A big, long car deserves a big, long story. This one will take a week to tell, a new installment, a new car every day this week, with the finale on Sunday.

Thinking the loss of his virginity might change his luck at the slots, Perry found out the two had no correlation at all other than the expectation far outweighing the realization in each case.  Both ended up being expensive, as well.  The two were forced to check out of the Flamingo early, Perry’s cash slipping through his fingers in Las Vegas more quickly than he’d ever imagined it could.

Perry and Holden slept their last night in Nevada and first night in California in the Packard due to lack of cash for a hotel.  “The Packard ain’t bad for traveling, but lacks in comfort as far as overnight accommodations,” Perry pointed out the second morning he’d woken up in the back seat. “I’ve made do with a whole lot less,” Holden replied.

Truth be told, the two nights bunking down in the Packard Executive Sedan were more of an object lesson for Perry in careful money management than absolute necessity. True to her word, Mrs. Silverman had been including a separate, additional cash envelope for Mr. Holden at each stop. The money was not intended to be used as a slush fund to cover shortfalls or unwise spending en route. It was a salary bonus for him to use as he saw fit, whether he spent it or squirreled it away. Unbeknownst to Perry, Holden had more than enough spare dollars to cover their temporary lodging shortfall.

Cal’s Las Vegas envelope also contained his own private note. In it, Mrs. Silverman alerted Cal that she had included in Perry’s envelope a letter from his girlfriend Susan, and while she hadn’t read it, felt certain it was a breakup letter. She urged Holden to be sensitive to Perry’s mood changes and any concerning behavior. There was also a notice that, recognizing the vast distances involved in traversing the wide open spaces of the western United States, the weekly California envelope could be claimed in either Los Angeles or Sacramento contingent upon their routing decisions leaving Nevada.

Thus, both man and boy looked a bit disheveled when approaching the Farmers and Merchants Bank at 4th and Main Streets in downtown LA Monday morning. Waiting for the doors to open, Holden had given Perry a quick lesson on the building’s Classic Revival style and why the directors would have chosen it when they built it in 1905.  “Temples of Finance is what they were going for,” Holden explained looking up at the massive Corinthian columns.  “I’d say they nailed it.”

Again, Perry was handed an envelope with cash as well as a typed note from his mother.

Dear Perry, 

I trust your journey is going smoothly.   I’m sure you will enjoy your two weeks in California.  I’ve made arrangements for you to have lunch tomorrow with a friend of our attorney, a Mr. Hal Wallis.  Mr. Wallis is a producer of some prominence.  You may have heard of him and I think you and Mr. Holden will enjoy meeting the man.  Figuring you’d be checking into the Beverly Hills Hotel, I’ve asked him to meet you at 1:00 poolside.  He is not someone you would ever want to keep waiting.

Mind your manners,

Mother

Even to someone who grew up with wealth, The Beverly Hills Hotel was an impressive, no, awe-inspiring property to behold.  The abundant lush, meticulously landscaped and manicured greenery was — again — like nothing he’d ever seen before. In Las Vegas, Perry had wondered about the astronomical cost of the electricity required to power the neon signs, flashing lights and gaudy casinos. Here, he reeled at what must be the cost of the gardeners, landscapers and maintenance staff needed to keep the place looking like Eden before the Fall. The palm trees swaying in the gentle summer breezes were nearly as beautiful as the young women making their way around the lobby and pool, some hoping to be discovered, others not wanting to be seen.  Perry was sure some of the gorgeous young women must be starlets.  If they weren’t, they just as easily could have been. Perry had never, ever, had so many pretty girls smile at him in so short a time.

Just before 1:00PM, Hal Wallis wheeled his 1948 Lincoln Continental into the hotel parking lot where it could be seen from the pool.  Perry and Holden knew it was him, though they’d never seen him before.  The car, the color of the palms swaying above them, simply looked like something a Hollywood producer would drive.  They way he stepped out of it and the gait of his walk announced wordlessly that he was a Person Who Mattered, a man in control and fully in his element who commanded respect and took no nonsense from anyone.  

