Flowing in the Wind is a humorous New Adult fiction novel narrated by the main character. It is the story of an eighteen-year-old boyâs first two years of college.
During his four carefree years in high school, Rail McClain majored in sports and minored in grades. Now, eighteen-year-old Rail is leaving the comfort and protection of home to venture into the world of college. Of course, Master McClain has no idea what he wants to do with his future. To say he is like most other American boys his age is like saying lemons and watermelons taste the same.
Rail is cheerful and fun-loving. Some think of him as lazy. However, in his defense, his caring grandfather often chuckles as he remarks, âRailâs just flowing in the wind.'
Nevertheless, he's on his way and on his own.
Even though Rail succeeded in flunking out of college, he remained undeterred. As a handsome young man, he figures he's Hollywood material. He believed that studying acting would be all fun and games, but he was soon disillusioned. Rail finds things are pretty different from what he had envisioned.
Flowing in the Wind is a humorous New Adult fiction novel narrated by the main character. It is the story of an eighteen-year-old boyâs first two years of college.
During his four carefree years in high school, Rail McClain majored in sports and minored in grades. Now, eighteen-year-old Rail is leaving the comfort and protection of home to venture into the world of college. Of course, Master McClain has no idea what he wants to do with his future. To say he is like most other American boys his age is like saying lemons and watermelons taste the same.
Rail is cheerful and fun-loving. Some think of him as lazy. However, in his defense, his caring grandfather often chuckles as he remarks, âRailâs just flowing in the wind.'
Nevertheless, he's on his way and on his own.
Even though Rail succeeded in flunking out of college, he remained undeterred. As a handsome young man, he figures he's Hollywood material. He believed that studying acting would be all fun and games, but he was soon disillusioned. Rail finds things are pretty different from what he had envisioned.
When I graduated from the eighth grade, for some unknown reason, I scribbled down in the yearbook that I wanted to be a dentist. My society-conscious mother, Millicent McClain, read the quote and latched onto it like a snapping turtle.
For the next four years, I had to endure hearing her tell everyone how I was going to medical school and become a dentist. My dad, John McClain, who owned a small business, didnât pay much attention to it; he never did anything unless it was about his work. Anyway, I figured eventually, Millicent would forget about it, so I went along with her fantasy. However, I was wrong. She continued to bring the subject up with her social friends every chance she got. Gee whiz, some mothers liked to brag about their sons going to medical school, but crap, they werenât even Jewish.
My younger sister Lizzie, who my mother said was precocious, thought my motherâs bragging about my future medical career was funny. She knew it annoyed the hell out of me. Occasionally, she would attire herself as a nurse and stroll through the house, proclaiming that she would serve as my dental assistant. Mother thought it was cute, but it pissed me off.
One day, Lizzie, five years younger than me, said, âRail, why donât you want to be a dentist?â
âLizzie,â I answered, âI never wanted to be a darn dentist! Geez, I canât imagine anyone wanting to stick their fingers in someoneâs mouth. Holy cow, what sane person would, with all the halitosis and the rotten, slimy teeth? Then you have to go in there and drill or poke around in that mess.â
âBut you wrote that you did in your yearbook.â
âI guess I thought it would impress Mom. However, I never believed sheâd take it seriously.â
âHa, ha, ha, you were wrong,â she laughed as she skipped out of the room.
Younger sisters are okay, but sometimes youâd get along fine without them.
I was an acne-free student when I entered high school in Muskegon, Michigan. The school was an older two-story red brick building across the street from the city bus terminal in the downtown area. It made it convenient, as Iâd get on the bus one block from our house and end up at school.
Throughout my four years of high school, I excelled in sports and maintained good grades, so I figured there was no way I could attend medical school. After graduation, about fifteen of our high school athletes decided to celebrate and take a trip to the Milwaukee Clipper. The Clipper was a large ship that ferried cars, furniture, and various merchandise across Lake Michigan between Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and Muskegon, Michigan. The Clipper also catered
to a few passengers, as there were a few cabins and a relatively small restaurant/snack bar. The Clipper left Muskegon in the morning, stopped in Milwaukee to unload and reload its cargo, and returned to Muskegon later in the evening. We had a great time playing games and sunbathing on the way over. When the ship docked, we went into the city of Milwaukee. Our goal was to tour a few of the larger breweries. The drinking age in Wisconsin was eighteen, and the breweries served free beer after you took one of their tours. We piled into cabs and went to the Miller, Schlitz, Blatz, and Pabst Breweries, where we ended up at the Sternewilt Pub, the end-of-tour destination, known for its bottomless beer glasses. We had a great time, and by the time we returned to the ship, we were quite intoxicated and in a festive mood. We brought four cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon back to the boat for consumption on the return trip to Michigan. Things got a little out of control. We were all singing, partying, and raising hell.
