Roger Wright – Chicago

She arrived in Chicago on a slushy cold February day in 1947. A friend had told her to look up a writer named Algren. And in the tour of the underbelly, mean streets, dive bars in the Polish neighborhood of the city, and the walk back through the bitter wind to his tiny warm apartment on Wabansia Street where the steam radiators clanked and the hot water took a minute or two to get going; they fell in love.

Rooted in Paris, as deeply as Algren was rooted in Chicago, their love lived off transatlantic letters, no emails, texts or tweets, and the stolen days and weeks of vacation times together over almost 20 years. The “feminist,” such a grossly dismissive label for Simone deBeauvoir, a person who it could be argued, did as much as any human being for changing the way the world viewed ½ its population; was buried with Nelson Algren’s ring on her finger.

But, like Chicago was home to Algren, Paris was home to deBeauvoir.

Her home was also with “The Philosopher” Jean Paul Sartre.

I remember once slogging through Sartre’s “Being and Nothingness”—a book the size of about 5 phone books—and asking my philosophy professor, “So, what all this says is we’re all a bunch of little red rubber balls that spend our lives bouncing off each other, right?” (College students get temporary passes on being dismissive) And my professor’s answer was, “Well, there’s a bunch of other stuff in there too but, yeah that’s the gist of it.” Pouring out a philosophical vein of gold that encompassed a philosophy and a literary canon, Paris was home to Sartre. Home to Sartre was also deBeauvoir.

Sartre and deBeauvoir called what was between them, “open.”

Algren’s letters to deBeauvoir have never been made public. Her letters were published. Collected in “A Transatlantic Love Affair. Letters to Nelson Algren.”

In this collection of over 300 letters, this woman, a giant on the stage of intellectual history writes them a home together.” DeBeauvoir writes;

“I should like to have you here, in the little garden in front of the blue and yellow inn. I see you sitting near me, smiling to me. How much I love this smile! Did you think, two weeks ago, you should so nicely smile in a French little garden, in a French loving heart? Here you are my beloved one, smiling to me and loving me while the cuckoo is singing nearby. And I smile and love you in the French garden and in Chicago too; I am in our Chicago home as well as you are in France with me. We have not parted and we’ll never part. I am your wife forever.”

Sartre and deBeauvoir stayed rooted, stayed at home in Paris, their whole lives.

Algren, the writer, did not. His relationship with Chicago was complex. And in 1975 Algren left Chicago forever and moved to Paterson New Jersey. He died on Long Island.

Why did Algren leave his home? What’s the real reason that “the writer” came to such a different end than the “philosopher and the feminist?”

The answer is on the privately shot video below where you see another genius, Studs Terkel, going to work. There is a lot of laughing, joking around, Algren is a story teller and that comes through.

But when you watch Terkel, you see that he takes the art of listening to almost dizzying heights. You see no notes in this “interview.” You see the timing of the questions as if it were all being choreographed by some mystical Swiss Watch. The two were life long friends. And that comes through here.

You see Studs make it look easy. This is what Studs did. Whether it was in the living room of a friends house, like here, walking down a street and stopping a stranger, or for a book. This is what he did. He made it look easy.

So finally, at the end of this conversation that is, when you consider what is revealed from a guy who really doesn’t like to reveal much, a remarkably short conversation, you see and you hear Algren’s truth.

You see him come clean about where one can find his books. In the libraries of Tokyo. But not in Chicago.

Studs Terkel giving a master’s class.

On how to take care of a writer.

On what happens when we don’t.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_WzEma1t1U&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Excerpt from:
“FINDING WORK WHEN THERE ARE NO JOBS”
From Part Two: Telling Your Story
Chapter 4

INTRODUCTION

Do you act differently when no one is watching? That’s a pretty tough question to answer honestly. How would you know?

But what if you could know? Think of the self-awareness that would occur if you knew how others saw you. And then how you could use that self-awareness to authentically tell your story in a way that could connect you to finding work.

In this story, the President of the United States—before he took office– is “off stage.” No cameras or speeches to make. The narrator is standing on the other side of a soccer field.

