GROWING UP IN N'AWLINS

Comic Relief – Taken from Images of a N’Awlins Sleuth.

New Orleans owns the undistinguished honor of being my birthplace. In case someone would like to give me a birthday gift, my entreè happened on September 13, 1921. We resided in a small antebellum house with a small courtyard out back located on St. Ann Street. Humble beginnings, but I’m proud to say that the queen of conjure, Marie Leveau, a beautiful Creole Quadroon, lived on this street at one time. It’s been said that England's Queen Victoria once sought her help.

The twenties roared like a lion 'til shit hit the fan at the Stock Exchange in 1929. For the rest of the decade and long after, the mood was as quiet as an oiled spook. Melancholy became the adjective that described the spirit of the times. Soup lines became a vocation. "Brother can you spare a dime" became the National Anthem. The blues replaced lively rags and the happy jazz. Hoover was the dirtiest six-letter word in the States. But the name Roosevelt brought hope and became an endeared household name.

My middle initial M stands for Milhous. I became ashamed of it and started telling everyone I didn't have a middle name. I didn't want to be linked with the only man to resign the Presidency. The brighter people, when informed that I had no middle name, would think of my passion for clichés and smile thinking Mundane was the perfect middle name for me. So, I became known as Hackney 'Mundane' McTrite, but a few wanted to call me Monday. They said when they were around me they felt the way they did on Monday mornings.

My old Pappy, Fred, the plunger, worked as a freelance plumber. Faye, my Momma, taught the first grade. Dad was forty years old when he married Momma, who was fifteen years younger than him. By the time I was old enough to play games outside, if I had any interest, which I didn't, dad was fifty and had little interest in sports, except the sports he bumped into at Pat O'Brien's Bar. Perhaps this is the reason I became introverted and turned to scholarly pursuits.

Work was scarce, especially for an Irish plumber with a reputation for likin' the pigs' ear. Few people owned a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out. Windows were being used mostly as places to originate flight. You know times are desperate when people use the Sears and Roebuck Catalog for toilet tissue. When the Sears catalog was spent, usually long before the new issue arrived, if the family was numerous, corncobs were used. Man! That's a very unfriendly way to treat the end of the alimentary canal. Everyone was on the dole. Alms was the most used four-letter word in Webster.

One year Momma got called upon to teach the second grade, which pretty much stretched her talent to the limit. It makes you wonder where I got all my brains. One thought springs to the forefront. Well, Claude Thompson, a bright postman, delivered our mail.

Now, between Momma's paltry teacher's pay and what Poppa could earn from calls from the rich folks, or one time rich, living in the Garden District along St. Charles Avenue, our total income afforded red beans and rice and a streak-of-lean-streak-of-fat. Luxuries were non-existence but somehow we made ends meet. Maybe the Lord heard our petitions.

Sunday dinner was different. After Mass, Momma prepared a feast consisting of southern fried chicken, rice and gravy, field peas, corn-on-the-cob, sliced tomatoes, biscuits, iced tea, and apple pie topped with a chunk of vanilla ice cream. Since I was the only sibling, and 'cause Momma bought a big, plump roaster, enough chicken remained after dinner for supper. Of course, we were down to the liver, gizzard, heart, backbone, possibly a wing, and a drumstick. Hell, chicken’s chicken.

I looked forward to Sundays. I enjoyed going to Mass. I loved southern fried chicken, and I had time to read for hours. Occasionally, Poppa and I would go fishing down on the Mississippi and bring back a mess of catfish. The Mississippi was only a few blocks away.

Between the late 20s and the middle 40s, preparing fried chicken was a chore for people like us. First of all we bought a live chicken from the grocer, wrung its neck or chopped its head off, boiled it, plucked it, singed it, and cut it into pieces. Now, the chicken was processed to the point it's purchased at the supermarket today, but the culture has evolved to the point that most people go to a chicken shack and purchase the entire meal. My how the world has changed since I was a boy.

