Dwayne Raymond

Notes on a Grifter
98% of getting by well in anything is being taken at face value.


























THE RUNNING GAME: NOTES ON A GRIFTER

DWAYNE RAYMOND


PART I

NOVEMBER 28, 1989

The old beekeeper who sold me the black Volvo said they never break down. He lied.
The car was stalled on Interstate 84, twenty miles outside of Portland, Oregon. It was near dark and there was drizzle in the air. Of course, from what I’d read about Oregon there is often a drizzle in the air. The travel book I’d thumbed through in the coffee shop back in Winnemucca, Nevada, said it rains 360 out of 365 days a year somewhere in the state. Today was not one of the dry five.
I’d driven nearly non-stop through Oregon for a number of days and the windshield wipers had quite a workout. Now, they too, were miserably stilled. I grabbed my leather backpack as I climbed from the car, slipped it over my shoulder and sneezed. My sinuses were keeping up with the weather. I used my sleeve to wipe a trickle from my nose as I readjusted the several hundred thousand dollars on my back.
Money is heavy.
The Volvo wagon was not going to start. I know some things about cars, but one must have tools to remedy mechanical problems. After assessing the situation for several moments I passed on the option of poking around under the hood. The last thing I needed was a cop to stop by to offer assistance. He’d most likely run the plate and I’d be completely screwed. The plate didn’t belong to me, much less the car. Ownership generates a paper trail. I don’t lead a life with any kind of discernible trail, paper or otherwise.
Adjusting the pack again, I grabbed my Camel cigarettes from the dash, my soft-sided brief and overnight bag from the passenger seat and slammed the door. A brisk wind pounded me as I made my way to the rear of the Volvo, then it abruptly subsided. From beneath the honey-stained carpet where the spare tire would normally be kept, I removed a fat manila envelope and crammed it into my already swollen briefcase and shut the back hatch of the dead car. The winds had settled slightly, but the sky remained an ominous blend of grays. I recalled experiencing such drear only once before and that was my last day on Lake Willoughby in Vermont, while standing just beyond the iron cemetery fence that my father had faithfully maintained when he wasn’t digging graves. I had been, in essence, saying goodbye to that hallowed ground and my life up to then. The bone yard had been my sanctuary, a place where many of my days had been spent reading under the shade of well fortified trees. It was quiet there, a place of death. Conversely, it was also a place of birth. The yard became fundamental to who I am now. In that burial ground, I’d made the decision to exit everything and emerge anew. As what or who, I had no idea. I just knew that I must change. On that last day at the cemetery, as I leaned against the black swords of the fence, my inner desolation was obvious. On the inhospitable highway three thousand miles to the west and many years later, the drear was merely another disturbing obstruction to a recent sequence of hurried events. For the first time in years, I felt off my mark while I suffered the rain; as if I were tripping over my feet in slow motion. My journey so far had put me on edge. I needed to locate transportation. I was standing on a four lane highway on the periphery of the largest city in the state and there was no traffic! Well, there was some—a lonely delivery truck, the occasional mother with her brood on the way home from the mall perhaps—but little else.
But there was rain. Rain and more rain.
The chill in the air amplified with every drop absorbed by my neglected garments. As the sun continued to hide and sink behind the clouds, I assessed my situation. My circumstance was that my skin was likely wanted by the police in at least one state if, not three, and I was stalled on the way to unspecific shelter. My wet jeans, as I rubbed them with my wrinkling palms, were the prompt that I needed to avoid thinking about that truth. The Levi’s were my only remaining pants and I needed to find civilization in order to replace them. I needed society.
I blinked the rain away from my burning eyes, but it did little good.
Uninhabitable! I thought. Frogs wouldn’t even want to live here!
