If I Lie in a Combat Zone

 

September 22, 7pm at Magers & Quinn Booksellers, Uptown Minneapolis:

reading/launch of If I Lie in a Combat Zone, a novel by Will Tinkham

It goes like this:

Ordered to inspect a suspected Viet Cong tunnel in November of 1968, Private Walt Whitman von Funck crawls inside and falls in love. And tears a hole in his foot. Zow spends eight months nursing him back to health, while her brother and grandfather conduct midnight raids and accumulate prisoners, including a general.

During his convalescence, Walt and Zow wed; theirs is a love story that defies race, religion and bureaucratic red tape. Upon his return to Chu Lai Air Base with his pregnant wife and six prisoners, Stars and Stripes declares Walt a hero.

Till a U.S. Army doctor declares the foot wound self-inflicted.

Hailed, then jailed—repeatedly—Walt becomes a favorite of the anti-war crowd and a thorn in the side of President Nixon. Walt accepts offers to speak on college campuses. Protests involving gunfire and bombings become routine. It's almost as if they are targeting him.

Far from just another love story, If I Lie in a Combat Zone provides a fictional glimpse into child-actor Brandon deWilde's (“Come back, Shane!”) portrayal of Walt on Broadway, soldier-songwriter John Prine testing out tunes for Walt and Zow on a flight home from Germany, Joe Biden's first Senate run and Donald Trump's initial venture into housing discrimination.

Part IV: Chicago & Philadelphia via Green Bay

 

(Part IV of my series on a hitchhiking trip from CA to VT and the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop back in 1982. Chronicled here before I forget it entirely.)

Don't recall many specifics about my stay in Minneapolis—just another trip back home. I did run in an old friend, John Hazlett, who mentioned that his brother Kevin was living in New York City. He sets things up so that I could spend a week on Kevin's couch. This was significant since I had a place to stay near Chicago and a place to stay in Stamford, CT, which would be my last stop before reaching Bread Loaf. A week in NY made my schedule complete.

While home, there was a letter from Bread Loaf informing me that my first two choices to read my work, John Irving and Erica Jong, had to cancel. (Irving had to shoot the Garp movie.) I opted for John Gardner or Tim O'Brien, who I had been reading on the trip.

I made Chicago in less time than you could drive it as every ride happened before I could even set my pack down, none of the drivers stopped for gas or food, and next thing I knew I was in Glen Ellyn—a suburb right on the train tracks where Din Din had relatives who had stayed with us in San Jose.

I stayed with them over the weekend. Took the train into Chicago on Saturday, wandered around and was surprised to find a massive beach. Of course I knew the city was on Lake Michigan but I just didn't associate Chicago with beaches. There, I sat in the sand near a lovely young woman in a remarkably skimpy bikini. In time, I mustered up the courage to speak with her.

I asked her a stupid question as to the whereabouts of a street that turned out to be the very one I'd crossed to get there. She pointed out her boyfriend, shamelessly flirting with another woman at the water's edge. My new friend claimed to be a model and a fledgling actress, and offered to show me around town—to get even with her boyfriend, no doubt.

As we prepared to sneak away, the boyfriend returned, nixing that plan. I wandered aimless about town and took the 6:00 train rather than the one at midnight.

Monday morning, the woman of the house had to go into Chicago and offered me a ride. A bit unnerved by the rush-hour traffic, she ended up dumping me smack in the middle of a snarl of highways—forcing me to make a dash for the nearest ramp and legal hitchhiking ground.

A car pulled in front of me. “We gotta get you off this road, bub,” the guy said as I climbed in. “Cop just pulled someone over back there and you'd be next.”

I thanked him for looking out for me, and he left me at the top of a ramp. A more legal place to be—or so I thought. Some time passed before a police car pulled over. “You gotta be thirty feet off the road's shoulder,” the cop said.

I peered down into the ditch—some twenty feet deep—at the ramp's edge. “Nobody'll see me down there,” I said. He said he'd be back in a half-hour and I better be gone. I wasn't.

Upon his return, he pointed down the highway. “There's an oasis about a mile down the road,” he lied. Five miles, easy. Maybe closer to ten. I had to ask directions several times. I recall climbing a fence and wading through a small stream.

Finally the oasis came in sight: a huge truck stop with restaurants and always a Howard Johnson. While sizing up the trucks parked there as possible rides, I spotted a guy exiting the Howard Johnson restaurant and walking toward me. “How far are you goin'?” he asked.

“New York City,” I said.

He stopped in his tracks. “Oh, sorry,” he said and turned back.

“How far are you goin'?” I called after him.

“Atlantic City,” he replied. I kid you not.

“I think we can work something out,” I said, picking up my pack and following him to his car. He was from Green Bay and wanted to spend his 21^st birthday gambling in Atlantic City. Alone. His first trip out of Green Bay. Good luck...