In our household, the work was shared. Papa killed the poor devil. I boiled and plucked its feathers and Mama took over from there. Do you think we had a better appreciation for the chicken that we put in our mouths? Certainly, and we had a vivid picture of the cliché, like a chicken with its head cutoff.

I wasn't like the other brats who roamed the 900 block of St. Ann Street. They spent their afternoons playing sports and roughhouse. I was short, frail, and uncoordinated, so I became frustrated with sports and turned to reading. Frankly, I really got tired of being mocked and called a faggot by the neighborhood brats.

My love for the written word became insatiable. I would read anything, but I possessed a keenness for mysteries and detective stories, especially Sherlock Holmes and other sophisticated mysteries akin. I wanted to be a detective at age nine. So well informed I was head and shoulders above of my peers. Well, I had few intellectual peers. School offered me little intellectual challenge.

Reaching the age of puberty, you might think my mind would turn to the opposite sex, but it didn't. My avidity for reading increased. I believed the main difference between girls and boys was that girls wore dresses, painted their lips, and giggled a lot.

I went to public school. My parents couldn't afford the tuition Catholic schools required. I was president of the debating team, a member of the National Honorary Society, edited the school newspaper, but since I was unattractive, slight, and athletically inactive, girls showed little interest in me. If I'd been rich and drove a nice car, some of the girls might have made a play for me. Even if I could jitterbug, some girls might have at least given me the time of day.

Most kids would feel left out, but the absence of friends didn't phase me. I was left with the pleasure and solitude of reading. Through the power of the written word, I went places and experienced life styles few kids my age knew about or would ever know about. I was happy as a clam at high tide with a book in my hands. Maybe I was lucky that my interest in girls was tantamount to the interest they had for me; what you don't know won't hurt you.

I was very shy. I had only one date in high school. It happened the night of the senior prom. Mary Jo Allen was a sweet, young thing, but she wasn't the sought after blue-eyed blonde, quite the contrary. She had cat eyes and black hair too silky to be real. She wasn't the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi, but she was an easy lay. However, I wasn't precocious enough to realize this.

Mary Jo had strange ways. Well, she fancied jazz and big bands. She liked to dance, and she played the tuba in the school band. These were strange ways as far as I was concerned. She lived in the 800 block of St. Ann Street, and quite unbelievably, she'd had a crush on me ever since we'd played doctor and nurse together. You know? You show me yours, and I'll show you mine.

Mary Jo loved to read almost as much as I did. We frequently swapped books. After reading the book, we'd get together and talk about what we enjoyed about the story and which characters we found the most interesting. She always seemed to relish the seedy side and the sexier characters, but I was impressed by vivid and colorful description. Although, I realized I was normal because I'd feel things happen below when I read description of the female anatomy and passionate love sketches.

Many times, she'd come close to telling me she liked me, but got cold feet at the last second. But, she found the courage to ask me to take her to the senior prom. The prom was a civilized affair until later when four male seniors, who'd come stag, got drunk on beer. They left the prom shortly after dinner and went to some honky-tonk where they got shit-faced. When they returned, they started throwing their weight around trying to cut-in on guy's dancing with their dates.

Well, one of them pushed his luck too far. He tried to cut-in on the captain of the football team and before you knew it, push came to shove. Fortunately, the chaperones broke up the fight before the captain of the football team beat his brains out. Then they asked the four rebels to leave. That took courage, but the chaperones threatened to call their parents when they resisted. This threat worked like a charm.

At ten thirty, Mary Jo turned to me and smiled fleetingly. She said mellifluously, "Hackney, I have to be home by eleven." It was a little white lie. She wanted to get me to Audubon Park to find out if I had matured into a big boy, since playing doctor and nurse.

"Okay, Mary Jo. Let me run to the John and we'll leave afterwards."

"If you shake it more than twice you're playing with it," she said saucily, with a tinge of pink on her face. I was in shock.