Mart Younger was a six-foot-three, two-hundred-thirty-pound lineman and a fabulous dresser, one of the guys on our football team. He always came to school looking sharp. His mom ensured that sheâd even pressed a crease into his new blue jeans. The color of his socks and his shirt would always match. He was known for his white buck shoes. He carried a small plastic pouch in his shirt pocket, which contained a white powder bag. Mart's white shoes were never soiled. As soon as he got a scuff mark on them, heâd whip out the powder bag and dust the smudge.
On the way back home, we were having a blast. Naturally, as we savored the Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, we frequently visited the ship's expansive head. This means "restroom" for those who are not familiar with boating terminology. There was an unusual object in the manâs head, which none of us had ever seen beforeâan automatic shoeshine machine. For twenty-five cents, you could have your shoes cleaned and polished. Youâd slip your feet into an opening at the bottom of the machine, insert a quarter, and your shoes would be polished and buffed automatically.
When Mart staggered into the head and saw the machine, he thought it was a great invention. He dropped a quarter into the slot and slipped his feet into the opening. He hit the start button, and the shoe machine started making a racket as it polished Martâs shoes. Mart was laughing and chugging his bottle of Pabst. Three of us were watching as the machine stopped, and Mart stepped back.
âWhat the hell,â he yelled, as loud as Tarzan, and hurled his beer bottle across the room. It smashed into the white-painted steel wall. Martâs white bucks were polished black, and he started pounding and kicking the machine. Then he grabbed the large, square machine, rocked it back and forth, and ripped it from the floor. Lifting it, he duck-walked it out of the menâs room door.
We stared at him like maybe heâd lost his marbles and then followed him. Mart was cursing as he grunted over to the shipâs railing, hoisted the machine, and dropped it overboard. Then he beat on his chest like a giant ape and shouted,
âTake that, you fucking miserable machine.â
The shipâs captain had Mart locked up for the remainder of the trip.
When I got home, my disbelief that I was going to medical school to study for a career as a dentist ended. I learned I was going to be returning to Milwaukee. Despite my poor grades, my parents enrolled me at Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. My mother proudly stated that Marquette University is one of the finest dental schools in America. The first-year class gathered in a vast auditorium in 1956. Two college professors were standing on the wide, brightly lit stage. As I took my seat, I sat next to a tall blond guy on my left and an attractive, studious-looking girl on my right. I turned to the boy. âHi, Iâm Rail.
McClain, from Michigan.â
He extended his hand. âRandy Shaffer. Iâm a local and here on a basketball scholarship.â
âHey, thatâs cool.â
Then, one of the professors on the stage asked for quiet.
I looked over at the girl and whispered, âHi.â She nodded and smiled.
A tall, bespectacled professor spent about five minutes reading instructions. Then, another began talking about college life. âMost likely, most of you are on your own for the first time. To fully comprehend that college is vastly different than high school.â
He paused and surveyed the students sitting below him. âPlease look at the person on your right and then on your left.â He paused for a moment. âNext year, one of them wonât be here.â
I looked at Randy, who shrugged. Then I looked at the girl. She gave me a wry grin, like, âTag, youâre it,â referring to the fact that I was the one who would be leaving an empty seat.
After looking at them, I began to think about it. My mind began to consider that possibility. I didnât hear much of anything the professor said for the next few minutes. Later, when I received my heavy class schedule, my mind flashed back to that empty seat thing.
Now Iâm at the university and have been assigned to a mid-sized dormitory room with two twin beds. The second-floor room was painted a dull, pea-soup green and had one window overlooking a parking lot. My new roommates had taken the well-worn wooden desk adorned with an old metal desk light. The desk faced the room, with a lone window. It was without a curtain, but it did have a dark green pull-down shade. On the opposite side of the room was a desk with many carved initials. It faced the pea-soup-colored wall, on which hung a large copy of the previous yearâs calendar.
Sheldon Salmann was a six-foot-two-inch beanpole with slicked-back black hair. He was from Syracuse, New York. His old man was a wealthy hotshot dentist, and he wanted his son to be like his dad. Sheldon was the sturdiest; he was a bookworm. Whenever I entered the dimly lit room, Sheldon read at his desk. My view would be that of Sheldonâs Vitalis-soaked hair, combed into a ducktail. I knew Sheldon wasnât like a gang member or anything like that. I only assumed that maybe the greasy hair bit was just a New York thing. He sure used Vitalis's hair tonic; he had a bottle about as big as a fifth of whiskey sitting on his old wooden three-drawer dresser.
