RodWords

PIPESMOKE, TRAINSMOKE, TEARS

A Memoir to My Writer Father

1998

"Write," says a voice.

"I can't."

"You can," the voice replies.

"I guess I just don't want to. I mean, what if it's not that good?"

"Hmmm..."

Then, a match is struck, a flame flares, a pause... and pipe scent fills the room. I start to cry. "Hi, Dad."

His voice speaks again. "Rod-Pal, listen. You can write. You can. I taught you."

"You did?"

"Of course I did. I passed it on. It's in your blood. In your fingertips. Just do it."

I try to decide whether or not to look at the picture on my desk. I do.

There he is. John K. Butler. My dad. The man I remember at the typewriter, typing, typing, typing, creating characters like Steve Midnight, Tricky Enright, Rod Case and others who sprang to life in the pages of Dime Detective and Black Mask in the 1930's and 40's. The late John K. Butler, screenwriter for Republic Studios in the days of Roy Rogers and the classic westerns. There he is, in his promotional headshot. Framed, black and white, pipe in hand, full head of hair. Soft jacket, sweater-vest and tie. The picture is the one I've seen all my life--except--he's moving, looking at me, his head kind of tilted, like when he used to drive the '57 T-Bird, or when he was working on a screenplay, mulling it over. My father draws on his pipe, and exhales. I smell that old familiar fragrance. I catch the sparkle in his eye, and look away. I hate crying.

From the picture, he continues.

"You can write, and you have to write. Enough of this 'can't do it' garbage. Get on with it. Get back to work. Remember me at the typewriter? You were a little boy, spending Saturdays with me in the apartment in Studio City, remember?"

"Dad, of course."

"Hah! I couldn't even type! Hunt and peck. One key at a time. Couldn't write a decent story at the beginning, either. After days, weeks...years of filling waste baskets with crunched-up manuscripts, finally, I caught on. Look, Rod-Pal, here it is. It's like running after a train. You know you can't do it. But you try. Crazy fool impulse drives you on. You're running alongside the thing, fast as you can. You're racing it; it's racing you. And then, all of a sudden, you start catching up."

I sit motionless, looking through the wall, imagining.

"It's thundering along, woofing out smoke, racketing full speed on the tracks, and you're running like a wild wind, watching the ground, watching the train. One stumble and it's over. You run faster. Faster. Now you're startin' to outrun it. You pass one car after another, until you're alongside the very first passenger car. Rocky gravel makes the running awkward. Your legs are aching. Your ears are ringing. You and the train are side by side. Wind slaps your face, stings your eyes. The ground rumbles with the weight of the thing, and the track timbers are a blur next to your feet. The train is a mad metal dragon right next to you, galloping, roaring, hissing, moaning, weaving through the countryside, rushing through the trees. The train whistle blares out so loud it almost knocks you down.

"Ignoring it all, you concentrate on the train car next to you. It seems to be standing still as everything else shoots past. The moment is perfect. You turn--you reach--you leap! The side railing is there and you've got it! You're riding that train like a bronco! Free ticket, hah! The tram shakes your body like rattling dice. Your legs are on fire, your knuckles are white, gripping the rail. Your throat is as dry as the gravel you've been running on. You're hanging on for dear life. But you made it!"

My own knuckles are white, gripping the chair, lost in his story.

"Now here it is, Rod boy. You're riding the outside of that train, and you're gonna see things the people inside never will. The train'll round a turn, and you'll be the first to look down into a big, beautiful valley. You'll see branches comin' at you--you'll duck as they scrape the side of the train. You'll be hit by the first rain drop. Then another, and another. Then rain drops will hit your face like bullets. All of a sudden you'll be drenched, riding through hard waves of wind and water. When it's over, cold breezes will shiver you dry.

"You'll be first to hear the shots of masked robbers, as they gallop in from nowhere, ready for action. At night you'll hear the erie harmonies of wolves. In daylight, the death-songs of buzzards, circling high overhead. And what about the noise of the great train itself? It sounds like a hundred maniac snare drummers, each out-drumming the other. Maddening. Hypnotic. And it never stops! So loud it makes your bones shudder, and rattle, and dance.

"The train's a tough ride. It'll jerk you around, bruise your shins and elbows. But from outside that train car, you'll see sunsets you never dreamed of. Coal-black skies, full of stars. You'll see clouds that float past like ghost-riders, and huge thunderheads, dark monstrous things, staring you down, aiming at you, firing lightning bolts. The midnight air will fill your lungs, the frost will wet your face. But the people inside? Asleep! Comfortable, dry, safe, snoozin' away as real life runs right on past 'em. But you, you're out there, living on train smoke and track hammers, life smacking you right in the kisser.

"Then, as the train slows down, you drop off, letting it chug into the station. You sneak up to a news stand, and watch. A man steps out of the train. He picks up a story magazine. He flips the pages, finds one of your stories, starts reading, and he doesn't put it back on the rack. He stands there reading. He can't put it down. You've got him! Why?

"Everybody rides through life, son. The difference is, you rode through on the outside, taking it all in. You swallowed it. Stomached it. And then came up with character after character, story after story. You tell just one of 'em. And the guy can't put it down. Look: he's buying the magazine. Then he sits down on the bench outside the station, he's gotta finish that story. And there you are. You did it. You wrote it. You're on your way."

I sigh a long sigh, hope-filled, and look over at his picture.

No! It is already still, his face looking off to the side, his eyes fixed in the velvety image, his pipe motionless, odorless, cupped in his hand. His gaze set, watching the train, and me, running along, trying to catch up.

"Write!" he told me. And he meant it.

Would he ever speak again? Would he need to? The silent portrait on my desk would echo his words, and I would remember, every time a train whistle would cry out, sighing somewhere in the night, far away in the distance, calling me.

"Write," he said.

"Right!" I replied.

Published in Pulp Adventures, Fall 1988