As you join the kids’ soccer game being watched by both the President and the narrator, ask yourself: “What impression do I leave when the cameras stop rolling?”

The Questions

•If someone watched me from a distance, how would they describe me?
•Is the description the one I’d want?
•Would refining the impression I make help me tell my story?
•How could improving my level of self-awareness help my work search?

———————————————-

LEAVING IMPRESSIONS. President Obama When the Cameras Stop Rolling.

Malia Obama probably wasn’t sure if her Dad would make it home from work to watch her soccer game this past Friday night.

He’s been pretty busy lately.

But her Mom and her little sister would be there.

The flow of the kids moving the ball down the soccer field, under the lights of a chilly autumn night. The families chatting on the sidelines. The starlight glow of downtown Chicago rising up from the north. Malia Obama at midfield shouts “Mom!” And the smile, grace, and presence of the woman whose eyes never once leave her daughter—no matter who else she speaks to, waves back and sends a radiant smile.

In that one wave and smile, you see hope come alive before your very eyes.

Then just a few minutes after eight, something like a shift in earth’s gravity occurs. To the casual observer, nothing in this scene has changed. That pull of the earth’s power must have been imagined.
The true city dweller will feel it first, before they even see it. Blink your eyes and the men appear.

Ringing the shadows of this soccer field are people with guns. Serious people with guns. Like oak trees that move. The phrase, “Not on my watch” flashes through your head.

You have to look hard to make sure they are even there. You never really see a gun. You’re not even sure they are moving. But when you blink your eyes, somehow their positions have changed. Something about the way they just appear calms your breathing.

Instinctively you know. These are the good guys.

With that feeling of true safety pressed firmly in your very soul; you can remember the real secret at the heart of the city: we of the city are just a million small town kid’s soccer game scenes all strung together. So the kids laugh and kick the soccer ball.

Then some skinny guy in a blue baseball cap walks out of the gym next door.

Hands in his pocket, face down, by himself. He walks over to Malia’s Mom, who has 3 conversations going on simultaneously with folks on the sidelines.

The quiet guy in the blue cap puts his arm around Malia’s Mom. Shakes hands with a couple of the people. Talks with Malia’s Mom for a minute or two.

Just then a small miracle occurs. The quiet guy in the blue cap who nobody in the crowd of really paid all that much attention to; scrunches down so he is face to face with Malia’s little sister Sasha.

She lifts up the brim on his cap.

And then, standing in shadows behind Sasha, you see what she’s seeing up close. You see that smile. That smile that resounds with the very power and the glory of the city lights behind it. That smile now almost ready to take its place in American history.

You can’t hear, and are happy not to hear, what he’s saying to his youngest daughter. But from your distance you do hear her giggle.

The father takes the daughter’s hand. The younger daughter. The one who is not in the game. The one was destined to not get a lot of attention tonight.

They move back deeper into the shadows, behind the sideline crowd. Still watched by that quiet show of force here to keep them absolutely safe.

Then the miracle: they have a foot race.

While the soccer game is still going on. Just the two of them. Sasha and her Dad take off together, both running at full speed, as fast and then faster than either of them could ever imagine. Sasha laughing, and laughing at the finish line. Her Dad swoops down and picks her up.

Then that smile. This time only for his daughter. It was just for her.
His youngest daughter’s giggle. It’s the music of a promise to make sure that everyone’s included.

And this past Friday night in Chicago: Malia Obama’s team won the game.

CONNECTING TO ACTION

•Why is the awareness of how others see you so important in work search?
•Imagine watching yourself from a distance. Would your actions match your words?
•In the story, there was no dialogue. Yet there were at least half a dozen messages sent by the President just by what was seen from afar. If someone were to watch you from afar, what would you want your messages to be?
•How will you make sure they are in your story?

Notes on Connecting to Action

Try this experiment. Pick someone who will give you an honest opinion. Ask how you would come across in the first 10 seconds of a conversation on searching for work.

Would your authenticity come through in those 10 seconds? Would you come across as authentic no matter who was watching you?

What is it you have to do to make sure that your authenticity comes through when you are telling your story?

