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Jevons squeezed his eyes shut and after a moment the urge passed. “Yesh,” he said, putting his hands down on the bar to steady himself, “bad luck till my next promo, promoshu, shun, and who knows when that will be. Or if. Damn’ my father for supporting the radical intrest.”
Jack pulled his own hands back, accidentally knocking over his drink as he did so. “Damn,” he said, watching the whiskey run down onto the sawdust-laden floor. He was starting to feel the effects of the whiskey himself and he shook his head to clear it.
“Not that I don’t love him,” said Jevons.
“Of course you do.”
“But why did he have to be sho, so vocal? He could have thought what that would do to my career. Ah, well. To family, and where we would be, where would we be, without them,” he tipped his empty glass back into his mouth. “It appears that my glass is empty. Ah, well,” he picked up his cigar again, “perhaps they’re wet enough.” He puffed at his cigar and fell to smiling at his epaulets, even more beautiful than he remembered them.
Jack stared at the epaulets, too. A small, mean, jealous part of him reflected that while Jevons might have received his promotion before Jack, appointment to a transport meant that no further promotion was likely; Jevons would die a lieutenant. Whereas if Uncle Rufus came through, Jack would be appointed to a warship - a sloop, or maybe even command of a brig - with all of the liklihood of further promotion: Commander, Captain, and ultimately, maybe, Admiral. He forced his eyes from Jevons’ epaulets and they wandered around the room, the bottles on the shelves with their shiny spouts, the beer taps with their coats of frost, the peculiar clock behind the bar with its swinging pendulum. “What a peculiar clock that is,” he said to Jevons, “with a pendul - a swingy thingy.”
Jevons carefully turned to face the clock and they stared at it for a while.
“It’s fast, too,” said Jack. “Decoration, I suppose it’s for.”
Jevons felt his pockets for his phone. “No, it’s just about on, Jack,” he said, staring at its screen, “coming up on seven bells - eleven-thirty.”
“No,” said Jack, plunging his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled his phone free and turned it right-side up, “No!” he cried, “I’m late!” He pulled a fistful of coins from his pocket, tossed several of them on the bar, made hurried apologies to Jevons, and ran out the door.
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Saturday, February 15, 2014
Monday, February 10, 2014
Truth and Beauty 1-4
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“The white ship with the red stripe?,” Jack asked, “I was looking at her the other day. Beautiful ship. Never would have guessed she was a T2.”
Jevons shook his head and fished a cigar from his pocket, holding it to his eye to cut it before he went on. “No,” he said, “the rusty one in need of a paint. Damned if I know what the last comman, commad, co-man-ding occif- off- oh, fuck!” He placed the cigar in his mouth, succeeded in lighting it on the second try, pulled and let out a cloud of smoke. “Damned if I know what the last bastard was doing, but he wasn’t main - maintaining her.” He puffed on his cigar for a moment. “Simmond - Simmul - whasisname was probably exaggerating about the hulls, keels, and the rust will make us less of target for the Ircadians. Right? Right?”
Jack nodded solemnly.
“And seniority from two weeks ago. Wiltshire’s to be appointed to the Success, but his commizure, commission hasn’t been written yet and he’ll be junior to me and have to follow my orders. Right? Mine! Ha! The bastard. At least until he gets promoted to Captain. Then I’ll have to follow his. Bastard,” he said again, and emptied his glass, “Oh, dear,” he held his hands to his mouth.
“Don’t let it out!” cried Jack, putting his own hands over Jevon’s and somehow not burning them on the smoldering cigar. “Not when you’re wetting ‘em! It’s bad luck, you know, bad luck until your next promotion!”
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“The white ship with the red stripe?,” Jack asked, “I was looking at her the other day. Beautiful ship. Never would have guessed she was a T2.”
Jevons shook his head and fished a cigar from his pocket, holding it to his eye to cut it before he went on. “No,” he said, “the rusty one in need of a paint. Damned if I know what the last comman, commad, co-man-ding occif- off- oh, fuck!” He placed the cigar in his mouth, succeeded in lighting it on the second try, pulled and let out a cloud of smoke. “Damned if I know what the last bastard was doing, but he wasn’t main - maintaining her.” He puffed on his cigar for a moment. “Simmond - Simmul - whasisname was probably exaggerating about the hulls, keels, and the rust will make us less of target for the Ircadians. Right? Right?”
