James Ross - A Character-Based Collection (Prairie Winds Golf Course)

by James Ross

  “Wuzn’t it hot out der?” LeVournique asked. The humidity in August was as high as the temperature on the thermometer.

  “Whew weeeeeeee wuz it,” Tuey exclaimed as he reached into his pocket, grabbed a handkerchief, and dabbed at the beads of sweat that were on his forehead.

  LeVournique walked into the front room with a bowl of freshly peeled apples and offered them to Tuey. He reached in for two slices as he peered through the blinds once more. “What’s ya be doin’ now?” she asked.

  “Keepin’ mine eyes out fo’ dat Big Bertha,” Tuey responded. “Dat woman have it in fo’ me.”

  “It is what it is,” LeVournique started. “Ya dint park in da street agin, did ya?”

  “Where’s else is dere?” Tuey asked. “If dey’s wanna gives us uh ticket den aw dey’s gotsta do is ta come down dis street.”

  “Did you’s tell dem dat we’s ain’t gots no money ta pay fo’ da fines?” LeVournique asked even though she was aware that it was a concern on the first Wednesday of every month. Her income from the casino barely covered the basic household needs and everything that Tuey earned seemed to go to equipment repair.

  “Don’t you’s worry ’bout dem fines. Dose aw mine ta take care of,” Tuey reminded his wife, “an’ nuttin’ is gonna change wit’ da fokes down at dat dere city hall ’bout dat anytime soon.” He peeked through the blinds once again as the sun dipped below the horizon and dusk settled in on the street. “If dey’s wanna ticket us, den dey’s will.” He saw a figure coming down the street toward his pickup. “Dere she be! I’s gonna have words wit’ her.” In a flash he was through the room, out the front door and into the deafening buzz caused by the growing cicada population.

  “You’s be careful!” LeVournique shouted as her husband tracked across the front lawn. “Don’ts ya be gittin’ in no fight!”

  Tuey grabbed the keys out of his pocket and headed for the front door of his pickup truck just as Big Bertha was approaching the vehicle. She reached for her ticket book and was preparing to write the license plate number down as Tuey made a mad dash into the front seat. Without any hesitation he started the pickup truck and pulled forward with the intention of turning around in the cul-de-sac. “What do you think you’re doing?” Big Bertha’s voice boomed over the roar of the engine.

  “I’s movin’ da truck so’s I’s don’t git no parkin’ ticket,” Tuey yelled out of the driver’s side window. He had his left arm bent at a forty-five degree angle resting on the bottom edge of the window. Habitually he reached over with his right hand, grabbed his skull cap and placed it on his head. Then he firmly placed his right hand on the wheel, turned, and gave Big Bertha a wide smile.

  “That’s not going to do you any good,” Big Bertha retaliated.

  “What’s ya doin’ out here at dis time uh night?” Tuey asked. “Da sun be goin’ down.”

  “I only have a job to do,” Big Bertha explained. Bertha Taylor was a single parent. Despite her considerable size she always showed up for work on time and normally walked the beat around city hall and the town square two days a week issuing tickets to the offenders that violated the city ordinances. The other three days of the week she could be seen around other areas of town performing the same duties.

  She wasn’t necessarily appealing to the eye. Closely cut, light reddish-brown hair sat atop her pale, rotund face. Her blue eyes were perfectly contrasted against her light, milky-white complexion. An assortment of freckles dotted her cheeks. When Big Bertha’s child-bearing years came around she found herself without a boyfriend. Her intense desire to have children produced two mulatto children out of wedlock—one boy and one girl, fathered by different men. Because of that she was somewhat sympathetic to the plight of the black man in America. “Don’t hold it against me Tuey, but I have a quota to fill.”

  “Enough’s is enough,” Tuey yelled through the window.

  “The parked pickup truck with your business name and phone number on the side is a direct violation of ordinance number . . .”

  “I’s don’t needs ta know what’s da number is,” Tuey interrupted. “It ain’t parked, cuz I’s jus’ moved it.”

  “Then I can cite you for a moving violation or running away from a ticket and obstructing justice,” Bertha countered.

