Bill Dorgan
by George Zidbeck
Hello Bill Dorgan! I'm throwing in your last name here to make sure there'll be no confusion with other Bills. I have a younger brother named Bill if you remember.
Well, no you can't remember. I'm sorry for bringing it up. Anyways, you've been dead for almost fifty years, and I apologize for just now letting readers know you were my first friend for realsies – going way back to 1939 in the old days of the Panama Canal Zone when I lived on Barnebey Street in Balboa on the Pacific side.
My family had just returned from a summer cross-country trip, New York to California, sight-seeing the northern States, and then hitting the southern States on the return to Brooklyn, N.Y. to board the ship taking us back to the Panama Canal Zone. We hadn't even had time to settle into our new home when you showed up with a bunch of neighborhood kids to help me and my siblings get acquainted. You — tall, lanky, and freckle-faced — were then eleven-years old -- two and a half years older than I. Our twenty-family neighborhood offered twelve offspring less than eighteen years of age with at least ten forming a steady, cohesive playgroup of children aged four to twelve. Of that number, you were the Big Kahuna, the choreographer, the MC, the ringmaster of much of the activities that filled our non-school hours year after year until my mother took my three younger sibs and me to California in 1944.
Where do I start, Bill? Itemizing all the activities and games you initiated (some co-ed, many just for the guys) might prove tedious and boring. And I'll never forget your telling me my first dirty joke. You taught me so much. For some reason, I never questioned where you had learned the many fundamentals of spinning a top, throwing a knife, building a kite, playing tree-tag or bicycle-tag…. But what made you stand out with me was your taking me — just the two of us — to the Canal Waterway or Far-Fan Beach to fish. Also, your getting me a part-time job with you at night at the Clubhouse bowling alley where we earned four cents a line setting pins.
Later, after WW II started, you proposed we shine shoes for all the countless G.I.s who inundated the Clubhouse area. We built shoeshine boxes, but then your mother didn't like the notion of your doing such a job. Your disappointment showed, but it didn't bother you that I shined shoes, ten cents a customer, and did quite well.
The way I carry on, some might think that never an angry word passed between us. Not so. A part of boys being boys comes from the notion that fisticuffs sometimes settle disagreements. We both had signed on to take boxing lessons organized by a Mr. Jack Johnson. He worked for the Isthmian Canal Commission, but he had a part in organizing the Saturday Night Boxing Matches where we young Golden Glove combatants in the Canal Zone were paired against youngsters from a Panama City boxing club. Your height and long arms enabled you to win all your matches, whereas most of my bouts ended in a draw.
A winner earned $3.00, a draw earned the two participants $2.00 each, and losers pocketed $1.00. Such monies quickly left our hands. I can't remember your fighting moniker, but embedded in my mind to this day is my name on the program for those Saturday nights I donned the oversized, 16 oz. gloves and stepped into the spotlighted ring. It's been over seventy years, but I'll always remember that after my name someone had added, "The Balboa Battler."
Well after our friendship ripened, we had a disagreement one afternoon over some issue or incident. With half a dozen playmates looking on, we squared off. I can't recall what triggered the confrontation, but there we stood, each with fists clenched. Before critical mass, my Aunt Georgia drove by, a passenger in the rear seat, and she hollered out my family nickname: "Buddy, come here." For me, a face-saving call, allowing my retreat without having to back down. For most assuredly, Bill, you'd've creamed me if we sparred for ‘keeps.'
More than your organizing block activities, I recall your trying to arrange a softball game with some kids at La Boca, a "Silver" community. Oh Bill, as kids we just accepted without question the designations of "Silver" and "Gold" rated employees. Our fathers — mine a machinist, yours an electrician — were U.S. citizens, nearly all male and Caucasian, living in their own enclaves. Early in the ‘Canal Construction Days,' cheap laborers — nearly all dark skinned — were brought in from the Caribbean Islands, mainly from Jamaica, and placed in 'colored (Silver) townships.' The ‘color line' in some ways exceeded that imposed in the Deep South.
