Lunch at the Piccadilly
Page 16
“I—”
“Look at that. The other team scored. Carolina wears the Carolina blue. Those boys are so tall. Look at that little bitty referee. Have another Kiss.”
“Thank you.” He continues to stand. The candy aisle at Eckerd flashes into his mind. How many times in the last months had he been unable to find the midget Tootsie Rolls, but kept looking and finally found them?
“They got rid of that preacher. I guess you know that.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“I’m afraid somebody else will get in here and start doing the same things. Have another Kiss.”
“Okay. One more. Then I’ve got to be getting on.”
“You’ve got to go to work?”
“Yes ma’am, and maybe stop in somewhere to get a bite to eat first.”
“I used to work in a lawyer’s office. Boy, that was something.”
“I’ll bet it was.”
They watch the ball game for a minute or two.
“I’ve got to be getting along now,” Carl says. “You take it easy.”
“I will. You too. Will you do something for me?”
He wants out of there. “What’s that?”
“Will you turn up the volume? I never can figure out that flashlight thing with all the buttons—what do you call it?”
“Remote.”
“That’s right.”
ON THE PORCH, Carrie listens as the new woman says, “My niece’s son just got a dozen crows tattooed on his butt like they’re flying out his butt hole, and her not having a man around the house to keep those kids straight is about to drive her crazy.”
“How did you find that out?” says Mrs. Cochran.
“He’s been gone four years—it’d drive anybody crazy, with a teenage boy and a nine-year-old girl.”
“No, how do you know about the crows?”
“Her daughter told me. She tells me everything. Sweetest thing.”
“Why would somebody want a tattoo of crows flying out their ass?” asks Mrs. Cochran.
“I don’t know. Why would anybody want a tattoo of anything flying out their ass?”
Oh, that’s good, thinks Carrie. We’ve got another one of those.
“It’s okay to have a tattoo to show you’re in the army,” says Mrs. Cochran. “That’s what they used to do. But my Lord, did he have six crows on each cheek or what?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
Silence. A few people leave and a few arrive.
The new woman continues, “Do you want me to find out?”
“No, I just wondered.”
“My daughter used to get all over me for bringing home food from the Golden Corral. I told her they didn’t care and she said it was stealing, and I told her it won’t because I paid. Me and my friend Agatha Marrs used to go in there at about ten-thirty, and that way we got in on the breakfast and the lunch. Catch them during the changeover. We ate all we could hold, and I’d end up with a piece of chicken, a piece of ham, and a piece of sausage in my pocketbook, wrapped up in napkins. Why don’t we go and do that one day?”
“I’m not up to going out much anymore. And we’ve lost our driver.”
“One day I thought I had a muffin, but it must have got lost somewhere. I looked for it in the car and couldn’t find it. I used plastic bags in case something leaked. After we left there, we’d go to Sears and then Kroger’s and then Byrd’s and then Harris Teeter. A lot of times they had plants on sale at Harris Teeter. And Agatha was always buying plants. She also made beautiful rugs—from rags. A full day, it was, that she and I would have, and I wish you could have been with us. We had so much fun. We could go about anywhere we wanted to. We just took a notion one time and drove to the mountains. Saw some Cherokee Indians. Those were the days.”
Carrie watches Carl walk across the porch and raise a hand. “See you all later,” he says. Carrie thinks about Mrs. Olive, his aunt.
“Bye, son,” says Mrs. Cochran. “There goes Carl,” she says to the new woman. “He was so good to Lil. She’s the one who just passed away.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“Makes awnings. I hate to see him go. He’s a good sport. A good singer too. I liked to hear him sing. I liked to hear Mr. Flowers too. I wish he was still here. He got a raw deal. But he says he’s coming back to see us. He’s starting a world movement, and some of us helped him get it going.”
“I like music,” says the new woman.
“Music is poetry without words,” says Mrs. Cochran. “I had a teacher who used to say that.”
“I never read much poetry that I could understand.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to understand it. You’re supposed to feel it—like music.”
“Or like a window fan.”
“That’s not what I meant,” says Mrs. Cochran, “but I see what you mean.”
AT HER SUPPER TABLE, Faye Council, the physical therapist, says to her husband, Manley, “We lost another two this week. One died, and the other got run out. I liked them both.”
“Why?”
“I just did. They were both sort of—”
“No—why did one get run out?”
“He was involved in some kind of under-the-covers stuff. I never got the straight of it. He’s that preacher I told you about. The one with the crazy sermons. He was preaching and playing music with Mrs. Olive’s nephew in the activity room one or two nights a week.”
“Pass that, please.”
“I don’t think Mr. Rhodes liked him.”
“He’s the one that runs the hardware, right? Or is that his daddy?”
