on.
He winked at some girl going past in too-high heels and too-bright lipstick. She was staring at him so hard she walked into a streetlamp.
He said, “I jumped the train out of Alluvial and just rode. I rode till I got to South Carolina and then I jumped another train to Georgia, another one to Alabama, and then another to Mississippi. I bummed a ride down to Gulfport and then another to New Orleans, where I tried to look up Butch Dawkins.” Butch Dawkins was Johnny Clay’s friend, half-Choctaw, half-Creole, who’d taught me to play the blues. My brother didn’t say anything for a moment, like he was letting this sink in just to see what I’d do. I kept my face still but I felt my heart speed up.
I said, “Oh? Did you find him?” I tried to sound like I didn’t care two bits if he found him or not.
He said, “Nah. No one knows where he’s got to. Said they hadn’t seen him since he left to find his destiny. Thought he was up in Chicago by now or Kentucky. So I went on. I hitched another ride, this time to Monroe, Louisiana, then another to Shreveport. I jumped a train to Dallas, but that was about the worst damn place I ever saw, Velva Jean, so I got out quick and went right up to Oklahoma, over to Tulsa, where I stopped to rope steers. I like Tulsa. It’s as different as can be from Fair Mountain—ugly and flat and brown as far as the eye can see—but the folks there’re honest and they work hard. I got a job on a ranch and rode horses. I stayed there a month, and then it got too cold and I walked out to the road and found a man driving all the way to California.”
It was all too much to bear. I wanted to ask about each place, but he was talking too fast and I had too many questions. He told me about New Mexico, Arizona, and then California. He said, “Where do you think I went, Velva Jean? I went all the way to Los Angeles.”
I said, “No you didn’t.”
He said, “Yes, I sure did. You know how I always said I was going out to ride horses in the movies? And that I was going to find William S. Hart because maybe he’s related to us?”
I said, “Yes.”
He said, “He’s done making pictures and now he lives up in a place called Newhall. It’s just like the Old West. Like Jesse James and outlaws and shit. I went up there to find him.”
“No you didn’t, Johnny Clay.”
“Yes, I sure did. I went up there to find him, and it took some doing to get there, but I met a fella on the train who said he knew his son, Will Jr. So we get out there and there he is, this grouchy old bastard, sitting on top of a horse at nearly eighty years old—William S. Hart, not the horse—just as straight in the saddle as he was in his pictures. He said, ‘Are you a cowboy?’ And I said, ‘No, sir, I’m a gold miner,’ and he said, ‘What’s your name?’ and I said, ‘Johnny Clay Hart, spelled just like yours.’”
Johnny Clay said he stayed for supper, and it was the worst food he ever had—goat or some such—but he didn’t care because William S. Hart had always been one of his heroes. Afterward he and his friend headed back to Los Angeles, where Johnny Clay figured he’d get himself discovered for the movies even though William S. Hart told him not to waste his time.
I said, “So is he our kin or not?”
“I don’t know, Velva Jean. We couldn’t figure it out, but I’m sure he is.”
I said, “They have gold in California. Did you go panning?”
Johnny Clay waved his hand at this. “I ain’t interested in California gold, Velva Jean.” He said it like the idea was insulting. Then he said, “I tell you what though. I sat next to Joan Blondell at Chasen’s, and she said, ‘You’re too good-looking to stand. You should be doing what I’m doing.’ She said, ‘I want you to come over to Warner Brothers with me tomorrow and meet Jack Warner.’ I said, ‘I’m busy tomorrow. How’s Monday?’ She just laughed. That was Friday, December 5. Two days later the Japs bombed the
He winked at some girl going past in too-high heels and too-bright lipstick. She was staring at him so hard she walked into a streetlamp.
He said, “I jumped the train out of Alluvial and just rode. I rode till I got to South Carolina and then I jumped another train to Georgia, another one to Alabama, and then another to Mississippi. I bummed a ride down to Gulfport and then another to New Orleans, where I tried to look up Butch Dawkins.” Butch Dawkins was Johnny Clay’s friend, half-Choctaw, half-Creole, who’d taught me to play the blues. My brother didn’t say anything for a moment, like he was letting this sink in just to see what I’d do. I kept my face still but I felt my heart speed up.
I said, “Oh? Did you find him?” I tried to sound like I didn’t care two bits if he found him or not.
He said, “Nah. No one knows where he’s got to. Said they hadn’t seen him since he left to find his destiny. Thought he was up in Chicago by now or Kentucky. So I went on. I hitched another ride, this time to Monroe, Louisiana, then another to Shreveport. I jumped a train to Dallas, but that was about the worst damn place I ever saw, Velva Jean, so I got out quick and went right up to Oklahoma, over to Tulsa, where I stopped to rope steers. I like Tulsa. It’s as different as can be from Fair Mountain—ugly and flat and brown as far as the eye can see—but the folks there’re honest and they work hard. I got a job on a ranch and rode horses. I stayed there a month, and then it got too cold and I walked out to the road and found a man driving all the way to California.”
It was all too much to bear. I wanted to ask about each place, but he was talking too fast and I had too many questions. He told me about New Mexico, Arizona, and then California. He said, “Where do you think I went, Velva Jean? I went all the way to Los Angeles.”
I said, “No you didn’t.”
He said, “Yes, I sure did. You know how I always said I was going out to ride horses in the movies? And that I was going to find William S. Hart because maybe he’s related to us?”
I said, “Yes.”
He said, “He’s done making pictures and now he lives up in a place called Newhall. It’s just like the Old West. Like Jesse James and outlaws and shit. I went up there to find him.”
“No you didn’t, Johnny Clay.”
“Yes, I sure did. I went up there to find him, and it took some doing to get there, but I met a fella on the train who said he knew his son, Will Jr. So we get out there and there he is, this grouchy old bastard, sitting on top of a horse at nearly eighty years old—William S. Hart, not the horse—just as straight in the saddle as he was in his pictures. He said, ‘Are you a cowboy?’ And I said, ‘No, sir, I’m a gold miner,’ and he said, ‘What’s your name?’ and I said, ‘Johnny Clay Hart, spelled just like yours.’”
Johnny Clay said he stayed for supper, and it was the worst food he ever had—goat or some such—but he didn’t care because William S. Hart had always been one of his heroes. Afterward he and his friend headed back to Los Angeles, where Johnny Clay figured he’d get himself discovered for the movies even though William S. Hart told him not to waste his time.
I said, “So is he our kin or not?”
“I don’t know, Velva Jean. We couldn’t figure it out, but I’m sure he is.”
I said, “They have gold in California. Did you go panning?”
Johnny Clay waved his hand at this. “I ain’t interested in California gold, Velva Jean.” He said it like the idea was insulting. Then he said, “I tell you what though. I sat next to Joan Blondell at Chasen’s, and she said, ‘You’re too good-looking to stand. You should be doing what I’m doing.’ She said, ‘I want you to come over to Warner Brothers with me tomorrow and meet Jack Warner.’ I said, ‘I’m busy tomorrow. How’s Monday?’ She just laughed. That was Friday, December 5. Two days later the Japs bombed the
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