Going to Chicago Read online

  Going to Chicago

  A Novel

  Rob Levandoski

  New York

  To my father, the real Clyde,

  one of the original Three Travelers

  “You have come here to see the great drama of man’s struggle to lift himself to the stars. The spectacle is enormous, for it includes all the manifestations of man’s restless energies—the patient laborious researches of the cloistered scientist, exploration, adventure, war, the vast works of industry, the slow climb from the naked cave man to his descendant of today.”

  OFFICIAL GUIDE BOOK OF THE WORLD’S FAIR

  One/Monkey Wrench

  Do I remember the Great Depression? Goddamn. Sonofabitch. I remember it. So many people out of work. Out of hope things would ever get better. The whole country wobbly with worry. That’s not to say young people didn’t have their big dreams. Their burning ambitions. Their uncontrollable urges. They did.

  The one thing Will Randall and I had that smoldering August of 1934 was ants in our pants. We’d lived the meat of our lives there in Bennett’s Corners, Ohio. Done everything there was to do a thousand times. As Will used to say, we were ready to kill that place. Ready to go kill someplace else. Even if it was just for a little while.

  Will first got the bug to go to the Chicago World’s Fair in 1930, I guess it was, when we entered the high school in Brunswick Center and our English teacher, Miss Ina Mae Blanche, informed us we were on the doorstep of adulthood, that it would be a good idea to start reading the newspaper, to know what was going on in the world. “Miss Blanche,” I wisecracked from my desk in the back. “We already know what’s going on in the world. Nothing good!”

  I got the giggles I expected.

  “All the more reason to read the paper, isn’t it then, Mr. Ace Gilbert?” Miss Blanche said. While I squirmed, Will, like Moses dutifully chiseling the Ten Commandments in stone, wrote in his spiral notebook: Start reading the newspaper.

  And of course he did start reading the newspaper. From that day on. Every afternoon after school, before changing his clothes or even taking a leak, he’d walk over to Ruby & Rudy’s General Store and page through one of the Cleveland Presses stacked on the counter. He’d read every story, never tearing or creasing or smudging a single page, and then he’d put it back on the stack so no one would suspect they were buying a used paper. Ruby and Rudy didn’t mind. They liked Will Randall. And so did I.

  That was how Will learned about the World’s Fair being planned in Chicago, from an article in the Cleveland Press. That was when he started planning our pilgrimage. “You and I are going to that fair,” he announced one Saturday afternoon when we were sharing an eight-ounce Coca-Cola in front of his father’s Shell garage.

  “I’m game,” I said.

  He already had it worked out in his head. “Lucky for us, the Fair is on a collision course with our coming of age,” he said. “It’ll open in May of 1933. We’ll still be too young to go that year. But it’s going to run for two consecutive summers, Ace. Two consecutive summers! That second summer we’ll be graduated. Making our own decisions. And that’s when we’ll go.”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  Let me say right here that Will Randall and I were two very different squirrels. He was just as adventurous as me, but unlike me, he was purposeful and cautious, reluctant to do anything, or try anything, that didn’t somehow enrich his life. He’d agonize for days over doing the simplest things, weighing the good and bad of it until I was out of my mind. When he did decide to undertake something, he then had to plan it out. Make lists. Timetables. Draw maps. Decide in advance how every minute should and would unfold. He’d prepare for every possible emergency, no matter how remote. He carried a safety pin in his pants pockets just in case his zipper broke, for christsake. Just that kind of squirrel.

  The World’s Fair became an obsession with him. The more information he amassed about it, the more information he needed, and the more he had to go see the Fair for himself. He wasn’t content with the occasional stories he found in the Press. He had his Aunt Mary in Indiana send him clippings from the Chicago papers. At night he zeroed in on the big Chicago radio stations, WENR, WGN—Will had the fingers of a safecracker when it came to a radio dial—and WLS, his favorite because it was owned by the same big wonderful company that sold him the very radio he listened to them on, Sears & Roebuck. For a graduation present, his aunt sent him an Official Guide Book of the World’s Fair, personally signed by Fair president Rufus C. Dawes. To Will, it was like receiving an autographed Bible. It was filled with photographs and maps and page after page of the grandest-sounding manure you ever read in your life. He shoveled every word of it into his brain. Tried to shovel my brain full, too.