I gave her a curious glance as I rose and headed for the men's room where I found five guys drawing high card for nickels. She sat for a minute and then decided she might go as well. On the way, she stopped for a moment to talk to Sue Jenkins, a friend. "Hi, Sue. I see you finally made it with Peter." Sue was dating the quarterback of the football team who thought he was God's gift to women.

Sue winked. "It wasn't easy. If you get them by their family jewels, their hearts and minds soon follow."

"See you later, gal. Huba! Huba! " Mary Jo said, and continued to the potty.

When we reached the car, I opened the door to Poppa’s '35 ford and Mary Jo slipped daintily into the front seat. She was rearranging her formal when I climbed into the driver’s seat next to her. While putting the ignition key in, she slipped over near me and started playing with my leg, the one that operated the accelerator. Her hand moved higher and higher and I was having difficulty getting Poppa’s Ford started. She was hindering me fiercely, but I finally got the car started. I was pulling out of the parking lot when Mary Jo said, "Let's go to Audubon Park."

"I thought you had to be home at eleven."

"I fibbed. Please don't be mad at me." Her hand moved higher.

Now, we drove along St. Charles Avenue and my crotch was starting to bulge. I said, "This reminds me of the time we played doctor and nurse."

"Kinda, but we're much more mature now and our feelings are different." Now, she zipped down my fly.

"Mary Jo!" I exclaimed flustered, "your intentions are obvious, but if you continue to pursue your present activity it might shoot-off all over your hand. Perhaps you should refrain ‘til we get to the Park." She stopped immediately.

"Have you ever done it?" She asked boldly.

"Done what?"

"You know."

"You mean, sex?"

"No, silly, jogged around the block. Sure, I mean sex."

"Sure! Lot's of times." My masculine ego had influenced that response. I was still a virgin.

"Then you have rubbers?"

"Rubbers! What's that?"

"You know, Prophylactic." I really looked dumbfounded now. "Do you have a balloon to stretch over it?"

"Oh! You mean a condom?"

"Wheee," she sighed, "I was beginning to think you’d lied about having done it."

The '35 Ford pulled to the curb, stopped, and the headlights darkened.

I graduated from high school in June 1941 still chaste. I had experienced premature ejaculation much to Mary Jo’s disappointment. As the top honorary of my class, I’d earned the right to give the valedictory speech at the graduation ceremony. Everyone, knowing of my reputation for being long winded and ponderous, tried hard to find or fabricate a rational excuse to pass the honor to Peggy Sue Joiner, the second top honorary and President of the Senior Class, but failed to come up with a valid or convincing reason.

I worked hours and hours on the speech. Although I tried to refrain from clichés, my addiction bound me. None the less, I was proud as a peacock when I stood before the graduating class and delivered it. Approaching the speakers stand, I felt butterflies in my stomach and a lump in my throat. For a few sentences, my voice sounded like a hoarse croak until I cleared it.

"Mister Carter, School Board President, School Board Members, Superintendent Peavey, Principal Jackson, Assistant Principals, Teachers, Volunteers, Custodians, Friends, and last but not least, Parents. If I've overlooked anyone please forgive me."

Half of the audience yawned.

"Thank you for all you've done for the graduating class of forty-one. Looking into faces of my fellow graduates and seeing such happy and confident countenances, is a breath of fresh air. We have cleared the first hurdle, after burning the midnight oil for four years. All of you deserve to be proud of your accomplishments."

The applause was reserved. Mary Jo was admiring me from afar and thinking about that night at the park. Peggy Sue had turned green with envy. Everyone was fidgeting in their seats and fanning gnats like crazy.

"Some of us will go on to college. To those, I say, give it your best shot, and always be the backbone of society. Use the knowledge our dedicated teachers have slaved diligently to cram into our thick skulls. Dare to dream and build a few castles in the sand, but be realistic and pursue the noble values of life. When you think you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, remember every cloud has a silver lining. Always be optimistic, the cup is never half empty, but half full. Always keep your eyes on the doughnut and not on the hole."

