Saturday, October 13, 2012

Wobbly times number 155













DEBT, The First Five Thousand Years 
by David Graeber
Pages544; ISBN9781933633862; 
Publication date July, 2011



Even by the time one is halfway through chapter 3 of DEBT, THE FIRST 5,000 YEARS, Graeber has yet to put his finger on who produces 'value', a term he throws around quite regularly. Yes, he does tell his readers who sees 'value'--humans, obviously.  People see value, they see the use-value of the commodities they trade.  A commodity can have all the labour time in the world in it and if it isn't perceived as having a human use, it will have zero exchange-value. Stick a pin there.

Graeber does tell some very important tales in DEBT, pinning the need and therefore usefulness of money on ruling class desires for more wealth than they needed just to live.  In other words, in order to be rulers e.g. to pay for armed bodies of men, through the governing/enforcement structure of the political State. As a means of transferring produced wealth of the peasantry to rulers' ownership, tax systems are decreed by ruling classes which require payment in 'sovereigns'/money. Even so, the confusion accumulates when he poo-poos money itself as being a commodity.   

Graeber's DEBT is all about definitions. I think he's written a very readable book with many great tales of credit. In addition, he makes definitive statements like, "Money is credit, it can be brought into being by private contractual agreements...."  And so, we have a self-professed anarchist like Graeber who would like to see the end of the State and the formation of a classless society. According to Graeber, money is the creature of the State. So, without a State, there would be no money.  I think one can surmise this from Graeber's ideology.  

As Graeber reveals to his readers, the famous bourgeois economist, Lord Keynes, early on in his career made a study of Mesopotamian cuneiform texts which took years of research and resulted in his celebrated treatise on money. Like Keynes, Graeber basically dismisses labour as being the source of value when it comes to exchange.  He goes so far as identifying and trashing Adam Smith's 'labour theory of value' with a sentence early in his book. 

Why is this important for understanding the theme of the book, debt? 

Because Graeber embraces what amounts to a consumption theory of value, one which isn't tied to socially necessary labour time; but is more in tune with how price is determined i.e. by supply and demand for use-values. Mike Beggs has correctly observed in his review of DEBT, that Graeber's theory of money is related to 'chartalist' sources. In other words, it's kind of half right. Indeed, Graeber uses his anthropological wisdom to eviscerate the standard bourgeois economic notion that the clumsiness of barter brought about the need for money. 

As I said, his book is peppered with some great tales, such as the one about Keynes and his years long study of Sumerian texts concerning money, which in turn resulted in one of the good Lord's most celebrated works. But in this reviewer's opinion, it is important to know the source of the production of wealth which is represented by money. And in my opinion that source is to be found in the socially necessary labour time it takes to produce it, for that is the point where economy becomes political. Sure, the State creates money, today's States and yesteryear's States, just as Graeber says. But what does money represent? 

Debt? 

Sure. But what is debt, if not the promise to pay in wealth and where does wealth come from? 

For Marx there are only two sources of wealth, labour and nature. I was curious about Graeber. He's a self-described anarchist. As far as I know, he's still a member of the IWW. He's also touted as a leader of the 'occupy movement'. I wondered how he would solve the fetishism of the commodity in his work, as the commodity, IMO, is the building block of class society and class society is the foundation for the political State and yes, as Graeber says, the political State does mint what passes for the universal equivalent used to exchange commodities and pay off debts.  

Graeber's anthropological reflections are quite useful in bringing to the fore the notion that barter was rare as an historical phenomenon and money was absent in classless societies of hunter/gatherers. People basically used what they found/hunted. Trade between groups (my commodity for yours) was extremely limited. Those observations by Graeber made sense to me and so the book as a whole is not a total loss.  No, no, no.  Read the book.  In fact it's a bloody good anecdotal romp through 5,000 years of history.

For instance, in chapters 3 and 4 of Graeber's DEBT, THE FIRST 5,000 YEARS, we read of enlightening ties between debt, sin, guilt, owing society, owing parents, ancestors and ultimately the creation of money to repay debts to the sovereign. Of course deities can never be totally repaid and many times under absolutist rule, the sovereign becomes a demi-god or even god. All good here.

I especially enjoyed the way he uses Nietzsche's GENEALOGY OF MORALS, not as dogma, but as a way to illustrate mass religious conceptual ideologies and their cultural penetration into what passes in daily life for normative thinking.

Chapter 5 is divided into an examination of each of three themes of human interaction. He starts off with 'communism' and proceeds to define solidarity. The communism that communists know as common ownership of the means of production, production according to ability, distribution according to need is poo-pooed and shelved in good anarchist fashion. In an effort to sell us Graeber-communism (also based on the ability/need axis), he brings us out of the 'communism' of the great beyond (after the State withers away) to the daily praxis of solidarity between humans (up to a point) as being bits and pieces of actually existing 'communism' throughout the ages. According to Graeber, the social revolution is already happening, with co-operation between workers within corporations to get the job done (one not charging the other handing a screw driver to the bloke who needs one to complete the company's job); giving to relatives with no expectation of being paid back but, expecting reciprocal deeds when in need and so on. I can see his point and it's good to read someone who has something positive to say about how we live our lives in communistic behaviour patterns. Of course, he does drag out the ghost of the USSR to scare us away from 'Communism' and this works into his arguing against the conception of 'communism' as any real communist/socialist would define it.

No sign of labour being the source of all wealth not found in nature at this point in the book. DEBT remains a stimulating, if often frustrating, read. It made me want to call Davey up on the phone and share ales over conversations about how to change the world.