Most people picking up hitchhikers are looking for someone to talk to or someone to listen to. Not this guy. Not Green Bay. I started out telling him about my run-in with the cop and my trek to the oasis. Didn't even get a smile or a shake of the head. I told him of the guy with the machete and the limo ride. T thought playing poker on a Nevada highway might spark a gambling conversation. Nothing. Green Bay never said a word that didn't pertain to the business at hand. I guess I must've driven some, we never stopped except for gas.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania, Green Bay declared: “I want to see the Liberty Bell.” He had maps and guidebooks and I tried to navigate us there. At least we were talking. But we never found it. Drove round and round Philadelphia but couldn't find the damn bell. He was dejected but I had to tell him I really needed to reach New York before it got dark.

Green Bay had no business alone in Atlantic City. I could only hope—for his sake—that he couldn't find a casino either and turned back for home.

Next up: My Nine Hour Trip from Philly to NYC

Part II: Desert Poker and Knee-deep in Porn

 Solely for my own benefit, I am recounting here my 1982 hitchhiking trek from CA to the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in Middlebury, VT. This is Part II.

There's a spot in the middle of Nevada where several smaller highways intersect the interstate, and there I found a group of hitchhikers patiently waiting their turn for an eastbound ride. One fellow stood thumbing a ride on the shoulder while four more played poker in the dust. The gamblers were the next four in line to hitchhike, as I found out from others who sat in the desert heat waiting for their opportunity to lose money while waiting for their opportunity to proceed eastward. Those were the rules.

 (The fellow on the left is cheating.)

I sat in the dirt anticipating a Reno-like eight-hour stretch here when a car pulled over and picked up the designated hitchhiker, quickly replaced by a card player, and the longest-tenured guy in “the bullpen” moved into the game. Soon the whole process repeated itself until I found myself next in line for a card game I wanted no part of. My funds were limited, as were my poker skills.

The game seemed to be heating up as an RV pulled over—the one guy running to jump in—followed by another car that also pulled onto the shoulder. The pot seemed to have grown too big for any of the participants to risk leaving, so I ran to the waiting vehicle.

Tossing my pack in, I jumped in and found my own knees in my face—the floor of the backseat full of nudie magazines. I thanked the two guys in the front for stopping while shifting magazines till my feet found their way to the floor. They asked where I was going.

“First Minneapolis,” I said. “Ultimately Vermont.”

“You're in luck, we're goin' to Sioux Falls,” said the passenger. Luck indeed! I had friends in Sioux Falls and a roof over my head for a night or two. Having seen enough of Nevada's scenery, I picked a magazine off the pile.

“What's in Sioux Falls for you guys?” I asked, just to be sociable.

They both laughed. “See that RV up ahead?” the driver asked. “That's my old man. He come out to take me back to go to court.” He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “They wanna put me away for a real, lo-o-ong time.” The two had another laugh over that.

They didn't elaborate. I didn't ask. I did slip my handy map book inside the girlie mag, figured I had parts of three states and twenty-some hours—barring stops—to spend with a guy facing a stretch in prison and a buddy who found that hilarious. I picked the next good-sized town on the map.

“Come to think of it,” I began, “my brother's got a friend in Winnemucca he wanted me to look up because the guy owes him some money.” As the Winnemucca exit and a Motel 6 sign came into view, I said: “Just dump me here and I'll cut across this field.” The field stretched out maybe 150 yards between the interstate and the motel, a chain-link fence cut across at about the halfway point.

Dusk had set in. I trudged through thigh-high grass to the fence, climbed it and splashed down into knee-high water. Marshland in Nevada? Climbing back over, I sloshed back to the highway and a mile or so to the Winnemucca exit, then the same distance down main street—passing 'No Vacancy' signs along the way—and got the last room at the Motel 6. I believe I was overcharged. Seems there was a rodeo in town.

Back out to the interstate the next morning, I passed a couple also looking for a ride, so I moved on toward an entrance ramp that might offer me more opportunity. Before I could get there a guy pulled over. “Don't like picking up couples,” he said as I climbed in. “Nothing but trouble.” He was 35 – 40 and heading for New York City.

“Wow... Tom Waits,” I said of the music coming from his tape deck. “Haven't heard anything but lousy country music since I left California.” He seemed like a great guy. One I could've traveled all the way to New York with—except that I still had two months to kill before Bread Loaf began.

“Got some groceries in back,” he said. “Oughta be a melon on top.”

I reached back into the bag and pulled out a cantaloupe.

He reached under his seat and pulled out a two-foot-long machete.

This is what they call, in the biz, a cliffhanger. Next time: Lawnchairs are everywhere.

On Saturday

JUL15

Going

Lit Fest Chapter 4: 20/20

Sat 3 PM · Roosevelt Library · Minneapolis

Got another Cracked Walnut reading coming up Saturday the 15^th. Reading with Peter Stein, Louis Murphy, Jim Bohen and Arman Ebrahimi, 3pm at the Roosevelt Library in Mpls. (4026 28^th Ave S.) I'm not familiar with any of the others, so it should be interesting to meet them and listen to their work. All are welcome!

https://www.facebook.com/events/117839972161265

On November 7: A Book Launch

My latest novel, THE GREAT AMERICAN SCRAPBOOK (Americana #5), will launch on November 7 (7pm) at Magers & Quinn Booksellers in Uptown Minneapolis. (Details will certainly follow.)

