Different Slants

Robert M. Katzman’s Amazing Story:  http://www.differentslants.com/?p=355

So, now thoroughly enlightened as to how fast I could legitimately motor along Wale’s skinny streets, I drove on toward romantic Hay-On-Wye.  This was the high point of my trip and I eagerly looked forward to exploring endless used bookstores.

Going through guidebooks and a packet of information from The Wales Tourist Board, I learned a long list of intriguing bookstore names.  Chicago had a fair share of used bookstores in an area called Printer’s row, as well as another area just north of the famed landmark cinema, The Biograph Theater, where notorious bank robber John Dillinger was shot dead, after being fingered by the Lady-in-Red, by a fusillade of bullets from many FBI pistols, led by the famous (and as yet unknown cross-dresser) J. Edgar Hoover.

But reading the list of names, and anticipating visiting the actual stores, was like trying to eat just one piece of chocolate.  Here’s a probably incomplete list of the names.  Any errors are mine:

Castle Hay Books…Murder 4 Mayhem…Outcast…Rose’s Books…Richard Booth’s Bookstore…Marijana Dworski Books…Pemberton’s…Westwood Books…The Wye Gallery…Poetry Bookstore…Children’s Bookstore…Boz Books…Book Ends…Hay Cinema Bookshop…Antique Gifts and Books…Hancock and Monk…Lion Street Bookshop…Rare Comics and Cards and The New Strand.  (Whew!)

For me, being caught someplace without a newspaper or book while in an airplane, doctor’s office, or any situation where I’m waiting, is inconceivable.  I don’t know about the next generation, but for me, reading is as necessary as food.

I was going through this very busy and somewhat larger town, Talgarth, where there seemed to be some kind of street fair or celebration of some kind, and there were people and cars everywhere, whizzing around me.  I wanted to pull over and check it out, but there wasn’t enough time.  While thinking this over on a quieter side street, an annoyed person in a car waiting behind me honked loudly.

Surprised, I looked into the rear-view mirror, but before I could see who was honking, the dark vehicle suddenly whipped around my fragile rental car and smacked my left side mirror with a shuddering CRACK!!  At the same time, I saw their side mirror go flying off into the sky.  I guess it was a draw, in terms of unexpected damage.  But nevertheless, I was shaken by one more assault on my little car’s thin metal shell, again in someone else’s country.  This was a disconcerting moment.

What do I do now?

The attacking car was swiftly out of sight, perhaps hoping I couldn’t catch their license plate number, and if that was their assumption, they were correct.  I waited a moment, looked over at the left side of my car, then rolled down the window and saw my poor mirror, limply hanging down by the thin metal cord that adjusted the mirror for different drivers.  The glass was shattered.  It was dead.

I rolled the window back up and thought about what to do.

Leaving that town seemed to be a good idea; given the evident aggression of the only person I’d had any ‘contact’ with, so far.  And the contact wasn’t charming, either.  So I slowly rolled through several alleys, found a less busy main-drag type of street and headed for the countryside.  I had a fleeting feeling of being an escaping bank robber, like poor dead John Dillinger, on the run with my dangling mirror banging noisily against the previously intact passenger door.

Oh, me! Now what?

I drove and drove, quickly became lost, and seemed to be driving endlessly through wheat fields.  Or corn fields.  I didn’t stop to study that.  At that moment, I didn’t know if I was fleeing from someplace, or seeking refuge at another place.  But all there were on every side of me were fields…growing something.

Morosely, I followed the narrow country lane as it twisted and turned, thinking: I know what will happen.

There will be armed Welsh Policemen waiting for me, everywhere.  Fresh signs posted on every wall, screaming to the public:

Be on the lookout for the Lunatic American Driver and report any sightings immediately!

They already knew my name, my face and whatever else they knew.  The honeymoon was over.  Find that man!!

After a while, through the thick cloud of farmland dust surrounding my car, I saw a small building ahead of me.

Civilization?

Maybe.

Did I want that?

Deciding to slowly proceed, I was not thrilled to see that it was a simple, older, woodframe and plaster type of building planted in the middle of nowhere, like me, and–surprise!!!–it was a Police Station.

