THE BLUE SUIT
Private conversations about everything Everett between the mayor’s Blue Suit and Leader Herald Editor Josh Resnek
I assume that many of our readers often take the time and the interest to explore literature or to read books, or at least to read short stories or something beside the satire and humor offered up in the Blue Suit.
I recently re read “Call of the Wild,” by the late Jack London. He was one of America’s great turn of the 20th Century writers. Many of you might well have read “Call of the Wild.” I know I did but about 50 years ago.
Reading it again was transformational.
I had forgotten about Buck, the main character in London’s novel set in Gold Rush Alaska in the 1890’s.
Buck is a dog, a great dog, an incredible dog, a strong proud dog who led other dogs, who lived like a king in a mansion with a life of plenty and ease, in an environment where nearly everyone loved him and appreciated him because he was such a cool dog.
In fact, if you read London’s novel carefully, Buck is way beyond being a dog.
Buck is a human being more than some people I know.
London has gotten inside Buck’s head. He and Buck communicate, or at least London knows all Buck’s thinking and his emotions. London knows everything about him.
He’s a bit like the way I know the Blue Suit, a writer’s creation that brings life to a cloth blue suit and endows him with the look and feel of a real human being, the ability to talk and to think, to eat and to sleep and to tell me his secrets about his boss the mayor but he’s really just a blue suit.
London gives such a presence and persona to Buck.
He knows what Buck is thinking. He knew Buck’s mother and other members of the litter he was born with. London also knew Buck’s master, a very wealthy California planter man adored Buck but for a wide variety of inexplicable reasons, Buck was sold out from under him when he was away by. Guy named Manuel who had a gambling addiction.
As I quite often like to write in the Eye Column, Buck’s master threw him under the bus – and from that moment on, Buck’s life was forever changed.
From the day Buck was taken on a leash from his old master’s home and beaten and starved repeatedly until the end of the book when Buck triumphs, his life became a struggle against evil, hatred, violence, and the kind of indifference that almost ended his life at least a half dozen times.
Buck went from soft to hard, from passive to a fighter, he knew his new owner and didn’t particularly like him because he wasn’t fed as well, or groomed, or given a comfortable place to sleep. In addition, his new master pit Buck against a dozen other savage sled dogs and he was forced to fight to survive.
In many many ways Buck is the Blue Suit. The Blue Suit is stretched, torn, worn out, ripped, stained, tossed into a bundle in the mayor’s bedroom, and quite often treated like a second class citizen the way Buck went from a life of ease to a life filled with terror and struggle.
What is particularly noteworthy about London’s chief character Buck, is that he is inside Buck’s mind. He always knows Buck’s next move or thought. He can predict how Buck is going to deal with a difficult situation.
London plots out Buck’s ascendance from a pampered, soft pet to a powerful, punishing leader of other dogs. He shares Buck’s strategy with us.
Time and again, London writes about Buck being beaten with truncheons, sticks, and chains, by his new master who has no real interest in Buck’s well being.
I care about the Blue Suit the way London cared about Buck. I write about the Blue Suit with the same passion that London wrote about looking into the mindset of a dog.
Check this out, the very beginning of London’s masterpiece.
Buck did not read the news- papers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tidewater dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thou- sands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.
Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller’s place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by graveled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants’ cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller’s boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.
And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless, strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.
But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge’s sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge’s daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge’s feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge’s grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king, king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller’s place, humans included.
His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge’s inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large, he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds, for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a health preserver.
And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozen North. But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know that Manuel, one of the gardener’s helpers, was an undesirable acquaintance. Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness–faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a garden- er’s helper do not lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny.
The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers’ Association, and the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel’s treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them.
“You might wrap up the goods before you deliver ‘m,” the stranger said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck’s neck under the collar.
“Twist it, an’ you’ll choke ‘m plentee,” said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready affirmative.
Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger’s hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.
The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more.
“Yep, has fits,” the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. “I’m takin’ ‘m up for the boss to ‘Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure ‘m.”
Hard to imagine the Blue Suit being as alive as Buck, isn’t it?
Or is it?