Onward to the next of the three themes of chapter 5, 'exchange'.

"Originally, human beings lived in a state of nature where all things were held in common; it was war that first divided up the world and the resultant 'law of nations,' the common usages of mankind that regulate such matters as conquest, slavery, treaties , and borders, that was first responsible for inequalities of property as well." David Graeber writes in DEBT, The First Five Thousand Years

No David. Private property precedes war. Nevermind--a bloody good read.  Also, the State doesn't come before private property; but after its establishment in the wake of humans' discovery of how to domesticate those plants and animals capable of being domesticated.  Geography has much to do with this, as Jared Diamond has pointed out in his GUNS, GERMS AND STEEL. The provision of a stable food supply, one not totally dependent on hunting and gathering what could be found in nature, was driven by our instincts for survival and freedom, IMO.  Agriculture and animal husbandry began to emerge thousands of years before records began to be written in Sumer.  But back to Graeber....

Debt is certainly very important in the establishment of class and patriarchal domination; but when will Professor Graeber recognise in writing DEBT the fact that wealth, to which debt is intimately related, is either a product of labour or exists before us in nature and then is merely possessed by threat of violence through the State's law enforcement hirelings? 

Maybe I'm supposed to give him a 'huss' and assume that what I'm missing is 'implied'. The problem with that is that while I may see it, others may not, as he dismisses 'the labour theory of value' earlier on in DEBT, with regard to Adam Smith, as I've already stated.  

Wealth is liberty — liberty to recreation — liberty to enjoy life — liberty to improve the mind. "Wealth is disposable time, and nothing more. " (From a pamphlet published anonymously in 1821, The Source and Remedy of the National Difficulties).  Debt certainly leads to slavery or at the very least to dependency structures woven into the social fabric via culture e.g. the 'milk debt' Graeber outlines with regard to the ongoing establishment of Hinduism in the historical time frame he labels, "The Axial Age".  But even 'milk debt' involves scads of labour time, in fact, our whole Hindu guided lives, if that's where we're at.  

Graeber provides his readers with many original source anecdotes concerning the question of slavery which go basically along these lines:  Once upon a time, the producers of wealth believed their monarchs deserved to live high on the hog while they lived lives of poverty. Once upon a time, slaves believed slavery was normal for those defeated in military conflict. All this is true.

I kept being frustrated about the questions he raised in my mind about the source of wealth. At the same time I was fascinated by his anecdotes concerning how various cultures dealt with certain kinds of debt. For example, cattle were used as currency for some transactions in pre-State Wales. Women were used in ancient Irish areas for certain forms of debt. Yet, halfway through chapter 6 and still no theory of where wealth comes from. 

Debt is expanded beyond economic transactions to include sin and other moral questions and while these are cogent observations, Graeber's emphasis on them turns our attention away from what is being asked of those who are indebted.  And what is that but their labour time and giving up their free time in some way shape or form up to and including becoming chattel slaves to those to whom they owed their debts.  Labour time is the source of exchange-value which is wrapped up in the social relations between those in debt and those to whom debts are owed.  And this is precisely what Graeber misses and or dismisses when it comes to his analysis of debt and his continual mystifications regarding money.  For Graeber, money is not based on embodied labour time but on the trust people have in the authorities.  Sure, there is trust; but as the old folk wisdom goes, "Where's the beef?"  Graeber's rulers seem to just decree what the value of money is as opposed to money being a universal equivalent used to trade objects with exchangeable labour time embodied in them.  

So, what is value? What is price? What is profit? Graeber continually mixes up exchange-value with a sense of debt which is based on being beholden to another person in some honourable way. I see the connection; but I find his anecdotes confusing the issue. Exchange-value is based on socially necessary labour time (snlt). Humans perceive their own labour time thusly, their own life expenditure in the exchange of commodities. This social perception is born of haggling around price until a sense of 'this is right' is established. But why is it, 'right'? It's the perception of life's labour time in the object or service which is based on the material reality of socially necessary labour time embodied therein. 

 I'm beginning to be forced to assume that many anarchists want to de-legitmate Marx so badly that they refuse to grasp or have a mental block when it comes to seeing the validity of his critque of political-economy. I saw it in Goldman. I've seen it in other anarchist thinkers e.g. Proudhon. And now, it appears in Graeber. I kept hoping as I read that I'd be wrong in my assumptions.  However, Graeber's analysis of debt is completely tied up in moralist ideology and fogged over with liberal consumptionist oriented economics which just begin to touch on the issue i.e his attachment to the Chartalists and Keynes.  Alas, even the great anarchist Proudhon had his peoples' banks and equality wages schemes for his new society.

In chapter 7 of DEBT,The First Five Thousand Years, we find a cogent analysis of honour's connection to owing interest and principal. By using the first Sumerian texts, Graeber takes us in his anecdotal 'way-back machine' to the last social revolution's event horizon at the beginning of history as we know it from Mesopotamian writing around 3000 BC, bringing his reader through to the end of the Bronze Age in 1200 or so BC. Transition from classless hunter/gatherers to farming and animal husbandry took many hundreds of years to complete. 