The day after I moved in and became settled, I was doing push-ups on the tan linoleum floor of the room. I was trying to stay in shape because I thought I might try out for the college football team without my parentsâ knowledge.
You see, they threw me a curveball by enrolling me at Marquette. Initially, I had hoped to attend a small college and play sports. However, they shanghaied me. I thought about this while doing the push-ups and could visualize my motherâs green eyes glaring at me as if she knew my intentions. Boy, when she was upset, she could stare. A pair of well-worn sandals stepped up beside me in between pushups. I saw a skinny little man dressed in a dark brown, floor-length robe, looking up from the floor. He had an agate-sized row of beads tied around his waist, which hung down almost to the top of his brown sandals.
He looked down at me and said something like, âReemaklee.â I had no idea what heâd said.
I stopped in the middle of a pushup and looked up, âWhat?â
âReemaklee,â the man repeated.
Having no idea what the heck he was saying, I raised my six-foot frame and looked down at the bald spot of the five-foot-two-inch man. Besides his small size and unique dress, he had a baseball-sized, round silver earring hanging from his right ear. I stared at it. Iâd never seen a man wearing an earring.
âReemaklee,â he said again in a high-pitched, squeaky voice with an Indian accent. The thick silver ring in his pinched nose didn't help the nasal tone of his voice. I wondered if it hurt. Then, my Vitalis-haired roommate stepped over. He realized that I had no idea who this little man was or what he said.
âHeâs a Jesuit priest, and he wants to know if your name is Rail McClain.â
âYes, Iâm Rail McClain,â I answered.
The priest nodded. His oversized earring swayed back and forth. He squeaked out something through his tiny mouth and nasal passage, which sounded like, âEm yar kola, Fada Wozr.â
I stood dumbfounded, shaking my head, and looked at Sheldon. âHeâs Father Woozert. Heâs your counselor.â Sheldon said matter-of-factly.
I grinned. âOh, thatâs what I thought the Father said.â
Sheldon introduced himself to the Jesuit priest. Then, after they shook hands, the monk-priest began telling us what he wanted. I was adjusting to the monk's speech pattern and comprehended the majority of his words.
He was there to help me with my curriculum. For the next few minutes, the three of us stood in the middle of the room, talking. The priest would say something that I understood. Then Iâd look at Sheldon, whoâd clarify what the priest had just said. If someone had been standing in the doorway, they would have found the conversation quite comical.
The priest wanted me to come to his office the following morning. He would select the classes I would be taking during the upcoming fall semester.
That sounded okay to me since I didnât have the slightest clue as to what types I should be taking. We shook hands, and Father Woozert went out the doorway.
I chuckled, âWhat a strange little man.â
âHeâs a priest. It would help if you didnât say things like that,â said Sheldon. âI didnât say he was a weirdo or freaky looking or anything like that, just strange.â
âHeâs a priest; you should show him some respect.â
âYeah, youâre right, but Iâve never seen a monk before. Do you think they all look like him?â
Sheldon didnât reply and sat back down at his desk.
âAnyway, thanks for your help, Sheldon.â
The following morning, I showed up at the monkâs office. It wasnât a heck of a lot larger than an average-size closet. It had one small desk with a swivel chair. In front of the desk was a single Beachwood schoolhouse chair. I sat in the Beachwood and leaned forward to understand better what the Indigenous priest would say.
Four black-framed, 8-by-11-inch photos on the walls diverted my attention; they appeared to be people from impoverished backgrounds in unusual attire. I guessed the images were of India. After about thirty minutes of going back and forth, we got through the class selection process. In the end, Father Woozert had me taking chemistry, zoology, and biology, plus lab time for each one. Also, I had English I, Algebra I, and Theology. It seemed like a lot to me, and it was, as it totaled twenty semester hours. The monk was consular, so I figured he knew what he was doing. With that class schedule, I went to classes almost all day, every day of the week. I asked the monk why he had me taking theology, as I didnât plan on being a priest.
He gave me a funny look and said it was a mandatory subject, which all the students took.
A week later, along with two other guys, I tried out for the football team. We were hoping to make it as walk-ons, and we did. I enjoyed the scrimmages over the next couple of weeks, especially the camaraderie among the other players. However, I soon learned it was an impossible situation. When I got back to the dorm room from practice and dinner, it was usually past seven oâclock. My body ached, and I was tired. I sure didnât feel much like studying. Most of the time, Iâd say hi to the back of Sheldonâs Vitalis head and hit the sack for a few minutesâ rest. Then, my short rest lasted until the class time the following morning.