Excerpt from:
“FINDING WORK WHEN THERE ARE NO JOBS”
From Part Three: Adding Music
Chapter 7

INTRODUCTION

All of us have musical memories. Where we were when a song played. Remembering the words to songs from childhood. Music remains after much else has been forgotten.

As you read this selection, consider the power of music as a conduit for memory. How could that power be put to work in a work search?

————————————–

Musical Memories: The Newlyweds’ Ode To Joy

Why sure I remember George and Barbara. Came rolling through here in the summer of ’48, or maybe it was ’49. Long, long, time ago so don’t go quoting me on the year. I can tell you how hot it was that summer though.

Now let me tell you kids something about the heat. Most peoples, they go thinking that this being Sunshine Arizona it is always hot. They believe there is no difference in how hot. But I have lived here in Sunshine Arizona now for 96 years, and I can tell you right now as you are standing there with that old tape recorder out here in the shade of the porch of Johnny Tomorrow’s General Store that there is hot. And there is hot. You believe it sir. Some days, most days, most of us don’t even feel the heat. It’s maybe 90 or 95 degrees. Heat like a second skin. It’s something you carry with you.
And besides then the nights come, it gets right cool and the whole thing don’t matter much anyways.

There might be some other places, somewhere down 66, that get this hot. But I don’t have no idea where they might be.

But you were asking me about George and Barbara. They came though sometime towards the start of the really hot season. And I knew right away they was different.

See first of all, they was about the best looking pair a kids ever seen around these parts ‘cept of course for the ones up on the movie screens. I am telling you, sure as I sit here in this old rocking chair that there was folks who would have taken them to be maybe Betty Grable and Montgomery Clift when they drove up in the middle of that heat in that old blue Chevy coupe.

We get all the movies here. Why, old Henry Fonda himself came through here one day. Sat down on that very bench where you’re sitting now. Took out a red bandana and wiped his brow and said, “Hot here.” And I swear but I wasn’t talking to old Tom Joad hisself!

And that ain’t the end of that story. It was maybe 20, 25 years later and this big tall fella, skinny boy with a real fine white set a teeth who looked just like ole Henry–by that time I was calling him ole Henry like we were pals you know–this tall fella came just smokin into town on one of the loudest damn motorcycles I have ever seen. Wearin’ one of this big shiny helmets with an American flag painted on it! Now he takes it off real slow, and I’ll be damned if he don’t pull a red bandana outta his back pocket just like old Henry did, wipe the dust and the sweat away and say, “Hot here” just like old Henry! Yessir he did. Why except for the fact that this young fella was taller, it coulda been old Henry Fonda all over again!

Sure, I was wonderin that day George and Barbara drove up if they would be all wild like those Fonda boys too.

And I don’t know what ever happened to George and Barbara. All I know is that they stayed a day and a night in that hotel over cross the street. I remember he said that she needed the shower, then he laughed, and she rolled her eyes like she was saying, “What am I gonna do with this big old lug?” but you could tell she was nuts about him anyways.

He had a bit of wildness in him. I could see that in his eyes. Kinda scared, tough and determined no one was gonna get in his way. No sir.

And you could tell he was lookin out for her big time. Wherever they went off to, I can tell you one thing. He never, never, never, let no one mess with her. And if any one had tried I can bet you they was sorry.

Just like now, we had had this little café right inside the door where you see them coolers sittin now. Course the prices were just a bit lower. Johnny Stewart’s Blue Dream Road Eggs and Hash. 25 cents. That comes with all the coffee you can drink.

It was the morning right before they left, Barbara and George they was sitting there having that special for breakfast and they was talking something ’bout her getting a job in some bank somewhere and him doin office work. I guess those would be the jobs they took up.

It was pretty early in the morning, so it was still cool. Course there was no air conditioning back then. The window was open, they was sittin’ there right inside and I was out here, just like I am now, holdin’ down the fort, and I could hear pretty much everything they was saying.

Now ever since he built this place, Johnny has had that old piano right inside there. And when it would get slow, or sometimes just cause he felt like it, he’d just sit down and play that piano. Mostly he played it in the very early morning or in the very late at night.