As Wallis emerged from the lobby area into the sunlight of the pool deck, he scanned the array of guests seated there and focused immediately on the table occupied by the two men who most didn’t fit in to the scene — the racially mixed pair of young men.  Certain that they were his luncheon appointment, he gave the two a wave of greeting from a distance, which was duly returned. 

Perry was quite apprehensive at the prospect of meeting this gentleman, far more than he was meeting his mother’s friend Georgia back in Santa Fe. Perhaps with reason, he was intimidated, worried about what he’d have to say to such a man — a notable mover and shaker in an industry synonymous with this particular subsection — Beverly Hills — of this vast city and at this hotel of all places, which many considered the actual living, beating heart of Hollywood.

He needn’t have been. Other than greeting him with a handshake and a “Pleased to meet you, sir.” the sum total of words Perry spoke was perhaps a dozen or two.  Wallis was a forceful and plain-spoken talker who quickly found he had much more in common with Holden, and more of a basis for conversation with him.  Both men had the backgrounds and heritages of people who’d been oppressed and discriminated against.  Born Aaron Wolowicz in Poland, his family made their way to California 30 years earlier.  Less than 20 years after that, after advancing quickly in the movie industry, Wallis won the Best Picture Oscar for producing Casablanca.

Over a lunch of Cobb salads and club sandwiches, Wallis told Perry and Holden the story of that evening in 1944 when he won the Oscar.  When his name was called, studio head Jack Warner ran up on stage to grab the award, the rest of the Warner family blocking Wallis from getting out of his seat.  “I couldn’t believe it was happening. Casablanca had been my creation; Jack had absolutely nothing to do with it. As the audience gasped, I tried to get out of the row of seats and into the aisle, but the entire Warner family sat blocking me. I had no alternative but to sit down again, humiliated and furious … Almost ten years later, I still haven’t recovered from the shock.”  Holden nodded along as he recounted the story, Perry found it all hard to believe, or completely understand.

A little more than an hour after he arrived, Wallis apologized and, claiming prior commitments, prepared to leave. Before arising from the table, Wallis’ demeanor shifted notably to a more sincere, personal, even genial tone.  “You know, fellas, I enjoyed our lunch and our chat here today. Beautiful day, huh? And this place is always great! Also, frankly, one of the best parts is that nobody came up to the table and interrupted us — maybe I should say interrupted me — I did kind of monopolize the conversation a bit. Anyway, that’s rare — a pleasant, uninterrupted lunch — that someone else is paying for! I’m in heaven!”

Now addressing Perry, he continued,  “I agreed to meet with you, Perry, as a favor to a business acquaintance, but I wasn’t very much looking forward to it because, to be honest, I was expecting to be pitched for a screen test or handed a “can’t miss” script to promote or asked for industry introductions. You know, career help. Put in a good word. Open doors, whatever. When I first saw you, I just knew I was right. With your looks, your size and your bearing, you had ‘aspiring actor’ written all over you. Obviously, that isn’t the case. You seem to be a bright, thoughtful young man. You didn’t say much, which means you were listening. And let me tell you, successful people listen, absorb, learn.. only then should they talk.” 

Pausing, Wallis drew a breath. “Shit! Listen to me go on and on! And this guy,” he said, nodding in Holden’s direction, “if he’s a chauffeur, I’m Clark Gable.” Holden took a breath and prepared to interrupt, but Wallis held up his hand to silence him. “No offense, no offense.” Looking back to Perry, he continued, “This man” again  indicating Holden, “has some education and some valuable experience under his belt, which is unusual — I’ll be blunt — for a Negro these days.”