A few choked chuckles fell short of a laugh. I took a deep breath. Everybody yawned now, except the one’s who slept.

"Leave no stone unturned. Never let the grass grow under your feet. Keep your nose on the grindstone, and you'll move heaven and earth. The world's no bed of roses. It does not owe you a livelihood. One must be steadfast. We are blessed to live in America, the cradle of liberty, the home of the brave and land of opportunity, where any boy can grow up to be president."

This brought frowns to the faces of women, Jews, and Catholics in the audience.

"It breaks my heart and makes my blood boil, to read about what's happening in Europe. I'm certain we'll never see the day when America is not free as a bird." I took a big breath of air. Then I took a drink of water.

Everyone in the audience was getting fidgety. I heard a heavy sigh of angst.

"When the chips are down, have the courage of your convictions. Keep your noses clean and don’t take any wooden nickels. I love each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart. God blesses every one of you. God Bless America. Thank you."

The audience’s exhalation of air could be heard downtown. The applause was polite and short. The look on faces told you they were happier than a pig in a mud hole that I’d run out of steam.

The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor the year I graduated. The nation was in shock. The rallying words became "Remember Pearl Harbor." Now, if it hadn’t been for the war, the world would’ve been a much safer, friendlier, and happier place. I didn’t understand war. I often thought, why do people want to kill each other? It’s terribly stupid. I didn’t know prejudice, hate, greed, and power; the abominable traits of man that causes wars. A profound thought dawned. When will mankind learn that love is productive, conflict destroys, unity strengthens, and division breeds hate?

The big band sound was in full bloom. Swing was the thing. Skinny Frank Sinatra, Old Blue Eyes, crooned and the teenage gals swooned. Big bands were popular, numerous, and each was wonderfully different. Dance floors were crammed from coast to coast, with young and old alike, dancing the fox trot, waltz, jitterbug, tango, rumba, polka, and the bunny hop, driven to near hysteria at moments by those swinging big bands of the era. Awesome is the way my high school peers described them.

Body to body and cheek to cheek was the dance style. Usually, dancing was about as close as you came on the first date, but don’t sell it short. Close dancing has its moments; dip me, darling, dip me. ‘Bout all I could do was the two-step. Reckon that’s why I wasn’t very popular. Petting was allowed after a few dates, but sex was rare amongst teenagers. An ache in the groin was about the extent of it. I know because I got close once.

Dancing and big bands didn’t send me out into space, but the great movies did. Hollywood was at its scintillating best, producing a potpourri of flicks depicting every emotion known to man and a few that hadn’t been discovered. A new emotion killed or missing in action grieved the nation and Hollywood covered it reverently. The big studios started making patriotic movies, with strong combat story lines, showing our fighting men in the best light possible. The romance angle, boy meets girl on the way to war, got equal billing. Tinsel Town came through red, white, and blue for America. She was there with the right films at the right time, lifting spirits, and boosting morale.

Some great movies were produced during the war years, but I didn’t find time to see them. Boot camp was a twelve-hour a day job. Who would feel like a movie after working twelve hours? My buttocks found my bunk. After basic training, I went to Intelligence School for six months. It was a crash course and again no time remained for movies. Afterwards, I went to England where I worked with British Intelligence. In our frantic haste breaking the German radio code, I didn’t have time for sleep much less movies. Missing out on the great movies was a shame.

I enlisted in the Army Air Corp shortly after Pearl Harbor. I've never forgotten some of the insanity of basic training. It started at the Receiving Center. Five homespun young men and I prepared to disembark the GI bus that had brought us from the train station to the Receiving Center. The day was Saturday, about noon, and we all wished this large building was a mess hall, where army cooks prepared gourmet treats to satisfy our youthful appetites. Two of these kids had long, wavy hair, and they fidgeted nervously, knowing most of it would vanish. When the army barber finishes, forget the little dab.

