Turns out it's the tenth anniversary of my baby. Here's the sequel. I'll work my ass off to complete it this time. Promise. Sorry about the delay.
For those who weren't around a decade ago, this is the sequel to A World Of Laughter, A World Of Tears, a timeline I wrote an age ago in which Walt Disney becomes President of the United States.
I know, but I'm told that it's better than it sounds.
Here we go (inhales deeply):
Didn't know what that damn fool was thinking, picking us up and moving us clear around the world where none of us even spoke the language, but Jackson was my man, and I was raised to stand by him, just like that white girl used to sing so pretty. That fool got an idea in his head, wasn't no shaking it. Besides, wasn't like we were flush with possibilities. None of the English speaking countries were taking us less we had an education or what they called "useful skills," and weren't many of us left with those after the past eight years of horror. But we took our quit pay, which is what we were calling the relocation money that Congress had voted to give colored folks if they were willing to go away and never come back, and it was more money than any of us had ever seen in our lives. Also, wasn't like we could stay: the bombings were still going on here and there, and wasn't a white neighborhood you could work in anymore without police grabbing you on your way to work and asking what business you had. Even if you got your employer to say you were supposed to be there, seemed like half the time you'd end up getting a smack from a billy club anyway, if they didn't just pull you off to jail.
Why didn't I go north? Son, I lived in Chicago. North didn't mean shit anymore, if you will pardon my language. It was all south far as any of us could see.
So there we were, in a thrown-together shack on the outskirts of the city, trying to make do with a mess o' food I never ate in my life. Herring? Wasn't much herring on the South Side. Beets? Don't think I saw one in my life till then. And who on God's Earth drinks sour milk? Didn't make no sense! Managed to do something with the rice, though, and chicken's the same anywhere, and even if we didn't have much of it to buy, well, didn't look like the white folks were getting more than us.
Oh, that shack. Looked like they'd thrown together a whole block for us colored folk with plywood, cement, and spit in near about a week. Why a week? Because if they'd done a week and a day, maybe some things would have worked. The electric was off about as often as it was on, and when it was on, you took your life in your hands trying to plug something in. Gas wasn't no better, and I tell you, you learned to make patches on that right quick if you didn't want your whole place blown to heaven. Still, wasn't all that much worse from what we had, and the police weren't what you'd call nice, but they weren't nastier than where we were coming from.
The language was real hard to learn, but you could get by with some hand signs and a few phrases, so that was okay. Not like we had much to talk about besides "I'd like to by that turnip, ma'am." Hah! Still can't speak it right to this day, not that I got a need.
Wish that Jackson had played the horn like my brother. Then maybe he could have had a job at one of those jazz or rock and roll places in Germany, or France, or something.
Instead, there we were making do as refugees, just like our people had been doing for generations.
Oo-wee. Only day I was happier than when I left America was when I left the Soviet Union.
-Laverne Harris, quoted An American Diaspora, Mary Andrews, 2000
The Truth Of Fantasy: A Washington Memoir, by former White House Communications Director James Dodd has lit the political scene in D.C. ablaze! When reached for comment, the former White House official, who suffered severe injuries resulting in a total loss of hearing in the infamous assassination attempt against the late President Disney and F.B.I. Director Hoover, stated through a sign language interpreter "I started writing this when I was still serving under President Disney, as I was concerned that the press was mischaracterizing the efforts of that great man, and I wanted to ensure that history treated him fairly. Also, I was keen to expose some of the nefarious influences that infested the White House during his administration in the hopes that this would serve as a cautionary tale for future civil servants." When asked about his accusations that Roy Cohn had served as one of these nefarious influences, Mr. Dodd simply shrugged, and replied "I have nothing more to say that isn't already in the book."
When reached for a reply, Mr. Cohn offered no comment suitable for publication in a family newspaper.
-Syndicated columnist Mary Mersey in "D.C. Beat" 5/23/61
Oh, Wally.
Oh, Wally, my friend, my source of joy and comfort in these days when so little is to be found, after we thought that the worst had passed into the hallowed halls of history, tucked away tightly in a file cabinet to be brought out and waved around when it's time to say never again, no, now we find ourselves in the same place that Jack and I did when we stared down the shotgun barrel of that old Italian fascist whose wine we shared that one night, but now it is a whole nation, a whole people, a civilization if that is not too portentous a term, all of us, America, we are all there, all holding our breath, waiting for the buckshot to fly into our faces. Rockefeller was establishment and square, but he was square like my parents are, not understanding our music, our beliefs, our art, our poetry, but not getting in the way, either. But Stennis isn't square, he's the reactionary of reactionaries, and his reaction is gaining traction and causing action. I want to return, Wally, I want to return to your coffeehouse, and to the sweet little frauleins of Berlin, and to long nights drinking wine and finding new books of poetry in Jack's Stacks, and every day I begin to head to the bank and withdraw my meager earnings that have not gone towards wine and reefer to buy passage back there, but then, Wally, then...then I remember the Anne Frank House, and the look on Alan's face, and I wonder who fearfully waits in the attics of New York, or worse, Birmingham, or Selma, and I know that I must stay, even if my own contribution is the smallest of the small.