I soon realized the nose-ring priest didnât know what courses a first-year student should be taking. The average student takes approximately fifteen credits per semester, and those participating in sports usually take fewer. Something had to give. I didn't have time to practice and study. One morning, I went to the football coach and told him about my class schedule, and he arranged a meeting with the dean. He agreed that the monk, who was new to the ways of college, had overloaded me. He readjusted the schedule by eliminating zoology and theology, which allowed me to play football.
By November, I was struggling with chemistry and performing poorly in the other subjects. However, with some help from Sheldon, I made a valiant effort at conquering chemistry. Nevertheless, I realized I hadnât prepared for college. The chemistry classroom was in a vast auditorium. It was Moby. The rows of seats rose from the floor to the back entrance of the room. If it had snowed in there, you could have skied down to where the professor was burning up chalk on the massive blackboard. The professor seated the students alphabetically, so McClain was halfway up in the big room. One of his classmates, Tony Paszak, sat a couple of rows behind him in his dorm. He was a short guy with bushy brown hair and ears like Howdy Doody. Tony was a character. He usually had something hilarious to say about sitting high up in the room. âProfessor, I canât see the blackboard; thereâs a cloud in the way.â Other times, heâd moan, âIâm getting a nosebleed.â Then heâd pull out a white handkerchief stained with red ink and hold it to his nose.
The chemistry professor would enter from the ground-level door wearing a long white lab coat. He hardly ever said anything more than, âPlease write down these notes and formulas, as weâll be using them in the lab.â Then heâd turn, face the large blackboard, which covered most of the wall, and begin writing with a piece of chalk. The class was uninteresting, with the exception of Tony Paszak, and it was among my top priorities to skip it.
When I went home for Christmas break, I pretended that college life was great.
However, aside from playing football, I didnât want to return to the university.
For the next two weeks, I partied with some of my old high school buddies, who were also home for the Christmas break.
Then it happened. My grades came in the mail.
One afternoon, when I came home from playing basketball at the YMCA, my parents waited for me in the den. Dad was livid.
He held up the grades from Marquette: âAn incomplete in chemistry, a D- in biology, a D in algebra, and a C in English.
Mother was sobbing, âOh, Rail. How could you?â
âMiserable grades, youâre flunking out!â shouted Dad, âand youâre only taking fourteen credit hours.â
I was stunned. I didnât know what to say. I didnât think the grades would arrive while I was home.
âWhen are you going to complete chemistry?â
âDad, finals are in two weeks; Iâll submit my paper in for chemistry, and Iâm sure I can do better on the final test.â I didnât believe it, but what was I to say?â
âAre you too lazy to study or just plain stupid?â âDad, IâŚâ I stood helplessly, looking at him.
âWell, youâd damn well better.â
He grounded me for the three remaining days at home.
In truth, I was sorry to have disappointed them, especially my mother, who realized that my chances of becoming a dentist had taken a drastic turn for the worse. It was a double hit for her, as sheâd now have to face her social friends with the truth about her not being a dentist, son.
Before I left, they decided I needed to take an aptitude test to evaluate my talent/ability/potential to perform a specific task.
âWe feel itâs pretty evident youâre not going to succeed in the medical profession. We want to find out what type of career youâd be suited for,â remarked Dad, âIf you have any talent.â
I felt terrible that they had so little faith in me.
Lizzie sat listening to everything, but sheâd been quiet throughout the episode. Then she stood up and said, âGee, Rail, I hope you pass the aptitude test.â Mom and Dad stared at her as she grinned and skipped away.
I was too shaken to be angry with Lizzie or realize that you canât fail an aptitude test.
My parents contacted the dean and arranged for me to take the test at Marquette University upon my return.
So, after two weeks at home, I promised them Iâd try harder and do better. Then, I got on a Capital Airlines flight and returned to the university.
One afternoon, four days after taking the aptitude test, Sheldon and I were lying on our beds talking.
âSheldon, chemistry and biology seem to be easy for you. Did you study them in high school?â
âYes, they were my favorite subjects.â
âThat figures.â
âWhat was yours, Rail?â
âI answered football, basketball, baseball, and track.â Sheldon chuckled, âThose arenât school subjects.â
âThey were to me; all the other stuff was just something to pass the time.â
âHowâd you ever get accepted here?â
âItâs a mystery; I donât know how my parents pulled it off.â
Someone from down the hallway shouted, âRail, telephone.â I slid off the bed and went down to the hall phone. âHello.â
âWe didnât raise you to be a salesman or a goddamn actor.â
âDad?â
âRail, your mother is distraught, and Iâm at my witsâ end. Weâre damn disappointed in you.â
âDad, what are you talking about?â
âWe just received the results of your aptitude test.â
âOh.â
âIt seems your talent, ability, and potential are damn weak. Youâre only qualified to be a salesman or, as your mother put it, a low-life actor.â
âWell, thatâs something.â
âLike hell it is. Iâm not spending my hard-earned money for you to continue in college and end up in an unproductive job. You'll come home at the
end of this semester, and weâll figure something out.â I didnât say anything.