I paused near a puddle. What direction to walk? My brain contained as much churning gray as the sky that did not shelter me. I pushed back my newly black hair (which was probably too wet now to embrace its integrity much longer) and tried to readdress my state of affairs. But I could not get beyond the certainty that I was exhausted, and undoubtedly smelled. I was not used to going eight days without a thorough wash or more than a rare, stolen hour of sleep. It’s not my nature to be dogged by the flaw of mental disorder or to exude the pheromones of physical stress. There are necessary principles which I adhere to always (herein rests my freedom) however, this most recent undertaking had been atypical. This past gig had been a gamble with my liberty—a brazen one, frankly. To that point, I was fully aware that something had altered in me over the past weeks. I fought to retain my faculties, a battle I rarely engaged in. I always recognize that serious actions can present precarious consequences. I knew—perhaps unconsciously the day I actually fled Las Vegas—that I would need to do more than simply escape in my usual style (previously when I’d left after a take I had simply flown away.) The airlines had always been my friends, but I would have to discount them this time. In my emergency address file (actually a small, broken alarm clock full of important snippets of paper) all the major airlines were listed on one clipping. However, since I had never left a job with this much cash before or, as it turns out, so unsure of my own proficiency, I could not have flown had I even wanted to; I clearly had too much baggage! I was experiencing a level of unusual dread which influenced my sticking to the ground and that paranoia was reasonable, considering the cargo—thirty pounds of money! For me to venture into the world of everyday travelers offered no short list of evils, not the least of which was that some poorly paid worker would inevitably scrutinize my backpack with his x-ray machine. Money shows up just fine on black and white airport monitors—never let anyone tell you differently. And to check my chattels with an agent was simply out of the question. Aside from the real threat of lost luggage there was the pilfering issue—baggage handlers do ransack suitcases. If you don’t believe that, get one half hammered in a bar near some airport and ask them. No, this was my big score, and it was necessary to be my own best sentry. I knew I had to be fast behind the wheel or quick on foot—or both. Up to this point I’d never traveled extended distances in stolen cars or been so ballsy as to sell them for cash. In the week previous to my unfortunate stranding I’d sold two Mercedes Benz coupes—neither of which were in fact mine. But I did consider myself unquestionably worthy of the comfort they offered, and felt more than a little at home in the fine leather driver seats of both. I was rather fond of them, actually.
I forged on along the highway knowing the Columbia River was just a few hundred yards beyond the dripping conifers, Maples, Oaks, Alders and scraggly good-for-nothing Crabapple trees. The leaves at my feet were auburn and shiny and yet reeked of dead plant-flesh; their putrid assault was not unlike that of rotting potatoes. I watched more leaves jump on the wind and take their final flail to become tomorrow’s muck. Stopping again and leaning against a light pole, I inhaled the equally conspicuous humidity. Everything about my surroundings was stoked with moisture; the trees above me, the bushes beyond me and the pavement beneath me were wet beyond comprehension. My body was not immune to this, of course. I could not distinguish my warm sweat from the chilling rain. As noted, my palms were crinkled as if I’d spent too long in a bath. They appeared aged to me, and for a moment I wondered if I was getting too old for this work. I did not remember feeling such anxiety in the past. My talent for rising above dilemmas was one I rarely questioned. It was as valuable and natural to me as the dexterity my now withering fingers had frequently demonstrated at a card table. I studied my hands again for a moment. Even discounting the rain-induced shrivel, they were beginning to tattle on me.
