VIEWPOINTS
Saturday, June 17, 2017
East Oregonian
Page 5A
Hail Cesar — the janitor matador
I
worked with Cesar Romero … not the
one who acted with Tyrone Power, Burl
Ives or Rod Serling, and not the guy who
played The Joker to Adam West’s Batman on
television.
The Cesar Romero with whom I worked
was a janitor, a green card custodian two
years out of Nicaragua.
We buffed floors, cleaned
toilets, fixed faucets,
painted, filled water
coolers, emptied the trash
and washed the windows
together in Glide Memorial
Church, a seven-story
building situated in the
heart of the Tenderloin, San
Francisco.
The Tenderloin has
always been a rasty part of
Baghdad by the Bay. At the time Cesar and
I performed our custodial magic, the district
was becoming a landing spot for Vietnamese
folks, ten city blocks in transition from a
haven for street hookers, soup kitchens and
sex toy shops to a home for Asian versions
of the same.
Glide Church is still pastored by the
Reverend Cecil Williams, a true community
leader, whose down-in-the-trenches
approach to racism, poverty and gender
are influenced by Glide’s proximity to the
trenches. In those days, his service featured
a gospel choir accompanied by a full rock
and roll band, with a light show projected
on the wall behind the pulpit where most
sanctuaries feature a crucifix. He wasn’t
a hell and brimstone preacher, but it was
definitely hot times on any Sunday morning.
The church occupied only half of the
big old building. The remainder was leased
to various service agencies like the Gray
Panthers, and the San Francisco Food
Bank. The offices held about 300 folks who
required occasional janitorial attention.
Janitors are invisible, like prep cooks.
Nobody knows who chopped all the cilantro
and ancho chiles, shredded the pork, built the
sauce, or steamed the tortas
in your designer sopitas at
your favorite restaurant.
So, too, a banking firm
takes credit for the perfect
paint job or tile work on its
building, but the workers
who daily polish the brass,
wash the barf off the walls,
and pumice the urinals
remain un-named.
Cesar bucked the trend
of invisibility by adopting
a matador’s approach to custodial work. He
dressed in crisp forest green J.C. Penny’s
gabardine uniforms, short sleeves pressed
and cuffed to match his pants, squeaky black
shoes fit for a general, wavy hair moussed
into place, with a matching mustache.
Hanging from his right rear pocket was a
red utility rag, folded into thirds lengthwise.
Clipped to his belt were twice the number of
keys required to operate the building. Cesar
was walking wind chimes.
Half an hour before quitting time on one
Thursday afternoon we got a panic call from
the third floor. A mouse had been spotted.
Cesar said something to himself in Spanish,
reached into a gray toolbox, pulled out a
foot-long bladed screwdriver, and motioned
for me to accompany him on the safari. In
the elevator he stood tapping his foot to a
silent tune.
Room 319 was in a tizzy. Four women
We got a
panic call from
the third floor:
A mouse had
been spotted.
The battle of Dak To
I
t’s hard to get nostalgic
of morale builders, some
about war, but reading
soldiers and I loaded up a
The New York Times of
3/4-ton 4x4 M37 Dodge
May 26, I came across a
truck.
front page article “David
With our load of food
and Goliath in Vietnam”
and Cokes and Christmas
by Neil Sheehan, a former
packages we headed out to
correspondent for The Times
some sandbag hoochs where
and writer about the Vietnam
GI patrols camped providing
Tom
War.
some security and intel on
Hebert
Abruptly, old memories
North Vietamese movements.
Comment
kicked in. Because about
So, after a couple three hours
two-thirds of the way into
chewing the fat with the guys
the piece, this stopped me cold: “The while distributing our stuff I returned
‘hill fights,’ as they were called,
to the airstrip to catch my flight
unfolded through 1967 as General
back to Saigon. Oops! Plane had left
Giap lured General Westmoreland
without me. However, another plane
into one battle after another. The
was leaving soon for Pleiku Air Base
most gruesome occurred in late
from where I could catch another
November 1967 near the outpost
flight into Saigon. The plane was a
of Dak To in northern Kon Tum
C-123 cargo aircraft, a smallish two
Province in the Central Highlands.”
engine freighter that could fly and
My sudden interest arose from the land most anywhere.
fact that on the morning of December
With its rear cargo door down,
7, 1967 on a U.S. Air Force DC-3
I loaded in, cinched my seat belt
I landed at the airstrip at Dak To.
and with a few GIs we took off
At the time I was director of USO
enjoying the air-conditioned view
Saigon. A veteran of more than 18
because the pilot had left the ramp
months of service establishing USO
down. But climbing out of Dak
Clubs on Marine Corps combat bases To, all of a sudden, through the
in the northern sectors of the country, still-open ramp, we could see some
I knew something of the trials and
tracer shells heading our way and
tribulations of war.