Jack nodded solemnly.
“And seniority from two weeks ago. Wiltshire’s to be appointed to the Success, but his commizure, commission hasn’t been written yet and he’ll be junior to me and have to follow my orders. Right? Mine! Ha! The bastard. At least until he gets promoted to Captain. Then I’ll have to follow his. Bastard,” he said again, and emptied his glass, “Oh, dear,” he held his hands to his mouth.
“Don’t let it out!” cried Jack, putting his own hands over Jevon’s and somehow not burning them on the smoldering cigar. “Not when you’re wetting ‘em! It’s bad luck, you know, bad luck until your next promotion!”
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Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Truth and Beauty 1-3
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“Yes,” said Jack, “yes! You’re in! And that’s the big thing!” But the Transport Board was barely in the Navy, an administrative and promotional backwater where careers went to die. He hoped Jevons wouldn’t hear how forced his enthusiasm was - in his own ear it was startlingly obvious - and he made something of a show of forcing a path through the crowd to the Goat and Compasses, where they found space at the bar and ordered drinks. “To the swabs!” they said, draining their glasses. “To promotion!” they said, draining them again. “To prize money!” they said, draining them a third time. “To the Roth! To Lieutenant Jevons! To friendship!”
“What type of ship is she?” Jack finally asked, leaning on his friend for support.
“She’s a - a floating garbage can, actually," he said again. "A Curtis T2 fleet oiler, you remember them, Professor Simmons - Simu - Sim - the engineering professor - was going on about their hulls. Shitty hulls. But she’s a ship, still and all.”
“Well, maybe you’ll be assigned to Anson’s squadron, and with all the fighting there’s bound to be promotions. He’ll need oilers.”
“No,” said Jevons, pulling a cigar cutter from his pocket and accidentally dropping it on the floor. “I mean yes, he will. But we were refitted for general cargo. Pipes all over the place and half of them lead nowhere. Bulkheads. Rust.” He found his cutter, picked it up, and went on. “We’re carrying equipment, water purifiers, to Sephus, leaving as soon as we’ve victualed, day after tomorrow. She’s up against the victualing wharf right now.
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“Yes,” said Jack, “yes! You’re in! And that’s the big thing!” But the Transport Board was barely in the Navy, an administrative and promotional backwater where careers went to die. He hoped Jevons wouldn’t hear how forced his enthusiasm was - in his own ear it was startlingly obvious - and he made something of a show of forcing a path through the crowd to the Goat and Compasses, where they found space at the bar and ordered drinks. “To the swabs!” they said, draining their glasses. “To promotion!” they said, draining them again. “To prize money!” they said, draining them a third time. “To the Roth! To Lieutenant Jevons! To friendship!”
“What type of ship is she?” Jack finally asked, leaning on his friend for support.
“She’s a - a floating garbage can, actually," he said again. "A Curtis T2 fleet oiler, you remember them, Professor Simmons - Simu - Sim - the engineering professor - was going on about their hulls. Shitty hulls. But she’s a ship, still and all.”
“Well, maybe you’ll be assigned to Anson’s squadron, and with all the fighting there’s bound to be promotions. He’ll need oilers.”
“No,” said Jevons, pulling a cigar cutter from his pocket and accidentally dropping it on the floor. “I mean yes, he will. But we were refitted for general cargo. Pipes all over the place and half of them lead nowhere. Bulkheads. Rust.” He found his cutter, picked it up, and went on. “We’re carrying equipment, water purifiers, to Sephus, leaving as soon as we’ve victualed, day after tomorrow. She’s up against the victualing wharf right now.
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Saturday, January 25, 2014
Truth and Beauty: 1-2
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“Of course!” said Jack, turning as he did so to see who was calling and recognizing the tall, thin form of his friend Jevons, whom he hadn’t seen since final exams.
“Haven’t seen you since finals, Jack, where have you been keeping?”
“Looking for a ship,” said Jack, "though I haven’t said ‘no’ to some of the delights of shore, neither. What have you been up to?"
