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Work Life part 2

Work Life: Part 2

By Leo Racicot

When it became clear I was going to be trapped in Las Vegas indefinitely, I figured I’d try to get a job. With some library experience under my belt, I hoped to find work with one of the city’s libraries: a main library and 20 or more branch libraries scattered throughout the city. I didn’t know how wrong I was. At that time, getting a job in Las Vegas was centered around licensing and residency. Unless I wanted to hawk casino flyers along The Strip (and given the amount of discarded ones littering the sidewalks, many people did), I was at a loss as to where I could work; I knew nothing about being a croupier or gambling. (I don’t even know how to play poker or blackjack) and again, not having an established residency in the city made me persona non grata wherever I applied, even the town’s many branch libraries. It became frustrating on a daily basis to be turned down, turned away from jobs I was qualified for. I pounded the unbelievably hot pavement day-after-disappointing day. I remember one fellow, Mister Ko kept asking me to meet him for an interview “at the Denny’s on The Strip”, for work for his jewelry booth at the mall. I could never pin him down on which Denny’s he meant (there were several on the main drag) and gave up after more than a few tries. I learned you never knew what to expect in Vegas — liars/cons/thieves/unreliables. I became especially gung ho to work at the library branch on Flamingo Road, the most attractive of the Vegas libraries, with its pale pink sandstone tones and soft exterior lighting. But — my interviews there went nowhere.

Helen, knowing how much I like books, suggested I try a bookstore. I applied to the Borders Books and Music on Sahara Avenue for temporary holiday help. To my surprise and delight, Mr. Barry hired me and I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d finally gotten gainful employment, if only for a while. I liked the store’s atmosphere and my fellow workers. Though having to get used to my supervisor, Hilary, being a 22 year-old took some doing. She was nice enough, and respectful of me as an older worker, and we got along fine. I especially enjoyed my time on the Information Desk; it was similar to the role I’d played at O’Leary and pandered to my knack and my enthusiasm for research and helping patrons find what they were looking for. Unfortunately, it was at this time that Aunt Helen decided it would be best for me, now that I had a job, to find my own place, her major reason being that she and Cookie liked to take off all their clothes at home to keep cool in the sweltering heat and “we haven’t been able to do that with you in the house”.  I found a rooming situation some miles away, fostered by a shifty guy named Bernie, who kept house for four other guys and me. I mention this only because an emergency situation arose in which two of my Borders’ co-workers played an instrumental role. A few months after moving in, on August 31st, 1997 — I remember the exact date because that was the day one of our housemates, Paul, walked in and announced that Princess Diana had been killed in a car crash in Paris — Bernie called me to his office and asked me where my rent was. I told him I’d put it in the rent box, as I usually did but he said he hadn’t received it. I didn’t understand why but he showed no sympathy and said he couldn’t wait for me to get my next paycheck at the bookstore. He literally threw me out, not even allowing me to gather up my clothes and other belongings.  Helen wasn’t willing to let me come back to her house and I found myself homeless, or very nearly so. I’d just been hired as a hotel concierge by Desert Creek Ranch and Inn in the depths of Death Valley. but finding myself without a home base or my dress clothes made it impossible for me to report for my first day. It was a couple, Shane and Kari Jane, two co-workers who, hearing my plight, kindly said I could crash at their place until I could get myself on my feet. Had you asked me which of my co-workers would come to my rescue, and in such an unconditional way, Shane and Kari Jane would have been the last on my list. My life has been filled with unexpected guardian angels. Fortuitously, Joe was vacationing in Vegas, visiting me, and came to the rescue, with meals and money. It was a traumatic time; I was in a city I didn’t like and that didn’t like me. The heat was getting to me, the unsavory nature of the place itself, Bernie’s betrayal (the bank later confirmed he’d cashed my “missing” rent check). I wasn’t exactly the last of the high rollers and wasn’t interested in the city’s two main attractions: gambling and showgirls. Plus my temporary Borders holiday gig was coming to an end. I was at my wit’s end when the manager, Mr. Barry, said a friend of his who managed a nearby Bookstar (a West Coast subsidiary of Barnes and Noble) was hiring. As for somewhere new to live, I came across an ad for a rooming house on Edna Avenue. Edna was my mother’s name so I took it to be a sign that she was with me and steering me towards this place. In one and the same day, Bookstar hired me and the landlords of Edna Ave, Dick and Jenny, kind-hearted Mormons, rented me a room. Thank You, Jesus!       My stint at not one but two Bookstar locations didn’t last. Vegas is a very transient city —people, situations come and go. The manager who’d hired me left and moved back to Chicago. The new manager wanted to start fresh, with a whole new crew. I, along with all other staff, were summarily laid off.     I had to find new employment, in order to keep my living quarters on Edna Ave. I had grown to like it there, and liked my fellow roomies. I became especially close to an older man, a true Vegas character named Dancer. Dancer had been a gold miner, a rodeo champ, a carnival roustabout. He took me under-his-wing. Hearing how difficult a time I’d had since moving to Las Vegas, he offered wisdom and suggestions as to “how to survive in Sin City”. We watched many movies together, drinking soda, munching on popcorn and Dancer’s favorite candy, jellybeans. I’d never seen a person nurse one, single jelly bean for so long; he’d keep a piece in his mouth for hours, working it until it was smaller than a dime. His years of being out in the harsh Nevadan desert had left his skin, face-to-foot, with a leathery texture. He favored wearing jeans and a jean vest, sometimes a denim motor oil cap. I’ve tried over the years to locate him and if, indeed, I did, he’s close to 100 years old now, still living independently in Las Vegas. Unforgettable guy. Guy Tarantino was another housemate at Edna Avenue. Guy claimed to be a first cousin of the director, Quentin Tarantino. I liked Guy tremendously though he was forever trying to drag me out on all-nighters on The Strip, turn me into a Vegas player. But, I just didn’t have it in me. We did have some fun times, Guy even coaxing me up onto a karaoke stage. He joked, “Now you can say you performed on a Las Vegas stage!”     A young guy we called “Dutch Mike” seemed harmless enough. Dutch was very generous; every Sunday, he’d treat the house to a couple of dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. On an impromptu room check, Dick and Diane found an arsenal of guns in his closet. Dutch explained them away as being “my hobby” but it was scary. In Las Vegas, you never knew who you knew or what they might be planning. He let each of us hold an Uzzi.  I’d never been that close to a firearm. It was surprisingly light.

