Hickok

      HICKOK

By

JOHN HARVEY

1418 W. Touhy Ave

Chicago, IL 60626

312-623-7841 Cell

773-973-3091 Home

Jedhar525@att.net 

HICKOK

Bad is a concept of finality.

Good is something entirely different.

Change and growth swirl around good – even if it rarely happens. Sometimes it’s hard if impossible to see.

For example, my father was a Methodist clergyman. My mother acted as his church assistant, played the piano for services and was a Lay Pastor. My younger brother and older sister sang in the choir and helped the two of them with their ministerial duties.

I, on the other hand, went to church under duress and did as little as possible to help them. I stayed out late, smoke, drank, fornicated and did drugs. Not necessarily in that order

They were considered good, I, bad.

Mother and father lived and died under the honorific of good. And they were. Good for them.

My brother was killed robbing a liquor store and my sister committed suicide – over what or who no one ever knew. They were considered bad. I wonder. No one ever asks about the source of badness.

I went on to exemplary government service, a less than exemplary marriage, and the fathering of three children for whom I was an absent father, and watched my wife die of cancer after my retirement. 

Exemplary service versus family dereliction?

You judge.

I guess it’s best to start with the name – Hickok. Yep! Just like ole Wild Bill himself. My father, in spite of his calling was an admirer of the old gunfighter, gambler, lawman, thief, rustler and probably every other illegal act of the old west. Amazing, because like my father, he wound up being defined as “good.” Strange, across time his heinous acts faded and his time as a lawman, brief though it may have been, remained an historical (if somewhat false) memory. My father, for whatever reasons, never lost his admiration for James Butler Hickok. Is it any surprise that when yours truly was born that he named me, eldest son of Reverend Paul Dunbar Hickok after, to a degree, Wild Bill. Thus, I, William Butler Hickok was named after James Butler Hickok? Being African American didn’t help me wear the name too well.

Is it any greater surprise that my later life mirrored that of my pseudo namesake?

I left home at 18, right out of high school. My father still had another twenty-five or so years as a minister remaining. As a result, so did my mother. Yep! My sister and brother as well. I joined the army. Basic Training stripped a good deal of the nonsense from me that my father and mother’s goodness seemed unable to touch. 

I took to the Army.

Somewhat.

Shadows don’t dissolve because of a uniform and imposed discipline. I think the military knows that but works as it does regardless. When dealing with millions of undisciplined and uninitiated men you must work with what you have. My father, despite his goodness, never understood the limits of his uniform, the minister's collar and the supposed imposed discipline of The Old and the New Testaments.

 I don’t find fault with him for that. It was just his way. It was what he knew. It, he thought, worked for him, so it should work for everyone. I hope he and my mother were able to hold onto that into their deaths. 

I wonder.

My failure, in their eyes, as a human being and the tragic deaths of my brother and sister must have shrunk that collar around his neck, turning his face into a ghastly character of his former self. My mother, I think, wept silently for him and went to her eternal sleep in silent grief for all of us. But I digress.

I showed a certain knack for Recon work. Partly because I could work alone. I was smart – well, clever may have been a better term. Observation came naturally to me and as odd as it may seem, analysis of information followed. My superiors saw this and encouraged me to enter college. I did and graduated, then remained in the Army until a government agency enlisted my services. Special Forces and government clandestine affairs became my career.  I never told my father and mother any of this. I’m not quite sure why. Perhaps I wanted to punish them with nothing but the memory of my former “not good” ways. I don’t know. After my wife’s death, I regretted that decision.

Clandestine life suited me even better, but I had married and had three sons by then. I spent more time in foreign countries than I did at home. Those were the years I acted out the exploits of my namesake. Many of those things I am not proud of. I am even less proud of what I did, or did not do back home. For twenty years I probably saw four or five of my son’s birthdays – collectively. When I was home my wife, and I had nothing to talk about. I couldn’t talk about a lot of things, but she seemed to have not even the slightest curiosity, much less interest in them anyway. Her day-to-day dealings with home and raising the boys affected me the same way.

Oh, I guess I was a good enough absent dad. I paid for their schooling and even gave each of them a sum of money to start their lives when they left home. Self-justification works, I guess. Hmmm!

A shame.

No! My shame – I never gave them any of me.

