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American Odyssey

by Alvin Levie

251 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-1327; ISBN 1-4120-3499-X; US$22.50, C$27.99, EUR17.99, £12.99

American Odyssey is a chilling novel set in a future totalitarian America. The protagonist is a young fugitive who travels across the nation in search of the resistance movement.

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About the Book      About the Author      Excerpts      Catalogue Information

About the Book

American Odyssey, a novel set in the not-too-distant future, is the chilling story of a totalitarian America that has plummeted to a nation set on world domination. 

The protagonist, Herb, is a young "everyman", a schoolteacher.  He falls in love with a colleague who introduces him to the resistance movement.  A series of personal misfortunes, including the death of his soldier twin, impel him to become a dedicated activist against the dictatorship.

His group is soon exposed, and he and his love, Tony, become fugitives.  She is soon killed.  At that point Herb's odyssey begins as he travels the nation in search of "the movement".  The preponderance of  the novel reveals the state of the nation and of the people.  He comes into contact with a cross-section of the United States.  They are men and women -- laborers, farmers, professionals, students..They are Black and white and Hispanic, and each is unique in the manner in which his/her life has been degraded under the dictatorship.  At the beginning they are impoverished, fearful, dispirited. 

In time, as the economic crisis deepens and battlefield losses mount, there are changes in the populace.  Apathy turns to anger and then to resistance.

Herb becomes reconnected with the opposition to the dictatorship.  The American people in large numbers, disheartened by the desperate quality of their lives, simply "opt-out" of the system.  The military, too,  appalled by the unending wars and bloodshed, also becomes disaffected.

Millions converge upon Washington, D.C. the dictatorship falls, and the foundation is laid for the re-establishment of  democracy in the United States.

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About the Author

Alvin Levie was born in New York City in 1927. He has had a varied work life. Following his discharge from the Navy in 1945 he worked as a seaman for the Army Transport Service. After a short stint as a baker's helper he worked for 10 years as an open-hearth steelworker in Pittsburgh. While in the mill he studied writing at Carnegie-Mellon University. He then found employment as a public relations professional in an advertising agency. From Pittsburgh he moved to Hartford. Connecticut where he worked as a union organizer. In 1984 he traveled to Nicaragua and researched Nicaragua - The People Speak, which was published by Bergin & Garvey in 1985. Levie and his wife, Edith, have recently re-located to Bradenton, Florida. They have four children and 10 grandchildren.

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Excerpts

"Not much of anything, I'm sorry to say," she replied. "Not that he doesn't want to work, but there ain't nothing to do in West Texas. My Elmer's daddy was an oilfield roughneck, and his grand daddy, too. Elmer figured to do the same, but when his turn came, the oil business was all played out. Texas crude was history. He tried. He traveled to Oklahoma looking for roughneck work. He went to Arkansas, Louisiana. He tried getting on a rig in the Gulf. He tried off-shore in California. But there was no oil anywhere, and nothing to take its place.

So after five, six years of getting beat-up, he came home to stay, and he

just sat on the porch and watched the birds fly by. We had to eat, and so I decided to go to work. There was nothing in Odessa, Midland, Kermit, Greenwood, or anyplace else near home. So I decided to try my luck in Las Vegas. It didn't take me long to get situated there. I've been in Vegas ever since. Sometimes I go to San Diego - I've got connections there, too. But I always end up back in Vegas. There's more money there, and it costs like hell to keep two kids in school, and a house, and a husband and all. Yeah, Vegas is the best, but I don't suppose I'll be going back there again." "And your husband, Elmer - what does he do back in Odessa?"

"Not much of anything, I'm afraid. He looks after the kids and the house. He drinks beer and kills time with the rest of the "would-be" "never-have been" roughnecks. My poor Elmer and the rest of those poor bastards, they can't even talk about the old days, because there were no old days for them. They never even got started."

"Does he know what you're doing in Vegas?"

"Elmer's no fool," said Dolly. "All he admits is that I got a pretty good paying job in Las Vegas. I send a money order to Odessa every week, and every month or two I come home and I'm a mother to my kids and a wife to my husband."

She sighed. "I wish that things were different. But you have to play the cards that life deals you. The problem is my kids. They're growing up, and I'd like for them to get out of Odessa so that they could have a better life than we've had. Only, I don't know where in the world I could send them."

It was full daylight when Herb and Dolly arrived in the San Diego area. She directed him to the pleasant suburban town of La Mesa. She had him pull up to a neat ranch-type house on a quiet residential street. Dolly instructed Herb to wait, and she entered the house. Ten minutes later she returned and handed Herb six one hundred dollar bills.

She leaned into the car and kissed him lightly on the check.

Said Dolly, "You've got something else promised, Herb."

He smiled, "Thanks, Dolly. Maybe next time."

He drove off.

*****

Area agriculture had met the same fate. Hay, grain, supplements, and other material that sustained ranching were shipped in by box car from other places.

Butte's decline was apparent by the hordes of shabby, dispirited had been cow hands, miners, and smelter workers idling on street corners, in the parks, and in the saloons.

As in other metropolitan areas rubbish-strewn streets, boarded-up shops, and vacant commercial buildings were the sorry evidence of Butte's deterioration. There was a western type saloon-restaurant across the street from Herb's hotel, and after strolling through the town on his first day in Butte, he decided to stop there for lunch and a drink. The place was dimly-lit and shabby, and a stuffed elk head and a snarling coyote hanging on the wall behind the bar were reminders of the area's out-door heritage. A dozen men sat at tables, playing cards or simply talking quietly. The bartender seemed an outgoing fellow, and so Herb took a seat at the bar. He ordered a beer and a sandwich.

