A young black man was going to a community college. He wanted to be an architect. The community college was not out of reach, but a university was. He had great, inexplicable talents in math and spatial abilities. For example, he was great at playing pool. As an adult, his greatness was on display in his garage whenever his friends came by. He understood angles and force and how objects intersected with one another.
One time, the 8 Ball, his last ball on the table, was at one end of the table. The cue ball was at the opposite end. Both were on the far left side of the table. He lined up the shot, paused, looked his opponent in the eye and said, “8 ball, corner pocket underneath me.” He took the shot, stood up, and continued to stare into his opponent’s eyes while the cue ball kissed the black ball into the rail, back toward him, and into the called pocket.
Anyway, back when life was just getting started for this young, black man, he was excelling in his classes, except for English. It just wasn’t his thing. But, he was happy to be able to show his talents in math, learn more things, learn new things, and he could see how all of this could culminate into a career. One where he would be happy because he was doing what he wanted, and not just what he needed. A smile wanted to play at the corners of his mouth as he walked to his classes at LA Trade Tech.
One day, he stayed after class because his architecture professor wanted to talk to him.
This young, black man was told by his white professor that he should give up his dream of being an architect. Black people simply were not hired as architects in 1960s Los Angeles. “You should be a cook. Your people cook well” was the alternative he was given. This, a few months after Watts burned for six days because black people got tired of being treated without humanity, equality, dignity, equity. It would seem that the National Guard quelled much more than violence, looting, and unrest.
An insult of this magnitude was not uncommon to him, even though life hadn’t really taken off yet. Being raised by different relatives when his mother didn’t want him; being teased by his darker relatives – siblings included – for having fair skin; not knowing who his father was, though he would later find out that he was a Chinese immigrant looking for work in Mississippi in 1945, who happened to meet his mother one night; and many other affronts that were not spoken of, yet one could tell that the pain of these barbs was a hair’s width below the surface.
This latest humiliation would not be the last. No, he was only 18, and there wasn’t even a hint of a mustache on his face yet. This degradation actually set into motion two things that would stay with him for the rest of his life. This latest gut punch knocked him onto his ass. For a few months. So many plans were attached to his dreams. He was going to have a future. Be a professional. Have a family. People would be proud of him. But, now, he was supposed to be fucking cook? It was in spite of that suggestion, and not knowing what else to do that he made the decision to enlist in the Army during the Vietnam War. The elder men he knew were in the Korean War and survived, so this should not be too bad. Plus, in his mind, there was no other choice.
He made a lot of friends while he was part of the artillery, and 82nd Airborne. Back then, parachutes were at the mercy of the wind, and there was no ear protection from the noise of launching shells at the enemy other than one’s fingers. Some of his army buddies made it back to civilian life okay, and some did not. Some of those – too many of those – he saw die in front of his eyes. A few were riddled with bullets. Some stepped on unseen landmines. One – and I have no idea how anyone reconciles with this – had stepped, unknowingly, where this new enlistee who was supposed to be an architect was about to step.
It wasn’t all horrors, though. When there was no fighting for his and other units because others were taking their turns, he played on the basketball team. The enlisted men played against the officers. He started one particular game on the bench, but went in when one of his friends got tired. This skinny, light skinned, black kid from South Central Los Angeles inbounded the ball. He trotted down the court in his Chuck Taylors and knee-high socks, stopped in the corner, unguarded, and waited for the ball. When it was passed to him, because of his innate understanding of angles, forces, and trajectory, his shot hit nothing but net. During the next offensive play, he trotted into the corner, unguarded, and waited for the ball again. The ball was passed to him again, and the result was the same. His coach pulled him out immediately. The coach said that he was embarrassing the officers.
Do you remember that other thing that was set into motion by his dreams being dashed? That was when the functional alcoholism began.
He left the Army at 21, and there was no such thing as PTSD. Therefore, there was no treatment for trauma for young, black men in South Central Los Angeles. Well, there was. It was called, “Handle-It-as-Best-as-You-Can-and-Don’t-Talk-About-it-Because-No-one-Wants to-Hear-About-Your-Problems-Because-You-Ain’t-the-Only-One-with-Problems.” Since there was no one that would listen, no one to vent to, no one to offer sage advice, the best option was to numb the pain. That pain that was a hair’s width away from the surface had been added to exponentially, and it threatened to break through when the numbing stopped.
He had worked odd jobs until he had become the night manager of the first Taco Bell on the west coast of the US. It was there when Clyde Hall met Linda Evains; the former Catholic high school girl, who was a candy striper at Daniel Freeman Hospital, with the smile that lit up any room she walked into. As Clyde would often tell it, he couldn’t help but like Linda the first time they met. She ordered two tacos to take home, which was just eight blocks south. As he handed her her order, he said that he made them special for her.
You know that funny face that people make that says, “what are you talking about,” “I hope you’re not crazy,” and “I still like you” all at once? That’s what Linda looked like when she asked, “What do you mean by special?”
“I put the cheese next to the meat on your tacos,” he said.
“Why? What’s the difference?”
“Taco Bell wants us to put the cheese on top, but the cheese doesn’t melt like that. So, I put the cheese next to the meat for you.”
