The Numbering of Days
From candles to capsules;
a banker and a date; all contribute to a young man's fate.
The rain never stopped that September.
Relentless, as the cascading pain in her gut. No mercy. This was her
punishment and she was determined to ride these waves alone. As soon
as it was born, she would get rid of the little parasite. St.
Patrick's Cathedral: what better place to begin a life ? Once upon a
time, the church had been her haven. How appropriate the babe's
first gaze would be upon the rows of vigil lights casting sensuous
reminders of her sin. After all, it all began with a few cheap
candles in a hotel room. Hey, maybe the great Bishop Fulton Sheen
himself would find the basket. But no, what future would there be for
a foundling most likely to be baptized Mary or Joseph?
Perhaps this would have been a happier
tale if she had stuck to her original plan. The Irving Trust Bank
was a different sort of a cathedral; one built to worship the gods
of money. In her fractured mind, this secular church symbolized the
American Dream. At the close of day, no one noticed this small
hunched figure lurking under the eave. She watched the flock of grey
hats sprouting umbrellas and listened to the click clack of fancy
heels as they danced between the puddles. This scene would haunt her
the rest of her days. But now, she held him close; ostensibly to
muffle his cries, but in reality, this would be the last moment of
their life together. A life that was only 10 days old. She dared to
breathe in one finale scent.
Meanwhile, on the twentieth floor, the
mighty Walter Irving III, was ensconced in his private office suite.
He poured his first Martini and lit his 30th Camel. He placed the
newest Nat King Cole album on the turntable and took a deep sip. No
need to hurry. This was his solitary time; the interlude between
mogul banker and responsible husband. He likened it to the 15 seconds
of silence before the deadly V-I bombs hit. Yes, the missus was
becoming more and more a pain in the ass. Childless and “barren”
had been the final diagnosis. Didn't she get that he had the same
sense of loss ? Maybe, more so. There had to be a Walter Irving, IV.
He secretly blamed her and now sought peace in his fortress of glass
and steel.
As Walter gazed across the Hudson
River, he caught his reflection: a hollow, plastic and grey man.
Nothing remained of the Air Force captain who once downed an evil
Messerschmitt . Just one more drink tonight. This one, straight
-up. Who needed the pretense of an olive ? Or Vermouth for that
matter. He waited for the sublime numbness to begin in his gut and
find its way to his brain. “ Must be what junkies seek,” he said
aloud. Not a giddy high, but rather a soft veil, like a mother's
touch … “Hey, I'm a poet !”
“Maybe I'll just walk for awhile”.
Was that his own voice sounding slightly slurred ? Once in the lobby,
he again lingered. “Just can't face it tonight. “ He thought he
heard someone answer ; startled that he's* not alone. He heard it
again and then saw a package half -hidden in the foyer. It moved. A
baby no bigger than his hat waved his tiny hands as if to say, “Take
me.” And so he did. No thought; no weighing all of the possibilities. So
unlike him. He swooped up his surprise package and hailed a cab.
Just then, a crinkled piece of paper fell unto the wet sidewalk. He
read, “Please take care of him because I can't.” So enrapt was he
with his prize that he failed to notice the lone figure of a woman
standing in the pouring rain.
And so it began. The reinvention and
christening of Walter Irving IV: a name the child would grow to
loathe. Money back then, as today,
could open doors, buy silver spoons and fabricate birth certificates. The Irvings decided that he was born on
September 14, 1950; the day he was found. No one, particularly Walt,
would ever be the wiser. And for a time, just like the 50's,
everything was nearly idyllic. As a young boy, he didn't mind the
name, “Walt“, as he shared it with the great god, Disney. Like
most New York boys, he idolized Joe DiMaggio and dreamt of hitting
home runs in Yankee stadium.
Now, as for Walter, Sr., his hats were
retired to their boxes in the closet. Pinot Grigios and Merlots
gradually replaced his martini habit. He still smoked, but now it
was menthol filters. He continued to trudge each day to the bank in
his grey flannel suit, but he he rarely lingered past 6 p.m. Now he
had a better reason to return home. Walter Irving III sought to groom
the future scion of the Irving Trust Bank : Walter Irving IV.
As for the wife, their relationship had mellowed, but their mutual
secret grew heavier through the years. These co-conspirators stayed
together as many couples did back then, “for the sake of the boy”
.
The 50's flew into the 60's. The once
sweet little baby who reached up to the strange man, now often turned
away in rage. The boy with the silver spoon, grew his hair, stopped
shaving and lived in his faded denims. The future king of the Irving
Bank dynasty preferred strumming a guitar over an adding machine. His
drug of choice was a joint. There were constant arguments about Viet
Nam. Walt grew up watching his father riveted to the TV set whenever
a World War II war film came on. Often, his old man seemed to retreat
into a dark, secret place.
“Dad, I'm not going to fight in some
jungle and kill innocent children and women. “
“ Really ? I risked my life for your
freedom. Enlisted at 19 yrs. And what about the commies ?
“Yeah, Dad, and let's have another
Hiroshima". And so it went...on and on.
Predictably, at 19, Walt dropped out of
college with dreams of joining a Hippie commune in Haight –
Ashbury. Halfway to San Francisco, he found himself demonstrating at
the Chicago Convention. This was the final blow. What a disgrace it
was to the Irving name when his photo appeared being hauled off to
jail ! Sometimes, Walter secretly regretted finding that package on
that fateful September14th. But this was only a passing wish. Deep
down, Walter loved him, at least more than he had anyone else in his
life.
On that fateful evening of Dec 1, 1969,
it was not an old John Wayne war movie nor “Mission Impossible”
that gathered them in front of the television. Ironically, that night
the Sitcom, “Mayberry RFD” was pre-empted by the first national
draft lottery. No laughing matter. Millions of parents and sons sat
anxiously to await their fate; many to receive a death sentence via
their friendly television set. . All young men between 19 and 25
would be chosen randomly by their birth dates. If yours were one of the first 125 dates drawn, you would be
certain to be drafted. The Irvings watched as 366 blue plastic
capsules were pulled out of assorted shoe boxes and placed in a large
glass bowl. Quite a rudimentary procedure for such a life altering
game.
A Republican Senator, strongly
resembling Richard Nixon, reached in and grabbed the first capsule.
“May as well be cyanide”, said Walt.
“Oh God, what have I done ?”,
thought Walter, Sr.
The blue capsule was broken.
“September fourteenth. September
fourteenth is our first birth date. Number one.. I repeat, September
fourteenth is number one..”
There was only stunned silence in the
Irving household.
Several blocks down from Park Ave.
there was another TV viewer. Her set was small and black and white.
This woman strained to understand the complicated procedure, but
stayed with it until she saw the date, September 4 appear on the
screen. “September fourth. Number 232. “ There was a sigh of
relief as the screen went to black.
