by Lou Bradshaw
I told her that she was going to hate herself in the morning, and she said, “Don’t give a rat’s ass!” I told her that I loved it when she talked rough like that, and she grabbed me and hugged me even tighter than big old Millie had. She was spilling her beer, and her square hat was hanging by a hairpin on the side of her head. She kissed me on the cheek, and I could feel that hers was pretty wet. “Now get away from me you nasty little boy.” she sobbed, sniffed, and pushed me away.
“I love you too.” I said and she stuck her tongue out at me.
I felt another pair of arms go around me and looked down into Nan’s tear streaked face. I wrapped my arms around her and said, “Hi ya Brat – you’re next”. We walked off into the crowd arm in arm.
* * *
Monday morning at 9:45, William and I were waiting at the Greyhound stop in Marshfield, a little town about 15 miles north or Doubling and about 20 miles east of Springfield, on route 66. The big gray dog pulled in for a quick pick up and discharge of passengers – no rest stop. There were 3 people waiting to get on and 2 getting off. The first was Sarah and right behind her was Liz, grinning like a pixie.
We loaded the bride and groom in the backseat with the maid of honor and best man in front. I started the car and then turned it off again and asked Sarah for her bus ticket. When she gave it to me, I took it inside and returned with a $38.42 refund, which I gave them as a wedding present from her pop. She said that she would mail it back to him, and William thought that was best. I told them to wait a couple of months, and we pulled out onto the highway.
We went south to Doubling, then east on highway 60 toward Springfield, then south to Omaha, Arkansas, the first little town across the state line. Along the way, we went through the little towns of Ozark and Branson and some of the prettiest country in Middle America.
The Justice of the Peace we found had some doubts about the ages of the prospective bride and groom. I took him aside and told him that it was either they got married now, or there would be a shotgun at their wedding in a couple of months. He figured that this was the nicer of the 2 options and did his duty – of course I had to sweeten the deal with an extra $10.
They were married, the bride was kissed, the rice was thrown, and the J.P. paid before Sarah’s daddy could get on the next eastbound Trailways bus back to Doubling. I loved it.
Liz said she was afraid that Sarah would give it away if she saw her at the Greyhound station, but she was so upset and crying that she wouldn’t have noticed a full grown elephant walking through the station. She said, “From then on it was child’s play.” You should have seen her face when I sat down in the seat beside her.”
The way I had it figured, it could take months before the Amish in Missouri and the Amish in Indiana could make connections by mail to discover that Sarah didn’t get there. It could take months before anyone even began to check, and by that time they would be hard pressed to do anything about it. That was why I told them not to mail that 38 bucks back right away.
* * *
I did my homework, and read the covers off that book Brick had gotten for me. I also did a lot of practicing. I slopped paint and ink on anything that had a dry surface, which excluded water and oil. Actually, I was having a ball with it and was even learning some things especially about technique. To my great surprise, we had orders for signs and show cards from word of mouth well before the announcement was made in the Doubling Press, better known as the Weekly Disappointment. Apparently, Doubling was ready for a sign business.
I was working the late shift, 2:00 in the afternoon until closing time at 10 pm. Brick had hired a couple of part time kids to help out. Things would slow down after about 7 o’clock, and I would go back to work on signs unless it got busy again. The biggest problem was keeping track of my time, and that was getting pretty hairy until Brick got me a timer. That helped a lot when I remembered to use it.
On the Thursday after graduation Friday and wedding Monday, I found myself working alone because the soon to be ex-part-timer didn’t show up. I heard the bell and went out to pump some gas, and there was Luther in a great looking ’59 Mercury Hardtop. We shot the bull a little, he bought a Coke, and used the john, but Luther didn’t look near as good as that Mercury he was driving. His eyes looked funny, and he was jittery. It was hard to tell because his eyes were so dark, but they weren’t right. It could have been just my imagination, but I was sure that something was wrong. So I asked, “You okay Luther? You don’t look so hot.”
“Oh yeah, brother.” He said, flashing a lot of teeth, “I’m cool.”