I was injured many times. Three times seriously. They never knew.  Penance for them and my parents?

Who knows? I know that the last time, I was hospitalized for a month, went through a year of rehabilitation after which it was suggested that retirement might be a consideration. I took their meaning and went home for good at age sixty-five. My sixty-three-year-old wife may have seen me two dozen times in all my service years. Kind of pointless to say we didn’t know one another. 

I met my grandchildren once and it was painfully clear that I was never going to be a part of what I had never been a part of - my children’s or my grandchildren’s lives. My wife would go visit them, but I knew I was never welcome. It was never said, but the one time I visited with my wife what wasn’t said, said it all. To this day I have never seen them again. Except at their mother’s funeral. We did not speak.

A few years later my wife took ill. An advanced brain tumor was diagnosed. Eleven months later she was gone. My sons came to the funeral. They were conspicuous by the distance they kept from me before, during and after the services.

I didn’t, don’t, know what to do. I wandered aimlessly. My birth family – gone. My wife – gone. My children – as well as gone. 

Where to go?

What to do?

I felt an internal drive to do something, to accomplish something, but I was past my prime and everything I knew was of no value in the world I now inhabited. Then one day I was going through Indeed, the work site, just because I had recently discovered it, and it was something relatively new. Scanning the various work opportunities, but not really looking for anything specific, a blurb from a local high school caught my eye:

Detention Monitor/Trainer

Seeking a professional adept at handling

difficult situations and difficult people;

requires patience, tact and wide range of

knowledge; looking for a dynamic professional

willing to work with today’s youth utilizing

firmness tempered with kindness.

Please attach resume.

The call setting up my interview came on a Tuesday afternoon about six weeks later.

               “Hello,” I said into the phone.

               “Mr. Hickok?”

               “Yes.”

               “My name is Chrissy McElbe. I’m a secretary at James Whitcomb Riley High School. We received your resume and our Assistant Principal, Ms. Odome,” she pronounced it “Oh-doe-may), would like to interview you as soon as possible. Would this Friday at eleven A.M work for you?” Her voice was soft and a little harried, I. Assessing. Old habits die hard.

               “Friday at eleven works fine. Do I need to bring anything?”

               “You may want to list any questions you have. Other than that, nothing.”

               “I’ll see you then,” I said.

               “Do you need directions?” She asked

               “No, I’ll find it. It’s not that big a city,” I said, a smile in my voice. She laughed.

               “All right, then. Friday at eleven. Have a good day.” Click and silence.

               I arrived an hour early. It’s always better to know the lay of the land before you walk in. Not that I was expecting anything more dangerous than high school students. Little did I know how unprepared for them I really was. I drove around the area and around the school until about 10:40 A.M. Entering the building I asked a young lady in no hurry to get to her class how to find the Assistant Principal’s office. She waved a languid hand in a generic direction and sauntered on her way. If she were typical of the student’s in this school and If I was offered the job and accepted, I could see I would have my work cut out for me. I followed the girl’s somewhat directions and found the office. Entering I observed a young woman somewhere in her early to mid-thirties. She had close-cropped dyed blond her, pale lipstick and a little too much make-up. She was a bit overweight and there was something weary and sad in her eyes. I assumed she was Chrissy McElbe. Her sadness matched her harried voice on the phone.  Smiling, I stepped up to the counter

               “Good morning. I’m William Hickok. I have an eleven o’clock appointment.” She looked at a young lady, obviously a student, working at a desk by a window. They smiled at each other, and she walked over to me, extending her hand.

               “Good morning, Mr. Hickok. I’m Chrissy McElbe, Ms. Odome’s secretary. She’s in a meeting but will be free for your interview”. She held some papers and brochures which she held out to me. “Here’s some information about the school and our detention program. You might want to browse through them while you wait.” She pointed to chairs lined against the wall. Chairs more appropriate for students waiting for redirection than for guests, of whom I guessed they had few. I thanked her and, removing my overcoat on the way, walked over to the chairs. I folded my coat, lay it on a chair, then sat in another. I studied the office, falling back into old analysis/assessment habits easily. I noted the two women trying to be surreptitious in their scanning of me. I wondered what they thought they saw. I know what I thought I presented. Knowing that had been my business for a long time. Everywhere across the world except at home with my wife and sons. The smile faltered on my face. I readjusted my thinking. This was neither the time nor the place for those mental gymnastics. I Scanned the papers Ms. McElbe had given me and as I was doing so the door opened. A young man, obviously a student, entered. He was tall, taller than my six foot two and heavier than my one hundred eighty-five pounds. He was a good-looking kid carrying himself as if he were used to getting his way because of his looks and his size. He was probably stronger than I had ever hoped to be. I felt something stir in me. The old surge of competition. The thought was inappropriate where this student was concerned.   A cocky strut carried him to the counter. Chrissy McElbe, frowning, approached the counter.

