My Mind
This is my mind
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
Pants on fire!!
Birds were singing when I awoke. It was a good morning. The car was going to be mine this day since my mother agreed to my driving myself to school. First I had to drive her to work and remember to pick her up in the afternoon. Easy peasy.
"Good morning!" I said sitting at the table. "Nice day."
"You're in a good mood," my mother said handing me the cereal box.
"Course I am. I'm driving the car to school today. Remember?"
"How could I forget."
After that I got the standard lecture on what a huge responsibility driving was. How I had to be vigilant of other drivers at all times. I shoveled soggy cereal in my moth nodding vigorously to each belabored point.
"Don't you roll your eyes at me. I don't have to let you do this you know."
"But, mom, you promised."
"Then take my words seriously," she said. Her stern face told me she was not kidding.
"Yes'm."
"Finish up there. If you're going to get me to work we need to leave soon."
The job was down town. In those days traffic was not so heavy. In about a half hour I had dropped her off at work and was heading back to the island. G--'s house was the first stop before heading to school.
"Good morning," I said as he closed the door.
"Mornin' to you," he said.
"No books?"
"Naah. I'll catch up in home room."
We both laughed at that.
The school was busy with buses rolling in and seniors driving up. The rumble of glass packed exhausts filled the air.
"When you gonna get some glass packs for the Bird?" G-- asked as the old Falcon's puny engine's sounds barely purred along.
"After my summer job. I found just what I wanted in Honest Charlie's catalogue. I figure after a cuple of weeks I should have the money. Wanna help put 'em on?"
"No, not really. It's amighty fine day today. Look at that sky."
"Yeah, a beautiful day," I said finding a space. "I got a test after lunch so I need to get to home room to study."
"Such a beautiful day," said G--. "I hear the beach calling us."
The days were warm and summer break was a few weeks away. The call of sand and surf and suds was distincly in the air.
We entered the school. Students lined the walls. The boys half encircled girls in hushed conversation. Giggles erupted often from the girls. Others leaned against, the wall papers in hand reciting for memory's sake the information therin. Groups of girls walked passed eyeing G-- who was taller and lankier that I was.
"Hey G--," we'd hear from the girls passing.
"How do you do it, man?" I asked. I was constantly perplexed by this.
"Just my charm, Rickey. Just my charm."
"Hey, G--."
I shook my head and turned into my room. I stood for a minute looking around. My homeroom teacher looked up, smiled and said, "Good morning, Rickey."
"Good morning Mrs. Y--. Can you excuse me please?"
She looked at me as I walked out. Looking around I saw G-- and caught up with him.
"Sure is a pretty day."
"Sure is. Wonder if it's like this at Folly?"
"I'm bettin' so."
We detoured to other classrooms in search of our group. We never called ourselves a gang. Gang's were filled with delinquents switchblades in hand and attitude. We were simply friends whose only attitude was "where's the party?"
"It's a pretty day," we'd say when we located them. With that statement they would join us and we marched down the hall to the exit door. The bell rang at our leaving. Our separate cars roared to life. Well theirs roared to life mine, cranked to a low whine. My dad kept his cars in tiptop condition. To him a quiet engine was a well tuned engine. Three cars blubblubblubbed toward the street. I was putputting along behind them. With a right turn and a squeal of tires we were free and headed for Folly.
I remembered to pick my mother up after work and begged her to let me do the same the next day. She agreed.
The next day was another pretty day. We simply bypassed the school straight for the sand and surf.
The third day I was once again allowed to drive. This particular one we decided to meet at my place before heading out. Everyone was hungry so we fixed food. While we were eating the phone rang.
"Should I answer?" I asked around.
"You better," said G--. " Might be important."
Reluctantly I picked up the phone.
"Hello," I said hesitantly.
"Hello, may I speak to Mr. Croucher, please?" Busted. It was my guidance counselor at school.
"Uh, *cough, cough*, he isn't here, Mr. C--." I said in a weak thready voice.
"Is this you, Rickey?" said the voice on the other end.
Weakly coughing, I said, "Yessir."
"Are you alright? You don't sound so good." There was real concern in his voice as always. A truly dedicated man who was there for his students. "Will you be coming in tomorrow?"
What do I say? Do I tell the truth? He deserves the truth. He's a good man and deserves the truth, I thought.
"Yessir, I'm gonna try," I barely whispered.
"This will be the third day you've been out. I was worried about you."
The others were still as mice watching me on the phone.
He deserves the truth, I thought again. I opened my mouth and out came, "Yessir, I've been really sick these last couple of days. I was going to rest up today and try to come back tomorrow." I felt absolutely awful.
"Alright. Don't over do it now. Take your time. And tell your parents I called." His concern was real. His trust in my word was real. I lied again.
"Yessir, I will. Thank you so much for calling." I heard the click on the other end.
They all stared at me.
"What? I couldn't tell him the truth, could I?"
"We thought that was great!" they said and laughed. I joined in the laughter. It took the edge off the guilt.
"So, what's on the agenda today?" one of them asked.
"Folly Beach!" came the answer. I was silent. They looked at me.
"Well, let's go."
I stayed in my seat.