 Now, Wallis did arise from the table and took a quick look at his wristwatch, a Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso, flicking the gold case over to read the time. “I really gotta go. Big meeting about my next picture. Should be out in about a year. Starring Shirley Booth, you know, that gal from Come Back, Little Sheba?”  Shaking hands with Perry and Mr. Holden, Wallis added, “I do know you fellas are on some kind of a ‘Grand Tour’. My guess is that Mr. Holden here is some combination of tutor, bodyguard and watchdog. Hm. That could be a great movie! Anyway, Perry, this guy has got some substance,” he said with emphasis, “Listen to him. Anyway —really great meeting you both, and I hope we meet again.” Finally, in a kind of bemused, off-handed way, and to no one in particular, he said, “No interruptions. Unbelievable!”

And, with that, the famous producer strode back towards the lobby and through the hotel in the direction of the parking lot. A minute or two later, the sound of the Lincoln’s V-12 starting up signaled Wallis’ departure.  Perry and Cal looked at each other across the table, both with a common facial gesture of releasing a slow stream of air from pursed lips and puffed cheeks, expressing a combination of amazement and released tension following the whirlwind lunch encounter with Hal Wallis.

The shade and view by the pool combined to create a perfect atmosphere for Perry and Holden to then relax and engage in one of the longer discussions they’d enjoyed thus far in the journey. They conjectured at what might have been Mrs. Silverman’s purpose in setting up a meeting with that particular man, Wallis. Did she think Perry might harbor an interest in show business and wanted to afford him the opportunity to explore that? Perry assured Holden that there would be no reason for his mother to suspect that. 

From there, the conversation expanded. They talked about prejudice and opportunity. Holden explained why Wallis changed his name when he came to America and how he was able to overcome his earlier life to still be one of the most successful men in a tough industry. They examined the possible reasons for the remarkable slight played upon Wallis at the Oscar ceremony years ago. Both Wallis and Warner were Jewish, with recent European heritage. The only logical answer seemed to be that Jack L. Warner was an overbearing jerk who would do anything, fair or unfair, to gain an advantage.

Perry, thinking beyond himself for one of the first times on the trip, asked Holden about his own background and what he’d had to overcome.  Mr. Holden was not one to wallow in whatever his own disadvantages had been, but he was not one to act as though his ability to get beyond them was a given.  The stories he shared of his youth in the south, of not having running water or an indoor toilet, of growing up in abject poverty sounded to Perry like tales from a foreign land.

When the conversation flagged, Holden excused himself. He had an important detail to take care of. From the pool area, Holden made his way inside to the Concierge’s Desk off the lobby, where, that morning, he had made some discreet inquiries on behalf of his young charge.  Once provided with the needed information, Holden pulled the Packard around and collected Perry for a quick side trip. Surprisingly, this time, the lad entered the front passenger’s door rather than the rear, positioning himself on the tan front seat for the first time on the trip. It was a change in hierarchy that would henceforth become permanent, or at least would be until they made their way to the deep south months later, where the previous arrangement, for appearances’ sake, would serve their needs more effectively.

Cal Holden guided the stately Packard east on Wilshire Boulevard, the Champs-Élysées of Los Angeles, past high-end shops, eateries and car dealerships, then past residential neighborhoods and gated, private drives oozing wealth, opulence and influence — a street basking in its own self-congratulatory post-war success: the “Miracle Mile,” Hancock Park, Fremont Place. After a short drive, they encountered a tall, turquoise “skyscraper” of 12 stories (the highest permitted in Los Angeles at the time) sitting obliquely at the corner of Wilshire at Western Avenue  — the Pellissier Building and Wiltern Theatre complex. The art deco and zig-zag moderne edifice, built in 1931, was the home of Warner Brothers’ flagship movie house on the ground floor with the high-rise structure dedicated to various medical, legal and business concerns. Perry noted the theater was currently showing the 3-D western The Charge at Feather River starring Guy Madison and Vera Miles.

