The worst BA was the flying BA, developed by Harry Hass. His was an ass you just didn’t want to look at. Put it this way: Harry was a hairy guy. You’ve all been to the zoo. You’ve seen baboons with the same sort of problem. If a nine-year-old had ever seen Hass he’d have thought, “God, if that ever happens to me, somebody please shoot me.”
Hass made the most of his gifts. He watched for someone to walk out of the locker room. Then he grabbed the equipment cage wire mesh, swung up, and wrapped his legs around the quarry’s neck. We didn’t invite Harry to many parties after that.
Did we have too much time on our hands? Yes. In fact, we had so much spare time that we extended the BA wars into the classroom.
Once Burns came into my history class with a note. “They want to see Jeff in the office,” he told the teacher. When I walked into the hall two guys were bent over and I was history. We finally quit when we realized we had influenced the sub-freshmen. Morals, remember? One afternoon in math class I got bored and stared out the door. There in the hallway was an eighth grader with his pants around his ankles. He was doubled over, and looking between his legs, going, “Fox! Fox!”
I realized I had set a bad example. If he got caught, my conscience would have forced me to visit this kid at the juvenile home. I couldn’t do that. They might have invited me to stay.
Another Larry Burns story that cannot go untold.
When Atlanta began building their new airport, Burns got in trouble for shooting doves under the landing lights at the end of the runway. Apparently the airport authorities frowned upon firearms being discharged into the air anywhere near the flight path. Go figure. A sergeant named P. D. Bosket ran him off.
The next weekend Danny Chastain and I listened as Burns told the story. According to Larry, Bosket had said, “If I ever see your ass down here again, even just standing around watching the planes land, I’m going to take you to jail.”
Burns was unfazed. “You’ve never seen this many doves in your life,” he explained. “We have to go down there and shoot some. The sky is black with doves.”
For some reason we shared his enthusiasm and agreed to an immediate target practice. At the airport we climbed the fence, shotguns in hand, and sat under the landing lights picking off doves. There were doves everywhere. When we’d drop one, another took its place. (Note to the 1996 Olympic Committee. Need doves? Help yourself. They’re free and there are still plenty left.)
Suddenly we heard a voice booming through a bullhorn: “Come out with your hands up.”
I turned to see two cop cruisers parked alongside our car. We walked out, three geeky sixteen-year-olds, with our hands in the air, holding our shotguns over our heads. We looked like captured soldiers in a Hee Haw skit. As we walked, Burns whispered, “Let me do the talking.”
No problem. Besides, it’s not as if we could have actually hit a plane, I thought. Our guns could only shoot about thirty-five yards and the planes were at least fifty yards above us. That’s was at least a fifteen-yard margin of error, which is plenty, right?
The first officer said, “Let us see your hunting licenses.” This should immediately tell you something about growing up in Georgia. Then the other added, “What in the world were you kids thinking?”
Burns had already prepared his answer.
“We would have never thought to do this on our own,” he said somewhat contritely, “but I have a friend who’s a police officer—name of P. D. Bosket—and P.D. said that we oughta come down here and shoot some of these doves at the airport.”
The first officer said, “God, I’ve known P.D. all my life. I can’t imagine him saying something like that.”
Burns said, “Do you think we’re that stupid to just come down here and shoot doves at the airport? On our own?” Now Larry was indignant. “No! P. D. said it was okay. Think about it. You always hear about doves flying into jet engines and costing the airlines millions of dollars, not to mention endangering passenger safety. I thought—I guess P.D. thought—we were doing a public service.”
We had a name. We had the attitude. They let us go.
We didn’t always get away with everything.
I’m not especially proud of this story. But I’d rather you hear it from me than read some inaccurate tabloid version that makes me sound like a hick and that will make my mother even madder because I’ve never told her any of this before. (Sorry, Mom.) Anyway, I believe the statute of limitations is up.