“Looking for a ship. And I’ve found one, too!”
“Have you, you sly dog! That deserves a drink, a commission at last! What ship? Tell me about her.”
“She is the Roth,” said Jevons.
“Roth?” replied Jack, thinking hard, “Roth? What is she? I’m ashamed to tell you I don’t know the name.”
“She’s a floating garbage can, actually. But she’s a ship, still and all. Transport, but she means full pay and I suppose the chance of promotion, some day. Beyond Lieutenant. But come,” he said, brightening suddenly, “let us wet the swabs!” He gestured embarrassedly to his new gleaming epaulets, purchased that morning with an advance on his pay, wonderfully heavy on his shoulders.
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“Of course!” said Jack, turning as he did so to see who was calling and recognizing the tall, thin form of his friend Jevons, whom he hadn’t seen since final exams.
“Haven’t seen you since finals, Jack, where have you been keeping?”
“Looking for a ship,” said Jack, "though I haven’t said ‘no’ to some of the delights of shore, neither. What have you been up to?"
“Looking for a ship. And I’ve found one, too!”
“Have you, you sly dog! That deserves a drink, a commission at last! What ship? Tell me about her.”
“She is the Roth,” said Jevons.
“Roth?” replied Jack, thinking hard, “Roth? What is she? I’m ashamed to tell you I don’t know the name.”
“She’s a floating garbage can, actually. But she’s a ship, still and all. Transport, but she means full pay and I suppose the chance of promotion, some day. Beyond Lieutenant. But come,” he said, brightening suddenly, “let us wet the swabs!” He gestured embarrassedly to his new gleaming epaulets, purchased that morning with an advance on his pay, wonderfully heavy on his shoulders.
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Thursday, January 16, 2014
Truth and Beauty: 1-1
Today was Sunday, so it was without fear of arrest for debt that Jack set out from his inn, a shabby little place in the liberties of the Savoy, crossed the street, and turned left to begin the long walk to his uncle’s city apartment. He was a large man, tall as well but perhaps too large for his height, with hair that as a child had been platinum blond but now, in his twenties, was drifting toward light brown in color. At present it was pulled back into a pony tail. He wore the simple uniform of a midshipman, his present rank, but he was now old enough to be a lieutenant.
At a gap in the traffic he crossed the street and turned left to begin the long walk to his uncle’s city apartment. His uncle, the MP for the borough of O’Brian’s Ferry, carried all of the family’s parliamentary interest, and though he rarely thought of his nephew, when he did his thoughts were generally benign. To Jack, this seemed perfectly fair, as Jack rarely thought of Uncle Rufus, though when he did, his thought were also generally benign, and thus the whole thing seemed to balance out rather well.
Jack’s last visit to his uncle (patron, he reminded himself) had been perhaps three years ago. Uncle Rufus had asked after Jack’s career, presented him with two sextants (“always good to have a spare, you know, Jack”) and a bottle of scotch, and sent him on his way. Neither of the sextants was as good as the one Jack had then owned (it was presently in pawn), but they were beautifully decorated, and more to the point they were from Uncle Rufus, so Jack had treasured them greatly until pressing debts had forced him to sell them both. He regretted it still. The scotch, on the other hand, was a fine old bottle, for though Uncle Rufus knew nothing of the navy he did know whiskey. Twice Jack had considered drinking it, but each time he had desisted, saving it instead for when he might receive his first commission - for when he would metamorphose from a mere midshipman, rated or disrated at his captain’s will, to a god-like Commissioned Officer whose lawful order it was Death to disobey.
Today, he hoped, would be that day. Commodore Anson, in the Success, was assembling a squadron of ships to sail against the French, and though Jack had no hope of an appointment to the flagship, he had applied for an appointment to one of the three sloops belonging to the squadron: the Griffin, Wyvern, or Bakeneko. He had fair chance of getting one, too, given the number of appointments and the number of candidates within easy reach, for the squadron had received sudden, urgent orders to put into space - French scout ships had been seen near Rigel IV and an attack was deemed imminent.