âRail, are you still there?â
âYes, sir.â
âYouâd better do your damn best to get some decent grades. Weâll discuss your future this summer.â
He hung up.
I slowly walked back to the room and flopped on my bed.
âGood news, Rail?â
âI donât know unless you call being an actor positive news.â
âWhat?â
After the telephone call, I did try harder, at least for a couple of weeks. I still couldnât make sense of all those chemical elements, formulas, symbols, chemical compounds, and atomic numbers. To me, it was all a jumbled mess, which I couldnât grasp. What Iâm saying is that I gave up trying. And regarding biology, my head was swimming through the study of living organisms. With stuff like morphology, anatomy, physiology, origin, and on and on, holy cripes, I had enough trouble learning what those things were, let alone what they did. The weekend before the finals, Tony, Sheldon, and I went to the movie.
âGiantâ starring Elisabeth Taylor, Rock Hudson, James Dean, and a cast of well-known actors.
After the flick had ended, we went to the College Union for a beer. Students packed the oversized Union. On the back side of the room was a long buffet restaurant that served food and beer almost all day. Along the right side were six pool tables. Near them was a large area with tables where students ate, read, and played cards. After buying a beer, we joined others sitting near the six pool tables. It was where most of the athletes hung out. Four guys from the football team had a spirited match at one of the pool tables. One of the thick-necked, two-hundred-and-eighty-pound linemen was upset when he missed an easy shot. He lifted one side of the pool table, letting all the colored balls fall into the pockets. Everyone laughed and shouted.
One student sitting at the table next to us yelled, âNice shot.â It was Denton Danford, who was in my English class.
The following week, we took our finals. It didnât seem possible, but for me, things got worse. My final exams were a total disaster. The test papers all looked like the New York Times crossword puzzles. I ended up receiving a C in chemistry, retained a D- in biology, and slipped to a D- in Algebra and a C- in English I. Four days later, I met with the football coach in his office. I learned that I am no longer part of the heart of the team due to my poor grades. Then, the dean informed me that I was on probation.
Later that day, I was back in the dorm room licking my wounds when Dad called. He shouted at me for a minute and then hung up.
Denton Danford and I became friends. At the start of the second semester, he suggested that I didnât see my counselor, the little monk. Denton learned the ropes of setting up your college course schedule. Heâd learned a unique method for registration from a student whom he played gin rummy with in the schoolâs Moby Union.
Dent introduced me to Wilson Smith, a junior, during lunch. Wilson didnât look, dress, or act much like a college student. He dressed to the tees. Wilson wore nice-looking, well-pressed slacks, long-sleeved silk shirts, and black and white or brown alligator shoes. He never seemed to go to classes, as he was always in the Union playing gin rummy for cash with some sucker student. Dent was the only one who could match him in card-playing skills and money.
Nevertheless, Dent usually came in second to Wilson.
Wilson had told Dent about registration: ahead of time, make out the schedule of classes you want to take the following semester. He told me to set up my class schedule so that my classes are always on Mondays and Wednesdays or Tuesdays and Thursdays. Then, I will be one of the first in line at the basketball auditorium for the registration. Lastly, be one of the first to go to each registration table where the courses are offered and sign up. That allowed you to enroll in the classes you wanted on the day and time you preferred before other students had the opportunity to do so. It was essential to set up your schedule, as Wilson suggested, so that you would always have your Fridays available. Then, you could party over the long weekend, either locally or by driving down to Chicago, and have a good time on Rush Street and other areas of the Windy City.
We took the advice, and Denton and I registered together, choosing subjects that were much easier than science classes. Our schedule included English II, History I, Speech I, Marketing I, and Bowling, as the school insisted students must take one physical education class. It was only thirteen credit hours. I was pretty certain Dad wouldnât be happy, but I thought maybe I could earn some decent grades. If not, I knew I was out of here anyway. It was evident I was one of the guys leaving an empty seat.
Our schedule included one afternoon class on Monday and the others on Tuesday.
Wednesday and Thursday. We didnât have classes on Fridays.
My new buddy Denton was an only child from a wealthy family in Chicago. He was a good-looking, six-foot guy with blond, wavy hair. Even the silver braces he wore on his already well-denatured white teeth didnât take away from his looks. When Denton returned from winter break, he was driving a brand-new, bright red 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air ragtop with a continental kit. It was a Christmas present from his multimillionaire parents.