Age. For good reason in this account I will not disclose mine. Accordingly, I would also suggest that the reader would do well to not rely on the numbers contained within this tale regarding that issue—at least not now. Perhaps later the answer may be disclosed. For now, appreciate merely this: I am an anomaly. My appearance does not betray my years. This peculiarity is something I recognized at the appropriate juncture in my life and embraced. Along with doing that I took the ultimate flight that millions of worn out Americans only dream about; I became a non-person. In that process, I made certain that records of my existence do not appear in any government database. I am believed deceased by all but one who knew me prior to this leap. I have never held a job other than that of telling others what they wished to hear, listening to their stories of woe about money and often relieving them of as much of that woe as can. I take only what I can carry and no more than twice what I need, and I leave no trace through which I might be identified after. It is a job. It is my profession. It is what I do. But, of course it may beg one or two questions, not the least of which may be: should a man be held stringently liable for utilizing his one natural talent, no matter how unseemly its nature? Doesn’t his inner moral character, however flawed in the vindictive eyes of society’s court, account for anything? It is unnerving, I do admit, for one to exploit one’s charms for the purposes of seduction and gain. These are unconventional means and are perceived as appalling—without doubt!—but many things are not easy on the conscience of society. Can’t a relatively fine guy opt to become an outlaw because it is his only expertise, save for the Cello? (Admittedly, I do sometimes miss slicing the bow across the strings, but music, unless one is considerably talented, seldom pays the way. Additionally, cellos do not fit comfortably into a life of perpetual movement). Garnering a buck through less than legal means—while being unsettling to the Christian mind—is still a vocation. It is a serious business to be on the “take.” The term “professional” should not only be applied to those who wear business suits, or adorn their office walls with degrees advertising their education. That is merely a notion held errantly by our culture to shore up the need to tout one’s achievements. The ritual entirely disregards those of us who exist outside the box and, arguably, make the world interesting. We, the “fringe”, are sometimes equally professional in our work. We, however, rarely wear stylish suits and only occasionally wind up stranded in the rain, smelling of cigarettes and self and feeling weary beyond measure. And, not unlike junk-bond dealers, we sometimes find ourselves muddled in deliberation as to how to best shift the location of large amounts of money.
I crouched against a tree near the highway to decide direction. I knew which way Portland was and I knew where I’d come from—but that was about it.
The prickly bark of a Douglas fir ground harshly at my back as I deliberated my predicament. Drizzle, serious on its way to rain, can become a compass. I chose to wander east for a time, away from my original direction.
I had not hitch-hiked since I was seventeen. I think that was how old I was. I presume I’ve intentionally forgotten. I gathered my belongings and went in the direction of the encroaching darkness. Choosing the unclear path is often best. I put two miles between me and the stranded Volvo before I extended my thumb for a ride.
Finding a lift should be a simple thing, but that was not the case for me. I jumped the guard rail and began to walk west again on the north side of the highway. The traffic had increased and was now passing me in both directions with ferocity. It was rush hour for the rest of the world but my own rush seemed endless. The masses were returning home to their comfortable easy chairs and routines that awaited them while I endeavored simply to find a room without rain.
I dashed across the lanes to finally attempt the hitch-hike. In my haste to do this I was nearly clipped by a Datsun and as I avoided its crush I slid on the wet pavement. I landed just past the breakdown lane, and sprawled upon a patch of gravel. What could have been a thousand or more dollars shot out of my jacket pocket, and were caught in the wind and rain and began to fly away. I grabbed most of it and secured it again. A few hundreds and some other small papers disappeared, however, into the bushes beyond the highway. I’d miscalculated terribly as I leapt up and away to avoid the hurtling Japanese car. Christ! To be killed at this point would have been simply bad form. I took a moment to nurse my scrapped knee by spitting on it and rubbing away the blood. I slapped a make-shift bandage on the wound (a used tissue I found in my pocket) and tried to regain my strength of will. I chose not to retrieve the lost monies and fragments of paper—what was the point? I cut my losses at escaping becoming road-kill and called it an even trade. I noticed a truck weigh-station (Closed, of course—has anyone ever seen one open?) just a few yards away where I could comfortably pause for another spell to compose myself after my near-demise. I hobbled over to it and further attended to my injury. I picked bits of torn denim from the bloody dent in my left knee, re-packed the Kleenex and stood up to catch my breath before again trying to hitch the road to Portland. Portland: a city I’d decided upon for no other reason than its total, striking unfamiliarity.