Beginning with George W. Bush's “Mission Accomplished” speech of May 1, 2003 and culminating on Election Night '04, The Great American Scrapbook follows more important things like Brock McCoy falling in love, the perils of three fictional Minneapolis rock 'n' roll bands, and two long-lost siblings' efforts to maintain the historical significance of a newspaper woman murdered in the 1920s.

Brock, 31, lives in his mother's basement near Lake Harriet. Newly returned from Toronto, he stumbles into a gig as bass player in an all-girl rock band. He falls in love with Jenna on lead guitar. Back home he does what he can to ease the burden on his sister Nancy and her Gulf War I-related PTSD, as well as comfort his mother and her back that just won't heal. On a table in the basement is an old scrapbook that Brock helps Peaches try to turn into something publishable.

Oh, did I mention they solve the mystery of D.B. Cooper?

Like my other books, we celebrate real-life characters in The Great American Scrapbook, most notably Brock's bandmates Kevin Foley, Steve Foley and Kevin Calhoun Hazlett, as well as celebrities still among us like Sherwin Linton, Johnny Rey, and Bill Murray in his role as part-owner of the Saint Paul Saints.

Please stop by on November 7 (before packing for Canada) and give a listen to the reading and whatever else transpires. Thanks!

On May 23

Come Monday, May 23, I'll be reading at Golden's Lowertown with Ethna McKiernan and other fine local writers as part of Cracked Walnut's Spring Literary Festival. “Detached” is the theme and I'll try to be that.

Never did blog about my Lowertown Pop experience. I managed to sell 23 books, doubling my yearly total to that point (not counting those read through Amazon's library set-up). A successful and interesting endeavor to be sure.

My work-in-progress, The Great American Scrapbook, is turning into pretty much of a regional novel, as it's set mainly in south Minneapolis and the Uptown Bar back in 2003-04, though trips to Mount Rushmore and back into the 50s connect it with the other four books in my Americana series. I'm about halfway through it and, I must admit, have no idea where it's really heading.

HANK FENN on sale!

My latest novel, The Adventures of Hank Fenn (Americana Book 4) is out in paperback and digitally at Amazon. Paperbacks are also available in store & online at Magers & Quinn, Uptown Minneapolis. It goes like this:

For Hank, Sam never became Mark Twain. As a riverboat pilot, Sam saved young Hank from the crushing paddle wheels as the boy stowed away on the City of Memphis. Sam returned Hank to Minnesota when news reached downriver that Hank's mother was on trial for killing the father Hank had run away from. Years later, in a barber's chair prior to his mother's funeral, Hank reads a frog story that's awful close to a tall tale Sam once told. The magazine claims it's written by a fellow named Mark Twain.

The Adventures of Hank Fenn sends Hank searching the West—and then the East—for Mr. Twain. All along he and Sam exchange letters and make plans that never seem to get them together—Twain always on the road or abroad. Hank does find hatred and brutality while railroading and mining throughout this new frontier. He finds Calamity Jane in a Wyoming mining camp and Custer breaking treaties. He finds the Emperor of these United States. Ultimately Hank finds love, boys to raise and gold to unearth on a Black Hills mountaintop.

Thanks, Will

PS: An interview from last month concerning an earlier novel, Bonus Man.

Fraud on the 21

Last night I rode the 21A for an hour and 15 minutes to attend the book launch for the 2015 Saint Paul Almanac. Despite being a stranger in a strange town, I found the Black Dog Cafe and ventured inside, eventually finding my free copy, a $50 check and getting a rose pinned to my lapel—all for having a story in their wonderful book. They had speakers and readers, all singing the praises of their home city of Saint Paul. There were childhood memories, reflections on buildings and attractions long since gone; a five-year-old even danced to the spirits of indigenous peoples who inhabited the area thousands of years ago. I felt guilty for crashing their party.

I stole out of town the same way I came in, on the 21. Now I had the Almanac to read. I read about old chocolate factories, Red Owl groceries, kids playing hide-and-seek amid coffins. I read true stories of generations growing up and growing old in Saint Paul. Why was I in this book? I'd spent most of my adult life in Minneapolis. I'd written a fictional tale of a fictional doctor taking a fictional bullet out of John Dillinger's shoulder. Had I taken their money and space in their book on false pretenses? I opened the Almanac to my bio: sure enough, I hadn't even bothered to fess up to being from Minneapolis. Fraud!

Was I any better than Dillinger himself? He took advantage of the hospitality Saint Paul had to offer, then blew town with his ill-gotten gains. As the 21 pulled into the Uptown Station, I checked my coat pocket for that check—my own filthy lucre—and vowed...nothing. Who was I kidding? I'd never change. I slunk back to my Minneapolis apartment. I'm not proud of the path my life has taken. Once a writer always a writer. So shoot me...

(Look, I even lifted that picture of the dancing kid from the Almanac FB page! Have I no shame?)