But to get back to my work woes — employment pickings were slim. I got a job at the YMCA, handing towels out to members. B-O-R-I-N-G but hey, it was money. The head of the fitness area was a cool guy named Joe Was. We bonded instantly when he asked where I was from. When I said, “Lowell, Mass”, he said, “No way!  I’m from Lawrence”.  My boss was a former Vegas showgirl, Laraine Burrell. She was pretty, and boy, didn’t she know it. Another Vegas character, of-a-sudden, she’d break into her old casino song-and-dance routine, do kicks and pirouettes. Us workers had to think fast and duck or we’d get a leg in the face.  Laraine was moonlighting at the Y, studying nights to earn her law degree. Other “Y” workers I remember — Noli, a Filipino who’d come to Vegas, lost his shirt and found himself stuck there (not an uncommon story), Lois Whitaker who said when she and her husband found better jobs, they’d take me with them and didn’t, and a winsome girl from Hawaii nicknamed “Sweet Leilani”, a good-natured, helpful kid.

As strapped as I was for stability in this very unstable city, I got tired of handing one towel after another out to slick, sweaty customers, and I quit.  My sister’s partner, Rico’s brother, Dean, who also happened to be living in Vegas, got me a job with Rainbow Cinemas. It was too far from Edna Avenue for me to walk. Aunt Helen (with whom I’d made some measure of peace) told me I could use Aunt Marie’s car to get to Rainbow. I accepted. This seemed to be the only way to keep myself going in that hell hole of a place. I was very depressed, missed the East Coast, especially the change in seasons and had lost a lot of weight (I was down to 128 lbs). I liked cinema work — perks for employees offered free movies!  One woman named Sylvia was so kind to me, especially when, after only a couple of weeks of working there, Marie’s car bought the farm and couldn’t be resurrected. For a day or two, I walked miles to-and-from work until Sylvia, seeing I was on the verge of collapse, offered to pick me up and take me home on workdays. But –(and no kindness ever goes unpunished), a week or two into this free ride, poor Sylvia’s car conked out, also never to be resurrected. There was no way for me or her to keep our jobs.