The sixth large truck that approached, with its lamps blazing, pulled over. The driver tooted his horn twice as he down-shifted and slowed to the side. I sprinted the thirty yards to the cab, my knee shooting darts of ache up to my thigh and groin. It was now raining full-tilt and I was soaked. My black hair was pasted to my forehead and I prayed that its phony color retained its realism as I climbed up into the passenger’s seat. This trucker was the first person I had encountered in any serious way since Winnemucca and the ancient beekeeper outside of Sacramento. Now, I took refuge in the fact that it was dark.
The driver was smoking Camels. That was the first thing I noticed. In my work, it’s all about observation and using that quick knowledge for advantage. I had two cigarettes left; here was a full pack right near me! I eyed them as I climbed in and smiled. I said to my driver: “Thanks for the lift.”
“Pretty damn wet out there for a stroll along the highway, ain’t it son?” I offered my hand after tossing my back-pack and small carry-on to the floor of his rig and answered his question with an introduction.
“I’m Stan Turner,” I said. He nodded toward me and then shifted gears as to pull up and out of the break-down lane, back into the stream of traffic. I glanced at the open, soiled notebook on the console which I knew was a schedule. The scribbled names, numbers, rates, towns, tonnage, product and everything else hit me as if I were not beyond exhaustion which, of course, I was. What presents itself for permanent record to me I have no power over. I am possessive of that sort of mind. When I examine something it instantly imprints on my brain, and remains eternally embossed. I don’t mean that I merely recall it as one would a morsel of trivia overheard at a cocktail party two years before. What I am disclosing here is the truth about one of my most useful, yet troubling, endowments. Often when I sense something, it is THERE. I see, hear, touch, smell know. I am like the rare musician who, upon hearing a composition once, immediately absorbs every morsel of it and can reproduce it flawlessly thereafter—as if they’ve grabbed it from the air! Fortunately, or unfortunately, my instrument is always at the ready. This savantic hubbub that occurs in my head can be unpredictable; I never know when it will kick in. To my utter surprise sitting there in the truck, it was in over-drive. I was fatigued, yet everything impressed itself on me as if I were as calm as a meditating Buddhist.
“So, you heading to Astoria tonight or getting off in Portland?” I asked.
The trucker had introduced himself to me as Sal Granger. He was fifty-ish and covered his balding head with a once fancy, now ‘It’s-so-dirty-it’s-a-keepsake’ cowboy hat. As I uttered those words about his final destination, I knew my tongue had betrayed the haste of my brain. In what I do I cannot consider even the most innocuous encounter potentially dangerous to my privacy. Sal Granger was harmless enough, of course, but I had to fight within myself to preserve a facade of normalcy. My standing rule is to never reveal too much and most of all, never appear frenzied. Its sister rule is to always maintain a safe house or be sure about how to find suitable sanctuary swiftly. I was close to screwing up both policies. I reminded myself that it was essential that I not jeopardize my situation with pointless disclosures or by appearing extreme in some fashion.
“Oh, it’s only an hour and a half or so outta Portland to Astoria,” he replied, I expect I’ll make the whole trip tonight.” He rubbed his chin and turned towards me. “How the hell did you know I was going to Astoria?” he asked. Sure enough! He’d picked up on my stupid observation.
“You’re driving an empty refrigerated truck,” I said. “I just figured....fish.” I let my voice trail off to cover my blunder. I knew the cargo had been fish because there was a lingering scent and Astoria is the pick-up point for most seafood that serves that part of the state. My left foot began to tap uncontrollably upon the cab floor. This nervous display had not shown itself in years. Weariness was beginning to overtake me. I was desperately in need of REM sleep.
“Smart kid,” he mumbled.
He pressed peddle with a little more diligence and we plowed onward through the tempest toward Portland. I turned towards the passenger window and gazed out at nothing and everything.