Her smile got bigger as she did that shy, blushing, look away thing as she said, “Thank you,” and then walked to her car. In fact, from that night in 1968 until the last time in her life that she ordered Taco Bell in November 2018, she always had her tacos made the same way; with the cheese next to the meat.
Linda’s friends and family loved Clyde for his humor and kind heart. Clyde’s friends and family loved Linda for her sweetness and kind heart. So when it was announced that they were to get married, everyone said that two kind people should get together. They fit together, and so, their respective friends and families ordained their union in 1969.
January of 1970 brought along a new year, and their new son twelve days later. Clyde and Linda Hall took Craig everywhere, and everyone doted on him; friends, family, even strangers exclaimed the usual baby adorations. The look on Clyde’s face displayed a level of pride and joy and relief that could not be contained. It was as if life finally let him catch a break. Finally.
One day, three month old Craig was sitting on Linda’s lap at home while she was eating peanut butter. She gave him a little taste of the gooey stuff. A moment or two later there were red patches on Craig’s cheek. The next day, the redness was not gone. One red patch stubbornly remained, and Craig was taken to the pediatrician. The doctor told Linda to put this cream on the red patch, and it will go away after a few days. Nothing to worry about. If the red patch comes back, then it is eczema.
The cream worked its magic, and the red patch faded and faded and faded away. Clyde and Linda smiled and sighed with relief. Their baby was healthy and as happy as any other three month old. Two days later, while Craig was napping serenely in Linda’s arms, she looked down at him, and then called Clyde into the room. The red patch had made a new appearance, and it would not be temporary this time. As both of them looked from the baby and then to each other, Clyde’s eyes said, “What is eczema?” and Linda’s eyes said, “What do we do now?”
The Hall family returned to the doctor the next day to receive confirmation of the skin condition, and to have their questions answered. Unfortunately, the Halls were still in the dark about what Craig would endure because the medical community simply didn’t know then what they know now about eczema. They were told that Craig would itch, but they were not prepared for the severity. See, little Craig would itch, and then scratch and scratch and scratch some more. He didn’t understand that the more that he scratched, the more he would itch. It was just a reflex for little Craig. There were times when the scratching just would not stop as if his little hands were possessed. And Clyde or Linda would have to stop the little hands from doing too much damage, and pull his hands away. But, damage was done. The incessant scratching created wounds. There were many wounds, and some of the wounds would get infected. Little Craig’s immune system was so taxed from this cycle that he could not help, that he contracted pneumonia. He had pneumonia three times by the time he was seven years old. Each bout was so bad that the doctors were surprised that Craig survived.
The anguish that was etched into Clyde’s face from seeing his son continually suffer was so deep that it had seeped into his voice. The three words, “Son, stop scratching” were said soothingly, but anyone paying attention could hear the pleading and the pain that were present and couldn’t be hidden.
After the first two hospital visits, Clyde was obviously relieved that his son had made full recoveries. The third time was a bit different. The first two times in the hospital had done a lot of damage. The doctors were not hopeful when they saw Craig being admitted again.
Maybe it was the sight of his son in the hospital again; maybe it was the sight of the multiple IVs in his son’s arms; maybe it was the final possibility the doctors stated; maybe it was seeing that the happy baby everyone doted over wasn’t so happy anymore; maybe all of the losses he had suffered before that night he had put the cheese next to the meat for the young lady with the bright smile came flooding back; or maybe it was a macabre culmination of it all that caused Clyde to curse God there in the hospital. He found a vacant room, closed the door, and roared, “Fuck you!! You are not taking my son from me!” A few nurses rushed to find out where the roar came from. When they opened the door they saw Clyde on his knees weeping and weeping and weeping.
Linda arrived ten minutes later from work – she worked during the day as a phlebotomist at another hospital, and Clyde worked at night as a quality control engineer for a tire company. By the time she had arrived, Clyde had cried out enough agony to be able to support and hold her. Once she gained her composure, they talked and called family and talked some more and called close friends. They had decided to sleep in Craig’s room in shifts. One would be there while the other went to work because bills still had to be paid.
Craig, their son, their only, woke two days later. He was continually monitored as medications and fluids were adjusted. While he rested, there was what seemed like a parade of well wishers going into his room during the next three days. To keep the risk of relapse at bay, they couldn’t stay long, nor could they leave gifts. But, the outpouring of love and concern was all that the Halls paid attention to, and they were convinced that the love and concern of so many was what sped him to a full recovery. In fact, Craig would not be hospitalized again until he was thirty-five.
Clyde drank to cope with the stresses of life. The magnitude of almost losing his son caused the drinking to ramp up. The drinking relaxed him. Took the edge off. When friends used to come over to the house, his drinking was just part of his being sociable. When people were over and they were playing cards, dominoes, shooting pool, or barbecuing, he would drink wine or beer or brandy or gin or whiskey. No one batted an eyelash at this. But, it was when the abuse began that there were the uneasy silences. The wrong, unwarranted comment that was directed at Linda quieted the joking, and made eyes dart around the card table, and then cast downward at their cards. The physical abuse was done in private. In Linda’s mind, once was a mistake. Twice was a pattern which began divorce proceedings in 1978.