This was the last straw in my star-crossed years in Vegas; I’d only moved out there to lend a helping hand to Helen and my cousin. I demanded Helen pay for a return flight to Massachusetts. I’d had it up to here…I remember saying to her, “This place is killing me!”

Back home in New England, I stayed with Diane and Rico for a time. Then, it was back to the employment drawing board.

There was an ad in the classified section of The Boston Phoenix. It read: “Room in Harvard Square in exchange for work with disturbed youth.” I saw it again when looking for a job. This same ad had been running verbatim for years and years and I was curious as to how this person was still “a youth”. Mostly out of desperation, I called the number listed from a pay phone. A feeble female voice answered and I asked if she could tell me more about the job. She explained that the work involved caring for her autistic son (whom she still didn’t explain was no longer “a youth”) and asked my age. When I said I was 45, she said, “Oh, no, that won’t do. I have only area grad students here, most in their early 20s.” As she added “I’m sorry”, I could hear her pulling the phone away from her ear, to hang up. I shouted, “No!  Please! Wait!  I heard her bringing the phone back and she said, “Yes??”  I explained that I’d had a lot of experience working with special needs populations, not only in work settings but also personally and told her I’d just come back from three years looking after my handicapped cousin. “Well, she said, “Why don’t you come in for an interview?”    I should have let her hang up…

I’ve already written about my consecutive stints with The Sheas (as a companion/cook) and with Cambridge Public Libraries. Those nine years would fill a whole book.

In 2007, the economic climate led to my being laid off from both jobs and I came back to Lowell, tail between my legs, to once again lick the fresh wounds of unemployment. Again, Diane and Rico let me work out my depression with them. I finally found work dog-sitting for my friend, Sally. Sally was to join her partner, Mitch, who did entertainment lighting for entertainers like Michael Jackson, in L.A. and whose two Boston terriers, Reuben “Ruby” and Shecky needed a sitter for the couple’s time away. Ruby was an always a loveable “licker” and liked me. Shecky hated my guts and that became so obvious, Sally decided it would be too problematic for me to handle both dogs on my own so she boarded him, leaving me with the very passionate Ruby, whom I became very fond of. Ruby had a green ball he was overly fond of. It was rare to find him without it in his mouth; he carried that ball everywhere. At night, he’d sleep with it clenched between his teeth. His Linus “security blanket”. Sally and Mitch owned a large, cozy loft on The Riverway. Looking back, I realize my stay there, surrounded by the Scheherezade decor and by the ever-entertaining Ruby helped heal me of my miseries.

In around 2010 or thereabouts, I was contacted on Facebook by the writer, Edmund White. To this day, I’m not sure what compelled him to contact me. I guess it was a combination of his noticing on social media my work-related posts on Facebook about having been a caregiver and sometime editor/proofreader and had been friends with M.F.K. Fisher. He also found it “cool” that actress Bette Davis, a favorite of his, hailed from my hometown of Lowell, and that I’d majored in French language and literature in college.     Edmund had suffered a series of strokes and was recovering at his New York City home. In March of 2012, he wrote to ask if I might be willing to come act as his caregiver/typist/all-around-man.  The pay offered was more than generous and the chance to be around a well-known author was tempting. I said “yes”. We agreed I’d come in April of that year. But he changed his mind, said someone would be helping him in the month of April and could I please come in May? I said, “Okay”. But May came and Ed changed his mind again, said his sister, Margi, would be staying with him for a couple of months and — “Can we make it July?”   I began thinking this was all some kind of joke but didn’t want to offend the great Edmund White whose work I had always admired. Besides, I hadn’t found work here in the area so I agreed to the switch.     In July, I rode the bus down and literally walked the distance from New York’s Port Authority on 42nd and 8th Avenue to Ed’s place on 22nd Street, suitcase in hand. Had I known how many blocks had to be traversed, I would have taken a taxi cab. Outside a flower shop on 8th Avenue, my nerves started to collapse. It took me a while before I called to stay, “I’m here”.   Ed buzzed me in and I took the elevator up to the second floor. There, standing in the doorway was quite the largest man I’d ever seen. Ed’s face had a great, beaming, welcoming smile, his great girth filling the entire doorway. I’m big but Ed, whom I noticed was my height exactly, was bigger. His instant friendliness dispelled my fear as he ushered me into his home. Truth be told, his boyfriend, Michael, was not as cordial. He looked me over head-to-toe. A look of disdain came over his face. He hurried to a room and slammed the door. Ed apologized for him, explained that he (Michael) was stressed, that he was going down to Chapel Hill, to help a friend move up to Boston. But I intuited that Michael’s behavior had little to do with stress. In gay culture, if a guy is fat, homely and shy, trust me — he doesn’t count for much. Michael seemed horrified that I, who looked nothing like my Facebook photos, had shown up in his home. He did cede his room, a beautiful, book-filled room, to me for the duration of my stay. That night, I could hear Ed reading Michael The Riot Act. “He’s come all this way TO HELP US!!  Be nice!”   In the morning, at the breakfast table, the air had cleared. Before departing for the bus station, Michael gave me one of the warmest hugs and kisses I’d ever received.