Priestly temple sustaining economies congregate in ancient cities, as Sumerian history unfolds. Surplus wealth is appropriated by theocratic cults thus, magnificent temple construction. Through his own interpretation of those first written texts of the Sumerians circa 3,000 B.C., Dr. Graeber opens the door on a time when women were still near political equals with men--as the social relations of power based on class ownership of wealth produced by others, began to take shape in its cradle, newborn civilisation. Patriarchy begins with debt, according to Graeber. A farmer took out a loan to make it till harvest or to get some tool needed for production. That farmer might put up his wife, daughters or sons as collateral. Usually, the debt is paid. However, when it is not paid, 'a pound of flesh' is extracted in terms of the 'collateral' having to do labour time under the lender's thumb. The more loans, the more chances of default to debt-pawn status for the wife and kids. The origins of chattel slavery can be found here. The owning of one person by another becomes normalised in the thousand year historical transition out of the Bronze Age, to the point where even slaves and former slaves endorse the notion that honour is tied to debt. It's a cultural value/norm. And, if one reads closely, one can see the hand of private property rights over class divided wealth emerging: property rights over the product of the exploiteds' labour, along with what was becoming known as his possessions: women and children, in a word, patriarchy. Graeber doesn't put it that way, but it's a valid interpretation of his anecdotal histories, anthropologies, economics, literary interpretations and anarchism as far as I am concerned.

Graeber often declares that money is the creature of the State and is usually connected with the need to pay the first ancient political State's plundering soldiers.  Fair enough; but that doesn't explain what intrinsic value is embodied in money whether it is paper or gold.  Gold, of course, does contain socially necessary labour time/snlt (although Graeber never acknowledges this in his assertions about fiat money and credit) and paper money is the promise of value creating labour time.  But, Graeber brushes any labour theory of value creation aside early on in DEBT, The First Five Thousand Years.  Money, like value, can seemingly come out of the ether of ruler decrees.  David tells a thousand fine anecdotes but he doesn't explain what the substance of the universal equivalent is and how that substance leads those in positions of political power to be more or less the same people who own private property in the means of production and nature, who own slaves, who make up patriarchal rules bound up with the perceived necessity of keeping private property where it 'rightfully belongs, and to whom debt itself is owed. 
And how, pray tell, is debt paid off other than through labour time and objects which take snlt to produce or promissory notes promising what....labour time of the debtors.  

Nope.  The economic theory that he is most attracted to is 'chartalism'. Contemporary economists i.e. since the turn of the 20th century completely abandoned Smith's labour theory of value for political reasons, including the Chartalists. Michael Perleman's work consistently shows this as he is an astute reader of Marx and and the history of modern 'economics'. Check him out. He's well worth the read. 

Back in the mid-19th century, one could tell that U.S. President Lincoln was still influenced by the labour theory of value as exemplified in his statement, "Labor is prior to, and independent of, capital. Capital is only the fruit of labor, and could never have existed if labor had not .". The political consequences of a President making such a statement today would be EXPLOSIVE! 

A surplus of any commodity will bring down its price in the market and skills are commodities. What the Black Death did was to lower the supply of labour power and increase its price. Graeber acknowledges this. Ownership of the product of labour is also dependent on access to the means of producing wealth and that access was closed off by privatising what had been the commons during the latter part of the feudal era when the landlord class was riding high. Closing off the commons drove the peasantry off the land (their means of production) and into the urban centres where they were obliged to sell their skills for wages to employers who owned the factories, mines and 'satanic' mills of commodity production. The oversupply of labour power brought about by privatising the commons, brought with it a rise in unemployment, lowering of wages and working conditions and vagrancy laws like those of Henry VIII--vagrancy was a capital crime in Henry's time. 

What to do with the unemployed? 

Put them in 'workhouses', debt and pick-pockets' prison; hang them or transport them off to the colonial gulags, America first and after the anti-colonial political revolution in America, to Australia after 1788, where the labour power was needed for exploitation under the wage system. 

Certainly, one should read Graeber's DEBT; but only after grasping what Marx was saying in terms of exchange-value's connect with snlt.  Reading "Value, Price and Profit" can help in that regard.  CAPITAL is, of course, more clearly definitive and definitely more enlightening--especially the early on in the chapter on money.

I close this review with a powerful observation from Marx which should be kept in mind when reading the final chapter of Graeber's DEBT, The First Five Thousand Years.




CAPITAL, Volume One

Chapter Thirty-One: Genesis of the Industrial Capitalist





The money capital formed by means of usury and commerce was prevented from turning into industrial capital, in the country by the feudal constitution, in the towns by the guild organisation. [3] These fetters vanished with the dissolution of feudal society, with the expropriation and partial eviction of the country population. The new manufactures were established at sea-ports, or at inland points beyond the control of the old municipalities and their guilds. Hence in England an embittered struggle of the corporate towns against these new industrial nurseries.
The discovery of gold and silver in America, the extirpation, enslavement and entombment in mines of the aboriginal population, the beginning of the conquest and looting of the East Indies, the turning of Africa into a warren for the commercial hunting of black-skins, signalised the rosy dawn of the era of capitalist production. These idyllic proceedings are the chief momenta of primitive accumulation. On their heels treads the commercial war of the European nations, with the globe for a theatre. It begins with the revolt of the Netherlands from Spain, assumes giant dimensions in England’s Anti-Jacobin War, and is still going on in the opium wars against China, &c.
The different momenta of primitive accumulation distribute themselves now, more or less in chronological order, particularly over Spain, Portugal, Holland, France, and England. In England at the end of the 17th century, they arrive at a systematical combination, embracing the colonies, the national debt, the modern mode of taxation, and the protectionist system. These methods depend in part on brute force, e.g., the colonial system. But, they all employ the power of the State, the concentrated and organised force of society, to hasten, hot-house fashion, the process of transformation of the feudal mode of production into the capitalist mode, and to shorten the transition. Force is the midwife of every old society pregnant with a new one. It is itself an economic power."