With the appointment that had been made and the directions that had been provided by the hotel concierge, the two found their way to the medical offices of Dr. Robert Allan, a dermatologist. It seemed that Kandy, Perry’s sixty-minute entree into the pleasures of the flesh in Las Vegas, was the gift that kept on giving. A round of penicillin was needed to take care of the issue as quickly as the roof had been cut off Kandy’s Cadillac.  So many life lessons were being learned that Perry could scarcely keep up with them all.

Dr. Allan’s 10th floor office was simply furnished, albeit with very high quality solid mahogany chairs with brown leather seats and three mahogany end tables interspersed. Both the tables and the chairs were accented with supple leather inserts on the chair arms and tabletops and affixed with hammered brass nails as would be found in a high-end club or lounge.  Upon each table was a library lamp, similar to those found in the Library of Congress, a crystal ash tray. and a selection of periodicals: the New Yorker, Saturday Evening Post, Atlantic Monthly, National Geographic, and, surprisingly, Motor Trend and Road & Track. Even more surprisingly, all were current issues. The forest green carpeting was a lush, deep pile residential quality floor covering, not the thin, commercial grade one might expect to find in a business. On the walls were two large watercolors by the western artist Donald Teague. One of the paintings was signed and personally dedicated by the artist to the doctor. In its understated elegance, the room was easily the equal of the Silverman’s study in their Fort Stockton mansion.

A middle aged woman was exiting as Cal and Perry entered the office, leaving only a well-dressed young woman in her 20’s sitting in the middle chair of a line of 5 along the long wall, flipping the pages of a National Geographic. Cal approached the receptionist and advised her that Mr. Silverman was checking in for his appointment, while Perry settled in a chair next to the young woman, leaving an empty chair between them. Cal selected a seat along the other wall next to a table with New Yorkers and Atlantics and selected one of the literary magazines to peruse.

As Perry sat down, the young woman glanced up at him and did a quick double take at the strapping young man. The sudden movement caused Perry to look her way and their eyes met. There was a mutual shock of electricity which came unexpectedly and simultaneously to each party. There was a discontinuity in the space-time continuum; the entire universe shifted several angstroms. Within Perry, there was a vague sense of danger, of unreasoned confusion.  Within the young woman, a different sensation arose, one not unfamiliar to her, one typical of the thrill and excitement of the hunt. 

The young woman casually placed the National Geographic she was reading on the chair next to her and reached into her purse, extracting a pack of Lucky Strikes. Selecting a cigarette, she continued searching in her purse for a match or lighter, but came away empty-handed. At that, the woman shifted slightly in her chair and turned to her left and asked Perry in a languid voice marinated in fine spirits, cigarette smoke, and an adventurous lifestyle that belied her young age, “Excuse me, do you have a light?”

The voice, Perry thought, the voice. It was a professional voice, one that is used in her profession … have I heard it before? Wait, she’s asking me a question. Confusion. Danger? What was it? It took a half second for Perry to snap back into the present and actually address the woman’s question. “Um, no, sorry. I don’t smoke.” She smiled at Perry. Hearing his voice for the first time, it occurred to her he might be a little younger than she first thought. But how young is too young? 

With complete ease and confidence she responded with a fetching smile, “Well, that might be a good thing. Some people consider it a bad habit, but really, dear, a gentleman should always come prepared for all — ah — eventualities.” Her eyes sparkled as she delivered her next words, “You never know when a girl might need a spark … or a flame.” As she spoke, Perry’s brain was shutting down, with possible responses flashing past his mind’s eye, being evaluated and rejected at a pace impossible to sustain. In the brief silence, the young woman looked back into her purse, said “Oh! Look!” and extracted a book of matches. They were from the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Laughing, she gently chided her own “stupidity” at overlooking the matches, which gave Perry half a second to formulate a response of sorts. “Oh, the Beverly Hills. That’s where I’m staying.” 