Ed was a charming host, a superlative fellow. I don’t think I was the best employee he’d ever found but he must have liked me; he was to invite me back half-a-dozen more times. We became friends and these stays with him were more like vacations than work. He squired me all around Manhattan: to Lincoln Center where we saw Balanchine’s Jewels, to an East Village bar where we were present at the debut of now-acclaimed poet/novelist, Ocean Vuong, to a performance of Uncle Vanya at City Center with Cate Blanchett. Ed was generous, at times, ridiculously so. He was endlessly witty, endlessly erudite, endlessly kind. I loved working with him on his books, my favorite being his memoir, Inside a Peal: My Paris Years. When asked to re-arrange his extensive home library, it was a hoot attempting to navigate my way through the many tiers of books each shelf held, on the verge of collapse they were. Avalanche!   Of course, Ed had his quirks and tics. Don’t we all?

He could be blustery, unreasonable, temperamental. He was, after all, Edmund White. He passed in 2025 and I miss him, miss his emails, miss his quixotic phone calls. He had a habit of calling out-of-the-blue, chiming excitedly, “Quick!, write this down!” and would dictate some memory he’d resurrected, an anecdote he wanted preserved. Ed’s company, whether in person or on the page, made of life something sparkling, something special.

Saying I had a checkered work life is an understatement. I look back and wish I’d had more steady employment but am grateful for the wealth of stories my peripatetic job history has left me with.

___________________

5066 Edna Ave

Aunt Helen

Bookstar

Cousin Cookie

Dean – Las Vegas – 1997

Edmund White – 2014

Flamingo Library

Laraine Burrell

Ruby with his orange ball

Seen & Heard: Vol. 6 

Welcome to this week’s edition of Seen and Heard, in which I catalog the most interesting things I’ve seen, heard and read over the previous seven days. Because the Olympics and the Super Bowl both came this week, this edition is exclusively about TV:

TV: Winter Olympics Opening Ceremony – With the six hour time difference between Europe and here, and my fortunate status as a retiree, I was able to watch the entire opening ceremony of the 2026 Winter Olympics live on television Friday afternoon. I think I’ve only ever watched the full opening ceremony of the 2024 Summer Games in Paris, and that was on tape because I was still working then, so that’s my sole basis for comparison. This show was hosted by Terry Gannon of NBC sports and Mary Carillo, a former professional tennis player and a longtime NBC Olympic broadcaster. She was a late replacement for Today show co-anchor Savannah Guthrie whose mother went missing in Arizona last week. Gannon and Carillo were joined by former Olympic snowboarder Shaun White. Much of the show was visually stunning and highlighted Italian history and culture, although I’m guessing at that since the hosts didn’t do more than read brief snippets from a script on those topics. I don’t know if the producers felt the average viewer would be bored by too many cultural references but I felt like I missed a lot. The same was true with the outfits the athletes wore as they paraded. I assume there is both cultural significance to the national athlete uniforms and also an attempt to promote national brands, but I recall little commentary on any of that by the announcers which likely reflected their collective background in sports. (The American athletes looked stunning in long white woolen coats, white pants, and knit red, white and blue turtleneck sweaters, hats and mittens, all made by Ralph Lauren.) The TV hosts were certainly knowledgeable about sports, but there is plenty of time over the next few weeks for sports talk. To be fair, Guthrie’s eleventh hour crisis had to disrupt the plan, so she might have added some non-sports dialogue to the broadcast. The two singers I recall were Mariah Carey who came near the beginning and Andrea Bocelli near the end. Both were good. They are global superstars so the expectations were high. Perhaps the most notable feature of this opening ceremony is that it was the first in Olympic history to be held simultaneously at multiple venues. Athletes paraded at four geographically dispersed sites which was good for the athletes since they could all participate in the opening parade but not great for the viewer because it created a strobe-like jumping from one shot to another without providing time to soak it all in. 

TV: Winter Olympics, week 1 – When it comes to watching sports on TV, my philosophy is shaped by ABC Wide World of Sports which ran on Saturday afternoons for 37 seasons, from 1961 until 1998, and especially its opening narration, “Spanning the globe to bring you the constant variety of sport . . . the thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat.” You can’t get more globe-spanning than the Olympics (except, perhaps the World Cup), so I try to watch as much of the games as I can. On Saturday, I watched the figure skating team event; women’s ice hockey, US v Finland; and men’s “big air” snowboarding. On Sunday, with competition from the Celtics v Knicks and the Super Bowl, I only caught the teams figure skating competition which was very good with the US winning the gold medal. On Tuesday, I saw more figure skating. My heavy menu of figure skating had more to do with the randomness of my viewing schedule than an intentional selection, although figure skating is always very dramatic. 

TV: Super Bowl LX – I’m a casual football fan who likes to watch an exciting game regardless of which team is involved. If pushed, I would choose the Patriots as my favorite team, but not because of any deep affection to the organization, although most of the players on this year’s roster seem likeable, down to earth, and allied with each other. As for the game itself, I turned it off after the halftime show with the score 9 to 0 in Seattle’s favor. From watching past Super Bowls in their entirety, I knew that each half can be like a separate game so I didn’t feel a Seahawks victory was certain, but when I awoke on Monday and checked my phone, I was not surprised that Seattle had won. That’s because in the first half, the Seattle defense was stifling. I think every Patriots possession ended with a punt. The offense was unable to generate any momentum and was unable to keep the Seattle pass rush away from the quarterback. However, the Patriots defense matched that effort which kept the score so close. I suspect the key to the game was that Seattle quarterback Sam Darnold did not make any costly mistakes. So anytime the home team loses, it’s a disappointment, but thinking back to last summer, the best most fans could have hoped for from this team would be a winning record. To make it to the Super Bowl was an unimaginable-in-summertime bonus. 

TV: Super Bowl Commercials – As mentioned above, I went to bed after watching the Bad Bunny performance so not only did I miss the second half of football, I also missed some of the best Super Bowl commercials. In the time I did watch, I was underwhelmed by the commercials which are such a big part of the Super Bowl experience. Then on Monday morning upon reading a few “Best Super Bowl Commercials” articles with links to the videos, I realized the best commercials were shown during the second half of the game and the “worst” included many of those I saw live. Two of the best involved topics that are often shunned in the national conversation. The first, titled “relax your tight end” featured many of the top NFL tight ends, both past and present, in relaxed settings. Then former Tampa Bay Buccaneers coach Bruce Ariens emerged as the spokesperson for the product being advertised, a simple PSA blood test from Novartis that helps detect prostate cancer (of which Ariens is a survivor). Historically, testing for that illness involved an uncomfortable and invasive examination by a physician that led many men to avoid the test. In recent decades, a simple blood test has been used for prostate cancer screening but the historic hesitation to delve into that area persists with catastrophic results since if prostate cancer is caught earlier, the treatment is highly effective, but if it is missed it can spread elsewhere with predictable consequences. So this not only advertised a product but also was an effective public service. The other “top commercial” that touched on an untouchable area was for Raisin Bran. It featured William Shatner who shortened his name to William Shat. “Shat” is the ancient past tense of “Sh*t” which is what the commercial was about. Well, it was about how consuming more fiber of the type found in Raisin Bran better regulates your bodily functions in a healthy way. Like the PSA commercial, this one used humor to address an important topic that is often avoided. As for the others, go to YouTube and search “best 2026 Super Bowl commercials” to see more.