Inside, the line started at a counter running across the wide side of the rectangular room. The first quartermaster ordered us strip to the skin, and give him all but the personal stuff for safekeeping. I felt mortified standing in line with five naked men, while four quartermasters, fully clothed, eyed us for clothing sizes. Standing there without one stitch of clothing or towel was total exposure without alternatives.

I tried hard to appear calm. I wondered why I was bothered. What the hell, I thought, this is the way we greet the world. I didn't know that the other recruits were just as uncomfortable as I was. They had an inclination to implement the fig-leaf pose, but too macho to do it.

The line moved slowly to the next quartermaster who passed out regulation clothing. I would have had to close my eyes not to notice men are endowed in varying degree of sufficiency. I mused, is it because women are all physically different? My ABCs, about S-E-X, were terribly immature. As you know my only sexual encounter had been with Mary Jo, who took me to the Senior Prom. Close but no cigar.

I didn't know women could achieve sexual satisfaction from only slight penetration. I’d learn this later and know that God was kind to women from the looks of two of these recruits. Now, my uncomfortable feelings and apprehension stemmed from one potent instinct of the male species, egomania, and the barroom betting mentality. I would have felt less apprehensive had my dangle ended closer to my knees.

Arriving at the clothing point, I waited anxiously to receive my regulation apparel. The buck sergeant looked me over a few times. I hoped he was trying to figure out my sizes and wasn't queer. He said, "What’s the size of your head, neck, chest, waist, and foot?"

I told him.

"And the length of your inside leg?"

I wasn't sure what he meant. "I know the length of my middle leg—" The recruits guffawed.

"Don’t be a wise ass, McTrite." He grabbed a tape measure and hurried my way. Arriving he scoffed, "Spread your legs dog-face." I did as he ordered.

He stuck one end of the tape under my crotch with his left hand—I flinched. His hands felt like polar bear claws—then with his right hand, he stretched the tape to my ankle. "Thirty-two inches in case you’re ever asked again. "I’ve already guessed at the other measurement—two inches. Don't do any barroom betting, McTrite. Besides, one size fits all." I didn't understand right away what he meant but suddenly the meaning dawned. He was talking about rubbers. I’d had a look at the black kid among us and wanted to tell him he was way off the mark. Returning, he gathered clothing that matched my dimensions.

Sarge finally passed me fatigues, khaki shirts and pants, fatigue hats, dress caps, belts, socks, ties, handkerchiefs, brasses, OD underclothes, OD towels, OD wash rags, poncho, two pairs of boots, one pair of brown dress shoes and a duffel bag, but no condoms. The several graphic films depicting sexual diseases at various stages of progression was aimed at negating the need for rubbers. Why the army thought the flicks would suppress our desire for sex is beyond me.

"All right recruits don your drawers. We’re tired of looking at you. Couple of you guys belong over at the women's receiving area." Two guys turned pink. That wasn’t called for. "Then pack everything else away in your duffel bags."

Slipping on the shorts, I wondered if my fellow recruits had lockjaw. These were the quietest and shyest five men I'd ever encountered, but I realized this was a new experience for them, and there was much uncertainty in their lives now. The fact we had been nude had heightened our shyness.

Everyone seemed more relaxed dressed in underwear, as we continued packing our regulation clothing. Another sergeant opened the door on the left side and shouted, "Okay, recruits, through here for your shower, physical, and hair cut. Make it snappy!"

Entering the shower room, I found soap, clean towels, wash rags, and benches to sit on in the dry-off room. I grabbed the soap and a wash cloth and was first in the shower. After regulating the water to as hot as I could stand it, I stood under it, allowing the hot water to penetrate deep into my muscles. It was heavenly. I felt a sense of privacy for the first time since I'd shed my clothes.

I had nearly finished washing the soap off when a sergeant yelled at the top of his lungs, "All right, you dog-faces, get the lead out. The Major is waiting for you."