Almost as an afterthought, Jack had written to Uncle Rufus for help. He wanted the appointment based on his real merits, rather than interest. Eventually, however, reflecting that almost every appointment was at least in part due to interest, and that this was an essential step in his career, he had given in. The service was corrupt, and high minded though he might want to be, there would be no promotion without interest. Wiltshire’s father is no doubt pulling every string he can to get Wiltshire a berth in the Success, Jack told himself as he clicked ‘send’, and Higgins’ and Lister’s families are no doubt doing the same. Besides, think of the Santa Brigada and the Thetis, which I was never promoted for.
Uncle Rufus had written straight back, telling Jack that he was setting his sights too low with a mere second lieutenancy, and that he, Uncle Rufus, would press for something more impressive. Jack, who would have been more than happy to be a junior lieutenant in a one-gun brig, nevertheless saw no reason to contradict his patron, and sent back his thanks without delay, and Uncle Rufus, knowing what Jack’s fiances were likely to be (no half-pay for a midshipman), had invited him up to dinner on Sunday, when civil arrests could not be made.
Jack was lost in happy thoughts of promotion, pay raise, and the potential for prize money, and was rehearsing the names of the liners, those magnificent ships, when an insistent voice broke in upon him, “Jack there! Ahoy, there, Jack! Come join me for a glass!”
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Jack’s last visit to his uncle (patron, he reminded himself) had been perhaps three years ago. Uncle Rufus had asked after Jack’s career, presented him with two sextants (“always good to have a spare, you know, Jack”) and a bottle of scotch, and sent him on his way. Neither of the sextants was as good as the one Jack had then owned (it was presently in pawn), but they were beautifully decorated, and more to the point they were from Uncle Rufus, so Jack had treasured them greatly until pressing debts had forced him to sell them both. He regretted it still. The scotch, on the other hand, was a fine old bottle, for though Uncle Rufus knew nothing of the navy he did know whiskey. Twice Jack had considered drinking it, but each time he had desisted, saving it instead for when he might receive his first commission - for when he would metamorphose from a mere midshipman, rated or disrated at his captain’s will, to a god-like Commissioned Officer whose lawful order it was Death to disobey.
Today, he hoped, would be that day. Commodore Anson, in the Success, was assembling a squadron of ships to sail against the French, and though Jack had no hope of an appointment to the flagship, he had applied for an appointment to one of the three sloops belonging to the squadron: the Griffin, Wyvern, or Bakeneko. He had fair chance of getting one, too, given the number of appointments and the number of candidates within easy reach, for the squadron had received sudden, urgent orders to put into space - French scout ships had been seen near Rigel IV and an attack was deemed imminent.
Almost as an afterthought, Jack had written to Uncle Rufus for help. He wanted the appointment based on his real merits, rather than interest. Eventually, however, reflecting that almost every appointment was at least in part due to interest, and that this was an essential step in his career, he had given in. The service was corrupt, and high minded though he might want to be, there would be no promotion without interest. Wiltshire’s father is no doubt pulling every string he can to get Wiltshire a berth in the Success, Jack told himself as he clicked ‘send’, and Higgins’ and Lister’s families are no doubt doing the same. Besides, think of the Santa Brigada and the Thetis, which I was never promoted for.
Uncle Rufus had written straight back, telling Jack that he was setting his sights too low with a mere second lieutenancy, and that he, Uncle Rufus, would press for something more impressive. Jack, who would have been more than happy to be a junior lieutenant in a one-gun brig, nevertheless saw no reason to contradict his patron, and sent back his thanks without delay, and Uncle Rufus, knowing what Jack’s fiances were likely to be (no half-pay for a midshipman), had invited him up to dinner on Sunday, when civil arrests could not be made.
Jack was lost in happy thoughts of promotion, pay raise, and the potential for prize money, and was rehearsing the names of the liners, those magnificent ships, when an insistent voice broke in upon him, “Jack there! Ahoy, there, Jack! Come join me for a glass!”
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Saturday, September 8, 2012
Sources ("American Pie")
Durfee, James R., et al. "Aircraft Accident Report, File # 2-0001". Civil Aeronautics Board. Release September 23, 1959. Accessed at http://data.desmoinesregister.com/holly/documents/CABreport.pdf. Accessed 26 December, 2011.