As he ate, Herb engaged the barman in conversation. He soon learned that the saloon was a losing proposition - few of the patrons could ill-afford to eat and drink here. Rather, they gathered in the saloon to wile away long hours in company with other unemployed men. The barman - he was the owner - was a generous man, and never considered putting an end to such usage of his property.

Suddenly, a man - he was flushed with excitement - bolted through the swinging doors. In his agitation he was barely able to make himself understood. "There's a box car," he shouted. "At the siding about three miles east of town. There's people in those cars."

"What in the hell are talking about?" said Pat, the bartender. The others in the saloon looked toward the newcomer, vaguely interested. "So help me," the man continued. "Box cars - people - and there's Secags all over place."

Herb was the first to speak. "Where is this place? How do you get there from here?"

"I'm going back out there," said the man. "I'll take you. You'll see for yourself."

Now, all of the saloon patrons arose, and in a minute the place was empty. They piled into cars and pick-ups.

Herb rode with the man - his name was George. He was so worked up that he was all but incoherent.

"You'll see for yourself - box cars - people - and I think they're calling out - screaming."

In minutes, the vehicles from the saloon came to an empty field, beyond which there was the railroad siding. About one hundred men and women of all ages stood about in a silent line, looking toward a half-dozen box cars about one hundred yards distant. Half way between the people and the train was a row of Secags, armed, and menacing.

The box cars weren't were typical solid steel. Rather, the cars were the type used to transport livestock - wooden boards with four-inch gaps between them. From this distance Herb heard the faint voices of people in the box cars.

Apparently the box cars had been here for some time, the word had spread, and townspeople had converged upon this spot. Most of them were sober, silent, staring at this uncommon sight.

One woman asked, "Where are they taking those people?"

A man responded, "I heard tell of some kind of a camp down around Dillon."

"Who are they?" another man asked.

"Probably subversives."

"Bull-shit - so-called subversives."

"The poor bastards."

"Probably some of those people from San Francisco."

"The poor bastards."

"It's a crying shame."

"A disgrace."

The muffled voices from the box cars were unceasing, and Herb thought he heard the word, "Dictators" among the calls.

Herb noted that some of the women bystanders were teary-eyed. Near-by Herb witnessed a muted argument between a young woman and a man. He assumed that they were husband and wife. The man was holding tightly to the woman's arm.

"I don't care - I'm going!" he heard her say.

She pulled free, and started to walk casually toward the box cars - and the Secags. All eyes followed her progress across the barren field. As she approached the Secags one of the guards blocked her way. A few words were exchanged, and then the Secag grabbed her shoulder, and threw her roughly to the ground.

Her husband rushed to her side. Two of the Secags converged upon him, and then clubbed him to the ground. He seemed to be unconscious.

*****

INEXORABLY, THE WORLD-WIDE BOYCOTTS began to take their toll. Oversea sales of American products fell dramatically. Because of the prohibitive tariffs on automobiles and other imports, Asian and European trade plunged.

The first to feel the impact of the new American isolation was the shipping industry. San Francisco, the major west coast shipping port, was an early victim of the new global reality.

As imports and exports declined, The San Francisco Port Association, the trade organization of dockside employers, became alarmed. Profits had declined precipitously. The Association demanded far- ranging concessions from the International Longshore Workers Union. The most egregious was for an immediate thirty percent reduction in hourly wages. For the longshoremen, who had for years worked but twenty hours a week, this cut would drive them to the bare subsistence level.

As could be expected, West coast longshoremen, from San Pedro to Seattle, were enraged. At a rally of thousands in Oakland Stadium, ILWU president Barry Hedges thundered, "Let them unload their own goddamned ships. And we'll break their backs - if they can find there way to the Embarcadero. And if they rustle-up scabs to do their dirty work - we'll break their backs, too. The longshoremen cheered wildly. East coast and Gulf dockers expressed whole-hearted support for their Pacific coast union brothers.

As by statute, the matter was submitted to the National Arbitration Board for resolution. The issue was debated behind closed doors, during which time the longshoremen and the general population grew ever-more agitated. The proposed terms were universally viewed as an outrageous assault upon the already depressed living standards of San Franciscans.

Finally, after four weeks of negotiations, a "compromise deal" was announced. With the sole union representative outvoted, the employer and "non-partisan" board member declared their solution. Wages would be reduced by twenty per cent, and health benefits, vacations, and other fringes, cut commensurately.

"Strike," a word that hadn't been heard for years on the waterfront or anywhere else in America, was bandied about in San Francisco. Scores of union locals promised their support of any tactic that the longshoremen might choose. Teachers, warehousemen, teamsters, health-care, electrical, transport, retail clerks, among others, pledged fealty to the longshoremen. This was the point at which Herb drove into the bay city. The air of excitement was palpable, and even before seeking lodging he made his way to the ILWU headquarters to volunteer his services.

The office, now openly called "the strike headquarters, was a beehive of activity. Committees of every type were being established. Finance, medical aid, public relations, welfare, housing, transportation committees were in formation. A daily strike bulletin — a four-page flyer - had been established, and Herb was assigned to distribute it to drop-off points throughout the city. Other drivers would deliver the newspaper to Oakland, Richmond, San Jose, and other outlying communities. Hundreds of the unemployed, of whom there were thousands in San Francisco, would distribute the broadside on the streets - and computers, too, would be pressed into service. The National Security Agency be damned! This, Herb realized, was no spontaneous action. It had been well planned in advance. There was an efficient organization.

Because he wasn't familiar with the San Francisco streets, a guide was assigned to ride along with him. She was a slight, middle-aged Chinese- American woman, a nurse's assistant, and her name was Ana. Ana's husband was a longshoreman.

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Catalogue Information

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