  “Dere’s ain’t no justice, so how’s can it ta be obstructed?”

  “Look Tuey. It’s either me or you. If I don’t fill my quota, then I’ll lose my job,” Big Bertha railed away. “And I’ve got two mouths to feed at home.”

  “An’ so’s do I,” Tuey shouted back. “I’s ain’t gots da money ta pay fo’ da ones ya’s bin writin’ agin’ me fo’ da las’ fo’ years.”

  She took the pen out of her pocket and started writing down the necessary information to complete the ticket. “You need to fix the problem.”

  “Awwwwws, come on Big Bertha,” Tuey said as he watched her begin filling out the citation. “You’s knows as well as I’s knows dat dat Mista Reeves has it out fo’ me. Aw uh you’s fokes down dere at dat dere city hall knows dat I’s uh easy mark.”

  “You need to clean up the situation,” Big Bertha explained. “Now do you want to come over here and accept this ticket?” She paused and genuinely felt sorry for his dilemma. “Or do you want to drive off and have me issue another ticket for obstruction of justice?”

  Tuey was fuming. “You’s tell dat dere Mayor Leavitt dat I’s got no place ta park on da streets uh his city.”

  Big Bertha tore the ticket off her pad and walked toward the pickup. “I don’t know what to tell you.” She reached up and handed the citation to Tuey. A dejected look was what she received in return. He refused to accept it.

  As a partisan observer LeVournique shouted to her husband from inside the house. “Jus’ tell hers dat we ain’t gots da money ta pay fo’ da ticket.”

  The sound of a familiar voice caused Tuey to turn and see he wife screaming through the screen door. He turned back to Big Bertha. “We’s tired uh bein’ hassled. Can’ts ya jus’ go an’ leave us alone?”

  Big Bertha reached over and tucked the ticket under one of the windshield wipers. “As sorry as I feel for you Tuey, I can’t. Mr. Reeves and Mayor Leavitt and Mr. Ficke won’t let me.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen was one of several little secular non-denominational churches that had sprung up all across the countryside in the latter half of the twentieth century. Ostrahemial Puld stood five foot six and weighed one hundred and forty pounds dripping wet. For a smaller-sized black man he packed the charisma of the Holy Spirit as well as the booming, fanatical voice of a radio announcer on Super Bowl Sunday. He came from an area of the country where the Red River separated Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas from each other, just north of the Louisiana border. Reverend Puld brought his ideas north to suburban St. Louis. The teachings of the church focused heavily on reincarnation. Ostrahemial Puld stressed on a weekly basis how human lives, both past and present, paralleled those of the animal kingdom. Inevitably each sermon would somehow tie in references to animal behavior and lessons that could be learned from the creatures.

  One of the deacons of the church was D. Wayne Smith. In the white circles around town people knew him as D. Wayne. In the black community he was known as Zebes because of his refereeing notoriety. If anything happened in association with Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen, then D. Wayne answered to Deacon Smith. In some ways he was an anomaly. Depending on the company that he was around, the man answered to D. Wayne or Zebes or Deacon Smith. If that wasn’t enough, the recently-adopted gangsta rap persona further complicated D. Wayne’s aura. Due to his whistle blowing talents on the football field, not law enforcement, D. Wayne had given himself the self-proclaimed moniker of Shriek Caramel U-Hop. Welcome to the world of confusion in Wiebbey Bottom.

  The structure of the church itself was nothing more than four metal sides and a shingled, pitched roof. The front of the building had a four foot high wainscot with brick veneer. Ato
p the roof was a white, fiberglass steeple that stood sixteen feet high. Atop that was a four foot high cross. To say that it looked out of place for the size of the building would be an understatement. An eight foot high steeple had been ordered from the Bosses of the Crosses in rural Kentucky. However the company had an order fall apart so the corporate executives discounted the larger steeple down to the price of the smaller one. The inspirational offices of the Bosses of the Crosses assured a rush delivery and a deal was made.