  Needless to say, our reasons for going to the World’s Fair were night and day. Will wanted to see the technological wonders of the modern age, as he continually put it, to understand how things ticked, to find out what the smart people of the world were thinking and doing, to prepare himself for the glorious future that was sure to wash the depression from our shores any day now. I wasn’t against preparing myself for the glorious future. I liked knowing how things ticked as well as the next guy. But the closer we got to our trip, the clearer my reason for going became. I wanted to find a willing city girl and poke her.

  So after four years of thinking and planning, and me masturbating like a fool, we were going to Chicago! Nothing could stop us. Not the Depression. Not the embarrassing death of Will’s father the previous summer. We were eighteen. High school graduates. Men. The only question that remained now was whether Will’s younger brother Clyde was going with us.

  Neither Will nor I wanted Clyde to come along. Reason One: Clyde was only thirteen. Reason Two: Clyde was a pain in the ass. But Will had so painstakingly built up the educational value of the World’s Fair to his mother, that she insisted Clyde go with us. “Clyde’s got to prepare himself for the glorious future, too,” she said. No sense arguing. Mrs. Randall was as hard and sour as the times.

  Good news struck two days before we were to leave. Clyde’s left ear clogged up with wax. No way he could go to Chicago now, we figured, not with the side of his head throbbing. Lucky for us Clyde’s threshold for pain was low.

  It didn’t take much to start him crying. Well, you couldn’t really call it crying; it was this endless hum, like an old radio with bad tubes, that just went on and on, loud when the pain sharpened, soft when the pain eased, but always there. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. You just wanted to reach out and slap his head, just like you’d slap an old radio with bad tubes.

  The danger, of course, was that Clyde’s wax wouldn’t be bad enough to keep him home; only bad enough to make our trip miserable. A week-long adventure in the great city of Chicago, Illinois, serenaded every minute by that endless, endless hum. Will wasn’t as worried as me, though. “Don’t fret it, Ace,” he said, “Mother won’t let Clyde out of bed, much less out of Bennett’s Corners. It’ll be just you and me killing the road. Just you and me, Ace, drinking in the technological wonders of the modern age.”

  “While Clyde lays in bed humming,” I added joyfully.

  The morning before we were to begin our journey west, Mrs. Randall threw us a most unexpected monkey wrench. She decided to take Clyde to the doctor. Will was absolutely dazed with disbelief. So was I. Mrs. Randall had never taken either of her boys to the doctor before. She was as tight with a dollar as she was hard and sour. In the Randall family, unless you were on your deathbed, you just rode your afflictions out. In the six years I’d lived in Bennett’s Corners, Will had ridden out the mumps, an abscessed molar, a bladder infection that turned his urine yellow as an egg yolk, and a cut from a rusty Boy Scout hatchet that went right to the white of hi
s knuckle bones. God knows how many undoctored maladies Clyde hummed his way through.

  Will called me right after his mother and Clyde headed off in the tow truck for Berea, the nearest town with a doctor. “Where you at?” Will asked without a hello. “We got a lot to do today.” I could hear him pacing the linoleum right through the receiver.

  “I just finished loading my stuff,” I said. “I’ll be there soon as my mother fixes lunch.”

  “You packed your new coffee pot, didn’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I used the word absolutely all the time in those years. Guess I liked the reassuring pop of it.

  “And the coffee?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I bought an extra pound just in case,” he said.

  “For two guys who don’t drink coffee, we’re sure taking enough,” I said.

  “We’ll want to drink lots of it when we get on the road,” he said.

