Lizard Tales

by Ron Shirley

  I stopped for all of two seconds before I pointed to Bobby and said, “That’s the owner right there, ma’am. His name is Bobby Brantley.” About that time, Bobby turned around and looked like a deer caught in headlights by a hand grenade. He could see this little old lady didn’t need a car to drive: she needed a broom to ride! But I guess that broom was broken, ’cause she came out of the trailer with a regular ol’ kitchen broom—and the intention of taking out what she saw as the trash.

  Bobby immediately started talking politely, trying to explain to her that we were just doing our job and he was sorry.

  She looked him over and said, “I’m sorry too.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “This!”

  Faster than you can lick a fried chocolate skillet, she lit into him with that broom like a pack of piranhas on a chicken leg. There’s big Bobby running from the Wicked Witch of the East around the tow truck while she’s sweeping him off his feet. The entire time, he’s yelling, “Ronnie! Ronnie, help me!”

  I yelled out, “Ma’am, listen, please!”

  She stopped dead in her tracks and spun around to look at me. It was at that point I knew I was going to be as much use to Bobby as a prefabricated post-hole digger. “You want some of this too, Mr. Sonic the Hedgehog?” she barked, referring to my hairstyle.

  I looked at her and said, “No, ma’am. I would rather be chained to the underbelly of a moose during mating season than to deal with you.”

  Then I bid her a fond farewell and, as I was jumping in my spotter car, saw she had turned her attention—and that broom—back to Bobby. I put the truck in reverse and heard Bobby yelling, “Ronnie! Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Hey, Bo,” I answered just as she broke that broom over his head, “looks like you got this one under control!” And he went to running like a fat man chasing a doughnut downhill.

  I headed back to the shop, content to let him work on his people skills. A few minutes later he called and told me he finally got out of there after she wore herself out beating him with that broom.

  I got all the employees to go outside and sweep the parking lot as Bobby pulled up, and that made him madder than a pack of rabid wolves on a three-legged rabbit. He jumped out of the truck and just glared at me.

  “Hey, Bo, looks like she swept you off your feet!”

  He tossed me the keys and said, “Right. Funny, man. I’m done for the day. I’ve had enough of you—and this place.”

  I said, “Well, at least tell me: Did you learn anything during this incident?”

  “I sure did,” Bobby replied. “I learned I used to have a handle on life—but now it’s broken.” Then he drove off into the sunset.

  [Other Sayin’s]

  1. I hate his stomach for holding his guts.

  2. I could eat the tail end out of a ragdoll.

  3. I ain’t got no dog in that fight.

  4. Call me butter ’cause I’m on a roll.

  5. That dog won’t hunt.

  6. Now, that’s how you tree a blind possum.

  7. He had no idea whose weeds he just pissed in.

  8. I used to be schizophrenic … but now we’re all OK.

  9. Hell and half of Georgia.

  10. Now, that’s just how a cow eats cabbage.

  11. High-stepping like a rooster in deep mud.

  12. Up and down like whores’ drawers.

  13. Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing.

  14. Screaming like a mashed cat.

  15. Bo, the only place you’ll find sympathy around here is between “symbol” and “syphilis” in the dictionary.

  16. Latched on like a big-nosed mosquito at a blood bank.

  17. I skinned that like a Georgia catfish.

  Final Thoughts

  from an Uncommon Mind

  Two years before I began writing this book, I had reached the end of my rope. The thread was frayed and my grip was slipping fast. Then I opened an old, worn-out book that had been lying around my house for years. As I read the pages, one after another, I could not stop the flood of tears that emptied from my soul. The chaotic life I had been living seemed aimless, and the turmoil that I had learned to accept as normal flooded out of my body. I wept tears of blood into a pool of salvation and hit my knees with a determination to find the source.