A mixed blessing, I decided.

Resigned to the glum reality that there was no escaping this dumb situation, I pulled up to the side of the petite building, very pretty with flowers all around it, and one other car parked on the other side of it.  I paused, shaking my head that this was like being caught in a Pink Panther movie; I turned off the motor and got out.

Walking through the door, I saw there was nothing in the room except an old and scarred wooden desk, a phone, a file cabinet, a fax machine, a copier and a fat sleeping Calico cat.  Very peaceful.  So I called out, gently:

“Hello?”  

A man appeared in the doorway of the next room—how could this igloo have two rooms in it? —in a police uniform.  He appeared to be well fed, a little harassed and I felt like an intruder interrupting his day.  His ruddy face seemed to echo my trepidation.  He swiftly looked me over in that cop-like way, which usually begins with the hands, and seeing no apparent reason to be concerned, he asked if he could help me.

I stated simply that I was a tourist, just had a hit-and-run accident and felt I should report it to avoid any problems when I left for America, the next day.  He agreed with me, but remained serious.  He offered me a chair, dug through the file cabinet for a form and sat down himself, opposite me and began writing.  The cat stayed where it was, probably watching every move I made.

I told him the facts, and that I was already bewildered by the alien, to me, driving arrangements in Wales, that I wasn’t sure what to do, and that I had insurance.  At least I had insurance.  He nodded, and kept writing.  I realized that this was not as big a deal to him as it was to me.  I was confused by that.

He took my passport, asked me where I was staying while in Wales, and was anyone hurt?

I replied,

“Not me. But I have no idea about the other guy.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look up and kept filling out all the lines in the form.  He inspected my passport carefully.  He took my driver’s license, Chicago phone number, asked about my flight time and airline and wrote all that out, as well.

I was oddly impressed at his quiet professionalism.  Here he was, in an isolated country outpost representing the law, and he was just sitting there, quietly doing his thing.  He made a copy of everything I gave him, returned everything back to me, and sent a fax to someplace, telling me this would not take very long.

He offered me some tea while we were waiting and did I want any sugar with it?

I did.

Lots.

He looked over my sorry-ass car and filled out more information in the form.  Then something came back to him out of the fax machine, from somewhere, telling him that in fact, nobody was looking for me, anywhere, and at last, he smiled.

I sagged a little in my tense apprehension of what might have happened had the fax said otherwise, and he noticed that subtle reaction, too.  He told me that I did exactly the correct thing, that sometimes wild lads in Talgarth drank a few too many pints in the pubs and these things happened every so often.  It was a larger concern for the tourists, he kindly added, when they were caught up in a minor accident, than it was to the local police.

He told me he appreciated my forthrightness and cooperation, shook my hand firmly and told me not to worry, that no one would be waiting for me at the airport.  He was reading my mind, I thought.

His hand was muscular and warm.  He was not wearing a gun, I noticed for the first time.

This was not Tombstone.  This was Wales, and they did things differently here.

I was still confused, but happier.

The officer gave me precise directions to Hay-On Wye–not far at all, really– and told me to drive carefully, with a larger smile.  He was telling me a joke.  I got it.  Welsh humor.

I thanked him for the tea and carefully backed up from his police station.  I didn’t want to run over his flowers.  No point in pushing my luck.

I turned in the direction he told me to go and slowly drove away.  I could see him in my rear view mirror, still as yet unbroken, and he was waving to me.  I waved back.

How did they ever find guys like him to be cops?

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I arrived in Hay-On-Wye with the sun still reasonably high in the sky, and with a sense of relief that I actually made it there before my time ran out.  I had images in my mind of this being Oz and that hourglass with grains of sand, representing passing time, swiftly flowing through it.  A flying monkey sure would be useful about now.

I parked my battered car and wandered through the streets of the lovely hamlet.  A feeling of serenity came over me as I relished the very idea that a place such as this existed, though curiously not in New York City or London or Paris or San Francisco or Berlin or Madrid or Cape Town or any other bustling world metropolis, but here, nestled cozily in the rolling Black Mountains, bordered by a musical river rippling past it, in a land of unusually calm and kind people.

