I walked into the spacious People’s Savings Bank to cash a Traveler’s Cheque. I was still wearing my moccasin boots. Even though they felt like gloves, I needed something more appropriate for town wear. A squat character pounced on me from the ambush of his doorway.
“What size you wear? Come in. Come in. You come to the right place. I sell cheaper than any other place in town. Where you from? What kind of work you do, sir?” I let him rattle on until I was able to indicate what I wanted. Then I sat down. He unlaced a boot and slipped a loafer on my foot. I didn’t even say I’d take the shoes. I thought he was looking up another style. Instead, he was wrapping up the loafers.
“You don’t wear big, heavy shoes. People think you’re from the country. Wear these. Look like a civilian. Eleven ninety-five,” he concluded.
Think you’re from the country. In the next few hours, his words rang in my brain. I decided to do some investigating. I took the shoes around to various shoe stores and tried to find out whether or not I had been taken. Of course, the proprietors dismissed my queries by saying that they could not put down a competitor, but in doing so they gave me the slight hints I was looking for. I watched their faces when I told them what I had paid. Finally, an old Swede, bless his heart, told me that they were cheap shoes, that he sold them for $8.00. I could have kissed him.
I stomped back to the first store like a Nazi Storm Trooper. “Here’s the boy with the big shoes back and he wants his money!” I said. I slammed the shoes on the counter. “Those shoes are worth about $8.00. When you size up a sucker next time, look a little farther than the shoes he wears.” He argued. If he was bigger, I think I’d have swung at him. I got my money back and I returned to the old Swede’s shop and bought a good pair. I felt I had won my fight. If I couldn’t trust people, I could now be on my guard and weigh every dealing with cold suspicion.
Author’s journal, July 15, 1952
I wasted the day wandering through the streets. A brooding concentration. Did I try to run away from life? Am I ashamed of what I have done with college up until now? Whether I get a job or not, I must go to Alaska. I must go for pride will not let me return yet to the east. And yet I can’t help but think that this “land of opportunity” rage out here is a sucker’s game.
I had no idea what I was going to do, but it was time to find a job, any job.
During the next few days I visited the offices of several contractors with jobs in Alaska. They were interested in tradesmen, not laborers. Laborers they could hire on the scene. College didn’t count unless you were an engineer or an accountant. College just put you in a different league. I wondered how many educated derelicts there were wandering on Skid Row. I stumbled on a notice posted by the Navy. Laborers were being hired for Adak and Kodiak.
IF INTERESTED, REPORT TO THE ALASKA RECRUITING OFFICE AT PIER 91.
I was walking, and by Pier 63 I decided that Pier 91 would be easier reached by trolleybus. I didn’t know what the fare was. I fumbled for change, revealing my insecurity in my surroundings. As I sat down, I didn’t notice the girl sitting next to the open seat. A few minutes later I was surveying her shapely legs, the perfect swelling of her calves, the thin ankles dropping into black, high-heeled pumps. Her eyes were a sparkling blue, her lips moist and the red of strawberries. I kept stealing glances at her.
“Pier 91 and Carleton Park,” the bus driver announced.
The girl got up to leave. I followed her out. I guess I still looked bewildered by my surroundings, because the girl smiled.
“Pier 91 is over there,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. She smiled again. Her teeth were like the first snow and her eyes flashed. I walked away, thinking how pretty she was.
A sailor at the gate issued me a pass, and I proceeded to the Alaska Recruiting Office. After filling out an application, I was told to report the next day for a physical. If I passed that, then the deal was to sign a one-year contract. Free air transportation would be provided to Adak or Kodiak, and if I completed my year, the trip back to Seattle would be gratis also. I would have the option of signing over again, too. Not too bad, I thought. This could be my Alaska meal ticket.
Back on the street, I hailed the trolleybus. I climbed aboard, and for a moment I thought I’d never gotten off. There, across the aisle, were those legs again. The girl I’d sat next to before! She smiled at me. It was almost an invitation to introduce myself and sit beside her, but I stayed where I was and lamely thanked her again for her help. My damned shyness and Yankee reserve … I’d never get rid of it. Afraid to make a move and be refused. That would hurt too much.
The bus driver turned when he stopped again. “You two chasing each other around? Too hot for that. Go find a shady spot.”
Even with this assist, I remained tongue-tied, but managed a shy smile in her direction.
Finally, she got off. Her arm brushed mine. I watched her walk across the sidewalk to a store window, then turn and smile. I grinned back as the bus moved off. The driver shot me a sour glance. I got off at the next stop and walked hurriedly back toward the girl. I was going to throw all caution to the winds. It was just too damn lonesome in this town.
Then I noticed a passing bus. My hopes evaporated. There she was again, smiling and waving. I waved back, trying to communicate to her to get off, but she didn’t pick up the vibrations.
“Damn it,” I said out loud.
I WENT TO THE LIBRARY FOR some guidance, and decided to look up some information on Adak and Kodiak. I immediately ruled out Adak. Not a tree on the island. But, Kodiak … that held promise. I wondered what the fishing was like.
On my way back to the hotel, I passed a Girlie Show, all lit up and glittery with revealing posters beneath the marquee. Girls in flesh-colored G-strings and hammocks of fishnet supporting their heavy breasts seemed to squirm right out of the pictures. Their mouths were drawn into “Os” and their eyes were big and round. I hesitated for a moment, then walked on.
Back at the hotel room, I took a bath. As I toweled myself off, the roll of blubber around my middle was emphasized in the full mirror on the door. How did that accumulate so fast? It wasn’t that long ago when my stomach was drumhead tight and the muscles showed.
You’re going to seed, I thought as I jutted my chin and shaved critically.
Don’t blame Seattle, I answered. It’s not as unfriendly as you think. There’s things to do, but you’re holding on to your wallet. I rinsed off the blade.
But my wallet’s my security blanket until I get to Alaska, I thought, splashing my face with a spicy lotion. All right, then, I told my reflection, so stop bitching about Seattle.
The next morning, I returned to Pier 91. The smell of the sick bay was familiar to me from my Marine days. So were the needles the corpsman jabbed me with. I saw on the screen of my mind the long line snaking into the tent, the marines emerging from the other end of it, holding their arms, grimacing, and shouting for the benefit of us waiting to be punctured. “Look out for the hook!” “It’s a square needle!” “Jesus, that butcher struck bone.” An occasional trickle of blood down an upper arm made believers out of us. Some boys even fainted in the tent before the needle touched them.
I