“Of course. I thought possibly I’d seen you before. Maybe there?” she said. Perry’s frozen mind-to-mouth function had thawed to the extent that he was able to respond with a perfectly reasonable and logical comeback, “No, I don’t think so.” But then, gaining strength, he followed up with his trademark killer grin and a wink and a quite sincere rejoinder, “I’m certain I would remember seeing you.” with a purposeful emphasis on the “you.” In the few seconds as this exchange was taking place, the woman had reached into her purse again, fetched a ball-point pen, folded back the cover of the matchbook and wrote a word and some numbers on the inside. She handed the matches to Perry and told him “Keep these for the next time you encounter a  damsel in distress, uh… “ she paused with an expectant, quizzical look. To his credit, Perry sussed out the significance of the pause. “Perry. I’m Perry Silverman.”

Across the room, Cal was sitting transfixed in his chair, watching the remarkable interaction unfold. He was frozen in disbelief and fascination with the first words the young woman spoke to Perry, as he recognized her immediately and had few illusions about what was occurring. In the few seconds over which the exchange took place, he knew full well this was a situation for which he was simply unprepared, for which there were no known guidelines. Cal could only observe, tense and silent, waiting for the right moment to…to…to do what?

“Are you in the business, Perry?” the woman asked, “You certainly have a ‘Hollywood’ look about you, and I mean that only in the best way. By the way, my name’s…” The young woman’s words were cut short by the door opening to the hallway leading to the examination rooms. Two men stepped into the waiting room, the doctor, dressed in a long white coat and the inevitable stethoscope hanging from his neck, was walking a step behind one of the most recognizable faces in the country and maybe the world, a face belonging to Humphrey Bogart. Perry, who was unconsciously leaning in ever closer to the young woman, who was in turn leaning in towards him, was able to add things up instantaneously. He had been talking to Lauren Bacall, or Mrs. Humphrey Bogart.

Bogart, sizing up the scene before him as he stepped into the room, addressed his wife, “Everything OK, Baby? Is this gentleman bothering you?”

Both Perry and Bacall rose from their chairs and Bacall answered evenly, “Oh, no. Not at all. I thought I recognized him from Hall Wallis’ party last month, but no — he’s a civilian.” Bogart looked Perry up and down and remarked to his wife “Could have fooled me.” Addressing Perry, he continued, “You know, this is usually what a director or producer says to a young starlet, but, kid, with a mug like that, you oughta be in pictures.” Bogart’s delivery of the line, complete with his distinctive sly half-smile could have been lifted from one of his films. Emboldened, and getting into into the light-heartedness of the situation,  Perry responded by saying, “I’ll take that as a high complement, Mr. Bogart, and thank you. I’m a big fan of yours — and uh Mrs. Bo, uh Bacall — your wife.”

Bogart chuckled at Perry’s stumbling over how to properly refer to Lauren Bacall, a star in her own right, and remarked, “Kid, let me…” but was interrupted by Bacall who quickly interjected, “His name is Perry, Bogie.” Bogart started again, “Perry, even though you’re not in the Business, let me give you some valuable advice.” With a casual shrug in the direction of Bacall, he continued, “You gotta stay away from dames like her. They can be your ruination.” Feigning surprise and outrage, Bacall slapped Bogie on his arm which got the desired response of gentle laughter from the man. “Just for that, you owe me dinner tonight at Perinos!” she said.

Dr. Allan, who had silently witnessed the whole exchange, took the opportunity to interject. “Well, that sounds like a great resolution. Alex is a good friend of mine, I’ll have my girl call the restaurant and make sure you can get a table. What time shall she make the reservation for?” Bogart responded, “Seven, Bob, make it for seven. Thanks so much.” Turning back to Perry, he made a parting comment, “Well, Perry, I don’t know what a big, healthy-looking kid like you has to see a doctor for, but this gentleman will fix you right up.” nodding his head in the direction of the doctor. 