Long ago, when I was nineteen, Larry Burns once goaded me in to peeing into the Cincinnati Reds’ dugout during a game with the Atlanta Braves. I know what you’re wondering: Yes, there were players in the dugout at the time. Two, or maybe just one, laughed at the unexpectedly warm drizzle. I feel badly now, but I still like to think that my bravado, stupid as it was, turned out to be a good thing for the team because the Reds awoke that night from a mid-season slump and went on to win the Series. They should have sent me a World Series ring.
I learned something, too: Ballpark bouncers will ask you to leave. At that point it’s actually more of a demand. We were just lucky they didn’t take us to jail.
Burns and I should have quit while we were ahead and gone home to sleep it off. Instead, we hauled down I-85 and I somehow confused the interstate sign with the speed limit sign. When I saw the flashing red lights in the rearview mirror, I said, “There’s a cop trying to get around me. I’m going to pull over one lane, let him around.”
To my big dumbass surprise, he pulled in behind us. As we slowed to a stop, Burns, always the optimist, kept saying, “Just be cool. Be cool.”
I knew cool didn’t matter.
When I was a kid I had once ridden in my dad’s car when he’d been drinking beer all day. We got pulled over by the highway patrol. The officer walked up to my dad’s window and said, “Excuse me there, sir. Can I see your license please?”
My dad mumbled something I couldn’t quite hear.
“No sir, I don’t need a cold beer and I don’t think you do either,” said the officer. “Mr. Foxworthy, do you know why I pulled you over, sir?
“Nope.”
“Well it concerns that vehicle you’re pulling behind you.”
“That’s not illegal,” my Dad said.
“No sir, it’s not against the law to tow a boat, but we do require that you put it on a trailer. Now, could you ask your friends to get out of the boat, please, sir?”
My dad protested.
“I don’t give a damn if the fish are biting. Now, could you ask your friends to get out of the boat?” said the patrolman.
Okay, that’s not a true story. (If you believed it, put this book next to your copy of The One That Got Away, by the One-Armed Fisherman.) But it still makes my point.
When the patrolman walked up to me, I tried to be casual. I said, “Good evening, Officer. What seems to be the problem?” His answer was to yank the door open and say, “You going to jail, boys. That’s what the problem is.”
Okay, just let me tell my friends to get out of the boat.
He took me around the back of my car, slammed me down, and frisked me. I had a pocket knife about three inches long. He took that away and later charged me with concealing a deadly weapon. You couldn’t open a letter with that thing, but apparently the officers felt threatened. Then he took me to the drunk tank at Grady Hospital.
When the drunk tank door locked behind me I suddenly realized that I was scared to death and rooming with people sleeping in their own urine. I thought about Ned Beatty in Deliverance. I’m not egotistical about my looks, but I was the cutest drunk in the tank that night.
I was also alone. Burns wasn’t behind the wheel so he got to call home and go free. I settled down on a bench. Then a guy came over and said, “This your first time in the joint?”
“Yeah.” I said it slow, watching for any sudden moves. I thought we were about to dance.
He said, “This is bull. I was in the state pen for twenty years.”
“Yeah?” Now I knew
we were gonna dance.
Then he said, “I’m gonna take care of us.”
Time to tango. I started a quick move to the left, but he got up before me, walked to the door, knocked, and told the jailer that he had to use the bathroom. They let him go down the hall. When he returned he said, “Shhh…Hold out your hands.”
He had collected every cigarette butt out of every ashtray between the drunk tank and the bathroom. Menthol, regular, it didn’t matter. I cupped my hands and he emptied the tobacco from each butt. Then he reached into his boot and pulled out rolling papers. He had enough to roll two cigarettes, one for him and one for me. Best cigarette I ever had in my whole life.
Four hours later, the cell door swung open and Larry Burns stumbled inside. It seems he had tried to get me out and he’d raised such a ruckus that they’d detained him for attempting to incite a riot. Before long we were transported, handcuffed, and in the paddy wagon, to a real jail. I was scared but Burns saw an opportunity to have some fun. At the processing center he looked at me and said, “What are you in for?”
