A Norman Mailer Prelude to a Betty Smith Party

There are photographs of me with some notables – Richard Nixon, most notoriously. The picture always refreshes my memory of a time in 1957, when we were both Vice Presidents. Him of the United States; me of Louisville, Kentucky's Young Republican Club. Yes, I was. But I have no photographs with most of the notables I've met. Fading memories are all I've got. Some hook, like a photograph or an attending event that makes a deep impression, keeps memory fresh. I have no picture of Norman and me; and no attending event that refreshes my recollection. We met at a party at Anne Queen's house in Chapel Hill. Had Mailer stabbed someone there, I'd have a better memory of meeting him. But he didn't and, so, I don't. Mailer might hate the comparison, but I have a much better memory of meeting a lesser novelist at another party there, Betty Smith, the author of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Joy in the Morning.

Anne Queen was the Secretary of the YM/YWCA at UNC, Chapel Hill, when I was in graduate school. My wife was her YWCA associate secretary. Anne was also UNC's unofficial hostess for visiting guests. She gave great parties and we were usually invited. Her strong sangria encouraged conviviality. So, I met Norman Mailer over cups of Anne's sangria. I remember that his ego"filled the room," as they say, but it wasn't enough to leave much more memory. My wife recalls asking him about his run for mayor of NYC and that he laughed about it, but she doesn't recall much more. Betty Smith, we both remember.

So, I'm a first year graduate student in history at Chapel Hill, with a recently minted degree in theology. I'm employed part-time as a tutor in Durham, North Carolina's anti-poverty program. I tutor African American students at a black church in Durham and its pastor is opening a school for lay adults. I volunteer to teach church history for him. Those classes were held in an old house on the edge of"Hayti" (pronounce that with a long i), Durham's largest black enclave. Some students there had college degrees and some of them had no more than a grade school education. They were attentive one night when I gave a talk about"Augustine on Time, History, and Eternity." So, I was on a high when class was over and walked out into the dark night. Hayti had few street lights.

I'd no sooner gotten in my car than there was a knock on the window of the right hand side of the car. An African American man opened the car door and asked"Where are you going?""I'm going to Chapel Hill," I said."Fine," he replied."Take me with you." And, just like that, he got in the car. When he did, I saw the headlights of a car pull up on the left, beside my car. In our headlights, I saw its driver cross in front of both our cars and, in his right hand, was a gun. The man sitting in my car said:"He's got a gun. You'd better get out of here." So, as soon as the man with the gun stepped up on the curb, I took off. As I did, I heard shots and bullets whizzed past us.

So, there you have it. In the dark of night, I'm in flight through downtown Durham, North Carolina. There's a stranger sitting next to me in the car and we're being chased and shot at by another stranger. Ignoring stop signs and red lights, I raced toward Durham's downtown business district, where there were, at least, street lights. At the city's old bus station, I saw a police car and jerked my car to a halt near it. Jumping out, I ran over to the police car."That man's in my car; and that other man is shooting at us," I blurted.

Never have I better understood the issue of white privilege in my life. Apparently, the man sitting in my car was seen trying to break into a warehouse and the man chasing us was a warehouse guard. And I was driving the getaway car! Had I been an African American, I could never have convinced the white policeman that I had nothing to do with the attempted break-in. But, with just a few questions from the police, I was free to leave my passenger with them.

So, I left Durham that night rather badly shaken and drove over to Chapel Hill, where my wife was at Anne Queen's party for the novelist, Betty Smith. Ms. Smith was well beyond her best years by then – a minor celebrity who sometimes lost her way around her adopted hometown. I walked into the party, in need of a big cup of sangria and listening ears into which I could pour my bizarre story. When I joined a circle that included my wife and Betty Smith, I started into it and, before I got to the shooting, my wife turned back to the novelist and said:"Now, what were you saying, Ms. Smith?"

Like Norman Mailer, Betty Smith's conversation was largely autobiographical and, before I could insist on the importance of my night's experience, the novelist was launched into a story about her first husband. I kid you not:"Now, what was his name?" she said. Pausing a moment, she finally recalled it:"Oh, I know: ‘Smith'!"

My Norman Mailer evening keeps the party for Betty Smith fresh in my memory. I hope Mailer can forgive that memory of him pales by comparison.