figured we were about to catch some
But, let me be clear, I never had
rounds. However, the pilot also
to move under fire which is what a
saw the tracers and hauled back on
soldier or Marine must do. I was at
his joystick and the plane tipped
Dak To because I had been following skyward flying as close to vertical
the terrible battle that had taken
as it could get. So, us passengers
place the previous month and figured got this unusual view of Dak To
that at an isolated outpost like Dak
framed in the open air ramp. After
To, the remaining troops would be
a few seconds the plane leveled
feeding on old C rations and there
out and headed for Pleiku, whew!
was a little something USO could do And happily, at the Pleiku airstrip I
to help.
caught a ride with a couple of guys
But first, to secure the necessary
in an unusual airplane. Introducing
permission and logistics, I met with
myself “Hi, I’m Tom Hebert and I
my liaison at the headquarters of the
sure appreciate your help. One man
U.S. Military Assistance Command
said, “Hi!, I’m Jim and this here is
at Tan Son Nhut Air Base outside
John.” Jim and John, huh? Hmmm.
of town. With approvals in hand, I
Immediately I knew they and their
asked staff at the snack bar (then the
plane were CIA. But another couple
world’s largest) to prepare a bunch
hours of good talk and some laughs
of meals to put in individual plastic
and I was home with an amazing
containers together with several
day behind me. Behind until May
crates of Coca-Cola and a few boxes
26, 2017. Dak To and the war? The
of Christmas gifts that folks at home
Times: “Two hundred and eighty-
had sent to USOs in Vietnam.
seven of these Airborne troopers
When my flight schedule came
and infantrymen from the Fourth
through I drove out to the air base
Division died. More than 1,000 were
and loaded everything into the DC-3, wounded. And as always, when
an older but reliable transport plane,
the fight was over, the Vietnamese
and soon I was on my way to Dak
disappeared to fight another day.”
■
To. After a five-minute visit with
Tom Hebert is a writer and public
Brigadier General John R. Deane
policy consultant living on the
of the 173rd Airborne Brigade who
Umatilla Indian Reservation.
much appreciated our little shipment
and two men were huddled against the
windowed side of the room, pointing
toward a desk that sat out in the middle.
Could we hurry and do something? They
had deadlines. Nothing could be done with
a filthy mouse scurrying around the place.
The creature had been last seen in the lower
right-hand side of the desk.
Cesar held the screwdriver in his left hand
and carefully pulled the red rag from his hind
pocket as we approached the infestation.
Sure enough, inside the file cabinet portion
there was a little gray city mouse kicked
back on his haunches and nibbling on the
corner of a Ritz Cracker it had mined from a
month’s worth of leftover lunches, including
two undisturbed York’s Peppermint Patties.
Cesar dropped to his knees and gently
employed the tip of the screwdriver to flip
the cracker from the mouse’s paws. It eyed
us for a moment like “Hey dudes, I’m on
your side of this question,” then nimbly leapt
up into the catacombs behind the sliding
drawers and hingeworks. Gone.
Cesar never missed a beat. He swapped
ends with the screwdriver and proceeded
to pound the handle on sandwich bags and
paper cups and Kleenex boxes, drumming
on the guts of the metal desk, setting up
an unholy racket for half a minute before
whipping out the red rag and diving almost
entirely into the desk.
When he emerged, he held the rag tightly
at shoulder level with the screwdriver poised
above it like a sword. The office workers
thanked us, almost applauded as — head
thrown back — Cesar marched triumphantly
from the room with the trophy.
In the elevator he opened the rag and
produced two Peppermint Patties, handing
one to me.
J.D. S mith
FROM THE HEADWATERS
OF DRY CREEK
Fifteen minutes later we got another call
from 319, saying that they had discovered
yet another mouse, but we needn’t bother
coming up because, following Cesar’s
example, they had squished it with the
bottom of a metal wastebasket, wrapped the
corpse in paper towels and flushed it down
the toilet.
■
J.D. Smith is an accomplished writer and
jack-of-all-trades. He lives in Athena.
Hanging out with a concealed weapon
T
he pistol arrives at my house in a
to go. So the next day, I traded it for an
padded tote, the size you’d pack a
antelope rifle. It wasn’t a big deal. There
picnic lunch in. It’s a 9mm Glock
was no “episode.” I just thought I’d feel
26, a “sub-compact” concealable semi-
safer with the Ruger gone, and I was right.
automatic. Diminutive, hammerless and
The presidential election, for some
made of polymer, to my eye, it’s a true
reason, renewed my interest in self-defense,
exotic. It’s accompanied by two clips and a
and I grew curious about my friend’s
box of 115 grain ammo, missing one round.
concealable.
