“What Could Have Been, My Friend.”

"What Could Have Been, My Friend. What Could Have Been"

by 

Steven L. Wright

     William travers opened his front door and retrieved the morning's newspaper wet with dew. Placed it on the kitchen table and prepared coffee. After pouring a clip he opened it. Nothing of great import on the front page--at least nothing he could do anything about--so he proceeded to the obituaries. A task he accepted as a right of passage as he approached seventy. Always an off-chance he might know someone who had dropped dead recently. His flippancy turned to shock: Noted American historian and social critic, Professor Elmhurst Stonestreet dead, aged 96.

*****

     "Mr. Travers, you been working exceedingly hard this week. Could you rearrange your social calendar to join me and my wife for dinner this evening?|

     "Well, Professor Stonestreet, my "social" calendar consists solely of studying, of reading and of writing."

     "I'll take that as a 'yes' then. See you at 7 pm. The address is 8901 Dunore Place--next to the park. A poor imitation of a Frank Lloyd Wright prized home."

     When an undergrad Travers had heard graduate students consider it an honour to be invited to 'Stoney's' house for dinner. It wasn't dinner in the classic sense. Food was served, of course. And there was plenty of booze--mainly London gin and Scotch, no younger than twelve years, but it was the stimulating discussions, the questions he pointed and the jazz reverberations that made the evening memorable.  Those who benefited from his charitableness called them 'seminars'. 

     'Stoney's' dining and living rooms resembled his university office, smelling of the again books occupying every wall. Political campaign posters from the 1950s and 1960s filled any remaining wall space. In a distant corner sat a small stereo system and turntable and a tenor saxophone perched on a stand. A boutique-like bar equipped with the requisite amounts of Scotch and London gin and, to guarantee the perfect martini, bottles of vermouth and Lillet Blanc.

     His wife, Charlotte, who preferred being called, Charley, was hospitable and gregarious. She resembled 60's actress, Katherine Ross. Travers thought they personified the all-together, perfect couple. As the hosts retreated to the kitchen to finalise dinner preparations, Travers seized the opportunity to read the framed front pages of newspapers hanging above the bar. He leaned in close to verify what he thought he had seen from a distance. 'Stoney' had served as a delegate to the 1960 Democratic Convention that nominated JFK. Travelled throughout the Deep South in 1961 as one of the Freedom Riders. The third article pictured 'Stoney' in the second rank of marchers crossing the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, in 1965. A tragedy that became known as 'Bloody Sunday'. Travers took a healthy sip of his martini. 'Stoney' never had mentioned in class his involvement in the civil rights movement. He took another sip. Turning around he muttered out loud, "Impressive."

     "What's impressive, Mr. Travers?"

     "Ahhhhhh . . .your commitment to a civil, equal and just society, Professor Stonestreet. Commendable, to say the least."

     "Those were heady day, Mr. Travers. Heady days indeed. Anyhow, dinner is served. Hope you enjoy."

     Travers thought 'Stoney's' cavalier attitude a bit odd. He was itching to understand more but nothing was forthcoming. Dinner was lovely. The conversation amiable. Afterward the three transistioned to the living room. 'Stoney' put on the album, Miles in Berlin (1964). Poured each a double neat Scotch. Travers cheekily verified it was twelve years old.

     "Hope you appreciate the significance, Mr. Travers, of jazz music being the only original American art form. Should be studied and appreciated or at a minimum, serve as de rigueur for background music during intelligent conversations which I'm hoping we engage in this evening."

     He then offered a toast: "To us and those like us. Damn few left." Travers heard Charley repeat softly, 'Damn few left.'

     "You know, Mr. Travers, when younger I thought the arc of history moved upward, albeit slowly, but advancing toward progress. I've since adjusted my thinking. History is a flat line. Occasionally there will be blips upward--like the 1960s or earlier during the 1930s--and even downward--the world wars, for example. Ultimately, however, history reconstitutes itself as a flat line. As if to prove It willingly accepts the injustices of a largely indifferent world."

     Travers didn't know that to think. Why the hell was he pursuing a PhD?

     "Hearing such a statement may cause you to think: Why the hell study history."

     "In the privacy of my own brain, I certainly was, sir."

     'Stoney' refilled the glasses and resettled into his high back leather chair.

     "You see, Mr. Travers, one cannot possess enthusiasm and experience simultaneously. Each exists independently. Enthusiasm thrives during youth. Experience creates offshoots--cynicism and/or success--both settling in during late middle age. By then one has either dropped out or, laden with accolades and bountiful bank accounts, decide enough is enough. They aren't going to play anymore. Not the same for everyone, of course, but more often than not."

     Charley knew what was coming. She poured herself and 'Stoney' another Scotch. Travers declined, continuing to nurse what little of his that remained.

     "June . . .1968 . . .Embassy Ballroom, Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles. What could have been, my friend. What could have been."

     Travers understood the references immediately.

     "I was eleven-years-old and suddenly got out of bed due to my father's animated voice."

     "We were aghast. Shocked. Uncontrolled crying and shouting: Not again . . .not again!"

     "So . . .so, you were there? In the ballroom?"

     "I worked on his California campaign. Exciting. Thought there was a new nation a'comin. And then . . .and then . . .everything went dark. But what could have been, my friend. What could have been."

     Travers noticed as 'Stoney' spoke he raised his right arm halfway above his head as if affirming an earlier aspiration.

     "It's been twenty-five years, Mr. Travers. Now it's up to your generation. Exploit enthusiasm before you succumb to experience. Go untethered and accomplish something that brings society together. Believe in what he said often during the campaign. Some men see things as they are, and ask why. I dread of things that never were, and ask why not.

     "Professor . . .could I bother you for another double neat? Believe it's going to be a long and beneficial evening."

     "Certainly, Mr. Travers. Certainly. Glad you're willing to hunker down. How about if I play Miles Davis's, 'Round About Midnight? His first release for Columbia Records in 1957."

     "Couldn't think of anything finer, sir."

*****

     Travers put his coffee cup into the kitchen sink and walked into the living room toward the bar. Looked at his watch: 11:30 am. Damn. Didn't care. He owed it to 'Stoney'. Poured himself a double neat, Aberfeldy Highland Scotch aged twelve years. Found the CD, Miles in Berlin, pressed play and adjusted the volume upwards.

     "Didn't fulfil the expectations you had for me, 'Stoney'. I failed. Lacked the wherewithal, I guess. Cynicism triumphed. I dropped out . . .early, very early. Didn't possess the hope you had garnered from the inspirational politicians and titans from your past. I took inspiration from them, of course, but there was no one to beleive in, no ideal to fight for during my 'enthusiasm' years. What could have been sadly turned into what will never be. I'm sorry.

The End