  It was in that moment that I met God for the second time in my life—having run from Him when I was eighteen. I saw a pasture and I was standing at its gate. Down the hill was a house with soothing lights that seemed to pull me toward them. It was as if a celebratory festival was in progress, and I could sense the joy and peace that abounded below. I believed I would never be welcome in such a place, for I was a worthless thief and a killer of man.

  Then He spoke. It seemed as if the mountains themselves were shaken from their foundations. “Do not be afraid, for I have been expecting you. Come, for I know you are thirsty, and I have water. Sit, for I know you are hungry, and I have much for you to feed upon.”

  I looked at my feet and saw I was chained to the ground with shackles of self-pity. The chains were heavy, and each time I tried to free myself from them, they tightened around my ankles. I looked around and saw wolves, circling and growling. Scraps of meat hung from their bloodthirsty jaws, and their razor-edged teeth seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. Each time I pulled to free myself, I became more entangled in the past: my worthlessness, my addictions, the harm I had caused this world, the hearts I had broken, the people I had ruined. I felt myself being pulled back toward the woods and the darkness where those just like me were calling my name.

  I looked back one last time toward the house and saw the man, arms still open. He spoke again: “Come home, son. It’s time for you to come home.”

  I finally replied, “But sir, I am worthless. I have wasted my talents. I have thrown my life to the wolves. I have lied, stolen, envied, falsely accused my friends. Sir, I have done things from which I cannot return. I have lived in the darkness so long I can no longer see the light. I have wallowed in sin and it exudes from every pore of my existence. I have danced with the devil and drunk from his cup of damnation.”

  There was a long silence. Time seemed to stand still. I watched the man, but it appeared he was getting farther away; the light was fading and night was again upon me. A cold chill crept through me. I felt alone and desolate.

  It was at that moment that a light brighter than anything I had ever seen appeared. It blinded me, so I had to cover my face, but its warmth was indescribable and the peace that dwelled within it was unquestionable. Then a loud voice bellowed from the house: “I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME. JUST COME HOME, BECAUSE I STILL LOVE YOU.”

  As I raised a hand over my eyes to see where the voice was coming from, I saw an object hurtling toward me. I reached into the air to catch it, and as I brought it down and opened my hand, I saw it was a key.

  Then He said, “You, in the hills, release my child, for he is coming home.”

  I reached down toward the chains that had held me for so long, and as soon as I put the key in the lock, the chains exploded off my ankles. The weight of the world fell from me, and I realized I was free.

  I turned and ran toward the pasture, blew through the gate, and sprinted as fast as my legs would move toward the house. I could hear the deafening screams behind me, urging me to turn around and come back, trying to fill my mind with thoughts that I was not worthy to cross the pasture. I ran into the man’s arms, speechless, with tears careening down my cheeks.

  He simply said, “Welcome home, son. Welcome home.”

  He stepped in front of me and raised His hands toward heaven, and I could see blood flowing from them. I fell to my knees and saw blood flowing from His feet. He said, “This is my child, and his name is forever written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. His sins have been paid for by the blood that flows from my body. He is now and forever sealed and a son in my Father’s house.”

  He held up
His hands again and said, “Father, your son has come home. The one sheep was again found, and snatched from the mouths of the wolves. He is scarred and battered, but he is home and now he is whole.”

  As I looked up I saw my wife by my side praying, tears streaming down her face. My children were speechless, and there was a glow emanating from each of them. My wife looked at me and said, “Ronnie, we are finally all gonna go home together.”

  Most prolific moments are just that: a moment. Not mine. My prolific moment has taken thirty-four years to develop. When my moment happened, I wasn’t standing in the line of life suddenly having an epiphany; thoughts did not just pass through my mind aimlessly, sparking a wonder of revelation in a second of discovery. I have had to fight for every foot of my existence; I have bled for every minute of every vision I’ve had; I have shed a dry tear for every failure, and I couldn’t begin to describe the bittersweet smell of understanding in my life.