Six bodies changed cadence instantly, quickly dried off, and headed in the direction of where the pungent voice had originated. They entered a large, mostly vacant room. A doctor, dressed in a white apron, stood near a table loaded with syringes, needles, cotton swabs, tongue depressors, vials of medicine, and etceteras.

We formed another line to undergo a typical army physical. I ended up fourth in line. I tried to relax realizing it would be a few minutes before my turn came. I'd heard a comical version of the GI physical. One doctor looks down your mouth and another looks up your lower orifice and, if they don't see each other, your physical condition is acceptable. However, I noticed this asinine description was a farce as I observed the physical being performed on the first guy in line.

The doctor took his blood pressure, pulse, and checked his chest several places with the stethoscope. He grabbed a tongue depressor and looked down the recruit's mouth. Next, he reached for an instrument and inspected the recruit's eyes, ears, and nose. Then, he pushed around on the guy's stomach. Now, the recruit had dropped his shorts. After the doctor finished pulling rubber gloves on his right hand, he pushed his index finger and middle finger up the recruit's groin and asked him to turn his head and cough. The doctor felt for ruptures. I'd learned this while experiencing a physical required for high school tennis.

The Doctor dipped his middle finger in Vaseline, and, after the recruit turned his backside, he proceeded to shove his middle finger up the recruit's rectum. I wasn't sure what the doctor hoped to discover. He wasn’t going to find gold. I turned to the sleepy eyed, towhead behind me and asked, "What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm not sure, McTrite. I think it has something to do with the prostate gland," answered Green in an accent sounding much like he was from Virginia: Oot and aboot. A few shots followed the prostate finger wave, and it was over. I couldn't wait.

After the physicals, which was passed by all, we were ordered to dress in fatigues? After dressing, I felt relieved and for the first time, I relaxed. I had been miserable moping around with it all hanging out. The new fatigues felt comfortable, loose as a croaker sack. GI issues you know.

Haircuts were next. Waiting in line, I noticed several recruits with wavy hair flinching each time locks of hair fell to the floor. After haircuts, all six skin heads were directed to return to the first room, where a cadre staff sergeant waited, looking like he was prepared to give a lecture, and he was. "Light 'em if you got 'em," he yelled.

His order was music to my ears. I was about to have a nicotine fit. As I fumbled for my pack, the recruit near me offered me a smoke and a light, and I thanked him.

"You men have come to Fort Hood to undergo thirteen weeks of intensive and extensive training. These are going to be thirteen of the toughest weeks you'll face in your entire life. You'll believe this earth is hell, but we're going to make men out of you or kill you. You’ll be very proud of yourself when you graduate and receive your promotion to Pfc. Are any of you recruits musicians?" One pimply-faced brunette raised his hand. "I'll assign each of you a Platoon number. You will leave this place and the bus driver will take each of you to your assigned barracks. Once there, you will join thirty-five other men who are going to share all the fun—and he laughed a dirty little snicker—over the next thirteen weeks with you. Hey, the musician who raised his hand. What do you play?" He cleared his throat. "The skin flute?" The recruits guffawed. Before the kid could reply Sarge quickly added, "I'm only kidding, son. What's your name?"

"John Johnston." The kid’s face was a beet. His temperature had risen ten degrees. Steam came out of every facial orifice.

"Okay, Private Johnston, we have a special Platoon for musicians starting training on Monday. You can volunteer to join the band Platoon if you want too."

This was the first time I’d heard the expression, volunteer. Later I would learn, in the service, you never volunteer unless it might be for leave. And you'll expire waiting for this offer. Johnston thought for a moment. "That's fine by me, Sarge. Is the skin flute Government Issue?"

This drew a shy laugh around. Sarge's eyes nearly popped out of their orbits. Johnston had severed nerves. He then read off six names and assigned barrack numbers to each. "Good luck, men."

Basic training is going to be a riot, but I’ll do my bests out of love for my Country.