I'm sending you some bread to buy more Quarrymen records and send them to me. I have contacts in radio, jockeys of the discs who are hungry for new sounds, and they still haven't cracked down on music. though if Santayana was right, and he was, then that's not too far-future a thing to happen. Sandstorm is amazing, a pure radiant light of sound and rhythm, and the lads are lovely to drink wine and smoke reefer with, but I want the roughness of pure rock and roll, and the beautiful Frankenstein that Sandstorm has made of their barbershop stuff with rock music and jazz and pop is lovely to listen to, but does not mirror the terror, the angst of what I feel when I look out the window or dare to read the headlines.
-Personal Correspondence of "Beano" to Wally Hedrick
As my father never tired of pointing out to me, it was by the skin of my teeth that I managed to graduate college summa cum laude despite my more controversial activities, and it was nearly a miracle that I was accepted to Yale Law School. There were rumors that my father had pulled strings on the board, but I never asked, and I certainly hope that this was not the case: Despite interruptions in my studies caused by my political activities (and occasional imprisonments), I had worked hard to graduate at that level, and I have faith that the admissions office at that august body chose to see beyond my notoriety to the eager young law student within.
Then again, as Abbie observed, the Stennis administration didn't have many friends on the Yale campus, and it's possible that my previously mentioned notoriety may have been seen as a mark in my favor.
-Liberation: A Memoir, former President Jerry Brown
SENATOR KEATING DEAD IN HIT-AND-RUN ACCIDENT: President Stennis And Governor Rockefeller Pay Tribute To Freshman Senator
-New York Herald-Tribune, 6/25/1961
Fresh off of the international success of Faust, one with little knowledge of my ways and temperament might have been forgiven for thinking that I thought it time to rest on my laurels, to spend time with my lovely if unexpected fiancee, and indeed, I did manage to do all of these things for approximately one week. The muse whispers in my ear constantly, however, and when I have no task at hand, no artistic endeavor into which to poor the essence of my soul, I become (or so I have been informed by those in a position to make such an observation) something of an impossibility with which to deal. My mind craved new ideas, my soul expression. Day after day, I wandered the streets and alleyways of London much as Dickens did back in his time, taking it all in, letting it ferment. Still: Nothing.
It was during this time of artistic ennui that I experienced a coincidence that would have caused a more devout man than myself to see the Hand of God at work. Finding myself hopelessly lost in the tenements of the East End, I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. A glance in a shop window confirmed my worst suspicions. I was being followed by a menacing young man who, if my experiences in New York were of any indication, would soon be demanding the contents of my wallet. While I would have certainly been willing to part with what I had on me in order to quit myself of this situation without injury, these same experiences allowed me to know that acquiescence to his inevitable demand would be no guarantee of my physical safety. The situation, however, struck me as one offering few other options. I turned, reaching for my inside pocket, and my eyes met those of the young ruffian.
I have no idea what possessed me at this time, but some primal instinct screamed for attention. Why should I be forced at the risk of physical injury or death to give my lucre to this creature of the streets? Still, I was obviously not a physical match for the young man, as my frame, once mighty, had fallen into a state of disrepair due to decades of pleasurable indulgence in the finer things in life. What was to be done? An idea occurred to me, a fantastic idea, ridiculous, and yet what had I to lose beyond what was already in danger of being lost?
A voice that I had not used since the days of radio welled up within me, a terrifying sound, one that had struck fear into the hearts of young children, and, I have been assured, no few adults who had listened to it. I smiled. The would-be robber stopped in his tracks, confused at this unexpected reaction to his implied threat. i inhaled, lifting the sides of my cloak as a cape.
"WHO KNOWS WHAT EVIL LURKS IN THE HEARTS OF MEN?" I intoned. My attacker's eyes widened to the size of saucers.
"THE SHADOW KNOWS!" I continued. The young man had by now grown pale, utterly confused as to what sort of madman he had chosen as his prey. Now was the time for the final nail in the coffin of his own sanity. I laughed the laugh that had caused nightmares for so many of my faithful listeners, including, I had been informed, my own assistant Edward.
"AHAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" In a blind panic, my near-assailant gasped, turned, and ran in the opposite direction. After ensuring his absence, I darted into a local pub, where I nearly collapsed in suppressed panic. I then treated myself to the plain yet toothsome fare of bangers and mash, and soothed my shattered nerves with a few whiskeys before eventually asking for directions back to my offices. "Superstitious idiot" I murmured to myself. I then stopped in my tracks. Superstitious. Something about the word was forming in my unconscious mind, a distant memory, one from many years ago.
As I entered the suite of offices where our production company performed its business, I hung my hat on the rack, noting with some displeasure that Malia had once again elected to leave her horror-themed jewelry and bric-a-brack strewn across my desk. I picked up a bat-shaped clasp. Something like an electric shock hit my mind.
"A bat," I murmured. "I shall become a..."
A bat? Nonsense. Where did that come from? I gasped. The electric shock became a thunderbolt, striking me down where I stood.
"EDDIE!" I bellowed, knowing he tended to stay late at the office, writing his own unproduceable screenplays on company equipment. Indeed, his head appeared in the doorway within seconds.
"Hey, Orson, how are you?"
"No time for pleasantries, Eddie. Do you still have that assortment of comic books?"
"Uh-huh. Sure. They aren't taking up much space, though, and I know you told me to get 'em out of the office...."
"Nonsense. Bring them here. No, strike that. Only bring some."
"Which ones, boss?"
I smiled.
"Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot, Eddie," I intoned gravely. "And therefore, I must become..."
To Edward's credit, he looked puzzled for only a few seconds before realization dawned.
"Wow! Boss, are you playing Batman?"
I sniffed. "Eddie, at my age, it would hardly be dignified to go gallivanting about the spires of Gotham in a cape and cowl. No, Eddie, we are going to do something far more magnificent. We are going to make the film so richly deserved by the public! His story is Shakespearean in both scope and tragedy!" I stared into the distance, lost in thoughts of clown-faced fiends, of sultry catlike vixens, of criminals and madmen populating an urban nightmare, and mostly of two bodies fallen in an alleyway to violence, with a young child having witnessed it all and having grown up so rapidly in that moment.
-Through A Lens Darkly: The Autobiography Of Orson Welles
For those who weren't around a decade ago, this is the sequel to A World Of Laughter, A World Of Tears, a timeline I wrote an age ago in which Walt Disney becomes President of the United States.
I know, but I'm told that it's better than it sounds.
Here we go (inhales deeply):
Didn't know what that damn fool was thinking, picking us up and moving us clear around the world where none of us even spoke the language, but Jackson was my man, and I was raised to stand by him, just like that white girl used to sing so pretty. That fool got an idea in his head, wasn't no shaking it. Besides, wasn't like we were flush with possibilities. None of the English speaking countries were taking us less we had an education or what they called "useful skills," and weren't many of us left with those after the past eight years of horror. But we took our quit pay, which is what we were calling the relocation money that Congress had voted to give colored folks if they were willing to go away and never come back, and it was more money than any of us had ever seen in our lives. Also, wasn't like we could stay: the bombings were still going on here and there, and wasn't a white neighborhood you could work in anymore without police grabbing you on your way to work and asking what business you had. Even if you got your employer to say you were supposed to be there, seemed like half the time you'd end up getting a smack from a billy club anyway, if they didn't just pull you off to jail.
Why didn't I go north? Son, I lived in Chicago. North didn't mean shit anymore, if you will pardon my language. It was all south far as any of us could see.
So there we were, in a thrown-together shack on the outskirts of the city, trying to make do with a mess o' food I never ate in my life. Herring? Wasn't much herring on the South Side. Beets? Don't think I saw one in my life till then. And who on God's Earth drinks sour milk? Didn't make no sense! Managed to do something with the rice, though, and chicken's the same anywhere, and even if we didn't have much of it to buy, well, didn't look like the white folks were getting more than us.
Oh, that shack. Looked like they'd thrown together a whole block for us colored folk with plywood, cement, and spit in near about a week. Why a week? Because if they'd done a week and a day, maybe some things would have worked. The electric was off about as often as it was on, and when it was on, you took your life in your hands trying to plug something in. Gas wasn't no better, and I tell you, you learned to make patches on that right quick if you didn't want your whole place blown to heaven. Still, wasn't all that much worse from what we had, and the police weren't what you'd call nice, but they weren't nastier than where we were coming from.