So he fixes them their special Blue Dream eggs and hash, pours up some coffee, smiles and goes and sits down at the piano. It was right than that Barbara, she starts talking about workin’ at the bank and George says somethin’ ’bout office jobs and bein’ part of an office team. Just him at the boys down at the office.

Johnny, he hears it too. I look in the window, I see Johnny looking at that handsome young and full of promise couple. Johnny winks at me and starts up that piano, he’s a playing that beautiful old song–“These Foolish Things”

Ta da da da,
Da da da da da da da
Ta da da da da da
Da da da da da.. .

You know how pretty that song is. And Johnny, he could play that song just as pretty as that Monk fella or Duke or even as pretty as Sarah Vaughn could sing it.

Barbara, she asks what that song is called and Johnny says, “Why that song is called, “These Foolish Things,”

Nobody says anything for about a minute. Johnny, he just sits there at the piano. Then George, he smiles says, “Know any Beethoven?” You remember I told you that George, somewhere he had a streak, he had a wildness, in him and maybe he thought he could stump old Johnny or something. I don’t know. But Johnny, he looks at George and he say, “Why sure young fella,”

And with just with his right hand, he starts out setting down some single, clear notes, every note like a bell ringing, Johnny picks out the first bars to the chorale piece of the “Ode To Joy.” I believe that’s the ninth symphony? And damned if Johnny, doesn’t keep going!

Starts in to give it a full sound with his left hand when he comes around again, and then–and I nearly came outta my chair at this one, I had no idea Johnny knew how to go singing in German, Johnny starts in singing the words to that little song !

“Freude schone Gotterfunken,
Tochter als Elysium!”

And than I see George, he gets this big old smile on his face. Like nothing I ever seen before. That smile was just like the sun coming up over the desert and he gets up, walks over to the piano and he starts singing along with Johnny! And they go though that whole damn song together and than they are both laughing and than they do it again! You woulda thought there was big mugs a beer and some giant dance hall in Berlin or something from the way those two were singing. But they was singing, then Barbara was singing, she was clapping and it was just the three of them in there but it felt like they had filled the room ’cause of all the spirits was with that young couple.

I knew it then. I knew there’d be tough times ahead for those two, but I knew they’d be fine. No, I knew they would pass fine right on by and go a running off to wonderful!

I heard them sing that morning. Really sing. And if you happened to be passing by, or if you had been sitting here holdin down the fort–which is what I do here, in Sunshine Arizona–you would have heard them too. That fine young couple. Singing in the morning.

Singing away like their life had just begun.

———————————-

CONNECTING TO ACTION

•The story was narrated by an older man. Is there an older person in your life who could be useful in your search for work? Does that person know you are searching?
•There was a direct mention of the actor Henry Fonda and an indirect mention of his son Peter. Do the family connections—genetic family as well as the people who populate your life who you might consider family all know of your work search? Might one of them have a connection to work for you?
•Is there a piece of music that you connect with a certain job? Think back. When you recall that music—does it prompt other associations that could be useful in your search?
•The story portrays a couple at the beginning of their life together. By the end of the story, the future happiness of the couple is clear. Think back to the beginning of your work life. What song comes to mind? What associations do you have from that song? Could any of those associations help you today? How?
•Two very different pieces of music are connected and used here. A jazz standard and a Beethoven Chorale. Their connection is a surprise. Have you ever been surprised by the circumstances that lead you to work? What did you do that lead up to those circumstances? Might any of your actions work now?
•Imagine your own very specific musical memory. Just like this one—only yours. What do you now know from that musical memory that you didn’t know before?

Turning thinking into action: Keep track of your musical memories. Write down the connections —however arbitrary they might seem.

What if . . . . .there were something in that musical memory of you at the beginning that could help you find work? What would it be?

What if. . .the impromptu joy of three strangers suddenly singing together in the middle of the desert, could somehow be channeled into a work search for you? What could you do to make that happen?

Her glass eye never bothered me. But killing me off with a heart attack?

That was a problem.

This is a true love story because I was looking for true love. Or, like the previous marriage, some reasonable facsimile.