  On each side of the red front door were three English yew bushes. None had been trimmed or maintained and as a result, one of the bushes had a five-foot weed sprouting from its midst. Multi-colored pea gravel littered with cigarette butts had been sprinkled between the yews. A discarded beer can and an empty pint of gin were visible in a bush farthest from the door. A metal trash can chained to the guttering occupied one exterior corner of the building.

  The parking lot at Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen was nothing more than standard size quarry gravel with the exception of a spot that was large enough for three vehicles. That area, which was reserved for the pastor and the deacons, was paved with asphalt. Along the road sat a portable sign on a triangular shaped, three-wheeled tripod trailer. On any given day a motorist could pass and see an inspirational message posted by Reverend Puld. The sayings ranged from “Next Time You Think You’re Perfect . . . Try Walking On Water” to “America Needs A Faith Lift” to “It’s Okay, I Didn’t Believe In Reincarnation The Last Time Either.” One of the preacher’s favorites during the summer months was “You Think It’s Hot Here?” On each side of the entrance to the parking lot sat a post with a steel beam that swung open for events so that the lot could be occupied. During most days of the week the swinging gate was padlocked to keep unwanted visitors from invading the premises.

  Concrete floors were prevalent inside the church. The exception was a thin layer of indoor/outdoor carpeting that ran down the center aisle. The pulpit area was raised the height of one step. On the platform were Reverend Puld’s lectern and sixteen folding chairs for the choir. In front of the platform was a baptistery which was little more than a two and a half foot deep above-ground pool of water. A three foot high retaining wall hid the pool from the congregation’s view. Used pews had been purchased from Walter Raymond Ministries in Texas for twenty cents on the dollar and shipped to the low lying ground of the Mississippi river on the Illinois side of St. Louis for a start-up church.

  Most of the members in the church were residents of Wiebbey Bottom. On occasion other minorities could be seen in attendance. Make no mistake; Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen had no ties to the Methodists or the Baptists or the Presbyterians or Lutherans. For the most part in was a local church to service the black residents.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Maurice DiMonte, or Monty as he was called, was known around town as the unethical power broker for the local Congressman, Raymond Parsons. Even though the state had revoked his law license after a brush with the law, he still used many of his contacts and served in an advisory capacity for the U.S. representative as well as Mayor Leavitt on the local level. Monty liked to keep both of his hands in everybody’s business and wield his considerable influence into areas that overlapped into public trust.

  He slumped at the shoulders as he walked into the room. With his pot belly and caved-in chest, the sagging upper portion of his torso literally laid his abdomen area onto his belt buckle. He had pulled back his hair and wore it wrapped up in a ponytail. The small bone structure on his face left him with virtually no chin. His sharp, pointed nose gave his face the appearance of growing front-to-back instead of wide. The beady eyes looked evil, vindictive, and mistrusting. Monty was capable of causing you indigestion as you ate across the table from him.

  And so it was as Mayor Broderick Leavitt, city attorney Kenneth Ficke, and banker Harold Syms gathered around the conference table at First Cornstalk Bank. Ricki Sandstoner, Harold’s personal secretary, couldn’t hand out enough Rolaids prior to this get together. She instead got an ample supply of prescription antacid relief medicine in an attempt to handle all of the heartburn that would, in all likelihood, be dished out at this meeting. It sat on a plate in the middle of the table and provided a bit of humor to those in attendance.

  For all intents and purposes the sit down around the conference table could have very well been a Board of Directors meeting. Harold hand-picked those individuals and many came on the advice of the people assembled in the room. At one time all four had served on the Board, but now only three of those present were appointed. Monty had to step down when his trip to the penitentiary caused him to pay his obligation to society. As Monty plopped his briefcase onto the table he eyed the dish full of tablets, grabbed one, and promptly popped it into his mouth. With a guilty grin he said, “It’s kind of disgusting that we do this to one another.”

  “Is it us or is it the politics and the money that cause all of the heartache?” Harold asked as he stood up to shake Monty’s hand. The cordial greeting was extended to the others.

  “That’s sort of what we’re about,” Monty smirked.