TV: Super Bowl Halftime Show – As I’ve grown older and my entertainment tastes have changed, I’m less likely to say, “I don’t like” something and instead assume that if I don’t like something that is popular with many others, I must be missing something. That was the case with Bad Bunny, who before this week I’d heard of but never knowingly seen or heard. That changed last week when he won Album of the Year at the Grammys and, while he did not perform at that show, he was frequently on camera. That introduction plus the knowledge that he would be the star performer of the upcoming Super Bowl halftime show set me on a crash course to watch some Bad Bunny videos on YouTube. That he sings exclusively in Spanish was not a concern; it just made me once again regret not putting more effort into my three years of high school Spanish. As for this year’s Super Bowl show, I enjoyed it while watching live, but was left with a strong desire to learn more about the many cultural and historic markers embedded within. Overall, it reminded me of the musical (on stage and in the movies) “In the Heights” by Lin-Manuel Miranda, a celebration of Latino life and culture in Brooklyn, New York. Finally, as is the case so often, there is a strong Lowell connection to the halftime show but I’ll wait until this Sunday’s newsletter to point that out.

Having a Ball

Having a Ball – (PIP #96)

By Louise Peloquin

Have you recognized any names among the 100 + listed below distributing tickets for the Lowell Centennial Ball?

L’Etoile – February 20, 1926

TICKETS FOR THE CENTENNIAL BALL

__________

On the evening of March 1, admission to the Auditorium will require tickets. – The ball committee, the directors, the City Council, the mayor and the executive committee will distribute them.

__________

     The centennial ball committee has been busy for over a week and has already raised great interest by naming the directors who will have the tickets in hand.

     The ball will take place in the two Auditorium halls. However, it will be impossible to accommodate everyone planning to attend. Since police officers have never been given the task of refusing people when rooms are full, the committee decided to use admission tickets. They have already been printed and will be distributed by the ball committee members, the directors, the City Council, the mayor and the executive committee. Directors and half of the ball committee members have them. The others will have them on Tuesday morning at the latest.

     The ball promises to be the gala event of the year. Formal attire will not be required to attend. This is optional. The celebration is meant to be a birthday party and the program was prepared accordingly. A large cake with the dates 1826-1926 will set the tone. Professionals and amateurs will perform traditional and modern dances. An orchestra will play. Late into the night, paper streamers will be festooned around the hall. That is part of the March 1 celebration.

     Regarding the tickets, once again, all ball committee members present on Thursday afternoon have got theirs. The others received notices this morning indicating where to obtain them.

Here are the names of the men who now have tickets:

     Alvah H. Weaver, James E. Reilly, Joseph Legare, Hammond Barnes, Edouard T. Bailey, Arthur Bernier, Roland Boudreau, Raymond Bourgeois, Butler D. Burrage, John Kendrick Butler, Donald F. Cameron, William Canton, Joseph Schiller, Joseph A.N. Chrétien, James F. Conway, Charles E. Delorme, Joseph Desrosiers, Royal K. Dexter Jr., Joseph M. Dinneen, Joseph P. Donahue, Allan Dumas, Arthur L. Eno, Barrett Fisher, John Rogers Flather, Charles G. Forrest, Dr. A.J. Gagnon, Dr. Raymond Gendreau, Frank Goldman, Francis J. Haggerty, Thomas B. Higgins, John J. Hogan, Frank J. Hubin, James F. Kane, Dr. Joseph Kearney, Charles L. Keyes, Julian B. Keyes, Gardner M. Macartney, Dr. Francis R. Mahoney, J.C. Manseau, Warren Mansur, Frank McCartin, John J. McPadden, Thomas J. O’Donnell, H. Hutchins Parker, Arthur G. Pollard 2nd, Richard F. Preston, William C. Purcell, George H. Runnels, John P. Sawyer, Stephen H. Scribner, Ames Stevens, Richard K. Stover, Robert R. Thomas and Carl R. Wenigmann.

