13. The Eddie Brisson Room
In the middle of our Tripp Avenue
apartment was a room that had a radio in it and chairs; it was a place to sit
and talk.
My mother had staked out a comfortable chair on whose arms she stacked astrology magazines, a Bible, and Christian Science reading material. Somewhere in all that printed matter was guidance, solace perhaps, maybe a solution to the dilemma that life can be. She liked to read astrology magazines. With those guides she plotted her horoscope, trying to chart her best path through the future. For true guidance, however, she turned to the Bible and religion; these were her mainstays.
She often reminded me that I had been born on a cusp, a juncture of Scorpio and Sagittarius. As she saw it, I would enjoy the zodiacal fruits offered by both signs. The best of all possible worlds would be mine.
My father’s tastes were simple
and clearly defined. One, he would listen
to a Cubs game on the radio, or, two, when no Cubs game was available, he would
read the newspaper. A typical Chicago
newspaper—there were several— in those times was thick, a book. He
would commandeer a discarded one during his commute or at the garment factory
where he worked. I swear he read every
word, for his reading of the paper would take from after dinner until bedtime,
nine o’clock or later.
We called it the living room; in
today’s home it might be the family room.
We probably should have called it
“The Eddie Brisson Room.”
Eddie Brisson was about
the only visitor we had. Friends of mine
would come in for a few minutes; so would neighbors. Salesmen and the occasional politician never
got beyond the front door.
But Eddie Brisson often
came to our house on North Tripp—to sit, to stay awhile, and to talk.
Eddie Brisson dressed
well, always wearing a suit and tie, and was of medium height. His most eye‑catching feature was his shiny,
bald pate fringed by jet‑black hair.
Whether Eddie Brisson was a friend of my
father's or my mother's I don't know.
Regardless of who was responsible for inviting him over, he was well-liked
by both my parents. “He's French, you
know,” my mother cheerily whispered to me whenever Eddie Brisson came. Having a Frenchman in the house warmed her
Gallic roots and brightened her up.
Technically speaking, he wasn't French, but an American of French
descent. No big deal. My mother reshaped his lineage until it
pleased her.
While
Eddie Brisson and my parents talked in the living room, I retreated to the
kitchen to do schoolwork. Sooner or
later my mother would track me down and whisper in my ear, “He's French, you
know.” She always whispered his
nationality to me, as though being French was something I should keep
secret. Or maybe being French was
something that Eddie Brisson was ashamed of.
“Brisson is a French name,” my mother would emphasize, in hushed tones. That could be, but my parents and the name's owner pronounced the name BRISSuhn, instead of the more Frenchified BreeceOWN.
My
parents always referred to him as Eddie Brisson, never Mr. Brisson or just
Eddie, but Eddie Brisson in full. Maybe
they called him Eddie to his face, but around me they used both names. Even now I find it hard to write his name
unless I type it out as Eddie Brisson.
Late
one afternoon Eddie Brisson arrived during a terrible storm. Rain and hail slammed into the house. Gusts of wind shook the place. Doors and windows rattled. Lightning flashed nearby. The lights blinked,
once, again, several times. Thunder
crashed.
In
the midst of this incredible racket and deluge, Eddie Brisson drove up, parked,
and bolted toward the house. My parents
opened the door to let him in. He stood
in the front hall, shaking water from his fedora and with his hands trying to
brush his clothes dry.
I
stood nearby. I was a shameless admirer
of cars and people who owned cars, and Eddie Brisson owned a car. It was a long, black thing with four doors
and highly polished chrome that glistened brightly as rivulets of rainwater
washed over it.
Who knows? He might look at me standing there like the village idiot, slack‑jawed and wide‑eyed, and feel sorry enough for me to take me for a drive, even though the weather was fit only for Noah. A ride around the block would have been enough. That's all. Anyway, I stood there, absorbing my parents' and Eddie Brisson's greetings to one another:
“You're soaked, my parents said.
“It wasn't raining on the other side of
Elston,” Eddie Brisson said.
“Isn't that interesting.
Come on in and dry off.”
“Yes,” Eddie Brisson
said. “The sun was out until I crossed
Elston.”
“Well, fancy that. You mean it wasn't raining on the other side of Elston?”
“Yes,” Eddie Brisson said. “Clear as a bell. The sun was out all over the place on the
other side of Elston. It didn't start to
rain until I got to this side of Elston.
Right after I crossed it.”
“Well, that's sure interesting.
It wasn't raining on the other side of Elston.”
“Yes. It's sure different. But it's sure raining here, isn't it?”
“Well, how strange. Not raining on the other side of Elston.”
Is that how adults talked? Saying the same thing over and over? And on and on they went, yakking about the weather. Small wonder that I found the radio more entertaining.
Without Eddie Brisson around, there wasn't much talk in our house. I had little to say, preferring to lose myself in listening to the radio or reading. That left my parents to fill the air with words, which they didn't do.
My father was a quiet man. When some graduate student writes a dissertation about quiet men, the findings will show that the genus laconicus occurs in three species.
One is the strong, silent type who knows how to use words but prefers not to. The second is the dour, gloomy ignoramus who doesn't have the slightest idea of how to use words. The third possesses the wisdom to know when and how to use words and use them well.
My father would have fallen into the third category. He was serene and pleasant about saying nothing. His silence was of the benign, smiling type, and when he did talk he said only what needed to be said. By saying little, he said a lot.