I guess Hay was exactly were it ought to be, and logic had nothing to do with it.

It was a quiet place, but then most book people, like me, were somewhat silent meditative types.  You have to be able to focus to become lost in a good story.  Too much idle chatter defeats that objective.

I went from store to store, regretting that all my misadventures had cut deeply into my browsing time.  But just like holding and kissing a very beautiful and willing woman, a short good time can still be a very good time.

Books.

Oceans of books spilling off tables, sitting outside of buildings, filling the dusty windows of musty stores who beckoned the curious to step inside and try a little history, or a mystery or a sonnet waiting centuries to be spoken aloud.

Books, with corners worn, some pages torn, notes on their edges and filled with the invisible fingerprints of the devoted, but now long departed.

The alluring fragrance, the intoxicating perfume of ancientness, the pleasures of disintegrating pulp filling my nose, my lungs, covering all of me with a fine mist of atoms of carefully selected words.

Wordsmiths, like me, with fingers poised above keys, awaiting just the combination of letters and punctuation to capture a moment, a laugh, a blush, a thrill, or a cry of either fear or delight to appear in their minds, always with a quest for originality, to say an old thing in a new way

Science fiction, philosophy, religion, cooking, anthropology, fashion, Western Ireland or Western Arizona—both possibly filled with romantic gunmen—astronomy, astro-physics, engineering, travel—six letters suggesting a million possibilities—biology, botany, demographics, civil wars, civil rights, carpentry, electronics, aviation, sex—and a lot more than 69 variations about that, too—architecture, archery, fairy tales, medicine—and how can it be that a tiny pill once a day cured my soul-destroying hayfever?—dictionaries, languages, coins, stamps, art, dogs, cats, rock n’ roll, geography—boring? Oh, yeah?  Well, try Iceland, one of the coolest, most complex places on earth—movies (Jesus! Don’t get me started…), animal husbandry, world war, world peace and memories of desperately falling in love.

Jewish history, giving birth to Christian history, and then swirling up from the hot desert sands came Moslem history and out of all that, came a blood-splattered smorgasbord of God, faith and death.  Each claiming that the God of Abraham was their God, and only their God.

Madness!!

Stranger, please tell me: Where is Heaven?

That depends on how much learning matters to you, and whether or not you feel compelled to read, religiously.

For this particular Jewish-American boy from the South Side of Chicago, my Heaven turned out to be in a tiny land about the size of Israel, but with a lot more water.  My feet were on the ground, but my head was in the clouds, when I first discovered the celestial village of Hay-On-Wye.

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I did buy a few books, treasures to me, knowing I was quite limited in what I could carry back with me on the plane.  But then I stumbled into this out-of-the-way shop selling books on music, old LPS, and fatally for me, a couple shelves of old Jazz periodicals stacked near the register and falling over onto the floor.

There are probably more complicated ways to say this, but essentially, after striking a deal for all of them with the remarkably laid back and possibly chemically-enhanced proprietor, I staggered out of his quaint shop with over two hundred vintage British Jazz magazines I felt I could resell in Chicago.  Jazz is Jazz.

After scrounging up a couple of strong boxes and some rolls of brown plastic shipping tape, I packed those magazines securely in cardboard and taped those two boxes to death.  Bullets could not get past a box that I secured, man.  The airplane?  I’d figure that part out later.

Then, short on English Pounds, but long on pounds of English periodicals, I left sweet Hay-On-Wye for quiet Cardiff tonight, and crazy London in the morning.

Adieu and Shalom, fair Wales!

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After managing, remarkably, to avoid hitting any cars, curbs or walls, both driving through the Black Mountains at night to get back to my lonely room in Cardiff, and then with the incredibly bright rising sunlight in my eyes all the way back east to London, my last hours in Great Britain were stunningly cop free.

There was still the grim matter of returning the battle-scarred rental car, but there was no way to avoid that.  It was my last task before flying home.

When I found agency’s Return Car sign, I pulled in and parked, left the keys in the ignition and hauled out my luggage and of course, all that jazz.  I stood by the car, waiting for the person who receives the cars to inspect my wreck and confirm that I had filled the gas tank.