For an extensive discussion of Graeber's DEBT from other perspectives click here

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Wobbly times number 154

Began/Begone/Begin 

I joined the party
became a comrade
put my passion in
Facing hostile public words
"Go back to Russia!"
with leaflets
explaining our very rational
position
Gave my trust
my name 
and all my ambition
Spoke my mind
once too often
Stepped on toes
in honest confusion
contradiction
confrontation
And then
my comrades turned
on me and those I loved
Made me look the simpleton
I left and licked my wounds
Then later
joined a union
Once again
did I begin 
so full of passion
honestly relating
once too often
and got myself in trouble
with the keepers of the cage's keys
Got brought up on
some trumped up charges
racial slurs
and sexism
all by petty power mongers
in search of self-esteem
And then I quit their games
refused their rule
"Begone?" said I
"Of that
you can depend"
And now
I'm back where I began
I think
I'll just begin






Thursday, August 16, 2012

Wobbly times number 153




REFUSE THE ROLE
by Mike Ballard

What if you were given
power over others
Would you get your kicks
at their expense
or would you
refuse the role
refuse the role
You have the will
and there’s a way
Refuse the role
refuse the role
What if you were treated
to abuse and active scorn
Would you get your satisfaction
blowing master’s horn
loyal to humiliation
like a Pavlov’s dog
or would you
refuse the role
refuse the role
The roles we are
assigned to play
just keep us
in our
slave-like ways
refuse the roles
refuse the roles
Live free
Live wild
Associate as equal mates
in one big union free
and don’t let the bosses
put you down
refuse to roll
refuse their roles 
********************************
originally published in 

FANNING DISCONTENT'S FLAMES
Australian Wobbly Poetry, Scurrilous Doggerel, and Song
1914-2007
                                  

Friday, August 3, 2012

Wobbly times number 152


Fighting Gonzales
Set San Diego, California, 1959


There was a trace of fog in the air from the night before.  Jack awoke to another cool, grey morning, knowing that temps would jump to the sunny seventies by eleven or so.  It was 6:30 am just another April school day.  His mom was calling to him from the kitchen where she was already  busying herself with breakfast for the family. 

His dad was eating his bacon, eggs and toast washing his breakfast down with milk, about ready to leave for work.  From his bedroom down the hall, Jack could only hear his parents as a low, mumbling murmur.  He didn’t bother  trying to decipher what it was they were speaking about or even to look down the hall, which he could easily do from his bedroom.  Undoubtedly, whatever they were saying was irrelevant.  At least to him, it was irrelevant.  When they wanted his attention, they usually yelled in his direction.  The sound of crickets combing their legs together held more interest for him than eavesdropping his parents’ buzz.  At least crickets were soothing  Most things that people his parent’s age did were of little consequence and sometimes, irritating to Jack. 

His father drove a delivery truck for Sparklett’s Water, all dressed-up in a uniform.   The cap had a shiny, brown, patent leather brim.  Jack’s dad wore this outfit on his route.  Shoes were the employee’s own choice, as long as they were brown leather with brown laces. 

Delivering bottled water was a heavy lifting job.  His pop had to lift a five gallon glass bottle, filled with water from the loading rack of the truck and then, heave it across his shoulder.  He’d deliver it into one of the suburban residences or local businesses.  Carrying the empties back out to the truck was much easier.  His father mentioned once, during a  commercial break on TV, that he was sometimes  able to take two empties at the same time back to the truck.  “Work could be done faster”, he said.  “Attitude is key.” 

But Jack’s attitude was none too good.  In fact, he prided himself on cultivating a bad attitude.  Bad got mixed up with cool and cool got mixed up with bad.  So, to be bad was to be good in Jack’s youngish lexicon.  That’s the way things worked in Jack’s world.  He had little idea of why his father went to work for Sparklett’s--other than for the money.

Sparklett’s was non-union of course.  Jack’s dad didn’t mind one little bit.  In fact, he preferred matters that way.  He was proud to be an individual.   He distrusted organization.  Organization meant bureaucracy and bureaucracy meant the death of individual freedom.  Among other things, Jack’s father staked a claim to having seen the movie version of “1984" on TV. 



Peter Goetz was a  working-class Republican of the Eisenhower era, meaning that his voting behaviour was a form of brand loyalty rather than a choice of social/economic policy or expression of satisfaction or dissatisfaction. He kept voting for one brand of political party for the same reason that he kept buying one brand of car, soda, fast food, or for that matter, going to the same church - because this was what he was familiar with.   Evaluating all available options and making a rational decision was not the way he did things.   Like most of his fellow workers, Peter was not a rational utility maximiser. Instead, he was a  transaction cost minimizer and ex-post facto rationalizer. He wouldn’t necessarily go for what could give him maximum gain. Instead, he went for what required minimum effort in the here and now.    He told himself, and everyone else who’d listen, what he did was, “a good deal” for himself and for his family.

In order to distinguish himself from his parents, in short, to rebel, Jack developed a fascination for Nazis.  He figured that they’d gotten a rotten deal.  He saw through the phoniness of it all when he watched movies on TV.   TV stations were incessantly mining their stocks of World War II  films.   “Victory at Sea”, one of Jack’s favourites, was another matter.  Be that as it may, in the Hollywood and British versions of filmed fiction,  German soldiers were almost always bumbling about with single shot rifles.  To be sure, they had cooler helmets and uniforms, but pulling the bolt back to put another round in the chambre of their Mausers made them look too dumb.  Meanwhile, G.I.s would be shooting bullets one after the other from their M1s.  Result: busloads of dead Germans.  “Highly unlikely,” Jack thought.  Very few Americans ‘bought it’ in the films Jack saw on TV.  It was all so unfair and probably another deception foisted on the young by his parents’ generation.  That’s what Jack thought.  Anyway, the Germans were clearly the ‘underdog’.   Instinctually, Jack felt an affinity for underdogs. 