     Next Tuesday the following groups will have tickets to distribute and are asked to give them to people they know will use them.

     The committee of directors: Frank K. Stearns, president; Joseph A. Gagnon; George H. Harrigan; John A. Hunnewell; Charles L. Madden; Ralph E. Runels and John J. Walsh.

     The executive committee: councilors James J. Gallagher, Daniel J. Cosgrove, Frank J. Hubin, John J. McFadden, Richard F. Preston, Robert R. Thomas, Francis Haggerty, John E. O’Brien, Frank E. MacLean, Edward T. Bailey, Joseph A.N. Chrétien, Joseph F. Montminy, Arthur Genest, Abel R. Campbell, Thomas F. Inglis, Walter J. Cleary and John R. Kiggins.

Charles E. Anderson, George E. Barnet, John H. Beaulieu, George Bowers, Philip F. Breen, Edward B. Carney, John P. Ryan, Royal K. Dexter, David Dickson, Charles A. Donohue, Eugene F. Fitzgerald, A. Flather, Joseph A. Gagnon, Joseph H. Guillet, George M. Harrigan, James F. Hennessy, Charles H. Hobson, John A. Hunnewell, Patrick Keyes, Richard J. McClusky M.D., Thomas McFadden, Frank P. McGilley, Elmore I. Macphie, Arthur McQuaid, Charles L. Marren, Joseph A. Molloy, William P. Morrissey, George E. Murphy, Parker F. Murphy, Patrick F. Nestor, John P. O’Connell, William F. O’Connell, James O’Sullivan, Franklin S. Pevey, Harry G. Pollard, John E. Regan, John J. Riley, Stanley Robinson, Fred Rourke, Ralph E. Runels, Frederick A. Sadlier, Arthur T. Safford, Alfred P. Sawyer, Frank K. Stearns, Joseph E. Sullivan, William Trottier, Jude C. Wadleigh, John J. Walsh.

     Anyone wishing to attend the ball is to choose a friend from this list. Everyone in the city probably knows one or more of these members and can make their reservations.

     Everyone must not forget that the Auditorium is not made of rubber. It cannot be extended. Consequently, strict rules will be enforced as always. It is better to know in advance whether or not one can obtain a ticket rather than come and wait at the door for an hour only to be refused at the last minute because the hall is crowded.

     An effort will be made to recuperate as many unused tickets as possible in order to pass them around. With the least inconvenience possible, the goal is allowing access to everyone who wants to attend the ball.

__________

L’Etoile – Front page February 23, 1926

A DAY OF FESTIVITIES MONDAY

__________

Since Lowell is celebrating its 100th anniversary next Monday, all shopkeepers are asked to close their businesses at 1 PM that day.

__________

THE DAY’S PROGRAM

__________

     An initiative has commenced among Lowell’s businessmen to make Monday, March 1, a holiday on the occasion of the centennial of the incorporation of Lowell as a “town.”

     Here is the proclamation launched to the public by the Lowell Centennial Executive Committee:

An appeal to the public

     On Monday March 1, Lowell will mark the hundredth anniversary of its incorporation as a town. Up to now, all of the projects by the local government and the residents have been planned to celebrate the anniversary appropriately.

     With this in mind, the Lowell Centennial Committee has prepared a program with three distinct ceremonies.

     At 9:30 in the morning, Lowell schoolchildren will have commemorative ceremonies in their classrooms and at Memorial Auditorium.

     At 2 in the afternoon, adults are invited to an official ceremony at Memorial Auditorium with guests of honor from various cities across the State.

     At 8 in the evening, a Centennial Ball for all Lowellians will be held at the Auditorium. The Centennial Committee hopes the day will provide everyone the opportunity to pause for a moment and to reflect upon the importance of the anniversary – upon the fact that their city is 100 years old. With this in mind, the Centennial directors appeal to all shopkeepers to close their businesses at 1 in the afternoon on Monday March 1 in order that all residents and outside visitors may know that Lowell is celebrating a momentous event.