After a bit, a very round gentleman appeared, who looked to me to be possibly East Indian, and when he spoke to me, his accent confirmed it.  His little gold metal nameplate attached to his jacket said: Mr. Patel. He was friendly, but business-like walking all around the car to see what there was to see.  He had a clipboard and a pen, which he parked over his right ear when he wasn’t using it.  It was a bright sunny day and no tiny scratch would go undetected.

I waited.

About five minutes later, Mr. Patel collected my reservation papers, checked the line about my insurance coverage and told me to please wait while he called to settle up matters with my company.  Thoughtfully, he recommended that I stay there with my heavy boxes instead of trying to drag all of my stuff into the waiting room with the other people.  He told me I could board the shuttle bus right there to go directly to my terminal and my plane.  There would be someone to help me with my boxes when I arrived there.

I thanked Mr. Patel and waited.  I wasn’t really concerned.

Five minutes went by.

Then ten more.

Where the hell was Mr. Patel?

Then he was back, but with a less than thrilled look on his face.  Now, I was concerned.

“Mr. Katzman”, he began, “it seems that American Express doesn’t actually offer car insurance to travelers in Great Britain.  So, in essence…you are not insured.”

Long silence.

I looked up from my confounded misery to the patiently waiting Mr. Patel, plaintively asking of him,

“No insurance?  Really?”

He shook his head, side to side.

Disaster.

Christ.

I sunk down onto one of my boxes of Jazz magazines with no clue about what to do.

Mr. Patel must have noticed my distress, because what followed was unprecedented.

He came a little closer to me and asked me whatever had happened to cause the car to be in the condition it was in.  His voice was lower, and sort of consoling.  I wasn’t expecting that.

I sat there, wordless, spreading my hands upwards and apart in a supplicating way, like a person seeking alms, from the Greek word meaning: pity.

I looked up at him and slowly unspooled my depressing tale of confusion and misadventure involving half of Wale’s police force, and ending with that spirit-killing hit-and-run accident in Talgarth.  I showed him the accident report, only then realizing that it firmly asserted my innocence in the last matter, which that solitary policeman in the Welsh countryside chose to believe was true and wrote up in his report, confirming his confidence in my story.

I was unaware, up to that point, that that was what he wrote down, because I hadn’t read the report yet.  I was so relieved he let me just drive away, I didn’t think to read it. I was stunned to still be receiving his help, one day and hundreds of miles later.

I showed Mr. Patel my American State Farm Insurance card, telling him that I never, ever, had any accidents in my country and how incredulous I was to hear that my assumption of insurance was completely wrong,

There was a quiet pause, as Mr. Patel appeared to be thinking about all of my experiences during my short time in his country.  I sat on my box, focused on the ground, feeling defeated.

It was not supposed to end this way.  This could amount to thousands of dollars.  I didn’t have it.

Then Mr. Patel spoke up, and his voice was different.

He said, in a manner that was unexpectantly reassuring,

“You know, Mr. Katzman, as an immigrant to England myself, I know how things can suddenly go wrong, despite a person’s best intentions. 

To be in a strange environment, where you don’t know anybody, driving on a totally different side of the road than you are used to, and especially, not having been told by anyone at this rental agency that England uses miles and not kilometers…it seems to me you have already experienced far more punishment than a visitor to this country should have to endure.

I do not want to add to that.  Let me see what I can do here.”

His clipboard reappeared and he began circling the car once more.  He scratched out some things and wrote down some other things.  I watched him, wordlessly.

In a few minutes, with his pen again behind his ear, he sat down next to me on the second box of jazz magazines. He read over the several pages again, and then turned to me, saying,

“I think that mirror must have been defective or loose or it wouldn’t have come off so easily.  It is not your responsibility to be aware of such things, and a side mirror is an easy thing to replace. 

I also imagine that when that other car struck you, as verified by the police officer in his accident report, it is totally reasonable to assume you took evasive action to escape that other dangerous driver, leading you to unintentionally scrape your door against a rough wall in an alley. Better to scratch up a door than to have the car totaled, in my opinion.  It must have been a frightening experience for you. 

On behalf of my company, I regret that.”