He remembered his father telling him once, “The Nazis were just a bunch of gangsters.  They were just a bunch of thugs.”  That statement alone made it possible for Jack to admire Frank Nitti when it came time for the next “Untouchables” episode on TV and may have had the direct effect of making “The Godfather” an essential movie going rite of passage for himself later in life. 

His pop also told him that when he worked at the Ryan aircraft assembly plant during the war, he got to look at two or three captured German planes.  The company brought them in so that their employees could examine them and compare quality.  His dad said that he noticed that the workmanship was, “shoddy”.  “Japs made their planes the same way”, he said.  Jack could believe it about the Japs, but the Germans? 

Jack spitefully maintained his interest in the Nazis even after this ‘little talk’.  He continued to suspect that Germans were not as clumsy and stupid as the Hollywood movies made them out to be.  Certainly, they could never have been as evil as the movies portrayed them.  Yet, after his dad’s anti-Nazi spiel, he became suspicious of the Germans as well.  Maybe there was something to the anger adults felt and were still feeling against them, the Japs and even the Italians. 



Jack’s dad loved Westerns and war movies, anything where the rebelliously tinged hero wound his way successfully through the obstacles which crum-bums, rotten no-goods, Mexicans and other undesirables put in his way .  Both his mom and dad would sit down together and watch “Gunsmoke” and “Have Gun Will Travel” once a week.  They were prime-time shows.   “Dragnet” was prime-time too:  the fifties reality show where, “only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.”   For a change of pace, there were “The Twilight Zone” and “The Honeymooners”.  Jack liked watching TV with his parents, although he was sometimes frustrated with their channel choices. 

On Sundays, the family went to worship in the protestant church of their choice.  They were exercising, what they believed to be, a fundamental American freedom.   They worshipped a  fellow Jack’s pop called,  “the good Lord”.  

Jack reckoned that going to church was not freedom.  It was a tedious exercise which involved hanging out with the odious Sunday school crowd.  Sunday school teachers and their lame attempts at something they called ‘moral instruction’ made him sleepy.  “How,” he thought, “could the ‘good lord’ send an angel of death to kill all of Egypt’s first born children?”

“What the heck was good about killing babies?”

Jack would always brighten up when the Sunday school teacher started handing out  little brochures to be taken home.  This act meant the end was near and lunch was at hand.

Jack imagined that his parents felt themselves to be very honest, decent people, even though his dad didn’t like pushy Jews or dirty people.  It seemed, especially in Jack’s father’s eyes, that the darker the person was, the more likely the person in question would be corrupt, slovenly, dishonest, generally disorganized and most likely, unemployed. 

Jack’s father traced his European roots to the Netherlands.  People were white and clean in Holland–no crum-bums.  Jack noticed that in the movies he watched on TV about the war, the Nazis had some of the same attitudes which his father exhibited.  “The poor quality of workmanship in German fighter aircraft was most likely due to Nazi thuggery plus, their bureaucratic organization,” Jack thought.

His mom was not quite so concerned with the darker people as with preservation.  According to Jack’s dad, that was because, “..she never goes out very much.”  She had encased all her cloth-covered furniture in plastic.  To her, this was an ingenious act of tidiness.  It followed that if seat covers were good for the car, they were even more needed for home furniture. 

Light was a fact of Nature which greatly disturbed Jack’s mother.  Light, especially sunlight, tended to make furniture colours fade.  It also affected the carpet.  As a consequence, both were covered over with sheets of protective plastic.  To be sure, it was clear plastic.  Unfortunately, clear plastic sheeting did allow light to fade material.  Therefore, it was thought best by Jack’s mom to shut off all but a few lights and to draw the curtains after Jack’s dad left for work.  That way, their home would be sparkling clean for the evening when they sat on the furniture to watch TV.

Jack was ready to take the plunge.  He had been in bed up to the last moment possible.  Like his father, Jack had a timetable to meet.  He pulled the covers from his body.  He sat up, then wheeled his legs around whereupon, he put his feet on to the cold linoleum floor.  He felt hurriedly under the bed for his slippers.  “Ah yes, there they are,” he told himself as he grabbed one, then the other from the position that he’d left them in the night before. 



“Jack!  Get in the shower!  You’ve only got half an hour before your bus comes,” his mom bellowed from the kitchen. 

“All right ma,” he yelled down the hall.  He got up and slipper-shuffled into the bathroom, looking at himself, flexing his biceps in the long mirror as he passed on the way to the shower.  His tan was fading and his hair was messed up. He’d work on his tan this summer.  His hair didn’t matter at this moment. 

He still had a pee hard-on, so he propped himself up against the wall to face the toilet and angled his penis towards the toilet bowl.  “A bean’s a bean but a pee’s a relief,” he recited under his breath with a slight grin.  Somehow, that aphorism hadn’t left his head since he first learned it on a school field trip at age seven.  (An image of the inside walkway within a dark train carriage passed through his head-- then it vanished).  Jack tried to remember, but his dreams melted away as he tried to grasp them.

When he’d finished urinating, he turned the shower on.   Hot first, then he started mixing in the cold and when that was ready, he stepped in tub. 