I played along. “Going eighty-five in a fifty-five, DUI, attempting to elude arrest, and concealing a deadly weapon. What are you in for?”
He stood right next to a cop. Burns spit on the floor and, as casually as if he’d been arrested for jaywalking, said, “Murder one.”
The next morning, Burns’ father-in-law-to-be came and bailed us out. It was a proud moment that obviously had zero effect on Burns’ engagement, except that his bride’s family required him to post bond before the wedding.
Later the police dropped the charges against Burns. I had to get an attorney. I shaved my beard, and we went to court. They offered me a chance to plead nolo contendere, but I declined because if you plead it’s on your record. Instead, I said “not guilty” and asked for a trial by jury. When the date arrived, no witnesses for the prosecution were present, including the arresting officer. So the judge said, “All right, if you don’t get another ticket for nine months, we’ll drop every charge against you.” That was my plea bargain deal. I signed it, and nine months to the day I drank about 145 beers with Marty Sumpter to celebrate the end of my probation.
I did learn my lesson, though. Afterward I made Marty drive. I know I was a complete idiot for operating a motor vehicle under the influence. I’ve never done anything like that again, and I’d suggest to anyone out there IF YOU’RE DRINKING, DON’T DRIVE. I got lucky. You might not be.
But that’s not the end of the story. I had to go to the weapons bureau and reclaim my pocket knife. They have big wire bins full of bazookas and machetes and submachine guns. I gave a very pretty young woman clerk my claim check and she brought out my knife. She looked at me, then at the knife, and said, “You got to be kidding.”
That was the most embarrassing moment of the whole incident.
Larry and Danny were great friends. The only person closer to me is my little brother, Jay. At six feet three and 235 pounds, he is now my larger brother. Jay played linebacker for Duke University, and today he can pick me up with one hand. But he still can’t beat me at Sega football. (The preceding sentence will cost me a choke hold.) Can you tell I’m extremely competitive? We often play long distance, over the phone, he at his TV and I at mine. No cheating allowed. And we still have a wonderful relationship. Next to my wife, Jay is probably my best friend.
When we were kids, my mother and sister used to think Jay and I were crazy. (This doesn’t seem such a surprise to you now, I guess.) One reason was our strong sense of honor. That’s not a bad thing. We just had an odd way of demonstrating it. This started very early. We both played sports, and we had a standing agreement that when one guy asked another to smell his socks or his shirt, or whatever, he had to do it. If my brother came in from football practice and said to me, “All right, smell this T-shirt,” I couldn’t fake it. I had to hold up the T-shirt to my nose and inhale. Then I could run around the house going, “Oh God! Oh God, that’s horrible!” Then Jay owed me one. The next night I’d go, “Smell these socks.”
My mother used to say, “You are outta your minds.” I think she knew what she was talking about.
Jay and I constantly invented games. My mother used to say that you could lock the two of us in a room with a thread, a marble, and a pencil, and not only would we come up with a game, we would keep statistics. We played everything: underwear baseball, tube sock basketball. Once, in a highly creative moment in our garage, we decided to throw darts at a whiffle ball bat and see if the darts would stick. I was eleven and my brother was six. I swung the bat as hard as I could at the first dart he threw. The dart hit the bat, turned around, went right back at Jay—and all the way through his ear. Not the lobe, the hard cartilage part. It stuck out the back.
Jay stood there, stunned.
I said, “Does it hurt?”
“No, it dudden hurt.”
“What should we do?”
“I think we have to go tell Mom.”
I led him upstairs. She was cooking in the kitchen and still had her back to us when I said, “Uh…Mom, we made up this game and…” I guess she heard something in my voice. She turned around, took one look at the yellow plastic dart in Jay’s ear, and said,” I KNEW YOU WERE OUTTA YOUR MINDS!“
She pulled out the dart. There wasn’t much blood. I tried to joke about it. I peered at the hole and said, “Look! You can see the dining room!”