My father's reticence was probably inborn, although it could have come about because he was verbally outgunned by my mother. Whenever anything serious was discussed between them, my mother closed off the discussion by saying, “Don't argue with me, Walt. I know I'm right!”
My mother was wordier than my father, but she sorted her wordiness into a limited number of predetermined topics.
One was her omniscience: “Don't argue with me, Walt. I know I'm right!”
Another favorite topic was her health: “I'm always tired,” she would say to anyone who would listen. Or she would remark about her age: “I'm no spring chicken, you know.
And her favorite motto: “A job begun is half done." If I was ever slow in starting any chore that she assigned to me, and I often was, I was bound to hear, “Now, Billy, just remember—a job begun is half done.”
My mother also held the honored position of being skeptic‑in‑residence. One of her favorite remarks was “The old fool! What does he know?”
With that remark, she questioned the wisdom of radio commentators, politicians, neighbors, relatives—anyone. All that was necessary was to voice an opinion that she did not agree with or deliver a statement of fact that she did not know for sure to be one hundred percent the gospel truth. No sooner would the speaker utter the words than my mother would issue the challenge, “The old fool! What does he know?”
She did change the gender of the question if the “old fool” happened to be a woman. Then the remark became, “The old fool. What does she know?”
Age, however, had nothing to do with being classified as an “old fool.” That was the case when Paul Harvey, one of America's most durable radio personalities, started broadcasting his commentaries on a nationwide hookup in 1944. At that time, Harvey was twenty‑six years old. My mother liked Harvey, but even he provoked her into snorting, “The old fool! What does he know?”
When she had house cleaning to do or when she was working in the kitchen, the radio was her companion. She liked pop singers, but if the vocalist was not up to her standards, her bellowed complaint echoed through the house: “Oh, shoot him! For God’s sake!” Or, “Put her out of her misery, will somebody?”
She listened to the National Barn Dance on Saturday nights. It was a sacred event, almost like going to church. For two hours, Chicago radio station WLS aired “an entertaining broadcast of corny jokes, country music, hymns, folk songs, and down-home yarns,” according to WTTW, Chicago’s public television station.
She turned the volume up. There was no escaping it. No matter where in the house I went, I heard
banjos strumming, fiddles scraping, and people singing through their noses (that’s
what they sounded like to me).
|
Trivia. Two of Chicago’s
most popular radio stations are WGN and WLS, both on the air since the
1920s. Sears Roebuck owned WLS;
the Chicago Tribune owned WGN.
WLS stands for World’s Largest Store; WGN for World’s Greatest
Newspaper. Ego at work here? |
The truth of the matter is that we weren't the kind of people that you'd knock yourself out to go visit. Both of my parents tended to be cool and distant, perhaps a familial trait, or perhaps a trait in keeping with people who had grown up during a more restrained time.
What few guests we had came and went without being offered food or drink. Alcohol would never be served in a house run by my mother; coffee and soft drinks weren't offered either. I was, however, allowed to invite friends in for a glass of milk and piece of my mother's devil's food cake—a delicious dessert that won her neighborhood acclaim.
Eddie Brisson must have fed and watered himself before he showed up. No amount of deprivation at our hands kept him away. He was a good, faithful friend.
In all, Eddie Brisson's visits were worthwhile. In a home where the residents spoke very little, Brisson inspired talk, and much more. He was the catalyst. Stir him in with Walt and Lou, and they became animated, smiling, happy. It made no difference whether the talk was about the weather or any subject under the sun. Even if the grist mill of adult talk ground up nothing more than air, talk was still good medicine.
Whenever Eddie Brisson left, I stood at our front window, watching him get into his car, lean over the wheel and start the engine, shift into gear, and drive away. I imagined myself sitting next to him, noting the black hair under his fedora, seeing him stare at the pavement winding under the wheels of the car.
Eddie Brisson was all right in my book, even if he never did give me a ride in his car.
14. Earl Was One of Them
I have three vivid visual memories of my time at Belding. A lot of words have come and gone, but these pictures stick:
One, the entire student body, along with teachers and other school employees, sat in the auditorium and listened to a radio broadcast of the Cubs losing the seventh game of the 1945 World Series. It was almost as much fun as going to a funeral.
Two, I was late leaving school one afternoon and was running to get out. I turned a corner and crashed into the principal. In a split second I knew that I was going to get royally chewed out, for the school rule was walk, do not run. Not now, however, for she smiled and stepped out of my way.
Three, each school-day morning, before the first bell rang, a cluster of boys approached Belding, walking along Tripp from the direction of Irving Park Road. How many boys? I don't know--three, four, six maybe. The number varied. They had a lot of socializing to do, and they moved around in the group, trading places to talk with one another.
One of the boys was Earl.
Earl was a grade, maybe two, ahead of me at Belding. I didn’t know him personally, but I often saw him outside, going to or coming from school, hanging out with his friends. They were an animated group, lively and laughing, and Earl was chatting and laughing with them.
Earl was a cripple. We could say that word back then, but today I shouldn’t be so blunt. By any name, some evil thing—a birth defect but more probably poliomyelitis—had all but destroyed his ability to use his legs. Crutches clamped to his forearms helped him lurch through a crude walking gait.
He hung out with his buddies. He was one of them. He did everything they did except play sports or field games. He would sit in a chair on the sidelines, but he was not sent inside out of sight.
I suppose that I could have learned a lot from remembering Earl hanging out with his pals, but what strikes me the most is that these healthy, normal kids accepted a cripple in their group. Earl was one of them.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment