Guest Post: Travis McGee & the Civil Rights Movement Part 3

November 17, 2014

By Kevin Comer

Comedian Dan Rowan and JDM maintained a close friendship for eight years beginning in the late ‘60s. During this time, they exchanged many letters. Sadly, their friendship was eventually a casualty of Rowan’s nasty divorce from wife Adriana and his career anxiety following the cancellation of Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In after a five year run on the NBC television network.

Rowan rekindled the friendship in 1981 by phoning JDM on Christmas Day. Both men welcomed the opportunity to renew their ties. JDM, who was a pack rat, had kept copies of all of their correspondence, and in 1986, A Friendship – The Letters of Dan Rowan and John D. MacDonald 1967 – 1974 was published just months after JDM passed away from heart bypass surgery complications. The letters are a touching chronicle of friendship and provide insight into the creative processes of both novelist and comedian.

Beyond the final bitter exchange in 1974, the letters document only one other serious disagreement between the two friends. On July 1st, 1969, JDM wrote in a short note to Dan: “When at that final dinner we got into that charged discussion of black/white and you termed me a bigot, I was more than a little upset… It is totally obvious that unless you and I and other men of good will give this area sound and good and constructive thought, the whole situation will merely worsen.” He concluded by saying, “As a writer I become skeptical of contemporary fashionable attitudes, and of my own too often automatic acceptance of those attitudes, and so I have to put them through the grinder and see what happens.”

Dan replied on the 8th: “I asked Adriana [Rowen’s wife at the time], ‘My god, when did I ever call John a bigot?’ and she told me what you remembered… You don’t need me to tell you that you aren’t… You are one of the brightest people I know so you couldn’t be if only because intelligence doesn’t admit of bigotry… In the heat of discussion I used a shocker to grab your attention.”

Dan went on to explain why: “…it would be difficult to imagine a better intentioned but nonetheless distorted view of fact. In the first place, the ‘law’ which you feel should never be subverted by black or white has been used to knock underprivileged citizen’s brains out since Moses showed his tablets. Our country has been so abusive, brutalizing, unfair, to man of color both red and black, that if I were they and someone asked me to ‘respect the law’ my own reaction would be violent… I feel guilty for my white American ancestors… I am also ashamed and remorseful and feel the colored races are entitled to reparations…”

JDM responded on the 15th: “I like your letter… We both have the public ear, and it is a fearsome responsibility. What we project will touch others.

“The law is two things. It is the Law—Bill of Rights, Constitution, men created equal etc. That is the one I meant… The other is the small ‘l’ law, the one you point out has been used to as a device by misguided men to knock the brains out of the underprivileged. Black and white must not permit the subversion of Law by lower-case law to flourish. Without the support of the Law, we are nothing. We are a mob…

“I feel no guilt, shame or remorse for the social and economic oppression of the black because I do not feel any personal responsibility for the past actions of the political animals in the historical fabric of our country. I feel no guilt, shame, or remorse for the gutted countryside in Kentucky and West Virginia, for the disappearance of the buffalo and passenger pigeon, for poisoning the soil and the water and the air. Man can always be counted on to do the worst possible job with his environment, and with his relations to people of other races and other nations…

“…I wish I knew why people shy away from an acceptance of a very real fundamental, ineradicable DIFFERENTNESS between the races. A thing, a person, can be different without being better or worse. The ‘differentness’ I mean is far more than a difference in skills, abilities—it is a difference in the very climate of the mind and heart and soul…

“Look. If we have gotten so screwed up by pretending that all men are ONE, that if everybody is really truly alike—if we have painted ourself into a corner with the illusion that skin color has no more significance than blonde or brunette, is it not worth the try to see what happens to race relations when we accept, boldly and without self-consciousness and without guilt, the idea that there is indeed a difference of consequence? For chrissake, where does the black find his sense of racial pride, racial identity, species identity, if we keep insisting he is a dusky white man?”

At the end of a long letter written on August 3rd, Rowan diplomatically called a truce: “I think we can leave the discussion of black folks, don’t you? We are probably on the same side approaching it for various reasons from different paths…”

I’ve previously established JDM shares many traits with his creation, Travis McGee. It is useful to step back and consider just how similar the two of them are at their core. Travis is an outsider. He has chosen to chart his own course. He lives by his wits. He is extremely independent. He is critical of conventional wisdom. He is confident of his own judgement. He is unconcerned with the judgements of others. Although amiable, he doesn’t go along to get along.

JDM was born into a prosperous upper middle class family. He grew up in relative affluence. His father, Eugene, wished for him to follow a path similar to his own. He majored in business at Eugene’s insistence. He got an MBA. He bombed out at a series of jobs. In 1940, he enlisted in the Army as a 1st lieutenant because he was desperate to provide for Dorothy and infant, Johnny. He was assigned administrative tasks. Even with the outbreak of war and an overseas billet in the India-China-Burma Theater, he was in a back room coordinating logistics. He was a bureaucrat. He didn’t like it.

When he returned home following the war, he rejected the whole kit and caboodle. He eschewed the conventional wisdom. He chose to live by his wits. He chose to work independently. He decided to rely on his own judgement. His family was aghast, but he did it anyway.

And he succeeded. He proved to himself and everybody else that he didn’t need to pursue the safe and assured path. He had the judgement and wit to live on his own terms. Like Travis.

And like Travis, JDM was a keen observer, who didn’t feel responsible for the shape of the world. People do what people do, and the results are all too often predictably awful by his reckoning. It’s not his fault.

So when JDM tells Dan Rowan, he is skeptical of contemporary fashionable attitudes and feels a need to “put them through the grinder and see what happens,” he’s telling the truth. He doesn’t trust the conventional answers. He needs to figure things out on his own.

We may be uncomfortable with JDM’s judgements as he put the Civil Rights Movement “through the grinder.” Some of us might conclude he was a bigot. Others might apply Lil and Kris Neville’s assessment of McGee in The Girl in the Plain Brown Wrapper as “a well-meaning man with an inability to see past the stereotypes he carries.” We’d certainly have to agree with Lil Neville that JDM could be defensive based on his letters to Dan Rowan.

This is a difficult topic. My wife says I should stick to writing about booze, books, and backhands and stay away from the tough stuff. I don’t know. I feel like I have to figure things out on my own. Like Travis. And JDM.


Guest Post: Travis McGee & the Civil Rights Movement Part 2

November 2, 2014

By Kevin Comer

Following Noreen Walker in Darker than Amber (1966), JDM attempted to depict only one other non-ephemeral African American character in the McGee series. In The Girl in the Plain Brown Wrapper (1968), JDM created a motel maid—also named Mrs. Walker—who has several interactions with Travis and proves instrumental in breaking the case. JDM second-guessed himself sufficiently concerning this character to seek feedback from Len and June Moffatt, who published The JDM Bibliophile from their home in Los Angeles.

The Moffatts read the book and Len replied: “We got the impression you wanted to bring the race problem into the novel, and that you were concerned about the way you (and McGee ) handled it … . Would the maid respond to McGee in this way or would she respond some other way? … June suggested we show the pages to some friends of ours who were certain to have some reactions on the subject.”

The friends were an interracial couple, Lil and Kris Neville. Lil was from Watts. Kris Neville wrote in a letter to the Moffatts: “Lil’s … reaction was the impossibility of communicating the situation to Mr. MacDonald in a way that would be meaningful to him, and that any suggestions she would offer would just get him uptight with defense mechanisms and would serve no constructive purposes. I think we all agreed that the portrayal of McGee was of a well-meaning man with an inability to see past the stereotypes he carries.”

In Brown, Travis flies to Fort Courtney, FL at the posthumous request of Helena Pearson Trescott, an older wealthy widow with whom he’d spent a magical healing summer five years before, following the violent death of her first husband, Mick Pearson. Travis received a letter—including a certified check for $25,000—just days after Helena succumbed to cancer, asking him to do what he can to help her eldest daughter, Maureen, who in the wake of a second miscarriage has developed severe psychological issues and attempted suicide several times. Maureen lives in suburban Ft. Courtney with her real estate developer husband, Tom Pike, and younger sister, Bridget, who is helping care for her.

Believing it to be something better left to medical professionals, Travis nonetheless concocts a not entirely implausible story and sets out to find out if there is anything he can do. True to form, he soon finds himself in a hornet’s nest of intrigue and murder.

A pair of amateur sleuths—nurse Penny Woertz and her married lover, attorney Rick Holton—attempt to drug McGee by doctoring his Plymouth in an elaborate ploy to find out if he is involved in the death of Penny’s employer, Dr. Stewart Sherman. The authorities have ruled the death a suicide, but Rick and Penny don’t believe it for a minute. McGee resembles a very tall man seen leaving the doctor’s offices. Is it coincidence that Maureen was Dr. Sherman’s patient?

Hilariously, Travis thwarts the couple, first, by playing opossum, and then inciting a lovers’ quarrel. Not only does McGee subdue pistol-packing Rick, who ends up leaving in a huff, but he beds Penny after opening a fresh bottle of Plymouth. Unfortunately, Penny is found on her kitchen floor with a pair of scissors buried in her throat the next day. The cops brace McGee but he has an iron-clad alibi. He was seen by a motel housekeeper taking a much needed nap at the time of Penny’s death.

Suddenly needing information about the local players, Travis reckons the African-American community that supplies the maids, gardeners, and other menials around town will know who’s who and who’s up to what in Ft. Courtney. And he’s got an idea about who can help him plug into this network.

McGee goes looking for Mrs. Lorette Walker, a maid at the spanking-new, pseudo-Hawaiian Wahini Lodge motel where he’s established his headquarters. He’s already enlisted Lorette’s aid in discreetly dealing with one of her co-workers he discovered unconscious in his room after she’d taken a couple of surreptitious pulls from the doctored bottle of Plymouth. Travis tracks down the initially reluctant and extremely suspicious Lorette in the motel Laundry Room:

It was all too familiar and all too frustrating. It is the black armor, a kind of listless vacuity, stubborn as an acre of mules. They go that route or they become all teeth and giggles and forelock. Okay, so they have had more than their share of grief from men of my outward stamp, big and white and muscular, sun-darkened and visibly battered in small personal wars. My outward type had knotted a lot of black skulls, tupped a plenitude of black ewes, burned crosses and people in season. They see just the outward look and they classify on that basis. Some of them you can’t ever reach in any way, just as you can’t teach most women to handle snakes and cherish spiders. But I knew I could reach her because for a little time with me she had been disarmed, had put her guard down, and I had seen behind it a shrewd and understanding mind, a quick and unschooled intelligence.

I had to find my way past that black armor. Funny how it used to be easier. Suspicion used to be on an individual basis. Now each one of us, black or white, is a symbol. The war is out in the open and the skin color is a uniform. All the deep and basic similarities of the human condition are forgotten so that we can exaggerate the few differences that exist.

Eventually, amiable, wily, convincing Travis breaks through Lorette’s armor. She provides insight into the local law enforcement community and agrees to keep an eye out for information that might help him solve the murder of sweet, klutzy Penny Woertz. A satisfied McGee reflects on their encounter:

Nobody looks far enough down the road we’re going. Someday one man at a big button board can do all the industrial production for the whole country by operating the machines that make the machines that design and make the rest of the machines. Then where is the myth about anybody who wants a job being able to find it?

And if the black man demands that Big Uncle take care of him in the style the hucksters render so desirable, then it’s a sideways return to slavery.

Whitey wants law and order, meaning a head-knocker like Alabama George [Wallace]. No black is going to grieve about some nice sweet dedicated unprejudiced liberal being yanked out of his Buick and beaten to death, because there have been a great many nice humble ingratiating hardworking blacks beaten to death too. In all such cases the unforgivable sin was to be born black or white, just as in some ancient cultures if you were foolish enough to be born female, they took you by your baby heels, whapped your fuzzy skull on a tree, and tossed the newborn to the crocs. And so, Mrs. Lorette Walker, no solutions for me or thee, not from your leaders be they passive or militant, nor from the politicians or the liberals or the head-knockers or the educators. No answer but time. And if the law and the courts can be induced to become color-blind, we’ll have a good answer, after both of us are dead. And a bloody answer otherwise.

JDM still isn’t pulling any punches. It would be out of character. I note his comment regarding employment.

Sometimes folks—even the best of friends—have to agree to disagree. JDM’s opinions on the race problem, as the Moffatts termed it, brought JDM and his good buddy, comedian Dan Rowan, to just such an impasse in 1969.

Stay tuned for Part 3.

Guest Post: Travis McGee & the Civil Rights Movement Part 1

October 26, 2014

By Kevin Comer

In these essays I strive to combine biography with details, episodes, and diatribes from the McGee canon to shine a light on the relationship between McGee and JDM. In choosing my topics, one factor I consider is relevance to our own times. I’m most inspired when we’re still wrestling with an issue JDM used McGee to take a punch at decades ago.

And, of course, I wish to entertain the readers of Travis McGee & Me with the perspicacity and sagacity of our hero and his maker.

Which makes this essay something of a risk because it casts JDM, and by extension McGee, in a possibly unsympathetic light. The topic reveals JDM as a man of his place and times trying to come to grips with change. But who isn’t?

When JDM moved to Florida, the state was part of the Jim Crow South. State and local laws—known as Jim Crow laws—established de jure racial segregation in the former Confederacy. In general, these laws mandated racial segregation of neighborhoods, public schools, public places, public transportation, restrooms, restaurants and even drinking fountains. They also banned interracial marriage.

There were federal Jim Crow policies as well. Ironically, these policies were initiated by our first progressive President, Woodrow Wilson. His administration practiced overt racial discrimination in hiring. Three years before JDM’s birth in 1916, Wilson ordered the racial segregation of the U.S. military and federal workplaces.

Jim Crow laws were slowly unraveled in the post war years. In 1948, President Harry Truman ended the policy of racial segregation in the military. The Supreme Court concluded in Brown vs Board of Education that state-mandated segregation in education was unconstitutional in 1954. The final blows were delivered by Congress under President Lyndon Johnson with the passage of the Civil Rights Act in 1964 and the Voting Rights Act in 1965.

The end of Jim Crow was accompanied by numerous race riots throughout the U.S., the worst of which was the Watts Riot in August 1965. Six days of rioting in the Los Angeles neighborhood resulted in 34 deaths, 1,032 injuries, 3,438 arrests, and over $40 million in property damage. The number of race riots peaked in what is known as the “Long Hot Summer of 1967.”

Public opinion polls revealed an approximately equal number of Americans believed the riots were linked to Communist groups as believed they were the result of social problems like unemployment and prejudice. Many felt, regardless of the root causes, the riots were a demonstration of outrageous lawlessness. In many cases, military force was used to restore order.

Meanwhile, debate raged among African Americans regarding the goals of the Civil Rights Movement. On one side, leaders such as Martin Luther King advocated integration into mainstream American life. On the other, leaders such as Malcolm X advocated establishing a separate African American society apart from that of white America.

JDM weighed in with his own views in one of the most out-of-left-field episodes in the entire McGee canon in Darker than Amber (1966). At the time, JDM was 50, successful, and enjoying an upper-middle class life in tony, segregated Sarasota.

Travis McGee is searching for clues to where murdered prostitute, Evangeline Bellemer, has hidden her cut of the money stolen from lonely middle-aged men whom she lured onto cruise ships, where they were drugged and thrown overboard by her male accomplice. Trav learns Vangie employed a African American maid, Noreen Walker, and decides to see what she might know. Noreen turns out to be a surprising character, to say the least. Although reluctant at first, Noreen agrees to a clandestine rendezvous:

As I followed her onto the porch and we sat in two comfortable chairs on either side of a small lamp table, she said, “[This is the home of] Friends of mine.” She took a cigarette from her purse, lighted it. “Very conspiratorial, I know. But we’re getting very used to that these days, Mr. McGee. Mr. Sam [Prominent African American attorney, Sam Dickey] said I could trust you. I’m one of the regional directors of CORE [Congress of Racial Equality]. I’m a University of Michigan graduate. I taught school before I got married. He died of cancer two years ago and I came back here. Working as a maid gives me more freedom of action, less chance of being under continual observation. Racially I’m what you might call a militant optimist. I believe that the people of good will of both races are going to get it all worked out…

Noreen provides vital insight into Evangeline Bellemer, including a clue to where the money may be hidden. In the course of their conversation, Travis observes of Noreen:

When she stepped out of her housemaid role she had that slightly forced elegance of the educated Negro woman, that continuing understated challenge to you to accept her on her terms or, by not doing so, betray the prejudice she expected you to have. I cannot blame them for a quality of humorlessness. They carry the dead weight of all their deprived people, and though they know intellectually that the field hand mentality is a product of environment, they have an aesthetic reserve, which they will not admit to themselves, about the demanding of racial equality for those with whom, except for the Struggle, they would not willingly associate. They say Now, knowing that only fifteen percent of Negro America is responsible enough to handle the realities of Now, and that, in the hard core South, perhaps seventy percent of the whites are willing to accept the obligations of Now. But they are on the move with nowhere to go but up, with the minority percentage of the ignorant South running into the majority percentage of ignorant Negro America, in blood, heartbreak, shame and confusion. I hoped that this penny-colored dedicated pussycat wouldn’t stick her head under the wrong billy club, or get taken too often to the back room for interrogation. If, even on the word of one of their shrewdest lawyers, Sam Dickey, she was willing to trust a white man, it meant she had a vulnerable streak of softness in her, which could guarantee martyrdom sooner or later.

My intolerance is strictly McGee-type. If there were people around colored green or bright blue, I would have a continual primitive awareness of the difference between us, way down on that watchful animal level which is a caveman heritage. But I would cherish the ones who came through as solid folk, and avoid the slobs and fools and bores as diligently as I avoid white slobs and fools and bores.

 As they say goodbye, Noreen explains some facts of life to McGee:

“We housemaids have to keep in character. This is the ghetto. The laws don’t work the way they work outside. We’re the happy smiling darkies with a great natural sense of rhythm. You can’t hurt us by hitting us on the head. We’d still be nice and quiet except the Communists started getting us all fussed up.” She looked at me and I saw bitterness on her face. “In this state, my friend, a nigger convicted of killing a nigger gets an average three years. A nigger who rapes a nigger is seldom even tried, unless the girl happens to be twelve years old or less. Santa Claus and Jesus are white men, Mr. McGee, and the little girls’ dolls and the little boys’ toy soldiers have white faces. My boys are two and a half and four. What am I doing to their lives if I let them grow up here? We want out. In the end, it’s that simple. We want out, where the law is, where you prosper or you fail according to your own merits as a person. Is that so damned much? I don’t want white friends. I don’t want to socialize. You know how white people look to me? The way albinos look to you. I hope never to find myself in a white man’s bed. I don’t want to integrate. I just don’t want to feel segregated. We’re after our share of the power structure of this civilization, Mr. McGee, because, when we get it, a crime will merit the same punishment whether the victim is black or white, and hoods will get the same share of municipal services, based on zoning, not color. And a good man will be thought a credit to the human race. Sorry. End of lecture. The housemaid has spoken.”

 Is Noreen declaring she prefers separate but equal as long as it is truly equal under the law? I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that JDM is eschewing a comfortable and politically correct opinion. He took another swing at the race question in The Girl in the Plain Brown Wrapper (1968).

Stay tuned for Part 2.

Guest Post: The Other JDM – The Damned

October 10, 2014

By Kevin Comer

Readers of a blog dedicated to Travis McGee might be surprised to discover JDM’s top selling novel was not one of the McGee canon.

The Damned, published by Gold Medal in 1952, sold 2.3 million copies in 19 printings and was unlike any of JDM’s previous novels up to that point. The two published just prior its release were science fiction, Wine for the Dreamers (1951) and Ballroom of the Skies (1952). These sci-fi novels followed The Brass Cupcake (1950), Murder for the Bride (1951), and Judge Me Not (1951), thrillers straight out of JDM’s hardboiled pulp repertoire. In fact, his first novel, The Brass Cupcake, was a pulp story he bulked up to novel length at the request of Gold Medal.

The Damned is a portmanteau style narrative. JDM weaves together the stories of nine characters over a single day spent waiting to cross the Rio Conchos by ferry on the main highway between Mexico City and Brownsville, Texas. It is a leap forward in terms of complexity. However, that is not why it became a best seller.

The Damned owes its success to the blurb splashed across the cover declaring: “I wish I had written this book! — Mickey Spillane.” Spillane’s endorsement sent sales through the roof. Mickey was at the height of his popularity. He didn’t do blurbs. In fact, he didn’t intend to endorse the novel.

JDM’s Gold Medal editor, Ralph Daigh, loaned Spillane a set of the galleys for The Damned. When he returned them, Spillane casually remarked, “That’s a good book. I wish I had written it.” The quick witted editor wrote the words on a card and Mickey politely agreed to sign it. When the blurb appeared on the cover, Spillane protested, but Daigh had irrefutable proof he’d said it.

Although readers may have been surprised not to discover a tale of misogynistic mayhem between the covers of The Damned, most were probably not disappointed.

The characters are well drawn and compelling—except perhaps for John Carter Gerrod, whose confusion about whether he’d rather be on Mars or Venus seems psychologically Victorian. Each is in the midst of their own drama. Some of their stories will find resolution as they wait to cross the Rio Conchos; for some, the wait is only an interlude and we’ll never know what happened next; and for others, new stories will be born as their paths cross.

Darby Garon is at the depressive end of a sudden mid-life crisis. In San Antonio on business three weeks ago, he met slatternly Betty Moony. He was armed with a credit card. Now he can’t wait to see the last of Betty, and he fears he’s fouled things up beyond repair with his wife and family. He’ll never get to find out. Ever adaptable Betty won’t miss a beat.

Young John Carter Gerrod is on his way home from a Mexican honeymoon. He isn’t sure what he thinks about the physical reality of marriage to his exquisitely lovely 19-year-old bride, Linda. He feels oddly put off and ashamed. His mother has come down to accompany them on their return to Rochester. They won’t be going back together.

Del Bennicke is on the run. Things had gone seriously bad in Cuernavaca. The authorities will never understand that it was an accident. His background as a small time operator on the fringes of crime isn’t going to help him beat a murder rap, especially of a popular matador. He’s got to keep his head down and get across the river. He can’t make it alone.

Bill Danton is waiting patiently to get back to his father’s spread in Mante with his crew of Mexican farm hands. Unless you knew he was from Texas, you’d think he was just another Mexican laborer. He and his father have made a good life for themselves here in Mexico. You had to be smart and know how things work, but this was a fine country. Sometimes, however, you can’t just stand by, you’ve got to act. And life can surprise you—and change you for good.

Phil Decker has struggled to find success in show business. But things have been looking up since he’d worked the twins, Riki and Niki, into the act. It’s just in time, too. He’s getting old. It’s now or never. Unfortunately for Phil, Riki and Niki have ideas of their own. It’s going to be hard to tell him.

Some of these characters are indeed damned. Poor Darby Garon is sitting, leaning against a tree beside the road, beating himself up with regret. He recalls his college courtship of wife, Moira; how good their life together has been; the joy of their children. He doesn’t know what happened. Betty is repulsive. Moira will never forgive him. Something is happening on the distant riverbank, some kind of struggle. A shot rings out:

His chin was on his chest. He lifted it with great effort. The scene wavered a bit and then came clear. Startlingly clear. He could see the muddy river, the far shore. Ferry was on the other side. The black cars going up the road. And a small figure over there … Hell, what had been the matter with his eyes! Even at that distance, you could tell the brown hair , and that sweater and skirt. Bought that outfit for her for her birthday. God, that was a long time ago. Thought she’d worn it out and thrown it away, long ago. One thing about Moira. She always used her head. One sharp girl. Traced him somehow. Came riding, riding, riding up to the old inn door. No, wrong line. Came riding to the rescue.

He grinned at the figure of his wife on the far shore. Now everything was fine. Sure, even at that distance he could read her eyes. He could read the sweet forgiveness, and the understanding. She knew the answers. She’d tell him why he’d done this thing to the two of them, and he would understand when she had told him. The sweet kid, she was standing over there with books held tightly in her arm, just like during campus days.

He got easily and quickly to his feet , bounded down through the ditch, and went swinging down the road, his head high.

She saw him, and she lifted her free arm and waved. And he broke into a run. Hadn’t run for years. Thought I’d forgotten how. But look at me go! Just like the coach said. Knees high and a lot of spring in the foot and stay up on your toes, Garon.

Running, running, with the wind in his face, running by all the surprised people who thought he was too old and too tired to run. And the river bank was speeding toward him, the way you’d see it from the windshield of a fast car. And Darby Garon went out in a flat dive, hitting the water, knifing down through the water, down through the blackness, feeling it against his face , like dark wings, knowing that he would rise to the surface and she would be close, and there would never again be any problems between them. With his arms straight out in front of him, and with a smile on his lips, he knifed through the blackness, waiting forever for the moment when he would begin to rise toward the surface.

The Damned is worth reading. It’s pretty damned good.

McGee Wannabes: Charley Memminger’s Aloha, Lady Blue

September 22, 2014

One of the more recent Trav wannabes is Charley Memminger’s Stryker McBride. He’s a retired crime reporter who was shot by a crooked cop and earned himself a big legal settlement—with which he bought a $300k houseboat called the Travis McGee. (Memminger is nothing if not a McGee name-dropper. Trav is liberally mentioned in his promo material. He also occasionally lards his text with one of JDM’s color book titles; I caught a couple.)

And while Stryker may not be at the highest level of McGee wannabes—very few are—he’s an entertaining sleuth in a very attractive tropical setting. That would be Oahu and Memminger—a resident—knows all things Hawaiian, especially the history of organized crime. Thus, lots of backstory and info dump. But Memminger, an old newspaper hand, is a good storyteller, and all that history and culture doesn’t intrude too much on the tale. For this first book in the series it may even be necessary.

The plot revolves around Chinese/Hawaiian gangsters and nefarious activities that happened way back in the days after 12-7-41. A woman whom Stryker had the hots for in high school asks him to investigate the apparent drowning death of her grandfather in an improbable taro paddy in a very ritzy neighborhood. Only the death isn’t what it seemed. When a Hong Kong thug creams Stryker, he’s all in.

The plot is too Byzantine to try to reprise briefly, but it makes for an entertaining yarn—complete with crime lords, secret societies, biological weapons, marina life, sexy MEs, and intoxicating island atmosphere. I would enjoy reading more and hope that Memminger’s series outlives the initial two-book contract.

But I perhaps get ahead of myself. Almost two years after the first book appeared, there is still no sign of the second.

Guest Post: Travis McGee & the Urban Apocalypse

September 16, 2014

By Kevin Comer

In Nightmare in Pink (1964), Travis McGee shares two visions of urban apocalypse. He has gone to NYC at the request of a friend, Mike Gibson. Mike and Travis served together in Korea. Mike suffered devastating wounds and has been confined to a hospital, blind, unable to care for himself, and barely hanging onto life ever since. It could have been Trav. He and Mike had wagered for a 36 hour pass and Mike lost—big time.

Mike’s younger sister, Nina, lives in NYC. He’s worried about her. Nina’s fiancé, Howard Plummer, has been murdered and Mike senses she’s not telling him everything. He wants McGee to look into it. Travis can’t say no.

Seeking more information about the circumstances of the murder, Travis looks up the detective in charge of the investigation. The convincingly competent young Detective Sergeant Thomas Rassko explains that it looks like a mugging gone bad and he isn’t very sanguine about the prospects for solving the case. There just isn’t much to go on. Howard simply appears to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I thanked him for giving me so much time. I went out into the bright beautiful October day and walked slowly and thoughtfully back toward midtown. It was just past noon and the offices were beginning to flood the streets with a warm hurrying flow of girls. A burly man, in more of a hurry than I was, bumped into me and thrust me into a tall girl. They both whirled and snarled at me.

New York is where it is going to begin, I think. You can see it coming. The insect experts have learned how it works with locusts. Until locust population reaches a certain density, they all act like any grasshoppers. When the critical point is reached, they turn savage and swarm, and try to eat the world. We’re nearing a critical point. One day soon two strangers will bump into each other at high noon in the middle of New York. But this time they won’t snarl and go on. They will stop and stare and then leap at each others’ throats in a dreadful silence. The infection will spread outward from that point. Old ladies will crack skulls with their deadly handbags. Cars will plunge down the crowded sidewalks. Drivers will be torn out of their cars and stomped. It will spread to all the huge cities of the world, and by dawn of the next day there will be a horrid silence of sprawled bodies and tumbled vehicles, gutted buildings and a few wisps of smoke. And through that silence will prowl a few, a very few of the most powerful ones, ragged and bloody, slowly tracking each other down.

The horrific bleakness of this vision is far beyond the usual wry McGee musing. Dean Koontz and Stephen King are big fans of JDM and you can’t help but wonder if they wouldn’t find inspiration in this passage.

Or perhaps in this one I call “Planet of the Poodles.” McGee’s investigation expands to include Charlie Armister, the man whose inherited tens of millions Howard Plummer helped to manage. Charlie has been going through some changes. He had a breakdown and, following therapy at a private clinic, left his wife, choosing to share a midtown apartment with his attorney and secretary. Subsequently, Charlie’s money began being being moved around in a way that concerned the late Mr. Plummer. His suspicions aroused, McGee consults with old friend and NYC nabob, Constance Trimble Thatcher, who suggests it might be a good idea to talk to Charlie’s sister-in-law, Terry Drummond:

I discovered that Mrs. Drummond was in residence at the Plaza, but not in on this early Friday evening, so I took a taxi over to East 53rd. Nina was not home from the office. I whisked the soot off the wall by the entrance steps and sat and waited for her, and watched the office people bring their anxious dogs out. You could almost hear the dogs sigh as they reached the handiest pole. There was a preponderance of poodles.

This is the most desperate breed there is. They are just a little too bright for the servile role of dogdom. So their loneliness is a little more excruciating, their welcomes more frantic, their desire to please a little more intense. They seem to think that if they could just do everything right, they wouldn’t have to be locked up in the silence—pacing, sleeping, brooding, enduring the swollen bladder. That’s what they try to talk about. One day there will appear a super-poodle, one almost as bright as the most stupid alley cat, and he will figure it out. He will suddenly realize that his loneliness is merely a by-product of his being used to ease the loneliness of his Owner. He’ll tell the others. He’ll leave messages. And some dark night they’ll all start chewing throats.

Pink is replete with drug-fueled nightmares, but Travis was not hallucinating when he had these visions of urban apocalypse. As I’ve previously established, it is difficult to delineate a sharp line between McGee and JDM. They aren’t entirely separate beings. Travis can be a medium for the thoughts and concerns of JDM. In the case of these dark reflections, T. McGee could be channelling JDM’s urban anxieties.

In a letter to his attorney, Don Farber, who had suggested dinner during an upcoming trip to NYC, JDM confessed his nerves couldn’t handle it. He wrote:

“Look, my good friend, I must herewith pledge you to a kind of secrecy that falls quite outside the client-attorney relationship. Perhaps I am being a bit stalwart about it, but I would far rather maintain the big stalwart image and depend upon a lot of shifty foot-work than come out with the truth of the matter. So here is the truth … The New York scene, for many and obvious reasons, places a large strain upon me, but I do not respond to it as I should. For several years now it has been imperative that I use up my days there in the necessary ways, run them into the cocktail hour, and then quit all socializing scenes. I have to refill the lamps. Otherwise I arrive at an unpleasant condition called (by me) the Whips and Jingles. The medics call it latent acute anxiety syndrome, and it is nothing I can talk or reason myself out of. And, believe me, nothing I want to take the risk of arousing. It cuts a trip damn short. So be a good fellow and have a daytime drink with me, and keep my dreary little secret from those whom I wish to think I am impregnable, insurmountable, and indefatigable.”

Were I to receive a letter like this, I might suspect an elaborate excuse was being made. However, Travis’ visions of urban apocalypse in Pink suggest perhaps JDM really did get the whips and jingles in the urban jungle. It seems plausible to me. My daughter lives in Los Angeles.

The Trap of Solid Gold

September 7, 2014

It’s been gratifying that Travis McGee & Me is well into its seventh year and now pops up on the first Google page for any search for “Travis McGee.” But there are a couple of other McGee blogs out there that any fans of the Bahia Mar boat bum ought to check out, as well. I’m sure some of you know about them, but for those who don’t, here’s the info:

Cal Branche’s JDM Homepage is the gold standard and has been for a long time.

But not too long ago I stumbled across another that may be the most comprehensive JDM/McGee website out there. And it only operated for two years!

The Trap of Solid Gold was created by Steve Scott in late 2009 and terminated in late 2011. Over that period Steve put out over 250 blog posts on JDM, his novels, and his stories. I’ve only scratched the surface of Steve’s blog, but I can tell you that there’s a treasure trove of info in here for JDM fans. The very last post is about JDM’s last hospital stay in Milwaukee in 1986–touching and very sad.

The Trap of Solid Gold is an impressive achievement, and I can understand why, after all that work, Steve had perhaps had enough. I believe the reason he stopped was attributed to family responsibilities.

If any of you know of any other cool JDM and/or McGee blogs, leave a comment.

Update 10-2-14: Just in the past few weeks Steve Scott has revived his JDM blog and is now open for business once again. Be sure to check it out.

Guest Post: Travis McGee & Tennis

September 1, 2014

By Kevin Comer

I know tennis. I’m a player and serious student of the game. I watch hundreds of hours of Tennis Channel and ESPN2 throughout the year. My wife and I go to Indian Wells in Southern California every spring to see the top international players perform. I’m a Federer guy; she likes Rafa. We both love Agnieska Radwanska, although we’d be happy to see the women’s game evolving as quickly as the men’s. Tennis has never been better and it gets better every year.

From the perspective of it takes one to know one, I can tell you with some certainty: JDM played tennis and was a student of the game. I know this because he gave Travis McGee a knowledgable eye.

In Bright Orange for the Shroud (1965), Travis is helping his friend, Arthur Wilkerson, recover his net worth from a gang of grifters when he grifts his own way into the strangely named Royal Palm Bath Club. He’s looking for Vivian and Crane Watts. He spies a soused Crane playing cards, and heads for the tennis courts in search of Vivian. He finds her on the brink of defeat to a young man who, he reckons, is ten years younger than her maybe twenty-nine. The match has drawn a small crowd. Joining the throng, McGee observes of Vivian:

As with all natural athletes, she had an economy of motion which created its own grace.

This is true of all athletes, but tennis players especially. A tennis player has to move like a jungle cat, with the jungle cat’s ability to land on their feet, balanced and ready to spring or swing.

McGee admires Viv’s footwork:

Her brown and solid legs had a good spring, bringing her back into a balanced readiness after each stroke, the way a good boxer moves.

Like boxing, tennis is played on the balls of the feet, with knees slightly flexed. Remaining balanced is essential. A good player has a kind of bounce in rhythm with the ball, always landing perched on their toes in readiness to react to the next shot just like Vivian. If you’d like to see an example of great footwork in a female player, watch rising star Simona Halep.

Travis next turns his attention to Vivian’s opponent:

The boy was a scrambler, going after everything, returning shots it didnt seem plausible he could reach, lobbing them high enough to give him time to get back for the smash, and preventing her from coming up to the net to put them away.

The kid on the other side of the net is quick and gets to every ball, but he is also playing a good tactical defense. When he is driven off the court, he hits the ball back high and deep to buy himself time to recover to a defensive position and to keep Vivian from establishing positional advantage in her forecourt. When it comes to defending, nobody has ever been better than Rafael Nadal.

Travis asks a fellow onlooker for the score:

“Six-three to Viv, then seven-five to Dave. Now hes got her nine-eight.”

JDM tells a quite story with this score line. This is a battle. Viv crushed Dave in the first set–breaking his serve twice –but after losing serve in the last game of the first set, Dave’s slowly closed the gap as Viv has tired. Viv first faltered at 5 all in the 2nd set, allowing Dave to take the set by holding serve in game 12. Viv regrouped and stayed tough, but now Dave is serving for the match after she lost her service again at 8 all in the 3rd and deciding set.

In 1965, there was no tie-break rule. All sets had to be won by 2 or more games. The seven point tie-breaker was introduced at the US Open in 1970. Since then, a tie-breaker is played whenever the score reaches 6 games all, except when playing a deciding set at the Wimbledon, French Open, and Australian Open tournaments. At Wimbledon in 2010, John Isner won his first round match against Nicolas Mahut with a score of 70-68 in the 5th set. The match took 3 days.

McGee describes each point of the final game:

He had a big serve and she waited well back, handled it firmly, moved to center court and drove his ground stroke right back at his ankles. He aced her, on his next serve. Then on the next serve he tried to come to the net and she made a beautiful passing shot. Her return of his next serve floated and he let it go out by six inches. He took the advantage on another service ace. At match point, she again tried the passing shot as he moved up quickly, but the ball slapped the tape and, to the accompaniment of a concerted partisan groan, fell into her court.

Sadly, the tight contest ends with an error. Although Viv got up 15-30, Dave’s serve is just too much for her this deep in the match. She only gets two of six serves back in play. But the reaction of the crowd tells us a lot about poor, doomed Vivian Watts.

In The Empty Copper Sea (1978), Travis watches another tennis match on the courts adjacent to the hotel where he and Meyer are ensconced as they attempt to clear professional skipper Van Harder of negligence in the death of his employer.

In the nearest one, two girls in pastel tennis dresses engaged in deadly combat. They looked to be about fifteen. The one on the right, a blonde in pale salmon, had a lovely style, drifting with dance steps to the right place, setting, stroking, following through. The one on the left, in pale aqua, was shorter and stockier, with cropped dark curly hair. She was a scrambler. She was often out of position. She made improbable saves. She went to the net when she shouldnt have but managed to guess right a lot of times about where the passing shot should be. When she hit it on the wood , it tended to drop in. She tried for shots that were beyond her abilities—long-range drop shots, topspin lobs—and made them pay off just often enough. She was sweaty and grim. She fell and bounded up. They had a gallery of about a dozen people. One point went on and on and on. Had it been a faster surface, the little dark-haired one couldnt have beaten the blonde. Finally she went racing to the net after an angled return of second serve. The blonde whipped it right at her, apparently trying to drive it right through her. But in desperate reflex she got the racket in the way. The ball turned the racket and rebounded, touched the tape, and fell in for the point, and the people clapped and whistled.

We still call it hitting the wood when the ball hits the frame, even though wood racquets vanished from the game in the early 1980s. Today racquets are made of space age composite materials. They’re lighter, stronger, and the head sizes are larger. When the legendary Björn Borg attempted to return to professional tennis in the early 1990s, after retiring from the game in 1982, he was still playing with his trademark wooden racquet. He didn’t win a match.

Beyond these descriptions of tennis contests, there are frequent references to tennis and the attributes of tennis players throughout the series. For instance, the villain in A Tan and Sandy Silence (1971) is a “superior tennis player [whose] … shapely, powerful legs with their long muscle structure … had kept their spring and bounce through the long sets of tennis.” And the attorney for Meyer’s murdered niece in Cinnamon Skin (1982) has “the tendoned forearms of the tennis buff.” My own right forearm is considerably larger than the left.

Clearly, JDM understood the game. He couldn’t have described those matches as cogently as he does without playing and thinking about tennis. His grasp of tennis isn’t all that surprising. He moved to Sarasota, Florida in 1949 at the age of 33, and exposure to serious tennis would have been darn near inescapable. Florida, along with California, has always been a hot bed of the game. Many significant players, such as Chris Evert, have come out of Florida. Even today, most professional players who live and train in the U.S. are to be found in Florida. The state has the right weather—and tax policies.

Guest Post: Travis McGee & the Visual Arts

August 24, 2014

By Kevin Comer

Despite a career in software development, I went to art school. I stopped doing art—except for home design and decorating—and started collecting long ago. My wife and I currently focus our interest on plein-air paintings of the countryside and coast near our home. I’ve noticed Travis McGee is something of an aficionado of the visual arts as well.

The first hints appear in Nightmare in Pink (1964). Travis is in the NYC apartment of commecial package designer, Nina Gibson. Nina is the sister of McGee’s tragically injured war buddy, Mike. Mike has asked Trav to check up on her following the murder of her fiancé:

Nina Gibson was clean but not neat. Great stacks of decorator and craft and design magazines. Shelves of presentation designs that never quite worked out. A huge drawing table with Luxo lamps clamped onto it, like big gray metal grasshoppers. Art books. Big action paintings, Klinelike, but without Kline’s sober weight and dignity…

“Kline” is Franz Kline, a New York based abstract expressionist painter—like Jackson Pollock—who was active during the 1940s and ’50s. Abstract Expressionism is sometimes called “Action Painting” because paint is spontaneously dribbled, splashed or smeared onto the canvas, rather than being carefully applied. This is a pretty sophisticated, well-informed opinion T. McGee is uttering here.

Later in Pink, Travis is twiddling his thumbs waiting to talk to Terry Drummond, Charlie Armister’s sister-in-law. Nina’s murdered fiancé worked for Charlie. Extremely wealthy Charlie has been acting strangely of late and McGee is seeking insight into his behavior:

I picked through the magazines on the coffee table, and sat and leafed through one. There were some excellent color reproductions of three recent paintings by Tapies, work that had the burned, parched, textured, solemn, heartbreak look of his native Spain. I lusted to own one. I told myself I could bundle [Terry] into the sack and use her up, and she’d buy me one as a party favor.

“Tapies” is Antoni Tàpies i Puig, 1st Marquess of Tàpies, who began his career as a surrealist painter, but switched to mixed media in the early 1950s. He added clay and marble dust to his paint and used waste paper, string, and rags. No doubt creating works that “had the burned, parched, textured, solemn, heartbreak look of his native Spain.” Travis is no end of surprising when it comes to art appreciation.

One of the most surprising expressions of McGee’s insight into painting comes in One Fearful Yellow Eye (1966). Travis has flown to Chicago to investigate the mysterious disappearance of $600,000 from the estate of Dr. Fortner Geis. One of Travis’ broken birds, Glory Doyle, married Fort following a therapeutic interlude aboard the Flush. Fort has succumbed to a lengthy illness and the missing money means Glory is soon to be out of house and home.

His investigation brings Travis into contact with Fort’s 25-year-old artist daughter, Heidi. Heidi doesn’t know it yet, but she is going to benefit mightily from getting to know Travis McGee. But, things do not get off to a good start:

She came up and handed me my drink and stood beside me looking into the studio. “Please don’t ask me to explain my work.”

She had a rare talent for irritating me. So I said, “I doubt if you could, Mrs. Trumbill.”

With a cold smile as she turned toward me, she said, “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry. I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

“My dear man, abstract expressionism has been around so long that it…”

“That it gets imitated too much. You’ve got some color sense. You go too far in setting up weird composition. But that doesn’t mean you are setting problems or trying to solve them. It’s glib stuff, Heidi. It hasn’t got any bones. It hasn’t got any symbol values, any underlying feeling of weight or inevitability. It’s just sort of shock-pretty, and you certainly get some satisfaction out of doing it, but just don’t start taking it or yourself too seriously.”

Fury drained the color out of her face. She went striding away, whirled so quickly she slopped some of her sherry onto the living-room rug. “Just who the hell are you? My work sells! I’ve been in damned good juried shows. I’ve had some fantastic reviews.”

“I’m just a guy who buys a painting once in a while.”

“Then what could you possibly know about it? You jackasses learn a couple of stock words and voila! You’re a critic yet.”

“There’s nothing wrong with decoration, Heidi.”

“You will call me Mrs. Trumbill if you don’t mind.”

“I mind, Heidi. Your stuff will melt right into the wall after a week. Nobody will see it. That’s no disgrace. It’s decorative, but it ain’t art.”

“Get out of here!”

“You can call me Trav, or Travis.” There was a piece of paper on a table beside a lamp. I saw a pencil on the coffee table. I took the blank paper over and put it beside the pencil. “Just make me a sketch of that lamp and the window beyond it, girl, and I’ll go quietly.”

“Oh, you mean draw you a cow that looks like a cow?” she said with a poisonous and knowing smile.

“Go ahead. Funny, but everybody I can think of right off the top of the head could sure God draw a fat realistic cow if they ever happened to want to. Hans Hoffman, Kline, Marca-Relli, Guston, Solomon, Rivers, Picasso, Kandinsky, Motherwell, Pollock. And you know it, baby. If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen. You dabblers bug me. You want the applause without all the thousands of hours of labor learning how to draw, how to make brush strokes, learning all the things that give painting some bite and bones even when you don’t use any part of it. Go ahead, draw the lamp. Quick sketch. Prove I’m a jackass.”

Where on earth could Travis have picked up this more than passing understanding of mid-century art and the journey of the artist? Could it have been around the dinner table with Mrs. MacDonald?

Dorothy MacDonald graduated from the School of Fine Arts at Syracuse University in 1931. That fall, she began teaching art and French at the nearby Cazenovia Seminary. Cazenovia had been founded by members of the Methodist Episcopal Church, but was an academic, not a religious, institution and is now known as Cazenovia College. Dorothy could certainly have instructed McGee in the elements of fine art.