  Just the way Will said that—“when we get on the road”—made me want a cup of roadside coffee as much as I wanted to find a willing city girl. As it turned out we wouldn’t brew a single pot the entire week. And not because of what happened to us. Even if things had gone as planned it’s doubtful we would have made any. But it was a wonderful thought that morning on the phone: Will and me sitting on the side of the road over a campfire, hundreds of miles from home, bitter steam rolling out the nose of that big tall pot I’d bought at Ruby & Rudy’s. I wouldn’t become a coffee drinker until World War II; all those years when I was in England, every cup I drank, and it was ten or fifteen a day, made me think of Will Randall and the pots of roadside coffee we never drank on our trip to the Chicago World’s Fair. “Mother’s motioning for me to get off the phone,” I said to Will. “See you about one.”

  “One? Jeez, Ace. We got a lot to do.”

  We did have a lot to do: Load the old Boy Scout tent and Will’s gear into my car; walk over to Ruby & Rudy’s and buy our groceries; and then after the fifteen minutes all that would take, sit on the porch for eight or nine hours while Will studied the ink off the new Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois road maps he’d ordered through the Shell Oil district man. That would take us right to bedtime, and after a good night’s sleep, which we knew full well we wouldn’t get, we’d be killing the road. “I’ll come straight after lunch,” I promised.

  “You better. We got a lot to do.”

  “Absolutely. How’s Clyde’s wax?”

  The life went out of Will’s voice. “Mother’s on the way to the doctor with him now.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “Wish I was.”

  “That’s awful, Will. What if the doctor fixes him? You don’t think she’d actually make us take him along, do you?”

  Will hung up without saying good-bye.

  I ate lunch as fast as I could. It was probably bacon and eggs. We ate bacon and eggs morning, noon, and night in those depression years, given that we raised chickens and pigs on our little farm on Stony Hill Road. I hugged my mother and told her not to worry. I’d said good-bye to my dad that morning when he left for work. Somehow he was hanging onto his job at the B. F. Goodrich Rubber Company in Akron, though he’d been demoted from salaried foreman to hourly tire-builder and his hours had been cut to twenty a week. We were very grateful for those twenty hours. That stink of rubber on his overalls was more reassuring than anything Franklin Delano Roosevelt had to say. I headed for my Model T.

  I loved that old machine. If I was going to Chicago, it was flying with me. I say flying for a reason. My whole life was wrapped up in flying then. My dad had flown with the 94th Aero Squadron in World War I, the famous Hat in the Ring bunch. In fact, he and the great Eddie Rickenbacker were best friends, just like Will and I were best friends.

  Before the war Dad and Eddie worked together at the Columbus Buggy Co., building race cars, and when Eddie went to work for the Mason Automobile Co. in Des Moines, Dad went with him. Eddie became the top race car driver in the country, setting a land speed record of 134 miles per hour. Dad was his top mechanic. When the Wild Teuton, as Eddie was known on the race circuit, went to France to offer his services as a dogfighter, Dad went with him. They earned their wings after just seventeen days of training. By the end of the war Dad and Eddie had collectively sent twenty-nine German Fokkers and Albatrosses spinning into the vineyards. Eddie twenty-six and Dad three. That’s how I got the name Ace. In honor of the dogfighting aces of World War I. Not just a nickname either, but my legal name. I was born Lawrence Gilbert but when my father came home from France, he immediately had it changed to Ace. Glad he did.

  I planned to do the name proud. Just as Jesus was destined to grow up and be Jesus, I’d grow up to become a famous ace and add mightily to the list of Gilbert air victories, just as soon as a new war broke out. That’s why I was wearing an aviator’s cap and goggles that morning, and why my old Model T was fitted with wings and a propeller and had the famous red, white, and blue Hat in the Ring emblem painted on the door.

  My T was something to see. I called it a Gilbert SXIII, after the Spad SXIIIs Dad and Eddie flew. My wings weren’t full length of course—you couldn’t drive on narrow country roads with twenty-six feet of wing sticking out—but they did extend a good three feet on either side; double biplane wings, wood and varnished canvas just like real ones, connected with struts and brace wires. When I drove fast, which was all the time, those stubby wings picked up enough air to lift the chassis high on its springs, and keep my wheels tickling the gravel.