  “What did you find out from Raymond?” Harold referenced Monty’s meeting with the local congressman, Raymond Parsons. A new highway to circumvent the city limits had been proposed and it was anybody’s guess as to where it was going to be located. The guys in the conference room at First Cornstalk Bank wanted to get some proprietary information.

  “There are three routes that have been suggested,” Monty relayed as he searched his attaché case for the appropriate drawings. “Two aren’t going to happen.”

  “They’ve already made the decision?” Mayor Leavitt asked.

  “Of course not,” Monty said with a wink, “at least not publicly.” The group at the table shared hearty laughter. “Let the residents chew on the alternative routes for a while. They can voice their pros and cons. That way they all feel like their rights haven’t been violated and they have a say in the process.”

  Harold couldn’t stand the suspense even though the meeting had just started. He had been waiting for the news for many, many months. “Which route are they going to pick?”

  Monty opened the highway map and spread it across the table. “The proposed route marked by the letter A is the one that will be approved. Alternative routes B and C don’t have any traction.”

  The mayor and city attorney studied the projected path. “Basically what it looks like they’re going to do is replace State Highway A6,” Kenneth Ficke observed.

  Monty chuckled. “Yeah, and straighten out the curves, you know, make it a drag race strip down through there . . .”

  Mayor Leavitt laughed along with him. “ . . . To hopefully get people to pass by that part of town faster.”

  “That comes with a double-edged sword,” Harold said as he plainly wore his banker’s hat.

  Mayor Leavitt smiled. “That’s the cheapest ground and where all of the development is going to go.”

  “Yeah, pouring all of that money into Wiebbey Bottom,” Harold relented as he studied the proposed route, “kinds of sounds like a waste of funds.”

  “Or a great business opportunity,” Monty sneered.

  Mr. Ficke studied the suggested right of way. He worked his cheeks and gnawed at his gums. Then he spit an empty sunflower seed shell into a glass. “It looks like they’re going to come real close to that nigga’ church down there.”

  All the eyes in the room shifted in the city attorney’s direction. “Let’s not have any of that language in here,” Harold reminded the group. “From now on we’ll kindly refer to them as African-Americans.” All of the guys chuckled to themselves.

  “Of course getting rid of that church wouldn’t be all bad, would it?” Mayor Leavitt threw out. His deep-set, hollow eyes suggested an ulterior motive.

  “What are the comprehensive plans for the city?” Harold asked the mayor.

  “We’ll allow development wherever the traffic flows are going to
be,” Mayor Leavitt answered.

  “That was what I was getting at when I mentioned that it was a double-edged sword,” Harold admitted. “Even though money will be poured into a blighted area, there is room for a lot of business development down there for some entrepreneurs that get in on the ground floor.” He smiled so that his intentions would not be misunderstood.

  “Do you think that you might be one of those individuals?” the mayor asked. He already knew the answer to the question.

  Harold laughed. “Maybe with a partner or two. There’s no problem with the money. Plus I like to buy my ground real cheap.”

  “The area has to be cleaned up,” Monty said voicing his opinion. “You can put the nicest shopping center development imaginable down there, but if it’s on the doorstep of poverty and crime then the risk increases.”

  Kenneth Ficke and Monty went way back. In fact Monty had gotten him the position with the city as the attorney. “How are we going to do that? We can’t just wipe out the neighborhood.”

  “Make life tough on them. Like what you guys are doing with the one guy. The same goes for the church and all of the residents down there that don’t want to play by the rules we make,” Monty said firmly. “When the work contracts are awarded, make sure that none of the minorities get the jobs. Revamp the building codes. Enforce the code violations. Make the requirements so expensive that they can’t afford to live there.”

  “If I get involved and have people fronting the purchases for me, then I want to make sure that my investment is protected,” Harold said persuasively. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Mayor Leavitt and Ficke nodded in agreement. “And we much prefer to have your investment dollars than what is presently there,” the mayor conceded.

  “Then we’re all on the same page,” Harold summarized. “I’m going to start tying up property and putting parcels under option to buy.”

  “And we’ll work with you,” Mayor Leavitt assured him. “After all,” he said smugly, “we have the image of our city to protect.”