The language was real hard to learn, but you could get by with some hand signs and a few phrases, so that was okay. Not like we had much to talk about besides "I'd like to by that turnip, ma'am." Hah! Still can't speak it right to this day, not that I got a need.
Wish that Jackson had played the horn like my brother. Then maybe he could have had a job at one of those jazz or rock and roll places in Germany, or France, or something.
Instead, there we were making do as refugees, just like our people had been doing for generations.
Oo-wee. Only day I was happier than when I left America was when I left the Soviet Union.
-Laverne Harris, quoted An American Diaspora, Mary Andrews, 2000
The Truth Of Fantasy: A Washington Memoir, by former White House Communications Director James Dodd has lit the political scene in D.C. ablaze! When reached for comment, the former White House official, who suffered severe injuries resulting in a total loss of hearing in the infamous assassination attempt against the late President Disney and F.B.I. Director Hoover, stated through a sign language interpreter "I started writing this when I was still serving under President Disney, as I was concerned that the press was mischaracterizing the efforts of that great man, and I wanted to ensure that history treated him fairly. Also, I was keen to expose some of the nefarious influences that infested the White House during his administration in the hopes that this would serve as a cautionary tale for future civil servants." When asked about his accusations that Roy Cohn had served as one of these nefarious influences, Mr. Dodd simply shrugged, and replied "I have nothing more to say that isn't already in the book."
When reached for a reply, Mr. Cohn offered no comment suitable for publication in a family newspaper.
-Syndicated columnist Mary Mersey in "D.C. Beat" 5/23/61
Oh, Wally.
Oh, Wally, my friend, my source of joy and comfort in these days when so little is to be found, after we thought that the worst had passed into the hallowed halls of history, tucked away tightly in a file cabinet to be brought out and waved around when it's time to say never again, no, now we find ourselves in the same place that Jack and I did when we stared down the shotgun barrel of that old Italian fascist whose wine we shared that one night, but now it is a whole nation, a whole people, a civilization if that is not too portentous a term, all of us, America, we are all there, all holding our breath, waiting for the buckshot to fly into our faces. Rockefeller was establishment and square, but he was square like my parents are, not understanding our music, our beliefs, our art, our poetry, but not getting in the way, either. But Stennis isn't square, he's the reactionary of reactionaries, and his reaction is gaining traction and causing action. I want to return, Wally, I want to return to your coffeehouse, and to the sweet little frauleins of Berlin, and to long nights drinking wine and finding new books of poetry in Jack's Stacks, and every day I begin to head to the bank and withdraw my meager earnings that have not gone towards wine and reefer to buy passage back there, but then, Wally, then...then I remember the Anne Frank House, and the look on Alan's face, and I wonder who fearfully waits in the attics of New York, or worse, Birmingham, or Selma, and I know that I must stay, even if my own contribution is the smallest of the small.
I'm sending you some bread to buy more Quarrymen records and send them to me. I have contacts in radio, jockeys of the discs who are hungry for new sounds, and they still haven't cracked down on music. though if Santayana was right, and he was, then that's not too far-future a thing to happen. Sandstorm is amazing, a pure radiant light of sound and rhythm, and the lads are lovely to drink wine and smoke reefer with, but I want the roughness of pure rock and roll, and the beautiful Frankenstein that Sandstorm has made of their barbershop stuff with rock music and jazz and pop is lovely to listen to, but does not mirror the terror, the angst of what I feel when I look out the window or dare to read the headlines.
-Personal Correspondence of "Beano" to Wally Hedrick
As my father never tired of pointing out to me, it was by the skin of my teeth that I managed to graduate college summa cum laude despite my more controversial activities, and it was nearly a miracle that I was accepted to Yale Law School. There were rumors that my father had pulled strings on the board, but I never asked, and I certainly hope that this was not the case: Despite interruptions in my studies caused by my political activities (and occasional imprisonments), I had worked hard to graduate at that level, and I have faith that the admissions office at that august body chose to see beyond my notoriety to the eager young law student within.
Then again, as Abbie observed, the Stennis administration didn't have many friends on the Yale campus, and it's possible that my previously mentioned notoriety may have been seen as a mark in my favor.