“He runs lots of places. I think his daddy is retired.”
Rank Strangers
IT’S EARLY SPRING, and Carl stands at the sink in L. Ray’s kitchen, stripping collard leaves from stems.
L. Ray sits at the kitchen table, a walker beside his chair. He brings a cigar to his mouth with his left hand, inhales. A stroke has left him partially paralyzed, and home health care ran out yesterday. No more speech therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy. “I’m glad that’s over,” he says. “That is some useless, ’pensive stuff.”
“At least you didn’t have to pay for it—most of it.”
“Are you pulling off the leaves top-down?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“It’s lots easier top-down.”
Gladys, L. Ray’s niece, left two hours earlier, headed back to Topsail Island. “This is really it,” she said to Carl out on the porch. “I’m sorry he can’t stay here, and I’m sorry you got just one bedroom, but I’ve done all I can, more times than I should have, and I’ve got my own family to look after. Just get him in that place for me, and then I’ll be back first chanst I get.”
L. Ray is scheduled to arrive at Pine Valley Grove by 3:00 P.M. The name was changed from Shady Rest the weekend before—as a consequence of some incidents, a big fine, and bad publicity.
“Why do you need to cook them separate?” asks Carl.
“The stems take longer. Lot of people th-throw the sta-stems away, but if you cut them up f-fine an’ cook them longer ’n the leaves, then it’s add flavor.”
“Have you got a knife sharpener?”
“There’s a . . . witstone . . . whetstone in the drawer beside . . . yes, that one.”
“I think my mama just put them in all together, but I don’t know what she seasoned them with.”
“Vinegar, s-sugar, and that can of . . .”
“Chicken broth. And all you want is black-eyed peas and corn bread to go with them?”
“Right. Gladys got that out. Right there. If you want some meat, there’s some bacon, I think. You can take what’s er-ver in there. God, I hate to go that place.”
“I hate to take you.”
“Maybe they’ll kick me outen his . . . his . . . this one too.”
“What is the real reason you had to leave Rosehaven?” Carl stops stripping leaves from the collards. “Did you real
ly, you know, do what they said, in front of that woman?”
“Masturbage . . . -bate?”
“Yes.”
“You think I would thing a . . . do a thing like that? Who would do a thing like that?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Of course not. Of course not. I knew her one time, it turns out, but God knows that was a century ago. What you say they call this language thing again?”
“Aphasia.”
“That’s right. You know, whoever wrote up all that speech and therapy stuff is silly.”
LATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON, a warm early-spring day, L. Ray and Carl sit in plastic chairs under a tree in the yard at Pine Valley Grove. A walker sits beside L. Ray’s chair. A guitar lies in a case between them. There is no porch. L. Ray brings a cigar to his mouth with his left hand, inhales. Carl is peeling an orange.
Most of the other residents are eating dinner.
Carl has brought along a CD player and a copy of the new CD of his and L. Ray’s songs recorded by the Mac Faircloth Band. After they hear the last song, L. Ray says, “That worked out fine.”
“Yeah, it did, didn’t it? I appreciate you getting me going on it.”
“I’m much obliged for . . . for everything.”
They sit for a while.
“A hundred thousand . . . jears . . . years ago,” says L. Ray, “we lef’ old people under a tree, or et . . . ate them so we could go on and . . . and take care of the chi’ren, and hunt, and plant cr- . . . cr- . . .”
“Crops.”
“Maybe we should go brack . . . back to that.”
“That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“Of course, but it makes a point. When will the TVM . . . TV people start wha’ever they’re going do? When they begin?”
“I don’t think they will.”
“Well, I do.”
“They won’t. They won’t be here.”
“I’m the one who talk to them, and besides ’at, who ask you?”
“You did.”
Somehow Carl is going to have to tell L. Ray that they are without disciples. No rush on that, though.
They sit in silence.
“Let’s play ‘Rank Strangers,’” says Carl. He picks up the guitar. “You sing it.”
“Rank Strangers” has long stretches of nothing but music between sung phrases, and during these times, Carl feeds L. Ray the words of next line.
Epilogue
Songs by Carl Turnage and L. Ray Flowers
Ain’t Got No Problems
by Turnage and Flowers
I got throwed in jail last summer,
Beat up by a jailhouse mob.
Got let out in September,
Went out and found a job.
My girlfriend has not left me,
My truck is not broke down,
My hair is thick and curly,
And my lost dog is found.
Chorus:
Ain’t got no problems,
And that’s my problem.
Lord, help me find something wrong.
My boss man was a screamer,
Unnecessarily.
Then I got promoted,
And now he works for me.
My rent has been reduced one-third.
I sleep like a baby at night.