We started hanging out together and became tight and got a big kick out of riding around with the Bel Aireâs top down during the end of January; we didnât care if it was colder than a witchâs tit. Sometimes, weâd go shirtless to show off and get the attention of the other students, especially the foxes walking around the campus. Although some kids thought we were a bit kooky, we became quite popular.
At the beginning of the school year, Dent rented a small two-bedroom apartment down the street from the college. In February, I moved in with him. I was finally enjoying college life and having a blast. Weâd have poker parties a couple of times a week, and many football players joined us. Four of them shared a two-story house two blocks from the campus and invited us to their St. Patrickâs Day party.
After going to the parade in downtown Milwaukee to watch the bands, floats, decorated cars, and the half-drunk party marchers, we all went to the White Castle to fortify ourselves with the steamed-grilled 2x2-inch 100% beef patty with cheese, pickle, and onions. The steamers were small, cheap, and tasty. We downed about six each and then went on to the party.
Cheerleaders had decorated their houses. There were green crepe paper streamers and other Irish decorations throughout every room. In the kitchen was a keg of cold green beer. Someone had removed the living and dining room furniture. There were three large washtubs filled with a fifty-pound block of ice and booze in their place. In the first tub was orange juice and vodka. In the second was rum and Coke, and in the third, a Manhattan concoction for the big-time drinkers. Next to the tub was a gallon jar of maraschino cherries.
As the party moved into high gear, there was singing, Irish joke-telling, dancing, and plenty of drinking. Members of the band, who marched in the parade, showed up, and the place was rocking with music. Students mobbed the house. I think half of the student body was there at one time or another, including Sheldon Salmann and Tony Paszak, whom I had invited.
It was around noon the next day when I woke up. I looked around, wondering where I was. I saw guys and girls sleeping on the furniture and the floor. Some were dressed, while others were not. I looked down and realized I was fully clothed and lying on the dining room table. Next to me was a cheerleader. I could tell because she was still wearing her blue and gold Marquette Warriors sweater. I slid off the table, staggered to the bathroom, and emptied my aching bladder.
When I came out, I smelled coffee and headed toward the kitchen. One of the football players and two girls were standing at the counter, where one was about to fill their cup.
She looked at me. âWhat some?â
I nodded. âI sure would.â
She filled a cup and handed it to me.
TThe big football player grinned and said, âGreat party, eh?â He raised his right hand, and we high-fived.
Sometimes, Dent and I would drive over to the University of Wisconsin in Madison to meet the college girls at the schoolâs Great Union. IIt was the place to be on weekends because the drinking age was eighteen, and the union always featured great dance bands. Also, the city of Madison had some excellent nightclubs. We got to know a few college guys and sometimes would stay the whole weekend.
Weâd go to Chicago and stay at Dentâs parentsâ house. As usual, we spent most of our time on Rush Street. One of my favorite places was Mr. Kellyâs Jazz Club.
They had great music, especially if Johnny Frigo and his band were playing. He was a well-known bass player and played some hot music.
One afternoon, while I was sitting in the college union watching Dent and Wilson play gin rummy, the conversation got around to what we would do over the Easter break.
âMy parents will be in Hawaii, so we should go to Chicago,â offered Dent.
âWhat do you guys usually do in Chicago?â asked Wilson. âWe go to different clubs. We like the ones with excellent jazz music,â answered Dent.
âThatâs cool; my parents are musicians and own a small jazz club on North
Clark, not too far from the famous 1111 Jazz Club on Broadway.â
"Wow, that's amazing! We haven't visited those clubs yet."
âThen, Dent, Iâll take you guys to them.â
That sealed it. Dent and I spent the Easter break palling around with
Dent and I spent the Easter break with Wilson, frequenting clubs and other jazz venues such as The Beehive on the Southside. The night they went there, Muggsy Spanier and his Dixieland band played. Muggsy played some hot jazz on his trumpet, and his crew was the best. We liked hanging with Wilson, as he knew someone at every club we entered. In the loop, we were lucky enough to have our picture taken with Benny Goodman at the ritziest of all the clubs, The Blue Note.
After a bitchinâ Easter break, things got back to normal, anyway, for a while. The rest of the second semester went by at a fast pace. In the end, we took our finals. Although the subjects werenât complex, needless to say, we didnât perform very well, as we were unprepared. I wasnât expecting my grades to be all that hot, but I was hoping.
In our last telephone conversation, Dad had indicated it, and I believed it was a lead pipe cinch that I wouldnât be returning to Marquette University in the fall.
I had two reasons to dread going home for the summer. First, I didnât look forward to facing my parents, particularly when theyâd received their college grades. Second, I had a perfect time with my buddy Dent.
