I found an opening at the Arch Plaza Apartments, a sturdy two-story building at 730 N. Market with eleven total units. Constance Hanover was the gracious landlady in her seventies who had difficulty renting the front unit due to unfortunate circumstances as well as a bit of unsubstantiated gossip.

            “Mr. O’Malley died suddenly and, well, that gave the appearance of a curse of some sort,” she explained to me in the early fall of 1945. The prior resident, Padraic O’Malley, was a long-time bartender at Tom’s Inn over on North Seneca. According to various stories passed around, he had a colorful way about him, claiming at one time to be a leprechaun, among other things. You either embraced his Irish charm or avoided him entirely.

“And those cats!” she added with disdain.

            The first-floor apartment contained a main room looking out over the street and pocket doors separating the quaint kitchenette, the bathroom, and the small bedroom. The cats of which she spoke were two Manx, one an elegant tuxedo named Lady Mittens and the other a bright orange fellow called Sir Pounce. None of O’Malley’s co-workers would take them in, and Mrs. Hanover didn’t have the heart to evict them, being the good Christian woman she was. That I was willing to move in with a guaranteed one-year lease and maintain the feline residents allowed her to offer me a reduced monthly rent. The place was in proximity to everywhere in downtown I needed to be. I did not believe in curses and had no aversion to felines I was aware of. I just didn’t know what I was getting myself into.

            Richie dropped me off after my visit with Whitman. I indicated I would head on over to the university late in the afternoon and he should pick me up at three. I reminded him to have spare receipt books available. His eager smile indicated he was ready for an adventure. His labored breathing due to the excitement had me worried.

            Mrs. Hanover placed a small bench outside my front door so prospective clients wouldn’t have to wait on the stoop or in the street. It was done as much for propriety as for privacy. She allowed me to put a sign on the door itself, reading H. BERGMAN, INVESTIGATOR, with the caveat I would not be entertaining clients at all hours and disturbing the neighbors. At the time, I was barely making ends meet and did not think that to be a problem.

Private detective Harold Bergman stood as a testament to his former life as a Wichita Kansas policeman. Having endured the brutalities of World War II, he carries a slight but noticeable limp, a constant reminder of the battles fought on distant shores. As a Jew, his identity is woven into the very fabric of his being, but he cannot fulfill his father’s wishes that he become a rabbi, and instead faces a world where the laws of God and the laws of man don’t make sense, taking it upon himself to find the Truth and perhaps himself.

Harold finds himself entangled in the lives of a spoiled daughter, and the wayward husband of a devout colored woman. Their cases take Harold on a perilous journey into the depths of a dark underworld, where shadows dance with malicious intent and faith emerges as his sole weapon. Failure to wield it will usher in a day of calamity.

“The Day of Calamity”, The Wichita Chronicles Volume 1 will be released on November 29, 2023.

Tikiman and The Viking – Episode One

Please enjoy the first episode of our new podcast here.

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Thank you,

H.B. and Brian