But the bright sunlight of truth fades to shadow for this story. Not just because it was a long time ago. But because, now looking back, I was never sure if anything she told me was really true.

There are some facts at the core of this.

I remember the look that combined horror, admiration and pity that flied across my friend Larry’s face that summer when I told him I had put a personal ad in the paper We were on a picnic bench resting with two frosty mugs of beer on the cobblestone patio of Riesi’s Bier Stube on Irving Park Road.

Men looking for women ads, I guess I should say, is what people used before Internet dating sites. I suppose there were also women looking for men ads. But I don’t remember too many of those.

I remember the ad said something about me looking for a woman who appreciated what it would be like to live in Mayberry, the fictional hometown of The Andy Griffith Show.

She’d also have to know all the words to “I Got You Babe,” by Sonny and Cher.

I hadn’t yet learned that all this talking in code could be a problem. That forging bonds over TV shows and songs that could mean anything to anyone.

Larry’s first question, after several seconds of silence and a couple of long, long drinks of his giant Weiss bier was of course, “So did anybody respond to you?” Emphasis on the word “you????”

“I got 75 responses!”

“Get out. Bullshit you did.”

“No, I really did,” And I remember being proud of that. Of course this was long before I had figured out that more is sometimes not better.

“But were they like psycho weirdoes? Women just out of prison? I know you didn’t go out on 75 dates. You’re too cheap.”

“I called back 20, and I went out with 5.”

“What about those 5?”

“Well, there’s one I’d like to see again.”

“Nice looking?”

“No but . . .”

“Funny? Rich? What?”

“She has a glass eye.”

“No way . . .“ he shook has head in the knowing way that friends do.

“And. . . .” I continued with the other part, the inevitable punch line we both knew was coming. “She’s a writer.”

“So,” he summed up. “She’s perfect for you. A glass eyed writer. Perfect for you. Does she really have a glass eye?”

I answered with an indignant “Of course!”

But looking back all these years later, all I really knew was that one eye looked in a different direction sometimes. Seemed to be more still. I didn’t really know. But she did SAY she had a glass eye.

And I never actually saw anything she wrote. But. . . .

I really wanted to her to be a writer.

Back then I wouldn’t have known the word “Edgy.” But if I would have known the word then—it’s what I would have used to describe what I was looking for.

Our first date was at Miller’s Pub. Nestled under the el tracks in the loop. Dusty framed pictures of celebrities from the 1950’s and 1960’s on the walls. Tall red vinyl booths and waitresses named Shirley who had seen it all.

And we really did like each other. Besides, as I learned later, a woman who knows how to show up unannounced at the door of a guy’s apartment, wearing only a raincoat and heels makes an impression.

Every now and then I’d wonder how her writing was going. But there was always some problem with a publisher I didn’t understand.

We passed some seasons together. Even a Christmas when both of us were alone. And knowing we wouldn’t always be together, gave each other ornaments for future trees, future loves.

At least that’s what I thought.

Often wouldn’t hear from her for a few weeks or months. But didn’t think much about it. I was not actually busy with the other 74 respondents to the personal ad. But her absences were not something I thought a whole lot about.

Then one day in the spring I walked into my apartment as the phone was ringing. Ran to pick it up and got “Hello Roger, it’s me, Melanie? From St. Louis! Cynthia’s best friend? I’m so excited to talk to you in person! Listen. Our plane is due in next Friday and we are so excited about your wedding!

And that’s where it got weird.

Because talk of weddings with my glass eyed friend Cynthia never, ever, ever ever happened. Ever.

I had no idea there was a wedding plan. I didn’t even know there was a friend named Melanie from St. Louis. One who would be getting an airplane next Friday.

All I knew at that moment was this cold, slimy shiver of fear that coursed through my very soul as I stood looking out onto Roscoe Street in Chicago with that phone in my hand.

In the several weeks prior to the call, Melanie told me—she had been to Chicago to help Cynthia go shopping for a dress. She said that Cynthia loved the ring I had given her. And was so pleased that her best friend had finally found someone she wanted to marry.

Stammering out that I had no idea what she was talking about; I don’t remember everything I said. But I did get across that she might want to NOT get on that airplane and come to Chicago. Because there was no wedding plan.