-Liberation: A Memoir, former President Jerry Brown
SENATOR KEATING DEAD IN HIT-AND-RUN ACCIDENT: President Stennis And Governor Rockefeller Pay Tribute To Freshman Senator
-New York Herald-Tribune, 6/25/1961
Fresh off of the international success of Faust, one with little knowledge of my ways and temperament might have been forgiven for thinking that I thought it time to rest on my laurels, to spend time with my lovely if unexpected fiancee, and indeed, I did manage to do all of these things for approximately one week. The muse whispers in my ear constantly, however, and when I have no task at hand, no artistic endeavor into which to poor the essence of my soul, I become (or so I have been informed by those in a position to make such an observation) something of an impossibility with which to deal. My mind craved new ideas, my soul expression. Day after day, I wandered the streets and alleyways of London much as Dickens did back in his time, taking it all in, letting it ferment. Still: Nothing.
It was during this time of artistic ennui that I experienced a coincidence that would have caused a more devout man than myself to see the Hand of God at work. Finding myself hopelessly lost in the tenements of the East End, I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. A glance in a shop window confirmed my worst suspicions. I was being followed by a menacing young man who, if my experiences in New York were of any indication, would soon be demanding the contents of my wallet. While I would have certainly been willing to part with what I had on me in order to quit myself of this situation without injury, these same experiences allowed me to know that acquiescence to his inevitable demand would be no guarantee of my physical safety. The situation, however, struck me as one offering few other options. I turned, reaching for my inside pocket, and my eyes met those of the young ruffian.
I have no idea what possessed me at this time, but some primal instinct screamed for attention. Why should I be forced at the risk of physical injury or death to give my lucre to this creature of the streets? Still, I was obviously not a physical match for the young man, as my frame, once mighty, had fallen into a state of disrepair due to decades of pleasurable indulgence in the finer things in life. What was to be done? An idea occurred to me, a fantastic idea, ridiculous, and yet what had I to lose beyond what was already in danger of being lost?
A voice that I had not used since the days of radio welled up within me, a terrifying sound, one that had struck fear into the hearts of young children, and, I have been assured, no few adults who had listened to it. I smiled. The would-be robber stopped in his tracks, confused at this unexpected reaction to his implied threat. i inhaled, lifting the sides of my cloak as a cape.
"WHO KNOWS WHAT EVIL LURKS IN THE HEARTS OF MEN?" I intoned. My attacker's eyes widened to the size of saucers.
"THE SHADOW KNOWS!" I continued. The young man had by now grown pale, utterly confused as to what sort of madman he had chosen as his prey. Now was the time for the final nail in the coffin of his own sanity. I laughed the laugh that had caused nightmares for so many of my faithful listeners, including, I had been informed, my own assistant Edward.
"AHAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" In a blind panic, my near-assailant gasped, turned, and ran in the opposite direction. After ensuring his absence, I darted into a local pub, where I nearly collapsed in suppressed panic. I then treated myself to the plain yet toothsome fare of bangers and mash, and soothed my shattered nerves with a few whiskeys before eventually asking for directions back to my offices. "Superstitious idiot" I murmured to myself. I then stopped in my tracks. Superstitious. Something about the word was forming in my unconscious mind, a distant memory, one from many years ago.
As I entered the suite of offices where our production company performed its business, I hung my hat on the rack, noting with some displeasure that Malia had once again elected to leave her horror-themed jewelry and bric-a-brack strewn across my desk. I picked up a bat-shaped clasp. Something like an electric shock hit my mind.
"A bat," I murmured. "I shall become a..."
A bat? Nonsense. Where did that come from? I gasped. The electric shock became a thunderbolt, striking me down where I stood.
"EDDIE!" I bellowed, knowing he tended to stay late at the office, writing his own unproduceable screenplays on company equipment. Indeed, his head appeared in the doorway within seconds.
"Hey, Orson, how are you?"
"No time for pleasantries, Eddie. Do you still have that assortment of comic books?"
"Uh-huh. Sure. They aren't taking up much space, though, and I know you told me to get 'em out of the office...."
"Nonsense. Bring them here. No, strike that. Only bring some."
"Which ones, boss?"
I smiled.
"Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot, Eddie," I intoned gravely. "And therefore, I must become..."
To Edward's credit, he looked puzzled for only a few seconds before realization dawned.
"Wow! Boss, are you playing Batman?"
I sniffed. "Eddie, at my age, it would hardly be dignified to go gallivanting about the spires of Gotham in a cape and cowl. No, Eddie, we are going to do something far more magnificent. We are going to make the film so richly deserved by the public! His story is Shakespearean in both scope and tragedy!" I stared into the distance, lost in thoughts of clown-faced fiends, of sultry catlike vixens, of criminals and madmen populating an urban nightmare, and mostly of two bodies fallen in an alleyway to violence, with a young child having witnessed it all and having grown up so rapidly in that moment.
-Through A Lens Darkly: The Autobiography Of Orson Welles
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