First, he stood directly under the shower and scrubbed his hair with Head & Shoulders Shampoo.  He dug his nails, hard into his scalp as the lather plopped into the tub water.  As he shampooed, he planned his attire–today, his black turtleneck.  He didn’t want a bunch of dandruff falling on his shoulders.  He let the clear, strong stream rinse his hair thoroughly. 

Jack had yet to learn the social benefits of deodorant.  He wasn’t  quite sure why it was that people put “that shit” on.  Didn’t seem natural to him.  He racked it up to another inane adult behaviour which people copied without knowing why.  But he, he knew about Head and Shoulders and about putting Clearasil on his pimples.  Jack didn’t have many of them.  He scrubbed his back and face too hard with Lifeboy for that.  When a blemish erupted, he immediately applied a small mound of Clearasil directly to it.   Sometimes, for the really serious eruptions, he used his dad’s Pragmatar.  

He peered out through the clear, plastic shower curtain. There it sat, near the sink with the lid off, all white and shiny in a squat, green jar.  “God, that stuff stinks!” he thought as he washed his torso completely clean.  Then, he turned the water off, got out of the shower, got a nice, fluffy towel to dry himself and proceeded to his bedroom to get dressed:  jeans, turtleneck, sneakers.  On his way to breakfast, he went back to the bathroom to put some Clearasil on a pimple he’d just noticed popping up on his cheek. 

“Jack?”

“Yeah ma,” he yelled from the bathroom.

“Do you want one egg or two?”

“Two eggs, ma.”



Jack sauntered into the kitchen and sat down for breakfast.  His dad had already left.  Jack scarfed down the bacon, eggs and toast in a matter of a minute and like his father, washed it all down with a cold glass of milk.  He got up from the table and went back to his bedroom to get his books and binder. 

“Ok ma, I’m off.” 

“Jaaack!”

“Yeah ma.”

His mother stopped him in the hallway.  She had a worried look on her face.  “Jack, your father says that you should be looking for a job this summer.”

“Ah come on, ma, it’s only April.  Summer is a long way off.”

“Your father says that now is the time to be looking.”

“Oh jeez, ma.”

“I want you to go to the school counsellor and ask her if she knows where 15 year olds can look for summer jobs.”

“Ah ma.”

Jack...” she said with that special raised eyebrow.  The expression on her face indicated, she meant it.

“Ah ok, ma.” 

“Good then.  Hurry up.  You’ll be late for the bus.”

Jack left the house and walked briskly down the sidewalk towards the bus top on Cabrillo Mesa Drive.  After about ten steps, he stopped, made a u-turn and went back to the house.  He walked in with a deep breath.

“Jack!  What are you doing here?  You know the bus is coming.” his mother said as she pulled the drapes shut.

“I just want to say that if he touches me, I’m going to hit him hard.”  Jack felt his muscles tense.

“Peter only wants what’s right for you,” his mother said quickly.

Jack could tell that she was afraid.  He’d never seen that look before.  He retreated.  “Ok ma.  Just tell him not to touch me.”  And then, he turned and went back out the door, walking briskly toward the curb where the V-bus stopped to pick up kids on their way to Linda Vista Junior High.  He’d never liked the idea that his mother had re-married.


There weren’t any blacks in Cabrillo Mesa.  Most of them went to school  in Logan Heights.  “Man, that’s a bad-ass neighbourhood,” Jack thought.  He’d never been there.  He didn’t have to go there.  He knew.  It was simple.  Blacks were badass-mohz.

As he approached the stop, he saw the usual bunch: James, Susie, Claire, Don, Roger and Roger’s brother Randy.  Louis, pronounced ‘lew-ee’, was there too.  Louis Chavez was a Mexican, different from the majority.  The kids were all milling about, mostly making comments about the previous night’s TV episode of “Zorro”.  Jack noticed the hair under Claire’s arm  “She must be Italian,” he thought.

“I like it when he does that zip-zip,zip, zip thing with his sword, man,” Louis said

Yeah man, that’s so bad,”  Randy said.

“You know it,” Jack added.

Roger Toosher was on his haunches, expertly blowing smoke rings into the quiet air.  “Marlboro is the coolest brand.  No doubt about it,” Jack thought.  He checked and confirmed that Roger had the hard pack.  Susie quickly glanced at Roger.  His shirt was open, three buttons from the top, his belt buckle was  secured at the second loop from the button-front of his jeans, his hair fanned large on top of his head like some Spartan warrior.  He wore a waist length, tan cloth jacket over white t-shirt and jeans.

The guys listened intently as Roger taught them the art of blowing rings.  Roger and his brother Randy were outsiders.  They’d only moved to Cabrillo Mesa a year ago.  Still, they were an impressive pair because everybody knew they were, bad.  Word was that they had to move down from Idaho because Roger was a suspect in a local store robbery.  It was also rumoured that Roger and sometimes Randy, along with him, did  stuff at night, stuff that would get you sent to juvee, if the cops caught you.  Nobody knew what exactly the brothers did on these alleged sojourns.  There were only  rumours.  Truth was: nobody wanted to know for sure.  It was dangerous to ask.  Both Roger and Randy were known to be ready to throw punches at the first sign of an uncool move.

Randy took a hard pack of Marlboro’s out of his shirt pocket and  hit it deftly,  rhythmically, top-down on to the palm of his hand.

“Hey Essay, lemme bum a cigarette.” Louis more or less asked.  “Come on, man.  Don’t be cold.

Randy opened the package, throwing the cellophane down on the sidewalk, and got out a cigarette for himself and one for Louis. Louis wouldn’t have asked Roger.