Perry extended his hand and said, “Thank you again, Mr. Bogart. It has been a genuine thrill to have met you. And if I could, there’s another fan I’d like to introduce you to.” Turning back towards Cal, Perry said, “This is Calhoun Holden, my driver — and friend. I know he’s seen several of your movies.” 

Cal ascended from his chair and extended his hand which Bogart took with a firm grip. “Mr. Bogart, I’ve seen all four of your films with Miss Bacall, and I can’t tell you what a singular experience it is to meet you both together, especially under such unusual and informal circumstances. A pleasure, sir.” Holden then turned in the direction of Bacall, bowed slightly and said, “Ma’am.” Bacall extended her hand, looked Cal straight in the eyes and said, “Mr. Holden, the pleasure is ours.”

The final words came from Bogart. “Doc, I’m hoping for my next appointment, you’ll arrange to have another group of such fine, agreeable patients to converse with us here in your office.” And with that, the Bogarts headed for the doorway. Perry observed silently as the pair exited. For a brief moment, Bacall’s eyes met his, and she made a fleeting facial gesture — a brief smile, eyes heavenward, and a barely perceptible shrug — which sent another jolt through the boy’s system. Dr Allan turned to Perry and said, “Mr. Silverman? Why don’t you step in here and we’ll get you taken care of in short order.” The two disappeared down the hallway as Cal plopped down in the chair he had just vacated. For the second time that day, he took a deep breath which he slowly expelled through puffed cheeks and pursed lips, scarcely believing that he and Perry had encountered two of Hollywood’s biggest stars in such an intimate manner.

Perry was done with his appointment quickly and the two were soon back in the Packard heading west on Wilshire towards Beverly Hills. After a few blocks, Perry announced that only having a salad for lunch had left him with a deep desire for a hamburger. Cal agreed wholeheartedly and then suddenly gestured off to the right and said, “There’s that restaurant our new “friends”  going to tonight, Perino’s, but I doubt we could drop in there for a quick burger and a Coke at this hour. I’m sure there’ll be something else in the next few blocks.” Perry retorted, “Oh, I’ll bet we could — we’ll just tell ‘em Bogie sent us!” 

Sure enough, there was another place ahead. A couple of minutes later, off to the right, the big, white Carnation Milk headquarters building appeared, and right next door to it was the modernistic Carnation fountain lunch restaurant, doing a respectable business even at this pre-dinner hour. As Cal parked the car and the two exited, the aroma of griddle-fried hamburgers was pervasive and appetite-enhancing. Each of them ordered two cheeseburgers and a thick chocolate malt. The two ate, mostly in silence, each in their own minds attempting to process the experiences they had shared over the past few hours. The hamburgers were excellent; the malts, to die for. As Perry was paying the check, his hands found the Polo Lounge matchbook in his pocket. Pulling it out, he flipped it open and saw what had been written on it in the doctor’s office, Granite 42353.

The rest of their time in southern California was spent seeing all the normal sights, taking in the beauty of the region, mostly the coastline, and the people who lived there.  Holden spent time in book stores in nearly every town they went to, selecting books for Perry to read on the road and then discuss over dinner at the next location.  Some were about politics, more were about the history of the area they were in.  There were novels and short stories, some of which Perry fought to get through, others he read twice so he could have plenty of good questions for the discussion that would follow.

The week they spent in northern California was highlighted by the days in San Francisco, a place Perry had heard of but had no idea could actually exist.  They caught a showing of Casablanca at an art house theater, feeling a connection to the man who’d won an Oscar for producing it and the film star who acted in it. They had a late dinner on Fisherman’s Wharf, discussing whether it is better to love and lose it, or never love at all; a question for the ages. Each had a different perspective that mirrored their age, experience and background.

They made their way through the Pacific Northwest, Idaho, and Montana, turning south to pick up Wyoming, Utah, and Colorado.  In Denver, they got to the Colorado National Bank about fifteen minutes past noon for the weekly allowance and communication.  Inside the envelope were two notes, but no cash.  “Excuse me,” Perry said.  “I believe there should be some funds in this envelope.”