I decided not to fly home but instead take the Milwaukee Clipper. Dent drove me to the ship. We promised to get together sometime during the summer, and I got on board. I wasnât looking forward to spending the summer at home, so I had planned. One of my high school friends, Tim Galleger, worked at a dune scooter resort the previous summer. The resort was on the shores of Silver Lake, about sixty-five miles north of Muskegon. The area was well known for its spectacular dunes, which lined the shores of Lake Michigan.
The old resort hired students to work as waitresses, maids, and dune scooter drivers. A month earlier, I had written Tim and asked him to contact the resort owner to see if I could get a job as a dune scooter driver. A short time later, Tim wrote to me with good news: the owner, Mac, would be expecting both of us to be at the resort before Memorial Day.
I never mentioned this to my parents.
When the Clipper arrived at the dock, my dad, grandpa, and mom were there to meet me.
Mom hugged and kissed me. âRail, you look so much older.â
Dad seemed a bit cold when he shook my hand. I figured he was still hot about my past grades.
Grandpa was his usual cheerful self. He gave me a bear hug. âItâs good to see you, boy; youâre looking good.â
I was glad Grandpa came. He took off some of the tension.
We piled into his dadâs dark blue car tank and headed home. The ride home was quiet. My father made it obvious he was still a bit miffed at me. Mother knew he wasnât happy with me, so she didnât try to lighten the air.
Grandpa and I were sitting in the back seat. He patted me on the leg and whispered, âItâs good to have you home.â
The first few days were good to be back. Orsolya, our longtime
The Hungarian cook made all of my favorite desserts. Ruby, the heavy-set black maid who looked like Aunt Jemima, was just as happy-faced as ever. She emptied my Samsonite luggage full of soiled clothes, then washed, pressed, and put them back in my upstairs bedroom. Orsolya and Ruby had been with our family since I was small. I loved them; to me, they were part of the family.
Soon after I returned, I called Mart Younger and some other high school buddies who were home for the summer. We began doing things together, such as playing golf, going fishing in Lake Michigan, attending a Lassies game (an all-female professional baseball team), and other times just plain wasting time. Mart had gotten a football scholarship to Michigan State and was doing well. He joined Grandpa and me a couple of times when we played golf at the country club. We had wanted to have a foursome, but Dad said he was too busy to join us.
Grandpa put his arm around me. âDonât worry, Rail; heâll get over your bad grades when he sees that youâre getting serious about things.â As we walked along, I wondered if Grandpa had talked to God or something and had new insight on stuff I didnât know. I hated to disappoint the older man, but he was about to learn the hard truth about his grandson and my capricious ways. I was hoping my final grades wouldnât come in the mail until after I left for the job at the resort.
One afternoon, after lunch, I stood on the back porch, looking out at the lake. A few wild ducks were landing when I heard a scream.
The second scream came from the kitchen. I hurried to see who was screaming. When I entered the kitchen, I noticed that it was my mother.
âWhatâs wrong?â I asked.
Sheâs standing next to the rose-colored granite kitchen counter. Orsolya had just come in from the mailbox and handed her a letter, and their wide-eyed and angry mother stood with the open letter in her hand.
She stared at me. âYou imbecile!â she screeched as she held out the letter. I recognized it as the grades from Marquette University. I didnât much care for her calling me an imbecile. However, I had a pretty good idea of the grades; I was hoping for all Ds.
She yelled, âOne F and three Ds; your father will kill you. And thatâs too darn good for you.â She threw the report onto the counter and stormed out toward her bedroom, crying.
I went over and picked up the grades. Then I looked at Orsolya. âShe didnât mention that I got an A in bowling.â
That night, as we sat in the den, I caught unholy hell from Dad. He didnât beat me or hang me from the tall oak tree in the front yard. However, he did rant and rave for several minutes. He was excited. Then, he began the half-hour-long lecture.
By this time, my mind was numb. I could handle the loud ranting, but not the lecture. Boy, theyâre usually really dull. I imagined that Dad had given many lectures, as he owned a mid-sized manufacturing company. He made decisions, issued orders, and demanded obedience from his employees. I guess I donât fit into their group. As Dad continued to lecture, my mind drifted off to other things. During the lecture, Grandpa Dolan was sitting silently in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the room, puffing on his old pipe. I liked the smell of the vanilla-flavored smoke and smiled.
âWhy are you smiling? This is serious; I wonât put up with grades like this,â said Dad, as he stared at me and waved the college report.
I quit smiling, and Dad continued with the lecture.
My grandfather lived with us full-time. Two years earlier, Grandma Dolan had died of breast cancer. Grandpa Dolan is my motherâs father. Before he retired, he had been an executive for the Grand Trunk Western Car Ferry Company.