I stared at him.

This was London, not Wales.

Why was he talking to me this way?

He continued,

“As the manager in charge of damage inspection, I am given a certain amount of leeway when inspecting cars, especially cars driven by our American friends who come to visit our country.  England has suffered badly because of that endless and terrible Mad Cow Disease publicity, and we need tourism here to help support our economy. 

I can see that repainting the damaged door is not your problem either, under these circumstances.  But I have to say that the damage to the hubcaps on the wheels, where you repeatedly hit the curbs, is something I can’t come up with a believable way to explain.  So…”

He paused, calculating.

“What do you say to settling everything for one hundred ninety-five pounds, Mr. Katzman?”

Mr. Patel looked at me, about one foot away.

Close enough to kiss, but I resisted the urge.

I looked at him, in disbelief, while hearing his words.

He was willing to settle all that wreckage for approximately $290, in  U. S. dollars.  Not thousands.

I had about two hundred pounds still left on me, out of the seven hundred I started out with, four days before.

I had to ask.

“Mr. Patel, you’ve never met me…you’ll probably never see me again. 

Why are you doing this?”

He smiled at me, amusement in his dark eyes,

“Because you need it.  That’s reason enough. 

Take this paperwork with you and pay them at the counter over there.  I will watch your things.”

I did what he told me to do, and came back.

We shook hands.

He helped me load my heavy boxes on the shuttle bus, than said to me, in parting,

“I, too, have been helped by strangers here in Britain when I was in bad shape. It meant a lot to me, and I try to repay that kindness, when I can.  I believe you don’t have to know someone to lighten their load. 

Good luck to you.”

I nodded to him, shook his hand again, and told him I would remember him.

And I have, years later.

A short time later, checked in and seated on the plane, all my boxes and luggage packed away, I sat silently contemplating the extraordinary series of events that had happened to me, and all the people I had met, in such a short time.

As the plane lifted off, and I watched that proud island recede into the distance, I thought to myself with a pure heart and not a little wonder,

“Long Live Wales, and Long Live England, too.”  

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 Epilogue

If I don’t tell you, you may always be curious about the loose ends in my story.  So this is what happened:

1–When I landed back in Chicago and settled into my regular life, I called American Express to convey my unhappiness with what I had been led to believe, about my being insured to rent and drive a car in Great Britain.  It took some persistence, which I certainly have enough of, and eventually I worked through several layers of management, finally arriving at a woman whose voice conveyed a sincere desire to resolve my complaint.

After hearing my detailed description of my difficulties while driving in Wales, and my horror upon hearing that I had been misinformed about being insured by some young man from American Express customer service, while I was still in America, before I left for Britain, she requested that I please hold on while she did some checking.  I said fine.

I waited.

About ten minutes later, she returned to the phone, thanking me for my patience.

I waited.

Somehow, she was able to verify all of my claims, explaining that the young man evidently wasn’t sufficiently trained by his supervisor and believed he was telling me the correct information.  The woman assured me such a mistake would never happen again, to me or anyone else.

I waited.

Then she offered to reimburse me for every penny of what I paid the rental car agency in London, plus a bit more to cover the cost of checking those heavy boxes of jazz magazines, as a gesture of good will to a long time customer of American Express.  She told me to look for the credit on my next statement.

I waited.

Finally, she apologized on behalf of her company and thanked me for understanding that anyone can make a mistake, even someone working in a worldwide financial organization.  She also hoped I would remain their customer.

That was quite enough for me.  I expressed my appreciation for her swift and fair response to my complaint and I thanked her, in turn.  The matter was closed, as far as I was concerned.

2–Over time, I sold enough 1964 Beatle magazines and British jazz magazines to pay for 100% of my trip to England and Wales, including those romantic fish and chips in Cardiff, late one night.  I still have some of both periodicals, and they continue to sell, years later.

3–I actually spent two days in England before traveling to Wales, and overall I had a wonderful time, except for that one incident where two rough guys grabbed me, threw me against a wall, and robbed me of one hundred pounds in Piccadilly Circus, part of Downtown London, but…well…that’s another story.

Bob Katzman

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About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.