Inwardly, I chided myself again for blabbering what I’d observed on his paperwork. Exhaustion can make one flail simple mistakes about with abandon. I continued to gaze out of the rain streaked side-window of the fish truck. Rainwater on glass looks the same no matter where you are. God, how I know this! In my years I’ve seen too much rain. I rubbed my nose and quickly glanced over at my driver. He was navigating the traffic expertly. Sal Granger, I knew, loved driving truck. The minor distraction such as the intermittent traffic tie-up or the odd hitch-hiker was simply a part of his job. Sal flicked his wrist, placed a butt from his Camel pack between his lips and tossed them to me. I took one, lit it, inhaled the soothing poison and placed the remainders on the cluttered console between us.
Sal was a man of calm demeanor, and I appreciated that. He was not one to ask too many questions beyond the polite ones that alleviated the unease of our close confines. The lack of curiosity on the part of some people is something I appreciate—like a mosquito appreciates blood. Nonetheless, when the inevitable small-talk did arise while we were deadlocked at a traffic light just off the first exit to Portland, I offered up a simple story: I was transferring to Reed College for my final semester in Behavioral Science, I was from Youngstown, Ohio originally; I was twenty-three and my elder brother lived in Portland up in the West Hills. His wife, Clarisse was to pick me up downtown by the Public Market.
Of course, none of it was true.
As we rolled to a stop again, I recognized ‘Stark Street’ from the maps I’d studied and I asked Sal to drop me at that corner. “Thanks a lot, man. I’ll grab a taxi the rest of the way.”
“Suit yourself, buddy,” he said. I climbed down from the cab of his truck, flung my pack over my shoulder, took my other belongings and thanked him, once again, for the ride.
I slammed the huge door and he pulled away slowly. I checked my watch which read 6:45. There, in my left hand, were his cigarettes. I shrugged off the gain with minor delight and deposited them in my left back pocket.
After looking around for only a short time, I spotted a cab dumping a passenger and hailed it. I asked the driver to take me to the older part of Portland. I’d read about a hotel there that sounded inviting: The Rose and Thistle. I had discovered a safe house, or so I hoped. I dug into my jacket pocket for the slip of paper with the exact address on it (lately I was using notes as back up to my memory which I could now count on less and less due to my exhaustion) but apparently it was among the odds and ends of paper that carried away with the money on the wind when I’d taken my spill on the highway. In the end, it didn’t matter because the taxi driver knew of the hotel as soon as I mentioned it. By five after seven I was standing at the registration desk. I was entirely ready for a space to call home for a couple of days—or maybe a couple of weeks if the vibe was right. As we’d entered the neighborhood surrounding the Rose and Thistle, I noticed that it was not for the usual tourist. Thus, it suited me well. The hotel stood in one of those districts which, in ten or so years, would be viewed as “fashionable.” (Indeed it became that!) In 1989, however, it was edgy. The building was masterfully constructed of gray stone blocks, which made it appear almost regal. She was an old dame of a structure; once first in her class yet now solidly third-rate. I imagined that hard working old whores and brave young gay men (in less tolerant times for both) had tempered her in past decades by freely exploiting their passions within her protective confines. Perfect! On intuition alone, I’d discovered a fine sanctuary.
“Cash or credit card?” asked the young man behind the reception desk. When he looked up at me his demeanor blossomed. I guessed that he did this job for little more than the small chance of meeting the guest that would never leave. Freud stated that we do everything in order to get laid. Freud was an old horn dog.