I knew that Iâd remember that companyâs name until the day I die. From the first grade through high school, Grandpa Dolan kept me amply supplied with pens and pencils bearing Grand Trunkâs company inscription. He was a railroad man through and through. Without Dad seeing, I grinned as I looked over at Grandpa. I I was thinking about the many times I had heard the story of how Grandpa named me.
Grandpa would start, âYep, I went up to Hackley Hospital to see my daughter, Millicent, and her new baby. She was holding a curly-haired Black boy in her arms. I took one look at you and said, âHeâs a strong-looking boy, like a steel rail. âMillie,â I said, âRail would be a great name for your son.â
His beautiful black-haired daughter agreed. Grandpa loved telling that story. Dad finally finished his lecture and stood up. He patted me on the head and left the room.
Grandpa Dolan got up, winked at me, went over to the bar, and mixed himself a Glenlivet and soda. As I watched him, I thought about my grandpaâs advice for school at Marquette. His advice usually centered on a railroad joke, of which the old man knew thousands.
The day before I was to go, Grandpa put his arm around my shoulders.
âRail,â he said. âA dog was sleeping alongside a railroad track. His long tail was resting on one of the rails. The dog didnât hear the train that was coming down the tracks. As it passed, it cut off his tail. The angry dog jumped up, yipping and howling, and started chasing after the train, biting at one of the steel wheels. The big wheel cut off the dogâs head.â
Grandpa smiled at the bewildered look on my face. He said, âThe moral of the story is that donât lose your head over a piece of tail.â
He ruffled my black hair, and we both laughed like hell.
As Grandpa sat back down, Glenlivet in hand, he said, âRail, thereâs a lot of truth in what your father said. You havenât shown us that youâre serious or sensible. Youâre too carefree. It seems like you have a heavy dose of frivolousness. However, I donât think youâre lazy. You have a few good qualities but also a few bad ones. You seem to be naĂŻve as hell.â He chuckled. âItâs like youâre blowing in the wind.â
âYouâre disappointed in me, too, Grandpa?â
âOnly because I know you can do better if you apply yourself.â
âIâll try, Grandpa; I will.â
He smiled, took a sip of his drink, and said, âRail, did you hear about the hobo that got killed by a weasel?â
âKilled by a weasel?â
âYep, it seems the hobo was walking along the railroad tracks, and he didnât hear the whistle.â
He started laughing and began choking. He soothed his throat with another drink of the fine scotch. Grandpa loved to tell jokes.
My parents never gave me the chance to tell them about my job at the resort. I tried to figure out the best time to inform them for days.
Then, at the breakfast table in the morning, my friend, Tim Galleger, was going to pick me up and drive to the dune scooter resort, I told them. They werenât too thrilled. Motherâs green eyes stared at me.
âMom, I thought it would be best if I had a job this summer.â Father clenched his jaw. âWhen did you arrange this?â
âIt was about a month ago.â âWhy didnât you mention it before?â
âI tried, but you never gave me a chance, as you were unhappy with me.â
âAnd this is supposed to make us happy?â
âNo, Dad, but I will be working this summer and not around the house.â They sat looking at me.
âIs it okay to go?â I asked.
Tim pulled into the driveway and honked the horn.
No one said anything.
I stood up, hesitated, and then walked to the front door and picked up the green duffel bag Iâd put there earlier.
I yelled back, âIâll call you later.â
I went out the door and climbed into Timâs navy-blue 1947 Chevrolet two-door coupe, and we drove off. I had a gut feeling that my surprised parents were glad to see me go.
Whilst I had read the book and the synopsis, I still find myself surprised by how much this book is honestly just about flowing through life and the story.
It was an interesting read about a character who feels like they have direction, aside from what other people tell them to do and be and feel.
I also enjoyed that it's not portrayed with an overbearing negativity as most stories do when a character has no clear direction in life.
Instead this novel embraces that our character Rail is free flowing and perfectly content, even if others aren't.
It's a great story that encourages you, from my personal interpretation to just embrace what life throws at you and just revel in the here and now because it'll be all over one day and you'll have to look back at memories and be filled with regrets that you didn't just enjoy it.
I found myself chuckling at the 1950s slang index given at the end of the book as there were times I had no idea what words meant and so to find that was really amusing to me.
This book is a very character driven book, so someone who enjoys a deep plot with action, twists and turns probably wouldn't enjoy this, but someone who likes to be taken into the world of their character and go on a personal journey should definitely pick this book up and give it a read as Rail and all the other characters are a joy to get to know.
Overall, I had a really good time with this. It's not my typical kind of read and took me a minute to adjust my expectations. As soon as I did I just sat back, enjoyed and found myself flowing in the wind!
Definitely pick it up!