  My battlefield has always been in my own mind, with victory at neither end. My life is lived for the existence of others: those to whom I owe everything but whom I always seem to disappoint. I cannot change what I have lived; I cannot return to the battlefield of yesterday and alter the fight. I must stand upon the foundation I have laid, held together for the most part by those who surround me—for the cracks are great and the stability is attacked daily by the harsh waters of time and memory.

  So I struggle on the battlefield, tired and sore from raging poundings, broken and limp from the relentless beatings. But I struggle still. I never surrender, never stop, never succumb—and never, ever walk away.

  This field is where I will live out my days that the sword has sharpened with knowledge, the body has protected with will, and my eyes have adorned with fire and an unquenchable burn. The fire burns through every pore of my body, the flame keeps us aglow and forces that next step.

  If only the sword had been sharper when I began this quest; if only the map had more detail and the path had been more vividly lit; or if I had a guide to lead me around the obstacles instead of falling hopelessly into each one. Of course, if I had these things, I would not be myself. I chose this path. I took each step—some with careful thought, others with a blinding speed, my eyes wide shut. But each step belongs to me and to no one else.

  So the battle is mine. I cannot control the war, but I can hold the field, relentlessly stand firm, and protect the borders. Fear is now my ally. I have learned to twist it into hope.

  I will fight on until my body decays and my breath is stolen. At that time I pray my battle will have been successful and that those for whom I fought will have to fight no more. They may have found it a horror to live by my side, but I found it an honor to die by theirs. Their fields will be covered in flowers of concrete so that they will never wilt but will, instead, reap a harvest of protection for those wandering soldiers who have lost their will to fight, their ability to lead, or their grasp on truth.

  This is my epiphany, and the years of battle my prolific moment. And though it will never be defining, it will also never be relinquished.

  So now, two years later, I help run the eastern chapter of Dirt Church. We stop into fields, homes, and workplaces to preach the Gospel and bring one sheep at a time back across that pasture. We go into the hills, with the protection of our God, and snatch victory from the well-clamped claws of the enemy’s grip. And this is our message:

  NO MATTER WHAT YOU HAVE DONE, NO MATTER WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME, YOU CAN COME HOME.

  God made dirt … and dirt should not hurt. Live the message and preach the blessings.

  —Lizard Lick Dirt Church and Revelation Ron

  [One Last Word]

  1. Backstroke it all the way to the front door.

  2. That makes as much sense as taking a duck to a chicken fight.

  3. Just shove an umbrella up his butt and call it a hurricane.

  4. I’ve known him since dirt was clean.

  5. Bo, you gotta be quieter than a mouse peeing on cotton.

  6. I’m as tired as a four-armed tobacco picker on a hot day looking for a glass of ice water.

  7. That’ll go over like a pregnant pole-vaulter.

  8. That’ll go over like socks on a porcupine.

  9. That runs off me like water off a duck’s back.

  10. That makes about as much sense as doing an oil change on a wrecked car.

  11. You’d better put on some boots and pack a lunch, ’cause it’s gonna be an all-day, uphill thing.

  12. Getting on this train is a whole lot easier than getting off.

  13. I gave you heaven and earth and you still want a tobacco field in hell?

  14. Bo, I’m happy. Don’t screw it up by talking.

  15. Don’t buy nothing that has a handle. That could mean work.

  16. It’s so dry, the river only runs twice a week.

  17. I can squeeze a quarter so tight, Washington will say uncle.

  Acknowledgments

  God put us here, fans keep us here. Above all else I wanna thank my Savior and Redeemer Jesus Christ for granting me the courage to live this life, the fortitude to endure its trials, the encouragement to weather the tribulations, and the love he shows by accepting me as his child even when I don’t acknowledge him as my father.

  To a true human angel, my mother, for never giving up on me and for teaching me that love isn’t love until you give it away. You always tried to protect me, usually from myself, but you never wavered in your belief in me, and I am forever indebted to you for all the years you spent fighting on your knees for my salvation and sanity. Without you, the only work I would have ever published would have been my epitaph. Momma, I never knew where I was going, but I always knew I was welcome to come Home To.