Howard, Alan, & McLean, Don. "About Don McLean: A Short Biography". Don McLean Online: The Official Website of Don McLean and American Pie. http://www.don-mclean.com/aboutdon.asp. Accessed 27 December, 2011.
Howard, Alan, & McLean, Don. "American Pie". Don McLean Online: The Official Website of Don McLean and American Pie. http://www.don-mclean.com/americanpie.asp. Accessed 26 December, 2011.
Howard, Alan, & McLean, Don. "Trivia: Did You Know That". Don McLean Online: The Official Website of Don McLean and American Pie. http://www.don-mclean.com/didyouknow.asp. Accessed 26 December, 2011.
McLean, Don. "Buddy Holly, Rock Music Genius". Commentay. CNN. http://articles.cnn.com/2009-02-01/entertainment/mclean.buddy.holly_1_music-grown-ups-records?_s=PM:SHOWBIZ 1 February, 2009. Accessed 26 December, 2011.
The Article
Howard, Alan, & McLean, Don. "About Don McLean: A Short Biography". Don McLean Online: The Official Website of Don McLean and American Pie. http://www.don-mclean.com/aboutdon.asp. Accessed 27 December, 2011.
Howard, Alan, & McLean, Don. "American Pie". Don McLean Online: The Official Website of Don McLean and American Pie. http://www.don-mclean.com/americanpie.asp. Accessed 26 December, 2011.
Howard, Alan, & McLean, Don. "Trivia: Did You Know That". Don McLean Online: The Official Website of Don McLean and American Pie. http://www.don-mclean.com/didyouknow.asp. Accessed 26 December, 2011.
McLean, Don. "Buddy Holly, Rock Music Genius". Commentay. CNN. http://articles.cnn.com/2009-02-01/entertainment/mclean.buddy.holly_1_music-grown-ups-records?_s=PM:SHOWBIZ 1 February, 2009. Accessed 26 December, 2011.
The Article
The Meaning of American Pie, Part 1
Don McLean has been pretty reticent regarding the meaning of the lyrics to "American Pie," preferring the song to speak for itself, but he has made statements about a few points in the song. For the rest, all we have is conjecture, in some cases a lot of it, of varying quality.
What is known for certain is that Buddy Holly was an important figure in McLean's life[[McLean, CNN]], and that he died in a plane crash early in the morning of February 3, 1959. Along with Holly, fellow musicians Ritchie Valens and J. P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson were killed, as was Roger Peterson, the pilot. There were no survivors, and no witnesses, but the Civilian Air Board (then the governmental agency charged with investigating plane crashes) report concluded that pilot inexperience, coupled with poor weather and darkness, essentially caused him to fly the plane into the ground.[[Durfee Accident Report]] That day, February 3, 1959, has subsequently become known as "The Day the Music Died," though whether it would have done so without Mr McLean's song isn't clear.
McLean wrote "American Pie" in 1971, looking back at the events of over a decade ago, and musing over the changes that had come to himself and to America in the interim. As McLean's website pus it,
A long long time ago
I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while
But February made me shiver
With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step
I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
So
McLean is writing in the early 1970s about something that happened in the late 1950s. A dozen years have passed, and a lot has happened during that time, both for McLean and for the country. For McLean, who was born on October 2nd, 1945, he started the period as a child, dreaming of being a musician, and finished it as an adult professional musician. In early 1959, of course, Buddy Holly died in a plane crash (more on that below). In 1961, McLean's father died. Don went to college in 1963, only staying for four months before he dropped out to become a musician, though by taking night classes he gained a bachelor's degree in business management in 1968. He played small venues for several years, gaining some local celebrity and joining the first crew of the Pete Seeger's Clearwater sloop in 1969. With the sloop, McLean toured and played along the United States eastern seaboard and later that year McLean released his first album.[[Howard & McLean, "About Don McLean: A Short Biography"]]
America had also undergone major changes, from the general optimism of the late 1950s, through the unrest of the 1960s, to the uncertainty of the early 1970s. In 1962, the Cuban Missle Crisis threatened globar nuclear war. Martin Luther King, Jr., gave his "I Have a Dream" speech during a major march on Washington in 1963. President Kennedy was assassinated later that year, and King himself was assassinated in 1968. The Cold War heated up with increasing U.S. involvement in Vietnam. President Nixon was elected in 1968, promising to end the war, but the draft was reinstituted the next year. The Space Race culminated with Apolo 11's landing on the moon in 1969. In 1970, National Guardsmen shot and killed four students at Kent State University, and permanently paralyzed a fifth. Whereas in the 1950s we all felt pretty sure that we were the good guys, by 1970 that was no longer so clear. Not to mention the threat of nuclear annihilation.