               “What did you do this time, Leo?” She asked the boy.

               “Usual stuff, Chrissy,” Leo responded. I felt my eyes harden at the boy's disrespect. “Ole man Clinton got tired of me sleeping and sent me to detention. Nobody there, so I came here. Is Olde lady Bustra here?”

               “Mrs. Bustra is taking with a school board member. You can have a seat until she’s ready.” She turned to walk back to her desk, but he reached out and grabbed her shoulder. She stopped, trying to shrug off his hand but he had a firm grip. A nasty smile shaped his lips as he saw her wince in discomfort. He pulled her back toward him. The young female student working at the other desk stood and hurried toward the back office, which I assumed belonged to Mrs. Bustra. Before she reached the back of the room I was on my feet and standing on the boy’s right side. Saying nothing, I Stretched out my left hand and gripped his meaty wrist. Corded muscle writhed but I sensed no real strength there. I squeezed tighter and tighter until the nasty smile left his face. He tried to turn but I kept his arm extended forward and pulled his upper body toward the countertop. Sweat stood out on his forehead. Chrissy rubbed her shoulder as she stepped back and watched the scene unfold. The young man struggled but found that size was no match for no-how. I squeezed tighter. He moaned.

               “Now, youngster,” I said, “that’s no way to treat your elders, and definitely no way to treat a lady. I know that kind of thinking isn’t too popular these days, but I’m old so you’ll forgive me if I’m not up with the times.” Leo turned and looked at me, hatred behind the fear in his eyes. “That’s good,” I turned to Chrissy and asked, “did you say his name is Leo?” She nodded. Turning back to him, I resumed my casual conversation, “yes, that’s good, Leo. You hate me because you’re afraid of me. Very good.” I lifted him from his semi-recumbent position. Retaining my grip on his wrist I walked him toward the chairs against the wall and guided him into a chair. Leo rubbed his wrist and glared. I turned back to Chrissy McElbe.

               “Are you alright?” I asked. She nodded, then smiled her thanks. I pivoted and walked back to the boy as he kneaded his right wrist. I stared down at him, nothing friendly or fatherly or grandfatherly in my face.

               “You, young Leo are going back to class. You are not going to give Mr.,” I turned to Chrissy, “Clinton, is it?” She nodded. “You’re not going to give Mr. Clinton any problems. You will never again treat Mrs. McElbe as you just did, and you will tell your classmates what happened here. If you don’t, I will find you and we’ll rectify the matter.” Leo started to open his mouth. My look stopped him.

               “I don’t care if your father is on the school board, mayor or governor of the state. You’ll let your classmates know what happened here and that it will not be tolerated. If I have to visit them I will.” I didn’t seriously think he would embarrass himself and tell anything, but I knew the young female student would have the story over the whole school by evening. Leo looked at me, curiosity replacing hate, but not fear in his eyes.

               “Who are you?” He asked.

               “William Butler Hickok, your new Detention Monitor and Trainer. Things are going to be different around here very soon.” I smiled and patted his shoulder. “Now, back to class, youngster.” He stood and walked a bit unsteadily as he tried to regain his cocksureness. It failed him. He looked back as he left the room. I knew I had another enemy.

               Oh, well. What’s one more?

I felt some solidity from the action. It was the first I’d had for some time. The two women looked at me and I knew I had at least two friends in the school.

Maybe I did or could belong now. I had belonged to the government and had served them well. I had failed my parents, my wife, my children.

Perhaps I could make up for those failures with this undertaking.

I planned on doing everything I could to become Detention Monitor/Trainer at James Whitcomb Riley High School.

Maybe I can do for these kids what I could never do for my own – be there.

At least I can try, I thought as I returned to my seat to await Ms. Odome.

THE END