I remember she asked me, “You’re the Roger who is the executive with the electric company, right?

“Yeah.”

“So I don’t understand?” she said

“Me neither!”

We hung up and I began making calls to try and find Cynthia. There were always housing issues with her. And sometimes she didn’t have a phone. She moved around a lot. And I wasn’t able to reach her that day.

The weekends passed and still no Cynthia. No word at all.

Swaying back and forth between the comedy (Gosh, shouldn’t I be getting ready for my wedding?) and the creepiness of the situation, it was a long weekend.

Finally, come Monday, I reached her boss.

“Cynthia,” this guy told me, “had to take a few days off… . . . . .”

“How come?”

“Because her fiancé, some guy named Roger, had a heart attack. And they’re not sure if he’s gonna make it.”

“Not sure?”

“Yeah, they were going to move to Dallas. That’s where he was being transferred. But now all the plans are on hold.”

I thanked him and hung up the phone.

Called a few more numbers where I thought I might find her—and didn’t.

And I never saw her again.

A couple of weeks after all this ended, I remember walking to my car with Larry after work one day. We got to the edge of the parking lot and he said, “Tell you what Roger, I’ll stay over here, and you go on over and start your car. Just in case anything’s wired to that ignition, we wouldn’t want the world to loose both of us, would we?”

“She didn’t really try and kill me off. She just talked about it.”

“Yeah. Right. I know. She’s a writer,” he laughed.

“That’s what she told me.”

“Uh huh. Well, you sure wanted her to be a writer. Maybe next time, you might want to oh I don’t know . . .maybe see something she wrote?”

That music playing in your head right now. Listen. Hear it?
Dick Buckley, who died today, on the hottest day of the year, could help you hear it better.

Spin a baritone bass rainbow colored thread through all the great jazz that ever was and ever will be and Dick Buckley will be the guy who could help you hear it better.

You don’t have to know jazz. You don’t even have to like jazz to appreciate what this man left behind. Although if you were a listener, before he was done with you, you would know jazz. If you listened regularly you would come to feel jazz in much the same way that you feel yourself breathing.

Because Dick Buckley was a guy who taught uncountable numbers of people to hear. Dick Buckley was the guy who made me hear the noble silence of the notes Count Basie didn’t play. Dick Buckley taught me the majesty in the silken street smart stories of the tall guy in the picture, Joe Williams. And most of all Dick Buckley kept front and center the legions of musicians who were sometimes forgotten through the years, the ones with the talent that stretched up to the dizzying heights of the skyscrapers that populate Chicago’s skyline. The unnamed players (unnamed by all but Dick Buckley) who had that moment in Jimmy and Marian McPartland’s back yard on a summer night just like this one. That session on the lawn that time Teagarden was stumbling through town and somehow managed to find his way to the McPartland’s back yard where he’d create something breathtaking on his trombone, and then Bud Freeman would take a turn, Marian on the piano, Jimmy on the cornet, Cousin Pidge, from the neighborhood would be looking on adoringly, while Eddie Condon smiled. And this was all a long, long time ago, way before your time, but because Dick Buckley was there you were too. Dick Buckley helped you hear it better. Dick Buckley remembered for all of us.

Cultural icons like Dick Buckley make every town a small town. And in this small town, I worked with Mr. Buckley’s son Jeff for a short time, many years ago. I remember the jaw dropping moment when I asked Jeff if he was related to Dick Buckley and he laughed and said, “Yeah, that’s my Dad.” I gushed some forgotten words of adoration. Jeff asked if I wanted an autographed picture. To which I mutely nodded yes. So to Jeff and all his family, my sincere outstretched hand in this time of sorrow. The world lost a cultural pillar. You lost a Dad.

Chicago hangs hot, heavy and still this sad summer night. Might rain, but if it does, it won’t break the heat. So I’ll put on some Joe Williams. I’ll hear how sad, I’ll hear the trouble he’s had. And when I hear him singing, I won’t feel so alone.

Dick Buckley taught me how to do that. Me and countless others.

Quite a gift Dick Buckley left the world.

“Happiness.”