The book. Chapter 1

Robert Malecki malecki at
Fri Sep 27 01:15:32 MDT 1996

(unedited version)



Here it is, my razor, lying before me and my computer. As I pick
up the razor and look at it, I see the words Gillette written on
the slightly curved top. The razor was probably made a very long
time ago, perhaps surplus left over from the second world war and
you have to screw it up in order to place a double edged blade into
the razor. My razor is silver, not much of a razor one would think
I mean with all the different kinds of ways and machines one can
use today to get the hair off your face, what's the big deal? Well
for me my silver razor is very special. Not only have I had this
razor in more then twenty years, it is also government issue!

Not everybody, these days, gets a razor from his very own government.
My razor,was issued to me many years ago, by a prison guard in the
Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary. A standard government issue given to
all prisoners on entering prison. Back then in democratic America,
people going into prison, despite their background, race or colour,
received this standard razor. It does not matter if you are Jimmy
Hoffa (former leader of the Teamsters Union) or Joe Blow nobody,
everybody has the democratic right to receive a government issue

I have had my razor since 1970.

25 years we have been together my razor and I. My life is devided up
into the time before I received my razor from the government and the
time after this historical event.
A razor if used correctly can be very useful to a person. Not only can
you scrape hair off your face ,which I have obviously done for years
now, perhaps the only difference being that my whiskers are getting a
little greyer and softer these days. But there are lots of other things
I can do with my razor.    I can  use my razor to remind me of some
of the more extraordinary events of the past. I can get extremely angry
and scream at my razor.I can hold my razor and have  the same feelings
as a child with a pacifier in its mouth feels.

It calms me down.
My razor stills my soul, my rage, my fears, my vengeance and at times
my razor lets me hold on to my sanity. My very  being, existing and
survival ,on  a daily basis, depends on the relationship I have with
my razor. Boy, its a good thing the government, probably in order to
save money, made a razor which appears to be indestructible!

A friend of mine who lives in Australia, he was running the underground
railroad for American soldiers deserting from the armed forces during
the war in Vietnam, suggested to me that I should write down my
experiences in life. He said if you can't write your experiences down,
play them in on a tape recorder.
I said to myself that I would have to talk to my razor about this.
To my friend Max I said,

"who cares about my fucking history?"

A number of weeks  have gone bye since my friend Max and I had talked
about this stuff. I had been extremely edgy and realised that something
was bothering me, when one day I threw one of my sneakers at my cat
"Sputnik" or "Leo" depending on which name the cat uses. I was not
angry at the cat, in fact, the cat hadn't anything to do with my
anger. My cat was just an innocent bystander for my rage. Sort of
like the Vietnamese who innocently got in the way of the bombs being
dropped  out of those B-52,s flying 20,000 feet over their heads during
the war. Neither my cat knew why he got a sneaker in the head or the
Vietnamese all of a sudden, out of sky, all hell broke lose when 500
pound bombs started dropping on their heads.
What was bothering me was the fact, that Max had told me on the
telephone that Robert McNamara had written a book.

So, what's the big fucking deal?
Somebody wrote a book so what. Well Robert McNamara was not just
somebody, he was the former secretary of defence during the war years.
McNamara was responsible for Vietnam war policy under the Johnson
Do you know what this guy did?

He creeped out of a closet somewhere, 27!, twenty seven years, after
he left office and claims that the war was all wrong!
Now that is really incredible!
I who has been living in exile for over 24 years in Sweden because of
my opposition to the war in Vietnam. I am told that the guy who was
responsible for leading the war until 1968 has confessed that the war
was all wrong!  McNamara, that is an act of a political coward. There
are still people living in exile. There are still people living
underground. There are GI,s who were crippled for life. There are
55,000 GI,s who came home in body bags. There are millions of
Vietnamese that died and millions more who are still suffering
because of the war.
McNamara its a little to late for confessions. What is it, are you
trying to get Bill Clinton off the hook? You know what I mean,
disarming the question of what Bill Clinton was doing during the war
>from being a question in the elections in 1996.
Or do you need the money?