My clothes now all fit me,
And my dentures are tight.
Chorus:
Ain’t got no problems,
And that’s my problem.
Lord, help me find something wrong.
I quit all my drinking,
Quit all my fighting.
Got me a new career called
Country-song writing.
All I wanted to do today
Is write one country song,
But how can I do that
When nothing is wrong?
Chorus:
Ain’t got no problems,
And that’s my problem.
Lord, help me find something wrong
So I can write a country song.
The Safety Patrol Song
by Turnage and Flowers
Chorus:
I’d like to be on the safety patrol,
Wear a clean white strap,
Shine my shoes and stand up straight,
And wear a sailor’s cap.
I saw Joe at recess.
He told me about his plan
To drop a cherry bomb down the boys’ commode.
He wants to be a dynamite man.
But I can’t be a dynamite man
Because, as I’ve been told,
If you drop a cherry bomb down the boys’ commode
You can’t be on the safety patrol.
Chorus:
I’d like to be on the safety patrol,
Wear a clean white strap,
Shine my shoes and stand up straight,
And wear a sailor’s cap.
I saw Floyd after football practice.
He was sipping on a glass of brew.
He said, “Pull up a chair and have a drink, old friend.
Here’s to me and you.”
But I can’t drink with all my friends
Because, as I’ve been told,
If you touch one drop of alcohol
You can’t be on the safety patrol.
Chorus:
I’d like to be on the safety patrol,
Wear a clean white strap,
Shine my shoes and stand up straight,
And wear a sailor’s cap.
I saw Faye in 4-H Club.
She handed me a letter.
It said, “Meet me down behind the gym.
I’d like to get to know you better.”
But I can’t go down behind the gym
Because, as I’ve been told,
If you fornicate or matriculate
You can’t be on the safety patrol.
Chorus (much slower):
Who gives a dern for the safety patrol.
I think I’ve changed my mind.
I’ll be down behind the gym,
Having a good old time.
Baloney, Bacon, and Beer
by Turnage and Flowers
All I wanted was pork and beans—
A can or two or more.
But where she does her shopping
Is a fancy health-food store
Where all the fruit’s organic
And chickens run on the range.
I packed my bags and left;
I needed an organic change.
Chorus:
Baloney, bacon, and beer
Works morning, noon, and night.
Throw in a jar of ballpark mustard
And a loaf of bread that’s white.
What the hell’s halibut?
And who can eat soup that’s cold?
A grocery store without pork and beans
Is a store without a soul.
I’ve been gone six weeks now.
I feel like I’m doing fine.
I’ve done without cilantro, Done without French wine.
I’ve saved a good deal of money.
Don’t listen to NPR.
I keep my food in a cooler
’Cause I live in my car.
Chorus:
Baloney, bacon, and beer
Works morning, noon, and night.
Throw in a jar of ballpark mustard
And a loaf of bread that’s white.
What the hell’s halibut?
And who can eat soup that’s cold?
A grocery store without pork and beans
Is a store without a soul.
They say what you eat is what you are
And what you can’t, you ain’t.
I’ll tell you one thing:
I never feel faint.
I’ve got me a new situation
And all the rules are clear.
I got my own refrigerator—
Stocked with baloney, bacon, and beer.
Cho
rus:
Baloney, bacon, and beer
Works morning, noon, and night.
Throw in a jar of ballpark mustard
And a loaf of bread that’s white.
What the hell’s halibut?
And who can eat soup that’s cold?
A grocery store without pork and beans
Is a store without a soul.
A grocery store without iceberg lettuce
Is a store without a soul.
How Come I Miss You When
You’re with Me All the Time?
by Turnage and Flowers
We stay together constantly.
We never fight; we just agree.
If I go for a walk, you’re right behind.
How come I miss you when you’re with me all the time?
I know I have grown bigger since we met.
Sometimes I look around and I forget
That we’re in love and doing fine.
How come I miss you when you’re with me all the time?
Chorus:
How come I miss you when you’re with me all the time?
Could it be my one-track mind?
Or is it that our love has stalled
Because I’ve grown so big and you’re so small?
You warned me once and then again
If I ate too much, our love could end.
You’re clearly not the straying kind.
How come I miss you when you’re with me all the time?
And now I’m so big, all I can see
Is nothing in the world . . . but me.
Speak up, little darlin’; I don’t mind.
How come I miss you when you’re with me all the time?
Chorus:
How come I miss you when you’re with me all the time?
Could it be my one-track mind?
Or is it that our love has stalled
Because I’ve grown so big and you’re so small?
Because I’ve grown so big and you’re so small.
Fat from Shame
by Turnage and Flowers
When I was just a child
We never left no food behind.
We never left none on the table.
We’d been the wasteful kind.