“You sure man? Cause you look like crap – no offense.”
“None taken, my frien,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “I’m just a little nervous. I could a swore someone was followin’ me back the other side of Mountain Grove – back toward Cabool.”
“It could a just been some red-neck tryin to hoo-raw you.”
“I don’t know Lee, one of our guys got hisself killed lass week in Mempus. They found him in da river wit his brains all bashed in.”
“Ouch! I said, He a nig…colored guy?” I don’t know why I even asked that question, it didn’t matter; dead was dead no matter what color he was.
“No, he was a wop. Did the same work as me, only he went to Jackson and New Ollins. It just got me all jumpy.”
“But he wasn’t killed on the road was he? Maybe it didn’t have any thing to do with work. Maybe he got sideways with somebody, and they got rough. Maybe it was woman trouble.”
“No, he wasn’t workin’ when he got killed. You probly right.” he said, but he didn’t believe it. I didn’t much believe it either, and I’m the one who said it.
I asked him if he wanted to stick around a bit, and rest up a little. I told him that I had a few things to do, but he was welcome. He thanked me and said that he had to be in Tulsa before midnight. He thanked me again and left. I felt bad for Luther; I had no way in the world of knowing how all alone he must have felt. There were damn few colored faces between Jonesboro, Arkansas and Kansas City, and that can be a long stretch of road.
* * *
Someone was kicking my bed and telling me, “Get up, you lazy bum!” My eyes were closed, the pillow was over my head, it was Saturday morning, I was probably a little hung over, and some clown was kicking my bed. Now normally, I don’t mind being called a lazy bum, but when you combine that with bed kicking on a Saturday morning… well, that’s just a little more than a guy should have to put up with. Someone was setting himself up for some aches and pains.
Chapter 13
I told the bed kicker to go away, and he said he wouldn’t. “How’d you get in?” I asked.
“Back door.” he said.
I asked him if anyone had tried to stop him, and he said, “Nope, they just hugged me.”
That did it, if anyone was going to get hugged around here, it was going to be me. I said, “Okay you bed kickin’, hug stealin’, hairy-legged worm I’m comin out,” and I flung the pillow at where his head should have been. I missed, but not by much. He swore at me and made a lunge for the bed, but I was too quick for him and rolled out the other side. I came up ready to clobber him.
“Boys! Boys!” my mom yelled form the door, “Don’t tear down the house!” which probably saved his life.
“Did you hear what he said,” I asked her, “is that any way for a priest to talk? Mom get out of hear, I’m in my underwear!”
She just rolled her eyes, said, “Big deal,” and left.
Mack was back. Let the games begin. “You home for good?” I asked.
“Yep, ain’t never goin’ back – no way – no how.”
“Fantastic!” I said, pulling on a t-shirt, “So what are your plans? What’s on the agenda? …Ay? …Mack?”
“Huh?” He said as he sat on the bed and defocused my binoculars in the general direction of Liz’s window, “Yeah, me too.”
“I said, what are your plans, Knot Head?”
“You ever clean thes
e things?” he asked, looking into the big end, “I’m going to stay at home and go to Southwest with you, at least for 2 years. Then I’d like to go up to Rolla (Mizzoo’s Engineering School) and get an engineering degree.”
“Jeese! Liz going to medical school and you going to engineering school, you guys are really putting the pressure on. I better come up with something good or you two won’t even speak to me.”
“Just what are you gonna major in – you given it any thought at all?”
“Sure, I’ve been thinking about it, been thinking about it a lot, smart ass. I think I’ll either go into Uncommitted or Liberal Arts and Parties. It’s the least I can do. Someone’s got to make you two eggheads look good.” With that the pillow came flying my way, and we went down to breakfast.
* * *
To say that Macklin (Mack) Taylor was my best friend was like saying that Buddy Holly was a singer from Texas, yeah, that and a whole lot more. There were a lot of people that I liked in this world, but Mack was special. He was the only one of my peers that I looked up to and admired. Now there were a good number that I respected and some that I feared, but only one that I actually looked up to.