But so could some of JDM’s neighbors. In the autobiographical The House Guests (1964), JDM mentions Syd Solomon lives 10 minutes from his home on Point Crisp in Sarasota. McGee’s love interest Dana Holtzer, in The Quick Red Fox (1964), happens to admire a painting by Syd hanging in the lounge of the Busted Flush. Travis may have been buying direct from the artist.

Click here to watch a fascinating short video about Syd and his work. It might give you a sense of the milieu JDM and Dorothy inhabited in Sarasota; and an insight into McGee’s tastes in the visual arts.


Guest Post: Travis McGee & Big Data

August 8, 2014

By Kevin Comer

Travis McGee can seem remarkably prescient. To illustrate this point we need look no further than The Deep Blue Good-by (1964).

Blue is the first and definitive McGee novel. We’re introduced to—and seduced by—Travis McGee, the wry, amiable iconoclast, cultural critic, and unassimilated rebel, as JDM pithily puts it in “How to Live with a Hero” (The Writer, September 1964). Blue is very nearly the best McGee novel. It has everything—except Meyer.

McGee rescues his first injured bird, Lois Atkinson. He faces one of his most implacable foes in smiling Junior Allen. He is smart, tender, and tough. He makes costly mistakes. And all the while he amiably kvetches about modern times under a Florida sun shining on blue water, beaches, babes, and boats.

Departing Bahia Mar for a flight to NYC inspires Travis to ruminate on one particular necessity of modern times. A rumination that goes further than you might have anticipated. McGee is trying to discover what Junior Allen found hidden by Cathy Kerr’s father, Sergeant David Berry, in the marker at the end of the family driveway. He is leaving convalescing Lois aboard the Flush:

At the gangplank I kissed [Lois] like any commutation ticket husband, told her to take care of herself, scuttled toward Miss Agnes, slapping my hip pocket where the money and the credit cards were. The unemployed merit no credit cards. But I had a guarantor, a man for whom I had done a sticky and dangerous favor, a man whose name makes bank presidents spring to attention and hold their shallow breaths. The cards are handy, but I hate to use them. I always feel like a Thoreau armored with a Leica and a bird book. They are the little fingers of reality, reaching for your throat. A man with a credit card is in hock to his own image of himself.

But these are the last remaining years of choice. In the stainless nurseries of the future, the feds will work their way through all the squalling pinkness tattooing a combination tax number and credit number on one wrist, followed closely by the I.T. and T. team putting the permanent phone number, visaphone doubtless, on the other wrist. Die and your number goes back in the in the bank. It will be the first provable immortality the world has ever known.

Wow. Imagine—a government database containing everybody’s phone number.

I think it’s a safe bet that we’re hearing directly from JDM in this dystopian vision. He felt the world was changing, and not for the better. He wrote in the autobiographical The House Guests (1964): “As life gets ever more inconvenient, trashified, and irritating, it is possible to convince [those who don’t know any better] through electronic repetition…that everything is, in fact, getting better and better and better.” Those feelings came to a head a few years later when he went to war with AmEx over his credit card.

In late 1967, JDM disputed some charges on his AmEx bill. His complaint went unacknowledged and he received a letter stating he was in arrears. He replied:

“Whether or not my account is past due, sir, is a matter of interpretation. At least, I have had no such notifications from your establishment. And you have heard from me. Ah, yes, you have heard from me time and again, a detail which mayhaps the Great Machine overlooked when it upchucked my card in your “in” basket. I would be bedazzled, humble and grateful indeed if you would inspect the attached copies of certain documents and not only write me a prompt, personal, and thorough and thoughtful answer, but also unravel and eliminate the ancient , unadjusted, semi-corrected charge of $ 7.20 dating back, so help us all, to December of 1967.”

Unsurprisingly, this did not garner the requested prompt reply. Things moved more slowly back the late ‘60s. JDM waited six whole days before escalating:

“It must be a new age of efficiency there at Big Ex. No more fussing about with first, second, third notices. Send the final notice first! I think we can both safely agree that it would be distressing for both of us were the brute electronic equipment to start assessing delinquency fees before I even have a chance to get that prompt, personal, thorough and thoughtful answer you promised me.

“Of the 35 million copies of my thirty-odd books which have sold all over the world, several million have involved the adventures of a character I named Travis McGee. It is often very difficult to dream up brand new torments and handicaps for a fictional charater … I now realize I have been overlooking an affliction which even Mr. McGee might not be able to overcome. I am now thinking of, in the next novel, gifting him with an American Express Credit Card! It would make Poe’s bit about the pit and the pendulum look no more distressing than diaper rash.”

AmEx cancelled his card. He responded by suing for $600,000 in damages. In a letter to his friend, comedian Dan Rowan, he vented: “I want to know if a huge corporation can damage me with utter cynical impunity merely because it is big and I am small, and I want the Court to clarify this little point of citizenship rights, damages etc. in a computer-cold world.”

The suit was settled in 1969. JDM declared it a “Victory Claimed for Humans.”

I can’t help thinking JDM was being a bit obstreperous in all this. His reaction to a simple billing error was asymmetric to the offense given. The amounts involved were trivial. He was impatient. His correspondence didn’t need to be sarcastic. He could have phoned. But he was primed for this fight.

In October 1967, just months before he went ballistic, JDM published an article, “Everybody Knows Something Is Wrong,” ostensibly about the unassimilated McGee, in Tropic, the Sunday magazine of the Miami Herald. He wrote:

“McGee resents being processed, programmed, fed through the machinery by experts trained in handling people rather than persons. He knows that the dentist, the post office, the County, the IRS, the airline hostess, the librarian, the highway engineer, the supermarket, the city government, the census bureau, the banker, the advertising agent, the automobile agency, the hospital, and the mortician are all intent in using him as a statistic, as one atom in a manageable mass, then studying him, weighing him, measuring him, predicting his actions on some huge probability table. They use manuals and trade journals and computers and statistical methods and psychological testing devices to predict mass reaction, and handle mass demand on a totally impersonal and totally efficient basis. It irritates him to have society take away his face and dump him into the great hopper labeled Standard Operating Procedure. But don’t try to tell him that in a densely populated urban culture it has to be that way, that people must be turned into a commodity or we would have chaos. Don’t try to tell him that if the processors tried to measure the uniqueness of each human personality, the wonderful specialness, the delicious inconsistency of every one of us, all the memory banks would start smoking, the sorters would spew out a snowstorm of punch cards, and all the complex technology of our culture would grind to a sickening halt… He reserves the right to resent being sorted and graded on the basis of “sameness” rather than on the basis of uniqueness. It makes him feel degraded, and he reserves the right to do his little bit here and there to startle the processors out of their compulsion to flatten and deaden all human contact…”

Sadly, JDM may have won his battle, but—as everybody knows—not the war.


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