Randy’s pack-to-hand ritual had  forced the tobacco hard against the filter, leaving the cigarette with an empty pocket, a one-sixteenth of an inch pack-down in the cylindrical  tip.  Randy cupped his hands into a perfectly windless bowl as he struck his match.  The paper lit quickly and the cigarette was burning. Then, he passed the match, with cupped hands, on to Louis.   They both took deep drags.  Randy pursed his lips flat then blew smoke between them in two, quick, audible breaths.  Louis let it out of both his nose and mouth, his words accented with smoke as he plaintively remarked, “Aw man....”

The V-bus turned the corner and started up Cabrillo Mesa Drive. 

“Shit,” Randy said as he took a long drag he could from his cigarette.

Jack impatiently nudged his arm, “Give me drag off that man.” 

Randy passed Jack the cigarette and then shot spit between his teeth onto the sidewalk.  No disrespect was meant.  Spitting was more akin to punctuation.   Jack took a long drag, then gently put the burning head out on the sidewalk and handed it back to Randy.  Randy smiled and put the butt back into his hard pack. He already had the teeth of a forty-year-old.. 

Randy’s  hair was shiny black.  It was combed back into a duck’s ass–a DA.  Hair tonic glistened from his ‘fenders’. His white face was pockmarked with small craters and occasional pink and red tipped pimples.

The bus stopped and the doors opened to a noisy interior, jammed with teenagers.  Jack and Randy showed their bus passes to the driver and pushed their way toward the back.  School bus riding wasn’t so bad.  It was always close quarters and sometimes a guy could cop a feel. Some of the kids in the back seat were signing “Charlie Brown” and “Yakety-Yak”.  Jack spotted Claire seated about three down from him toward the front, seemingly oblivious to the crowd.  She was amazing and so brown.  Even her hair was brown.  She was also developed.  Not like some of the girls.  Claire was special.   Claire had tits and fine, fine, superfine legs.  “She must be Italian,” Jack thought.  He really would have liked to see more movies with Steve Reeves, Gina Lolabridgida and Sophia Loren in them.  In the Sixties, he would turn more attention to “Playboy” ‘Playmates of the Month’, Monica Vita and eventually, the “Barbarella” version of Jane Fonda. 

The V-bus swayed round road curves.  It dipped at stop lights and jerked at take-offs.  The bus was so packed that Jack felt like it was going to flip over at times when the driver turned his steering wheel to the left and then, mercifully, to the right again.  Flesh fell against flesh.  At the halfway mark, the V-bus passed Sharpes Hospital.  Jack could never figure out why the hospital was named ‘Sharpes’.  Hell, he didn’t even know enough to ask the question.  For Jack, it was school now.  That’s what counted.  Getting to school and to classes and maybe having some fun in between and then coming home to watch TV. 

As soon as the bus parked outside the gray stucco building, the building that exemplified all that was LVJHS, Jack walked to the place where the badest guys would be gathered –those guys who would hang out at the steel horizontal bars, in the sand pit near the boys’ gym.   



Randy exited and quickly went his way, off to smoke at the periphery of the school grounds.  Sure, Randy was bad, but that kind of bad eventually meant trouble and Jack didn’t want that. The rule was that you couldn’t smoke on school property, but hey, cross the street and you could hang out with your crowd and smoke to your heart’s content, but only until the bell rang.  Once, about three months ago, Jack had ditty-bopped over to that side of the street.  He bummed a couple of drags.  “Hey man, give me a drag.”   He was able to gape at some real ‘Tijuana Bibles’, one with Wimpy fucking Olive Oil and another with Minnie giving Mickey a blow-job.   

But today, there were matters to prove–to himself and the others who would notice.  Jack had set himself a challenge.  He gripped the medium-sized bar and tried his latest–a kip.  He swung his legs behind and then forward and then jack-knifed his belly toward the bar.  The move was not successful.  He dropped back to the hanging position and held on to the bar for a moment, seemingly in contemplation of the sand.  Actually, he was bit frightened.  He tried again.  This time the kip succeeded and beautifully as well.  He decided to dismount, starting in the sit-around position. Sitting on the bar, he forced his head backwards, hanging on with his legs.  As he plunged towards a six o’clock somersault, he let go and landed feet-first, standing ankle-deep in sand. 

Some other guy stood at the base of the bars next, so Jack stood aside.  He’d had his turn.  He’d done it.  He’d done a kip.  Pride surged through his body. 

He stood at the edge of the pit and watched the others, all boys.  Anthony Ferguson was doing a cheery drop.   The horizontal bars stood high over the sand pit.  One mistake and you fell the wrong way.  It would no not be a soft landing either.  Tony positioned himself in the sit-around position after ‘kipping’ up to the top of the bar.  Then, he lay back and in a moment of perfect balance, legs straight out, head out the other direction board-straight, he shifted the weight of his body backward and flipped his feet over his head in a perfect dismount.  Like the ‘hock-circle’, Jack would never see the Cherry-drop done in any competition on TV, including the Olympics.

The bell rang school to a start.  Unlike his dad, Jack didn’t have to wear a uniform during school.  Catholic school kids did.  LVJHS was public.  Jack wore jeans a t-shirt and a khaki coloured Eisenhower jacket.  His hair was slick-combed back with Brylcreem.  He tried other hair tonics. Brylcreem was the coolest, especially as it was heavily advertised by the ‘Fearless Fosdick’.  Hah, what a cool thing it was to be combing Brylcreem in your hair in the morning–much better than Vitalis.  And it wasn’t greasy either.  It had something called ‘lanolin’ in it.  Nope, no greasy kids’ stuff for Jack.