Notwithstanding that division by skin color, you contacted some young guys in La Boca and challenged them to come to our Balboa softball field and play against 'our' team. When the day came for the game, and we were all set to play, the Caucasian man in control of the gym and surrounding sports fields came out and said to the La Boca team, "No, no, you guys can't play here. You go back to La Boca." To your credit, Bill, you argued with the man to let us play even as the guy turned away and went back into the gym office.
We were more than pals, notwithstanding that brief face-off moment mentioned earlier. How can I set aside that day your five-year-old baby sister died after being hit by a car going the wrong way on a one way street while she walked home from kindergarten one block away? Her death put the whole neighborhood in shock. I didn't know what to do, but I wanted you to know how sorry I was.
Without having a good way of expressing my feelings, I rummaged through my 'junk drawer' to find something of value to give you. Shortly after walking to your upstairs apartment in the four-family home alongside my place, I — without comment — entered your bedroom where you sat alone, crying, and I gave you a golf ball. You accepted my offer, and gave me a nod in thanks. I turned around and returned home.
Three days went by without your coming out to play. And when you did, perhaps six or seven of us were out in the open space where we neighborhood kids congregated every afternoon. You bounded to us with a smile on your face. Initially I felt glad that you had returned to your friendship circle. But a young man from two blocks away had joined us, and commented, "Bill, you act as if you're glad your sister died." You ignored him, and we joined you in such condemnation to where he knew he had spoken out of turn and in haste returned to his home.
The litany of our joint escapades might continue for a dozen more pages. It's time though to wrap up the episodes of our youthful friendship by referencing puberty. Not unlike many young males, we shared our curiosity about sex and wondered over the many complexities of growing up. Bill, if you were alive today, I'd tell you that we were "catchers in the rye," who managed somehow to reach adulthood without a bagful of guilt.
When my mother took my siblings and me to California in 1944, I suspected we'd never see each other again. And as the years of separation multiplied, I moved hither and thither — served in the U.S. Army, and went to a mix of colleges under the G.I. Bill, plus married a wonderful woman (a divorcee with a seven year old son) in 1955.
Still taking classes in UCLA in 1957, my family living at a Redondo Beach rental, I answered a knock on the door. Stunned for a second, I looked at your tall, lanky frame and freckled-face with that distinctive full-toothed smile and tried to gather my wits. Recovering, I remember telling you, "Bill Dorgan! I'll be damned. How the hell did ya find me?"
"You remember the McKeowns? Well, Norma kept in touch with my sister in Arizona, and mentioned your mother's address in Corona, and in time your address. "Good, good; come in and meet my wife and son." It didn't take you but a second to win them over, and become a regular visitor.
Not long after our reunion, my father — whose alcoholism proved a bane on my adolescence — stopped by. I hadn't seen him in over two years. He had just been released from a nearby General Hospital after treatment for a kidney infection. He stayed three nights with my family. On his second night, you stopped by for a visit.
Proper and correct with my father, you said, "Well, Mr. Zidbeck, it's like the old days. Do you think it likely that you might return to work in the Canal Zone?"
Dad shook his head side-to-side before saying, "No. Not likely." He paused, and then added, "Sometimes it takes a long time to see the light. And for some when they do, it's too late."
My father left the next morning, but even weeks after whenever you stopped by, you commented on how my father sounded so profound with his expressed sentiment.
Your first sudden marriage surprised me as did the divorce that quickly followed. Soon thereafter, you and two friends – also chemical engineers working at a nearby petroleum refinery – left for Pennsylvania. You later wrote that you relocated to Venezuela and married a young lady from that country. After the birth of a daughter, you vacationed to the U.S., stopping by to visit me and my family in Carson, California.
Within a year, you and your family moved back to Pennsylvania. Not long after, I received a letter notifying me that you, at age thirty-five, died of a heart attack. Your death also killed the notion that you and I might have kept our renewed friendship into our Golden Years. I wish I had the chance to ask you now what you did with that golf ball I gave you. Even beyond that question, Bill, I'd want to lay it out for you how your being there for me during my formative years gave me a depth to my character plus set a standard for friendship that I've tried to emulate. Thank you, Bill, thank you much!
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