  I carved the propeller from an old two-by-six; it was full size, the blades tapered just like real ones. I mounted it in front of the radiator, so when the wind hit those tapered blades, that propeller spun like crazy. Looking out through that whirling blur, bouncing and twisting sideways from the wind up under those wings, goddamn if I wasn’t at sixty-five hundred feet looking for Huns over the vineyards of France. Sonofabitch it was fun.

  Neither my folks nor Mrs. Randall were crazy about us driving to Chicago and back in the Gilbert SXIII—Will figured it was 284 miles one way—but my dad needed his Plymouth for the daily drive to Akron and Mrs. Randall couldn’t go a week without the tow truck. So, if we were going, and there was no way to stop us now, it would be in the Gilbert SXIII.

  You can’t imagine how much fun driving a Model T was. Even the Ts without wings and propellers were fun. Mine was a 1923 touring car. A boxy two-seater. Dad paid $265 for it new and drove it right up until the year we moved to Stony Hill Road and he took his big job at Goodrich. It waited patiently under a tarp in the barn until I turned fourteen, then proudly allowed itself to be transformed by my imagination into an airplane.

  I hopped on the running board, waved one last time to my mother, and reached for the spark advance under the steering wheel. Then I ran to the front, and pretending I was giving the propeller a yank, I gave the hand crank my expert twist. The Gilbert SXIII purred like a bushel of cats.

  I jumped in and lowered my goggles. The lenses turned the world yellow. Ts didn’t have a clutch and gearshift like others cars. There was one foot pedal on the left to go forward, one in the center to send you jerking in reverse, and one on the right to stop you in your tracks. A lever by your left knee let you choose between high speed or low. I taxied down the front yard in low, and then with my tongue hanging out over my teeth, rammed her into high and gave her as much gas as she could swallow without choking.

  Away I flew for Bennett’s Corners.

  “The best position in aerial combat is that where one can shoot at the enemy from close range without him being able to reply.”

  THE DICTA BOELCKE

  Two/White Dust

  I flew the Gilbert SXIII straight up Stony Hill Road, painting the cornfields with white dust. I was probably going no faster than twenty-five, but with the wind up under my stubby wings and my hard rubber tires sliding in the gravel, it seemed like I was going three hundred. It was a few minutes past one and the sun was beginning to tilt west. Babcock Road w
as just ahead. I cut the throttle but stayed in high. I leaned left until I saw the world sideways, just like when you bank an airplane. I waited until I was on top of the intersection, then drove the steering wheel hard. Gravel rattled through the trees. Dust soaked into my tongue and gums and coated my goggles. My right wheels left the road. Then they sat down hard, sending the entire chassis into a frenzy. I was on Babcock now, flying straight west.

  God but I wanted to be a dogfighter like my dad and Eddie Rickenbacker, hunting down Huns, sending Fokkers and Albatrosses spinning into the vineyards. Not that I had anything against Germans. Eddie Rickenbacker was a German by blood, after all. My own mother was the daughter of one-quarter Germans, making me one-sixteenth German myself. No, I was only against the Germans who flew airplanes over France.

  One of the most famous Germans who flew airplanes over France was an Argentina-born asthmatic named Oswald Boelcke. Dad and Eddie Rickenbacker revered him even though he was on the other side. Boelcke was one of the first true aces of the war. Recorded forty victories, way more than Dad and Eddie. It was the studious Herr Boelcke who first set down the rules for the new art of aerial combat. The Dicta Boelcke, it was called. Dogfighters on both sides followed it. Dad taught me all ten rules. I planned to use them when World War II broke out, but the U.S. Army Air Force wouldn’t let me fly. Wouldn’t even put me on a bomber crew. They sent me to cooking school.

  As I flew along Babcock Road that morning I saw a wobbling dot on the hill ahead of me. No doubt who that wobbling dot was. It was that turtle-faced Marty Boyle on his red bicycle. The ten rules of the Dicta Boelcke went crazy inside my head.

  Rule One: The best position in aerial combat is that where you can shoot at the enemy from close range without him being able to reply. Easy enough. Marty didn’t even know I was behind him. I’d be on him before he could fart or pray.