That  is what made me throw my sneaker at the cat I was extremely
upset. I needed to talk to my razor, I needed to scream at my razor
about this stuff. McNamara you fucking creep, climbing out of the
closet after all these years.

Bill Calley, leader of the My Lai massacre, a free man today and I
still can not return to the country of my birth.

Some of my children have not been able to see me their father in
twenty three years and grandchildren who have never met their
grandfather. McNamara, how dare you come out of the
closet and open up all these doors for me again. Rage, horror, fear,
sorrow, guilt, happiness and kick ass feelings.

So,McNamara wants to write about the war years.

O.K. well we have a story too.

Its much better story then McNamara,s.

Its a success story!
A success story in the fact that this is one working class kid that
you didn't feed into the meatgrinder as of yet. They are still trying,
up to the writing of this book, however they have not succeeded as
of yet.
Not only that McNamara, we beat you and your employers, we won a great
victory by forcing you and the people you work for to retreat. It was
the largest and most humiliating defeat that the rich people and the
American government have been faced with in its short history. We
kicked the rich people, corporations and the American governments ass!
The price has been very high, but this time in history, it was the
little guy who won.

Ha, Ha, Ha, McNamara we whipped your ass!

Millions and millions of little people kicked the ass off one of the
most powerful countries in the world.

Do you realise that these fucking people, McNamara and his
employers, have always been trying to kill people like me and it
started before I was born.

I am a poor, working class  man, that is why the fatcats want my ass.
53 years old soon and for 53 years the rich people have been trying to
get me killed  in one way or another. So lets get my razor and me and
see where it goes.Who knows, maybe some kid sitting on a rooftop in
one of the projects of  America, playing with his prick, like I did
when I was a kid, can learn something in the struggle to survive in
the future.
Its 1942, October 27th 1942, the day I was born. Obviously I had no
idea what was going on nor what sort of a world I was coming into on
this particular day. It turned out so that at this particular time
in history everybody was singing the classical song "I'm singin in
the rain". It was Hollywood's answer to the long list of defeats
imposed on America by the Japanese after the bombing of Pearl
Harbour. Bataan, Malasia, Correquidor and Singapore. I'm singin
in the rain, with Gene Kelly was the tune coming from Hollywood
as working class kids marched off into Japanese prisoner of war camps.

I did not know this.

Christ I didn't even know that my dad died, soon after I was born,
leaving mom with three kids to raise. Who the fuck was he, my dad,
just going off and dying on us.I do remember that we were poor, no
money, dinaro, pesetas, dollars, rupees, no we were really fucking
poor. I remember that my mom got really pissed off at me one time
about money, because we were poor. One evening she sent me down to
the corner store with 25 cents to buy some chopmeat to have in the
soup we usually ate for dinner.
Those days, it was really a privilege to get some chopmeat in the soup!

On the way home from the store, I found this dog who had been
injured, probably hit by a car, in his back leg. I used the chopmeat
to coax the dog to follow me home to the apartment we were renting.
My mom was enraged in the fact that I had used all of the chopmeat
and her hard earned money on a dog. She started crying about it. I
was sent to bed without supper for this horrible crime. But we got
to keep the dog!

That was my mom, a hard working woman of the American Telegraph
Company. Yeah, back in those days there were still telegrams and
people who delivered them to your doorstep. She, my mom, had to
work hard and long hours in order to raise and feed three kids
alone. I did not see much of my mom when I  was little, she was
always busting her ass to provide a roof over heads and food for
the day. We never got Christmas presents like toys and shit. We
always got new clothes at Chistmas time. For my mom it was a
question of survival. That my mom was so poor and had it so tough
is probably the reason she married Harry. I will get back to Harry
in a while, but let us zoom into the future.
My razor is pissed off at me. Its saying to me "cut the bullshit" I
wasn't around at this time. I make the assumption that my life is
devided into, life before my razor and life after my razor, and
guess what?
My fucking razor takes it seriously. So in all fairness to my razor,
which has become an integral part of my life, I will hop into the
future for awhile...


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