Lowell Centennial Board of Directors,

Frank K. Stearns, President,

Joseph A. Gagnon,

George H. Harrigan,

John A. Hunnewell,

Charles L. Marren,

Ralph E. Runels,

John J. Walsh.

(1)

 ****

1) Translations by Louise Peloquin.

A novel dive into masculine alienation by Marjorie Arons-Barron

The entry below is being cross posted from Marjorie Arons-Barron’s own blog.

Flesh by Hungarian-British author David Szalay was recently announced as the winner of the 2025 Booker Award. Although the Booker board called it “a propulsive, hypnotic novel about a man who is unraveled by a series of events beyond his grasp,” I found it hard to get into. At best, I saw its protagonist, then-15-year-old Istvan, as an expression of an aspect of contemporary masculinity: alienated, apathetic, inarticulate, defined by a sense of powerlessness.

Istvan lives with his mother in a large apartment complex in Hungary. He grudgingly accepts her demand that he regularly help an older resident bring home bags of groceries from the local market. The “older woman” turns out to be 42 years old, and, over time, she seduces him. His conversational skills are limited to grunts, answering questions with monosyllabic questions like “yeah?” and learning from her the tools of sex with near-total lack of agency. In this, as in others of his relationships, sex is presented solely as an animal function, never equated with love and rarely paired with introspection that leads to self-understanding.

In the earliest chapters, the reader gets no sense of Istvan’s interior life or, indeed, if he has one at all, even when he does time at a juvenile institution in the wake of the seducer’s husband’s death in a lethal fall in the apartment building. His incarceration taught him only that he was capable of being a fighter.

He later enlists in the army and serves five years in Iraq.  By now, we are getting drawn more deeply into his story. Persuaded to see a therapist to deal with what is clearly PTSD, Istvan has a vague sense that war violence and the death of a friend have changed his life but, even with the therapist, he is hard put to articulate why.

Heavy smoking, excessive use of alcohol and abundant illegal drugs are themes across the ensuing years, as his life moves propulsively through jobs as a bouncer in a sleazy pole-dance bar, an employee of a private security company, then as a bodyguard and driver for ultra-wealthy private individuals.  That role requires him to learn how to dress in suits, improve his boorish behavior, and move discreetly in different circles. But his exterior changes don’t reflect similar development of his thought processes, his understanding of why he does certain things. The reader wonders more about where his passivity – just waiting for things to happen to him – will lead him than does Istvan himself, who seems to have no regard for his future at all.

The setting lurches from Budapest to London. He gets drawn into a sexual relationship with his wealthy employer’s wife (simultaneously with a side affair with another member of the corporate titan’s staff). I won’t go into where this all takes him, his rise into the world of material wealth, or where he ends up.

In many ways, Istvan’s relationships echo that of his first sexual encounters as a 15-year-old.  In one of his rare reflective moments, he says that, with women, “It’s hard to have an experience that feels entirely new, that doesn’t feel like something that has already happened, and will probably happen again in some very similar way, so that it never feels like all that much is at stake.” Good grief!

In middle age, Istvan’s potential to be more than a rote sexual animal becomes clear when he becomes a father and, perhaps for the first time, shares a little interior emotion. He hopes that adolescence for his pre-teen son will be less stressful than the years of his own burgeoning physicality. But, when tragedy strikes, he sinks deeper into alcoholism. As he ages, he begins to understand that his life has been changed by a handful of people who have played roles in it, but he never gets to the point of being able to express, even to himself, exactly what that process has entailed.

This is a dark book. It has a way of pounding from one stage of Istvan’s life to the next, with our grasp of events revealed often after the fact. It is a world of empty people, of understanding only through often meaningless physical experiences, of loneliness and anger.

Ultimately, I came to understand the Booker board’s decision. Szalay’s writing style is minimalist, his sentences truncated, replicating how stunted Istvan himself is emotionally. The spare prose sadly captures an emptiness experienced by too many men today. Flesh fosters an understanding of what drives a large cohort of alienated  people in today’s fraught political world and is an important, if difficult, book to read.