The drinking caused him to only be allowed to see his son on weekends. He remained sober for their visits, so these two days a week would not be put in jeopardy. It seemed that life was best when it was Clyde and Craig. As the years went on, this was the status quo. In 1983, Clyde caught another break. He was introduced to Amway. The break was not the pyramid scheme. He made money, but he needed to keep his regular job while he went into people’s living rooms to explain the business to people whenever possible. No, the break came in the form of the motivational materials that Amway distributed to the sales people.
The cassette tapes that he would listen to were amazingly uplifting. A belief was instilled into Clyde that he could conquer the world, if he chose to. And, the books that he read reinforced that belief. In fact, Clyde believed in himself so much that he stopped drinking. The domino effect was that he was allowed to see Craig more often, and even go on trips together to hear motivational speeches, and meet successes in Amway. The smiles that he showed to people were genuine, and not alcohol induced. This was the happiest that Clyde had been since Craig was born some thirteen years prior.
It was at one of the larger, regional gatherings of thousands of sales people that it was found out that one of the big wigs – the one who wore the the big diamond rings and sparkly watch while he was on stage telling everyone that they could be as successful as they could dream – was actually a crook. It turned out that all the money that people had earned that worked below him did not make it to the people. He would keep a small percentage for himself. He had been doing it for years, and the small percentage was miniscule that he stole from the faithful. It continued until some new recruits with accounting backgrounds started to notice the two plus two was only equalling three and three quarters.
This revelation crushed Clyde. Shortly after leaving Amway, he went to pick up Craig for the weekend. Craig knew something was wrong as he got in the car. Clyde was not listening to a motivational tape, as had been usual, and the greeting smile was strained.
“Are we going to a meeting today?” Craig asked. He looked at the passing scenery as they drove, glanced at his father formulating a response, and then back out of the window as he waited patiently.
Clyde finally answered, “We’re not doing Amway anymore.” The heartbreak in his voice was substantial.
“Oh” was all that Craig could say as the thirty-seven year old continued to drive while George Benson’s “Masquerade” just happened to be playing in the tape deck.
The visits were fewer and fewer as teenage Craig was finding himself and individuating from grown ups, and any authority figures. A few years passed without seeing his father until he was told by Linda that Clyde was in an accident. He had taken a job as a janitor for L. A.’s school district. He was cleaning a window on a ladder. He lost his balance, and fell to the ground.
Craig wanted to go see his father, but was not allowed. Clyde didn’t want his son to “see him like that,” as Linda relayed. It was a week later that Linda explained that Craig could see his father now because the swelling had gone down enough. He didn’t know what to expect. He just wanted to see his father.
“Hi, Daddy,” was all he said as he took in the damage: broken jaw, front teeth missing, broken nose, skull fractured across the forehead and just behind the hairline, and both arms broken and in traction. His father was recognizable, but just barely. It started to dawn on Craig how bad off his father had been.
“Hi, Son,” was audible, but the smile could not be produced. The visit was short. The pain medicine that was a constant drip into his arm put Clyde to sleep ten minutes later.
Some weeks later, Clyde was home to convalesce. Craig would go to see how he was doing frequently. Craig was relieved to see his father’s rapid recovery. He needed help opening packages of food, picking up his cup to drink from his straw, arranging pillows so that he slept sitting up to avoid swelling in his brain. Remembering when he was sick so many times, Craig helped willingly.
After a month, Clyde was up and around as if he hadn’t fallen on his face. He would walk around the house looking for something to do. He was bored and he was feeling like his old self. What to do with all of this time, though? Since he had nothing but time, he decided to begin a new career. He studied day and night to be an optician. During one of his visits, Craig was awe stricken as he watched his father studying. He is going to start a new career? Really? Then, as he thought about the rollercoaster ride that was Clyde Hall’s life, and remembered the resiliency and the fortitude to be able to get back on his feet every time life did what it did, Clyde recreating himself made absolute sense. In his mind, there was no other choice.
After enjoying his twenty-five year career, Clyde is now a retired optician living in an assisted living facility that caters to veterans. His time spent in the artillery division, as well as being in a war, has taken his hearing. His years spent drinking has taken his kidney function. He has fractured one hip, and had the other replaced. He ended his rehabilitation both times because he got tired of the nurses bugging him. So, he uses a cane to get into his wheelchair, and the staff push him wherever he wants to go. Sometimes he won’t turn on his hearing aids, and he won’t let the nurses know that the batteries are dead. Craig has told the staff to fuss at him if he tries to get out of going to dialysis. And, because the addiction is still there, once in a while, a bottle of Crown Royal can be found next to his bed. Clyde’s supplier will not be identified.
Does the fact that the drinking continues bother Craig? Of course. But, when he takes in the totality of Clyde’s life, and sees Clyde the father and not Clyde the alcoholic, the son understands. If Craig’s life was like his father’s, he couldn’t say that he wouldn’t be an alcoholic as well. After everything that life has put him through, he deserves to be wheeled around, and to listen to people when he chooses. He deserves to rest, and to have peace. He deserves a break. Finally.