  Pops, for just being Pops and never giving a darn. Life was always an adventure because of you, and I hope I grow to be the dad you are.

  To my brother, Jason. Even though we view life through different lenses, we have walked many a mile side by side, and you’ll always be my brother. This book reflects your journey, too.

  To my little sister, Sandy, for your willingness to stand alone when you thought you were right, and to stand up for yourself—especially to me—lighting a new path on which to walk.

  To my Amy, you have endured many years of harsh storms for small bouts of sunshine with me. The path has been rocky, and I know at times the chaos seemed endless. The foundation we built our lives on is filled with cracks because of my stubbornness and pride. But you never left my side, and many times you held me up when my knees were too weak to stand, and you stood in front of me when my mind was too weak to fight. You are what I thank God for every day above all else. You are the perfect inspiration for this book, and your love has allowed me to write these tales. The foundation is cracked, the building is aged, the yard is overgrown, but the love that abides in this house overflows from every corner. You will always be my Lil Firecracker.

  To my beautiful daughter Alexa, you are why I love the rain, and though we never see eye to eye and I will always be that uncool, out-of-touch dad, I will gladly trade my life for yours any day. You are my firstborn, my proudest achievement, and my greatest success. You will always be Lexi Lou, and you will always be Daddy’s little girl.

  To my Cowboy Alex, you inspire me to want to be a better dad, a kinder person, a gentler father, and a best friend every day. I wrote these stories wondering what tales you will have to tell me in the years to come, and I stand in awe of your faith and your magic, both in your hands and in your heart. Gooder men there may be, greater men there will never be than you.

  To chunky monkey, my lil’ Gabey Baby, you’re my running back, and when you’re not cutting through defensive lines, you’re scoring touchdowns with everyone you meet. If people in this world had one-tenth of your attitude, determination, and love, there would never be a war fought or a heart broke. You truly inspire me, son, and it will always be Team Shirley.

  To Maggie Mae Manhattan, you’re the culmination of a l
ifetime of mistakes and decades of wrong turns, and living proof that perfection can come from such things. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a princess, but your name carries such meaning and your smile carries light into the darkest night. You are an inspiration to the uninspired and proof that the path we choose does make all the difference.

  To my grandma Myrtie Harris, who taught me how to fish and fight but also showed me how to love. I will be seeing you soon. Hold the gates open.

  To Brian King: Friends come and go, but brothers always stick together—till the end, Kingpin.

  To Bobby Brantley, for walking this road with me, even in the harsh storms. Thanks for not running for shelter.

  To Johnny Perry: You had the greatest grip in the world but couldn’t hold back the hands of destiny; but in your death, you gave me new life. I have been able to accomplish all this because of you.

  To Brooks Ray: Thanks for just being “Bubba” to me.

  To my crew at Lizard Lick Towing and Recovery: Brian, Patty, Steve, Bumpy, Brandon, Ricky, for busting your tails so we could make this happen, and for putting up with me in crunch time. You are the reason we have gotten to where we are and the reason we are a success in this field.

  To each and every one of my lien holders, for having the faith not only to add me, but to keep me as part of their collection arsenal.

  To the repossession industry, for letting me prove myself in such a competitive field and make “You have been licked” the reason debtors hate us, lien holders love us, and repo agents all over the world want to be just like us.

  To truTV for taking the chance on us and allowing us to Lick the entire world. This book is a product of your support.

  To my newfound brother DeeJay Silver—Holler and Hair Products.

  Thank you to Mark Schlabach and Nena Medonia for making this book a reality. I appreciate your hard work and dedication.

  Thanks to my manager, Mrs. Carri at NVRDUL, who is tougher than Tarzan feet, quicker than a cheetah on Amtrak, slicker than snot and mashed bananas, and the greatest rattlesnake killer to ever come outta the state of Texas. This book would have never found daylight without your help.