Mack wasn’t rich or overly intelligent. Oh, he was smart all right, above average, but that wasn’t it. He was about 6’ tall and 170 lbs, thick dark curly hair, and gray eyes. He wasn’t muscular but looked good in whatever he wore. Some people may have called him good looking, but most would have said he was okay. He wasn’t the leader; we both had enough bullshit between our ears to get almost anything started. It would never cross my mind that he would ever let me down. I don’t know why he and I were such good friends; I just knew that we were.
I have a theory about friendship, which has served me well all my life. I will be as good a friend to someone as they will let me be. That doesn’t mean that I’m a soft touch. It means that I will put friendship out on the table, take what you want, but use what you take and return it of your own free will. I think that’s the way it was with Luther Bates. I offered friendship, and he took and returned it. We both knew that we would probably never become great buddies, but we were comfortable with each other.
Will Rogers said, “I never met a man I didn’t like.” That’s the way I feel, but there are a few horses asses that I didn’t like for more than about 20 seconds.
* * *
Making plans for Mack’s first night home included the following suggestions: go into Springfield and pick up some nasties, go up to Waynesville near Fort Leonard Wood and pick up some real nasties, or go to Mona’s and play it by ear. Mickey suggested that we go over to the Red Top and kick some butt. I told him to go ahead without me, and that I would go to Booger County in the morning to identify the body. We wound up going to Mona’s Red Oak Lounge.
The Red Oak Lounge and Motel was an underage drinking spot between Springfield and Marshfield on Route 66. The motel was legitimate and cheap; the lounge was rarely visited by anyone over 21, unless it was someone on a nostalgia journey. The place was owned and operated by Mona Schmitz, an older woman, about 45 or so, and she ran it with an iron fist. NOBODY gave Mona any crap. There were no fights, there was no throwing up, and when Mona said you’d had enough – you’d had enough. When Mona threw someone out, they stayed thrown.
The lounge was laid out in 2 rooms with a common wall between them. The front room had a long bar along the back wall. Behind that bar was Mona-only territory, I had never seen anyone besides her back there. The back room was the same size as the front room, but instead of a bar it had tables and a huge fireplace. There was an opening between the two rooms where Mona served drinks to the back room. The motel registry was at the far right end of the bar.
The back room was my favorite; I loved that fireplace. When it was cold outside, it was always blazing. The front room was for those who liked to stand or sit at the bar and talk politics or sports or whatever. The back room was for those who were definitely cooler. On this night, we were at the bar because we weren’t cool – we were celebrating.
The place was packed with guys home from school or the army or just home from some place. For those of us who have been coming here ever since we got our driver’s license it was like a homecoming. We knew just about everyone there; we were comfortable and among friends.
Mack was arguing politics with stuttering Freddy Denzel. As long as you could keep Freddy arguing he’d buy the beer all night, and Mack could keep him going pretty well. I was out of the conversation because I had just learned how to spell Eisenhower, and now they were telling me that he was almost finished. I kinda favored that fella Nixon because I could already spell it.
Freddy’s stutter got worse the more agitated he got, and Mack knew how to agitate. He was pushing Freddy’s buttons about some guy named Kennedy who he thought looked good and was a Catholic. When Freddy tried to say Kennedy it sounded like a machine gun. He would get frustrated, down his beer in a gulp, and call for 2 more.
“M-M-M-M-Mona, he would say as he tried to order two more Busch beers, t-t-t-two B-B-B-B-B-Bu-Bu-Bu-Bu-Bu…. Dammit…. two m-m-m-m more the s-s-same!” Even though Freddy never drank anything but Busch Beer, Mona would make him be specific and stand there with all the patience in the world until he did.
Shortly after 10 o’clock Mona waved me down to the motel register area, and when I got there she shoved the registration book across the bar to me. I guess that I had a funny look on my face, so she pointed through the service opening to the fireplace. There was old Mickey; he had become so cool in the back room that he just plain passed out on the hearth. She asked me, “Do you want to haul that out of here, or do you want to rent it a room?”
