No Heroes: A Memoir of Coming Home

No Heroes

My editor inquires if Arthur is excited that I am writing a book about him. I don’t know, I say. I get off the phone and call Arthur and tell him my editor wants to know how he feels about the book. He says that he wears a nightshirt to sleep in. It is not so long, the nightshirt, and sometimes he has to pull it down to cover his uh-ohs. The book makes him feel like the nightshirt is rolled up. I tell him that is the nature of art. I ask him if he wants me to roll his shirt back down. It’s not too late.

“No,” he says, “but one thing.”

“What?”

“No heroes.”

“Why not?”

“Heroes are not human.”

“What about Moses?”

“He’s no hero! He’s all confused. God was always mad at him. God tried to kill him three times. He’s no hero. He didn’t want to go up that mountain. God had to talk him into it. If God would talk to me, I would run to do it. If that happened to you, Sonny, what would you do?”

“It would terrify me. I’d think I was crazy.”

“I’d be the happiest man in the world. God bothers to talk to me — to me! I’d know what life was for. What is the reason to live — kids, build the Empire State Building, make a painting, eat? Then a meteor hits the earth and we are gone. Humans are nothing. If God talked to me, I could die in peace.”

We say good-bye and hang up. Kentucky is a long state composed of two sections — the hills and the blacktop. All our heroes come from the blacktop. The Appalachian region claims no heroes, and the inhabitants have learned to live without the hope of one. During college I walked the streets of Morehead with a button pinned to my jacket that read “No Heroes.” I wore it proudly, eager for everyone to see my late-seventies political stance. I read Rimbaud, listened to the Clash, and wore sleeveless cowboy shirts. I left to change the world, but as much as I tried, I was no hero, either.