What followed was sheer madness! I can attest to the fact, because I was there. I was subject to idiotic drills twenty-four hours each day, like the fire drills at three o'clock in the morning. Kitchen police (KP) was a sixteen-hour day. Usually, I got stuck with the pots and pans detail, because the better jobs went to the first recruits on the job. There had been enough chicken dodo to last me for the rest of his life. One more training film on socially transmitted diseases would have turned me against women for an eternity. On the first day of his furlough, after basic training, I would sleep ‘til noon, and have breakfast in bed with a girl friend.

The camaraderie was high spirited. I met some likable young Americans. They were musicians, which was an unlikely union. Bill Stevens, a drummer from Philadelphia, who was kin to Kay Starr, a big band singer, who hit it big with a recording of "Wheel of Fortune." Stan Resnik from Reading, Pennsylvania, who played trumpet and loved classical music. Stan was not kin to anyone famous, but he’d mastered the techniques for playing trumpet. There were really thirty-three other likable men in Platoon 301. They were all kin to somebody. We all had mothers and all possessed some individual talents, but I hung out with the two Dutchmen, Bill and Stan.

The fire drill spawned more excitement than a three-ring circus. The Platoon or drill sergeant sounded the fire alarm at some ungodly hour of the early morning. Thirty-six recruits would bust their asses dressing and break legs leaving the barracks to line up on the road dressed in ponchos, boots, caps, and regulation underclothes. The platoon had sixty seconds to complete the drill. If anyone was found improperly dressed, the troupes were ordered back to bed only to have the ordeal repeated later. How did the platoon sergeant know the troupes were all wearing underclothes? The order was, "lift ponchos, huh!"

One night the ordeal was repeated three times. On the second try, an egghead was found naked under his poncho. I thought the recruit had been playing with himself when the blood curdling alarm sounded and couldn't stop. One basic training will last an eternity and one fire drill is too many. Several years later I watched the cancan being performed in a Paris cabaret and I remembered the "lift ponchos" notion when the girls lifted their costumes. Ooh! La! La! The cancan girls would have been sent back to bed.

The US Army Air Corp gave Lieutenant Hackney M. McTrite walking papers one-month after the Germans surrendered on May 7, 1945. I remember my feelings were ambivalent. There had been both happy and sad experiences, but overall, I was thrilled that GI issue was history. Another breakfast of SOS and the SOS would have hit the fan. I thought long and hard about using the GI Bill for an education, but my love for investigation, awakened when I was only a child, intervened. My decision to open an office and hang out a shingle, Private Investigator, was easy. My army intelligence training had been thorough, and I felt confident and fully qualified without any additional education.

Shortly before the Japanese surrendered on September 2, 1945, I completed the requirements for a private investigation license, and, on my twenty-third birthday, I moved into a modest office on Esplanade. I purchased a medium sized executive pine desk, four matching chairs, and a five-drawer file cabinet with my mustering out pay. After hanging curtains on the windows, the place looked presentable.

The lease was for one year with an option for a longer period. The short lease was intentional. After getting established, I would move to lavish accommodations in a more prestigious locale. My ambition was at the edge of the Cosmos. To keep up appearances, I’d meet potential clients in fashionable cafés around the Vieux Carré. To attract clients, I advertised in the Picayune's entertainment section: Hackney M. McTrite, Confidential Private Dick, Phone 6500.

The first week I almost went berserk; not one call came my way. I would have gone stark raving mad save for a black and white alley cat I found lying by my front door the second morning I came to work. I liked her immediately. She took to me like ducks take to water, and I decided to cultivate her friendship. I would feed her, leave a window cracked for access, and provide her with a bed. I had a sneaky suspicion the place was home for rodents. I was more afraid of rats than a Voodoo graveyard at midnight. And I named her Angel. Boy! What a joke that became.

Well, the business finally got rolling and the rest is history. But often I remember with renewed horror that one hellish night during "Boot Camp."

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