“That’s not funny,” she said.
Oh yes it was.
When I think of everything my friends and I used to pull, I realize that most of it was completely crazy. Yet it bound us together for a lifetime. Boys will be boys, even long after they’ve become grown men. We were lucky that almost no harm came from our adventures, just lots of good stories. I loved my friends. I remember once looking at the gang and thinking that someday I’d get married, have kids, and a job I busted my ass at and hated, but as long as I got to hang out with my friends (and family) and laugh, that would be my salvation.
Burns and I may have been rascals, but we were also very popular throughout high school, even with the teachers. We may have rushed in where angels feared to tread, but we were always polite little devils when we got there. Somehow we managed to get out of trouble that a lot of other kids didn’t even have the guts to get into. I think Burns and I were just full of the youthful arrogance that makes kids believe they can overcome just about any situation. Burns and I were also the funniest guys in school, which made it that much easier to get away with murder.
We were also very strong academically. (Shocking?) He was the valedictorian and I was fourth or fifth in the class. He won the Journal Cup and I won the Outstanding Senior Award. I became president of the student council, and Burns and I were co-captains of the football and baseball teams. My nickname in football was the Flint River Flash. I was very fast, until I hurt my knee. Yeah, yeah, wasn’t everybody.
When graduation rolled around, they asked me to make the class speech. I wrote my notes on index cards, then I practiced and practiced. I got so I could flip the cards in order and recite the speech without looking. I just had them for reference.
During the ceremony, I asked Burns to hold my cards for a minute while I went up to receive some award. That was a mistake. During the speech I began to lose my place. I knew I was on the fourth card, so I looked at my notes to see what came next. But instead of seeing card number four, I saw card twenty-three. I flipped it over and the next one was card number two. Then eighteen. Burns had shuffled the deck and he made me look like a total idiot. All I could hear while I fumbled and stammered was someone behind me laughing and, finally, falling off his chair.
I didn’t have to wonder who it was. I knew in my heart that as I’d stepped to the podium, Burns had probably whispered to everyone within earshot, “Y’all watch this.”
I would have done the same thing.
After all, what are friends for?
Say It with Krylon
What’s the sexiest four-word
sentence in the English language. I’ll give you a clue. It’s when a Southern woman says, “Hey, y’all, I’m drunk.” Any woman from anywhere could say it, of course, but it’s highly unlikely that she also fantasizes about some guy in a baseball cap laying on top of her, cooing, “Who’s yer daddy, sweetie? A’right, sweet thang.”
Southern women are different.
Where else can you find a woman who can chug a Miller pony beer, chuck the bottle out the window, and hit a road sign—without having to sit up?
Where else, when a woman gets mad, is the full impact of her fiery temper expressed as “I am so mad at yew”? True, it doesn’t have the same impact as a housewife from New Jersey screaming, “Get your ass in the car!” but it means far more. The image of Southern women may be all fluttery and delicate, but it’s just that steel magnolias get pissed with style. Instead of telling you to get into the car, she’ll wait until your back is turned and drive the car into you. The really tough ones do it when you’re looking.
By far the biggest difference between Southern women and all others is their Southern daddies. These men know why you’re at their house. You can’t bullshit them a bit, which might seem strange since these are the same men who will swear they were once abducted by aliens and forced to undergo a thorough body-cavity probe. (And wished they could have taken a probe home as a souvenir to use on the cat, or the wife, or on the next hunting trip.) But when it comes to their daughters, you can pet the dog, know every football stat for three decades, and actually be from another planet, and good old dad will still be ticked at you for sniffing around his baby girl. He knows you’re there for the same reason he was somewhere himself, twenty-five years ago. He knows your mission is to get his daughter into the same state in which she came into the world…naked.
(Word of warning: I’m now a Southern dad and you better not be coming round my house in about fifteen years.)
No Shirt, No Shoes...No Problem! Page 4