“There were, sir.  Those have been returned, per instructions from your mother.”  The bank president glanced at his watch and noted it was 12:15.  Three months earlier, Perry would have been incredulous and blamed it on Holden.  Instead, he laughed, appreciating the fact that his mother had kept her word.  He would indeed, never be late at the bank again.  “A lesson that only cost me a thousand dollars,” he told Holden.  The typed note from his mother said nothing about him being late to pick up the weekly cash and correspondence. She wouldn’t have known he would be. But wasn’t surprised to see the money show returned to her account two days later.

The other note was from Braxton, his high school classmate.  His penmanship was horrible, though his message was heartfelt.

Perry,

I know what I did was wrong and we probably won’t ever be friends again.  I don’t blame you.  Or anyone.  I was stupid.  The rest of our friends have just left for college.  I miss them already, just like I miss you.  Wish we could all be in high school again.

Susan and I got married last weekend.  At the courthouse in Marfa.  Not the ideal honeymoon.  She’s pregnant and I’m going to work for my dad instead of going off to school.  Just wanted you to know.

Your (former) best friend,

Brax

That night in the restaurant at the Brown Palace Hotel where they’d checked in, Perry told Holden about the note and the fact that he was paying for everything this week out of money he’d put back from the previous weeks.  Holden just smiled.  “The money is easier to replace than friendship,” he said.  “You’ll have the opportunity to make money the rest of your life.  You’re already starting out with more than most people will ever have.  Friends don’t come that easily.”

The next morning Perry went back to the bank and wired Braxton and Susan five hundred dollars as a wedding gift, with a note that just said, “I’ll always love you both.”  

Making their way through Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska and the Dakotas, it dawned on Perry that he didn’t really take the seasons fully into account when he’d mapped out the route.  The chill in the air became cold, then freezing, then almost unbearable.  They bought chains for the Packard in order to make it up to Mount Rushmore in the snow.  The debate over which of the presidents should have and shouldn’t have been included reflected the parts of the country each of the men had grown up in and the privilege they each enjoyed.  In the end, it helped Perry understand how reasonable people can disagree on things and still remain respectful.

By the time they got to Detroit, they were nearly half way through their journey.  Perry sometimes got behind the wheel and drove, especially where long distances were involved.  While they were in the Motor City, they toured the Packard factory where the Executive Sedan had started its life, before it was sent to Henney Coachworks for conversion.  Perry noticed how many of the men on the production floor were black.  

That evening, in the lounge of the recently remodeled Sheraton-Cadillac Hotel, the subject came up.  Holden explained, as best he could, how even a hundred years later, things that had taken place between the North and the South were being felt in terms of opportunities for different classes of people.  He endeavored to help Perry understand how unions worked, who they helped, sometimes hurt, and why they were formed.  “Seems like management would just want to treat everybody right so they can all keep making money,” Perry said after hearing the basics.

“You’d think,” Holden told him.  “But human nature is such that it doesn’t really work that way.  There are improprieties and abuses on each side, make no mistake.  Nothing is ever as easy or clear cut as it seems on the surface. There’s an old saying. ‘The truth lies somewhere in between.’ Many people consider that a cop-out, that you should take a position and defend it and stick to it through hell and high water. But Perry, that is a recipe for deadlock, conflict and, ultimately, woe.”

In the week that followed, the two made their way to Lake Michigan, the Upper Peninsula, and scenery, food, and people the likes of which Perry had never seen before. And, on this trip, Perry had seen so many things he’d never seen before, that he sometimes seemed to be reaching the limit of his ability to absorb the concept of “new.”  “Is every part of the country so different from all the others?” he asked Holden, more of a musing than a question.

“You tell me.  You’ve seen better than half of it now.”