So, McLean has gone from childhood to adulthood, and America has lost its innocence as well. And, music has undergone changes. By the calendar 1959 may not be a long, long time ago, but in terms of personal and national change, a lot of time has passed.
Sources
What is known for certain is that Buddy Holly was an important figure in McLean's life[[McLean, CNN]], and that he died in a plane crash early in the morning of February 3, 1959. Along with Holly, fellow musicians Ritchie Valens and J. P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson were killed, as was Roger Peterson, the pilot. There were no survivors, and no witnesses, but the Civilian Air Board (then the governmental agency charged with investigating plane crashes) report concluded that pilot inexperience, coupled with poor weather and darkness, essentially caused him to fly the plane into the ground.[[Durfee Accident Report]] That day, February 3, 1959, has subsequently become known as "The Day the Music Died," though whether it would have done so without Mr McLean's song isn't clear.
McLean wrote "American Pie" in 1971, looking back at the events of over a decade ago, and musing over the changes that had come to himself and to America in the interim. As McLean's website pus it,
"American Pie" presents an abstract story of McLean's life from the mid-1950s until the end of the 1960s, and at the same time it represents the evolution of popular music and politics over these years, from the lightness of the 1950s to the darkness of the late 1960s, but metaphorically the song continues to evolve to the present time. It is not a nostalgia song. "American Pie" changes as America, itself, is changing.[[Howard & McLean, "American Pie"]]This seems to suggest that the meaning of "American Pie" is not intended to be fixed, but rather to change as America changes, and it can only add to the number of interpretations and reinterpretations of the song. This makes producing a complete interpretation impossible, something akin to tilting at windmills, nevertheless I here pick up my lance, and don my visor, in an attempt at instilling some sense of order to the many interpretations now available.
A long long time ago
I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while
But February made me shiver
With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step
I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
So
McLean is writing in the early 1970s about something that happened in the late 1950s. A dozen years have passed, and a lot has happened during that time, both for McLean and for the country. For McLean, who was born on October 2nd, 1945, he started the period as a child, dreaming of being a musician, and finished it as an adult professional musician. In early 1959, of course, Buddy Holly died in a plane crash (more on that below). In 1961, McLean's father died. Don went to college in 1963, only staying for four months before he dropped out to become a musician, though by taking night classes he gained a bachelor's degree in business management in 1968. He played small venues for several years, gaining some local celebrity and joining the first crew of the Pete Seeger's Clearwater sloop in 1969. With the sloop, McLean toured and played along the United States eastern seaboard and later that year McLean released his first album.[[Howard & McLean, "About Don McLean: A Short Biography"]]
America had also undergone major changes, from the general optimism of the late 1950s, through the unrest of the 1960s, to the uncertainty of the early 1970s. In 1962, the Cuban Missle Crisis threatened globar nuclear war. Martin Luther King, Jr., gave his "I Have a Dream" speech during a major march on Washington in 1963. President Kennedy was assassinated later that year, and King himself was assassinated in 1968. The Cold War heated up with increasing U.S. involvement in Vietnam. President Nixon was elected in 1968, promising to end the war, but the draft was reinstituted the next year. The Space Race culminated with Apolo 11's landing on the moon in 1969. In 1970, National Guardsmen shot and killed four students at Kent State University, and permanently paralyzed a fifth. Whereas in the 1950s we all felt pretty sure that we were the good guys, by 1970 that was no longer so clear. Not to mention the threat of nuclear annihilation.
So, McLean has gone from childhood to adulthood, and America has lost its innocence as well. And, music has undergone changes. By the calendar 1959 may not be a long, long time ago, but in terms of personal and national change, a lot of time has passed.
Sources
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