“Cash,” I said. I scribbled a name in the ledger. He gave me a key to a room on the third floor in the back (a location I requested) and I offered him a smile with a ten dollar tip before I climbed the stairs with my bags. The tip was because I’d declined his eager offer of help. Upon entering the room I sighed with relief that the space was just nice enough for the refuge I required. It was a pleasant yellow room, with a large double bed, wall-to-wall carpet, TV, phone book and phone—all of the amenities one could desire! I immediately put down my bags, unplugged the phone, stripped naked and ambled to the shower. As noted, I hadn’t had a good bath since before leaving Frank’s house in Las Vegas eight days earlier. Those eight days had been an exercise in quick wash-ups while always moving, moving, moving. The warm water thumping my chest now was as welcome as a birthday present. Maybe it was, I thought. Every time I close a gig, it’s like being re-born. Born again at twenty-seven. (Or is it twenty-nine? Too much to discuss just now.) But the fact was the Vegas job was my second serious self-reinvention of that year. I filled my mouth with the hot stream shooting at me and spat against the cream colored tiles. I sank down into the stall as if in prayer and allowed the friendly water purify me. A half-hour later and infinitely more relaxed, I sat naked on the bed and poured a drink.
I soon became slightly bored at counting hundred dollar bills that I’d pulled from my brief case. At $84,000 I lit one of Sal Granger’s Camel Lights. The solitary lamp on the end table made the curling smoke look deliciously blue. I grabbed my back-pack and emptied it of its cargo of rolled up bills also. They plopped good-naturedly upon the polyester comforter like unruly children.
The problem with twenties is that they can be so bulky. That is, if you’ve got a bunch of them. I did. They were bundled with rubber bands and looked like small round building blocks. In essence, that’s exactly what they were. I had 48 blocks worth three thousand each. At the end of my third cigarette and after cleaning out the lining of my leather jacket and the manila envelope, I knew exactly where I stood, financially speaking: I was worth $259,300.00, not counting the seventy-five dollars and change I knew were in my jeans pockets. Maybe those two months with Frank had not been so bad after all. Thanks to his generous trust and love for me I could now float comfortably for at least a year. Perhaps longer, but most certainly a year. Three hundred and sixty five days without worry. I fancied using the time in a positive manner. Perhaps I’d spend it free of the usual concern of having to be constantly aware of everything around me, every move and every word I utter. I could, if I were intelligent about it, consider a way of life less irksome to society, venture into endeavors less taxing to the Karma. Perhaps I could use the year to establish myself, or—can one think it?—address the prospect of having a relationship with somebody I was actually drawn to?
These thoughts of bowing to the mainstream made me shudder so I sipped my vodka. Both things burned my throat.
Frank. Frank and his delightful need for me! How it had cost us both. Yes, I’d paid in my own way. My spirit had been tested like rarely before. I am many things but I am not devoid of conscience, quite the contrary. My methods are unique, to be sure, if not directly off-putting to the standards of society. But I do no physical harm. I am merely a worker-bee gone rogue. I recognize no queen other than my longing to endure. How I maintain my existence is my only viable vocation. I am no different than the small-town handyman who remodels your bathroom for three weeks and then surreptitiously charges you for his lunch hours. You will likely not notice my gain until long after I’ve departed. Normally, that is. Frank would surely notice in this case; how could he not? Especially when he checked the strong box he kept hidden in the bookcase by the rubber tree plant in his bedroom study. You see, this time I’d been brazen in my gathering; hence, my swift evaporation into the desert. But I left Frank with the most valuable of his possessions. I am not capable of pilfering the love of a faithful dog or absconding with the memory of a departed mother, represented by an excruciatingly expensive ring, no matter how inviting. Such behavior would show bad manners. I avoid crossing that line because it is right and just. As I said, I am not void of conscience.
I leaned back on two pillows, propped my feet upon the pile of money and reflected on my months in Vegas...

Mornings with Mailer
Dwayne Raymond reflects upon the intimate bond he forged with Norman Mailer during the last four years of the iconic writer’s life. Coming on board in 2003 to work as Mailer’s editorial aide, Raymond would become much more — cook, sounding board, confidante, and most importantly, friend to the still indomitable octogenarian. As he worked alongside the two-time Pulitzer Prize winner, helping him with the research and preparation of his final four books, the younger writer grew to know a man whose benevolent private persona often ran counter to his intractable public image.