I think, How about that? I zip the tote back
The 9mm Glock is the world’s most
Fred
up, squirrel it away in my desk.
Haefele popular handgun, and I wondered what all
This Glock belongs to a friend. After
the fuss was all about. I headed out to the
Comment
suffering a major depressive “episode,” as
gun range to find out.
he called it, he’s made me the weapon’s
With its ultra-light weight, shortened
custodian in perpetuity. Beyond keeping it out
barrel and bobbed grip, the Glock felt both flighty
of his hands, I’m not sure of my responsibilities:
and hyper. In fact, the pistol felt downright goosey
Is there registration protocol to observe? What
and emphatically void of any character at all,
happens if he abruptly changes his mind? Is it OK
Western or otherwise. In the right hands, it’s
for me to shoot this gun?
probably a terrific gun, but the pistol flat-out gave
For all its Western bravado, or maybe because
me the yips. While I’ve fired more powerful guns
of it, Montana’s suicide rate is twice the national
with considerable accuracy, with the Glock I barely
average: 24 per 100,000, compared to 12 per
hit the paper.
100,000 nationwide. Meanwhile, Missoula County,
A week later, I told my friend, Scott, about my
where I live, has the highest suicide rate in the
experience shooting the Glock.
state, up an incredible 70 percent from last year.
“Get rid of it,” he said without hesitation.
Two-thirds of these deaths were “gun assisted.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
Few gun owners want to hear these stats, but the
“It’s a bad horse and you two got crossways.
2012 FBI Supplemental Homicide Report states
Don’t screw around.”
that the ratio nationwide of gun deaths by suicide
“I shouldn’t just learn to shoot it?”
compared to self-defense gun deaths is almost 40
“Get rid of it,” he repeated.
to one.
It was sound enough advice, but of course it’s
As a hunter, I own two rifles and a shotgun.
not my pistol. For the sake of confidentiality, I
I’ve not kept a handgun for 20 years. It was just
didn’t tell Scott the gun’s history. I certainly haven’t
coincidence that I had one at all: A tradesman
told him about the rifles I garage-stashed for
friend had offered me a pistol in exchange for
another friend, three years ago. Scott might get the
felling a large tree for him. The gun was a Ruger
idea that most of the people I know are disturbed.
“Security Six.” I agreed to the trade on a whim:
I’m starting to think that might be right. While
With my 12 gauge, aught-six and 30-30, a big-bore it’s flattering that my friends have this much faith
revolver made a classic Western ensemble.
in me, it presumes I have discretionary sense that
The Ruger came in handy just once, when my
I simply don’t possess. For example: How do I
wife and I attended the Miles City bucking horse
decide that it’s OK for the owner to take back
sale. We stayed at an especially nasty motel. As we his guns? More pressing, by what standard do I
unlocked our door, our shirtless neighbor popped
tell him he’s not OK? And what if I ever have an
out, chugging an IceHouse beer.
“episode” myself and need to get rid of my own
“Lucky you!” he giggled. You get the room next guns? What kind of guy takes custodianship of
to me!” I walked to my pickup, brought the Ruger
what’s clearly an arsenal of despair?
inside and slept peacefully. Maybe our neighbor
■
was harmless, maybe not. I certainly felt safer; let’s
Fred Haefele is a contributor to Writers on
leave it at that.
the Range, the opinion service of High Country
But a few years later, after a troubled night of
News. The author of “Rebuilding the Indian and
my own, I understood clearly that the Ruger had
Extremophilia,” he lives in Montana.
Quick takes
Rainbows meet in EO
No! They gathered near
Woodland, Washington a few
years back and left a horrible
disgusting mess. We can’t afford
to clean up the mess after they
leave.
— Shannon Clark Ternes
Please do not just infringe
on these people’s rights to use
public land because you don’t
understand why they do it. It’s
actually a very positive experi-
ence. I live in Eastern Oregon
and hopefully I will get to attend
this year’s gathering.
They also harm irreplaceable
archaeological and cultural
resources. They should pay to
have their event at a fairgrounds
or somewhere privately owned.
It’s not fair to the taxpayers for
them to come in and trash out
national forests.
— Kristy McPherson
— Holly Shea Barrick
One of the great lessons of the Twitter age is that much can be summed up in just a few words. Here are some of
this week’s takes. Tweet yours @Tim_Trainor or email editor@eastoregonian.com. Keep them to 140 characters.