“Aw Jeese,” I said, “let me drag his sorry ass out to the car.” As a sort of businessman I could understand that Mickey was taking up space and not spending any money, and that was something Mona could not abide. So, I got one of the guys to help me haul him out to his car where we deposited him, none too gently, into the back seat. We should have put him in the trunk, but didn’t think of it at the time.
When I got back inside Freddy asked, D-D-D-Did y-y-y-you g-g-g-g-get the t-t-t-two b-b-b-b-b-b-beer r-r-r-r-rookie t-t-t-t-tucked in?”
I said, “I’m sorry – what?”
“S-S-S-S-Sh-Sh…!” was all he said.
By this time, he and Mack had moved on to sports which I knew a little more about, so I joined the conversation in hopes of a free one. Sure enough, Freddy started touting the abilities of this guy, R-R-R-Roger M-M-M-Maris. He thought Maris would bust loose if not this year then next. Well I told him what he was full of and that Maris was playing in Mantel’s shadow and always would be. That earned me a b-b-b-b-beer.
Although we were having a good time, we decided since the population of this place was about 90% male, we would go on down to Rocky’s. Rocky’s was about 30 minutes away between Ozark and Branson.
I had to dig through Mickey’s pockets to find the keys, and sure as hell, he started giggling. Mack was making smart assed remarks like, “Be careful what you come out with.” and, “Watch out for that hole in his pocket.” Well, I was ready to hot wire the thing when Mack said, “Hey, look here the keys are in the ignition.” A fact I’m sure he knew all along, but was having too much fun at my expense. Have you ever gotten into someone’s pocket while they’re wearing their pants? It’s just plain weird.
We debated whether or not to take Mickey home and pick up my car or go from there. A coin toss decided the matter, and we left sleeping beauty at rest in the back seat and headed south to where the women were. We got that pile of junk out on the highway and took dead aim on Rocky’s.
When we got there, the place was thumping. They had a little 4-piece band that knew everything on Bandstand. They didn’t know em well, but they knew em loud, and they had a good drummer. It was noisy, smoky, and jumpin’ – I liked it. I had been there twice before, but that was last year when I was still a kid.
Rocky’s rules were pretty much the same as Mona’s ru
les, the big difference was that Rocky had 4 big ugly hillbilly bouncers who took no lip and gave no apologies. If you wanted to fight – you took it outside, if you had to throw up – you took it outside. If you didn’t then those boys would throw you outside. When I say throw I really mean throw. If you landed on the hood of a car you were lucky, otherwise you would be spitting gravel. But in contrast to Mona’s, one strike and you’re out for life rule, you could go back to Rocky’s forever – if need be they could always throw you out again.
We saw a number of people we knew there like the Donuts and Mack’s cousin Dave. Dave was one of the earth’s good guys – a farm boy from a large family of farm boys. He was a natural mechanic and ready for anything. Dave would never have to worry about being rejected by a place like Yale because he didn’t know what it was, and he couldn’t spell it anyway, but he was one of the best.
We split up and made our way around the room. Rocky had a $ 3.00 cover and no drink minimum, so you didn’t have to drink to stay, but most people did. The place was one big room like a skating rink; much of it was dance floor, which was surrounded by tables. The bar was way off to the right end of the building, but it was always 3 deep and you couldn’t get too it. There were beer girls going among the tables selling cold beer out of ice buckets, either by the bottle or in paper cups for the more delicate. You had 2 choices, Bud or Blue Ribbon. Stuttering Freddy wouldn’t have made it there.
I danced a couple of numbers with some likely looking numbers, but they showed little interest in anything more than dancing, so I moseyed on. One problem was that even though there were a lot of under aged kids there, it was still pretty much an older crowd. Those women in their twenties weren’t looking for anything an eighteen year old could give them except a dance, no matter how good a dancer he was. If I were there just for the dancing I would never lack for a partner, but I was wanting to get a lot closer than that, and that’s a whole different process all together.