First period was English with Miss Briggs.  Miss Briggs had wide hips.  Jack thought of her wide hips as he crossed the playing field towards the bungalow where English class was taught.  Miss Briggs must have been old,  like 29 or something.  She didn’t have much in the way of tits.  Practically, flat-chested, Miss Briggs was.  She did have a nice smile though and Jack felt that he learned a lot from her in class.  Jack wanted to learn.  He didn’t like wasting his time.  Miss Briggs would parade back and forth down the aisles of the classroom in her black, horn-rimmed glasses, her book close to her face as she read the lesson aloud in her long, tightly fitted dress.  Jack like her red one best.  Then, she’d put the book down at her side.  Yeah, that great side of hers... and ask questions about what she had just read.  And, yep, she’d be smiling.  What a joke.  Most of the kids couldn’t care less and they showed it.  Besides, most didn’t  really know.  It was more like they were pretending to be too smart to learn that kind of stuff–like we’ve got way more important things to think about, like maybe whose jacket Cheryl was wearing today.  Now that was something which mattered.  Cheryl was recognized as being one of the coolest chicks.  If she wore a guy’s jacket draped over her shoulders, it meant that they were ‘going steady’, a highly significant event.  Cheryl was wearing Frenchie’s jacket.  Frenchie was probably the worst student in school and also the baddest.  Word was that Frenchie would soon be transferred downtown to the tech-school.

After first period English, Jack was walking across the school ground to PE.  On the way, Pancho Gonzales started taunting him.  “What are you looking at, Goetz?  You think you’re bad or something?  Hey Goetz-lips.  Yo-mama wears combat boots.”  Pancho was a fat kid, but he was a fat kid who lived in Linda Vista, which meant that he was probably bad.   Jack ignored him.  Then, Gonzales got up close and said, “I’m choosing you off, Goetz.  Meet me across the road after school today.”   Jack just walked on.  Pancho stood there and laughed and yelled after him, “Don’t forget, mamma-hamma.”  Jack turned his back and said , “Forget you.”

“What’d you say mo-fug?”  faded into the background....

A crowd of kids had gathered.  There was no escape from their penetrating eyes.  If Pancho showed up across the road and Jack wasn’t there, they’d know that he had, “ H’d him out”. They’d know, because they’d all be there in that lot.   Jack just kept walking to PE class.  Pancho grinned triumphantly.

PE was always enjoyable for Jack.  He was pretty good at sports and today the coach was organizing games of flag football for the boys.  The girls went to a separate PE class.  Jack liked playing end.  He caught two touchdown passes during the class. 

After PE was lunch.  Jack got the brown paper bag containing the lunch his mother had made for him out of his locker and went back out to the sunshine of PE area.

 “Hmm, peanut butter and jelly,” he thought.  Jack stopped at the cafeteria to pick up some milk, to wash his sandwich down with.  After he woofed down the last crust, he got involved in a pick up game of softball.  Then, the bell rang and it was back to school–this time science class.  After that was history and then shop. 

As the day worn on, Jack felt his stomach churning with greater frequency.   He moved through crowds of students changing classes.  He felt detached.  He found it difficult to concentrate on what any of his teachers were saying.  In history, his favourite class, Mr. Evans asked him point blank in the middle of the lesson what year the battle of Actium occurred in.  As it happened, Mr. Evans had just a moment beforehand, read that date to the class.  Jack drew a blank.  Mr. Evans then asked Jack what the significance of the Battle of Actium was for Cleopatra.  But Jack hadn’t a clue.  During the whole class, he had one concern.  The fight played itself out again and again to different ends in his imagination, like some kind of psycho-dramatic scenario.

When the last bell rang, Jack found himself walking inexorably in the direction of the lot across the street where he knew Gonzales would be waiting and the crowds would be gathering.  He screwed up his courage.  It seemed, his palms were sweating blood.



Pancho’s girlfriend was on his arm.  Yolanda saw Jack first and squealed, “There’s the little white dickhead!”  Pancho looked in Jack’s direction.  Gonzales did not look quite as arrogant as he had on the playground that morning.  His jacket hung like a cape over his girlfriend’s shoulders.  She was smiling up at him. 

When Jack got within forty paces, he stopped.  The crowd formed a circle around the two, the middle emptying and milling back towards the circumference.  Pancho looked at Jack quizzically.  Jack removed his jacket and layed it softly on the dirt.  The two approached the centre.  Pancho threw the first blow, a hay-maker towards Jack’s head but Jack ducked.  Then he thrust forward and plowed head first into Pancho’s gut.  With an “Ooff!”  Pancho bent over.  The wind had been knocked out him.  Then Jack hooked his right foot over Pancho’s left foot while pushing the Mexican’s torso to the right and back.  Gonzales fell with a thud to the ground.  Jack turned and walked back towards his jacket.  Pancho got up ran towards Jack.  Hearing the quickened footsteps, Jack looked back over his shoulder.  Pancho was coming at him full speed at about one second to impact.  Jack started to run, but not soon enough.  Gonzales caught him from behind, around the neck with his fat left arm.  The pointed end of a beer can opener appeared rolled between the thumb and index finger of his right hand.  With it, Pancho tore an inch of flesh from Jack’s cheek.  Then, he let Jack slip from his grip.

Jack yelped with a ten-year old’s voice.  As he dropped into the dust cloud scuffed up by the fight, sirens wailed. 

“Get outta here, the fuzz!” a lone voice yelled from the stampeding herd of kids.

Jack was writhing and moaning in a fetal position.  His jacket lay ten feet in front of him.  Dust plumed thickly again as three police cars skidded into the vacant lot.