"You guys go. I think I'm gonna stay home and rest up."
"Rest up! You aren't sick," said G--.
"I know that. But I think I'll stick around. He might call back. I don't want to be gone if he does."
"It's a beautiful day. The beach is calling again."
"Yeah, but I don't hear the call so loud now. I think I'll stay."
"If that's what you want, then stay. Come on guys, sand and surf. Off we go."
They tumbled out the door and into their cars. The rumble of V-8's burst upon the air. They backed out, whipped around and left a streak of rubber along the street.
I sat at the table trying to decide if I should call Mr. C----. I took the easy way out. I took a nap. The next day I returned to school with the excuse I had written. I couldn't look Mr. C-- in the eye.
He knew.
"Good morning!" I said sitting at the table. "Nice day."
"You're in a good mood," my mother said handing me the cereal box.
"Course I am. I'm driving the car to school today. Remember?"
"How could I forget."
After that I got the standard lecture on what a huge responsibility driving was. How I had to be vigilant of other drivers at all times. I shoveled soggy cereal in my moth nodding vigorously to each belabored point.
"Don't you roll your eyes at me. I don't have to let you do this you know."
"But, mom, you promised."
"Then take my words seriously," she said. Her stern face told me she was not kidding.
"Yes'm."
"Finish up there. If you're going to get me to work we need to leave soon."
The job was down town. In those days traffic was not so heavy. In about a half hour I had dropped her off at work and was heading back to the island. G--'s house was the first stop before heading to school.
"Good morning," I said as he closed the door.
"Mornin' to you," he said.
"No books?"
"Naah. I'll catch up in home room."
We both laughed at that.
The school was busy with buses rolling in and seniors driving up. The rumble of glass packed exhausts filled the air.
"When you gonna get some glass packs for the Bird?" G-- asked as the old Falcon's puny engine's sounds barely purred along.
"After my summer job. I found just what I wanted in Honest Charlie's catalogue. I figure after a cuple of weeks I should have the money. Wanna help put 'em on?"
"No, not really. It's amighty fine day today. Look at that sky."
"Yeah, a beautiful day," I said finding a space. "I got a test after lunch so I need to get to home room to study."
"Such a beautiful day," said G--. "I hear the beach calling us."
The days were warm and summer break was a few weeks away. The call of sand and surf and suds was distincly in the air.
We entered the school. Students lined the walls. The boys half encircled girls in hushed conversation. Giggles erupted often from the girls. Others leaned against, the wall papers in hand reciting for memory's sake the information therin. Groups of girls walked passed eyeing G-- who was taller and lankier that I was.
"Hey G--," we'd hear from the girls passing.
"How do you do it, man?" I asked. I was constantly perplexed by this.
"Just my charm, Rickey. Just my charm."
"Hey, G--."
I shook my head and turned into my room. I stood for a minute looking around. My homeroom teacher looked up, smiled and said, "Good morning, Rickey."
"Good morning Mrs. Y--. Can you excuse me please?"
She looked at me as I walked out. Looking around I saw G-- and caught up with him.
"Sure is a pretty day."
"Sure is. Wonder if it's like this at Folly?"
"I'm bettin' so."
We detoured to other classrooms in search of our group. We never called ourselves a gang. Gang's were filled with delinquents switchblades in hand and attitude. We were simply friends whose only attitude was "where's the party?"
"It's a pretty day," we'd say when we located them. With that statement they would join us and we marched down the hall to the exit door. The bell rang at our leaving. Our separate cars roared to life. Well theirs roared to life mine, cranked to a low whine. My dad kept his cars in tiptop condition. To him a quiet engine was a well tuned engine. Three cars blubblubblubbed toward the street. I was putputting along behind them. With a right turn and a squeal of tires we were free and headed for Folly.
I remembered to pick my mother up after work and begged her to let me do the same the next day. She agreed.
The next day was another pretty day. We simply bypassed the school straight for the sand and surf.
The third day I was once again allowed to drive. This particular one we decided to meet at my place before heading out. Everyone was hungry so we fixed food. While we were eating the phone rang.
"Should I answer?" I asked around.
"You better," said G--. " Might be important."
Reluctantly I picked up the phone.
"Hello," I said hesitantly.
"Hello, may I speak to Mr. Croucher, please?" Busted. It was my guidance counselor at school.
"Uh, *cough, cough*, he isn't here, Mr. C--." I said in a weak thready voice.
"Is this you, Rickey?" said the voice on the other end.
Weakly coughing, I said, "Yessir."
"Are you alright? You don't sound so good." There was real concern in his voice as always. A truly dedicated man who was there for his students. "Will you be coming in tomorrow?"
What do I say? Do I tell the truth? He deserves the truth. He's a good man and deserves the truth, I thought.
"Yessir, I'm gonna try," I barely whispered.
"This will be the third day you've been out. I was worried about you."
The others were still as mice watching me on the phone.
He deserves the truth, I thought again. I opened my mouth and out came, "Yessir, I've been really sick these last couple of days. I was going to rest up today and try to come back tomorrow." I felt absolutely awful.
"Alright. Don't over do it now. Take your time. And tell your parents I called." His concern was real. His trust in my word was real. I lied again.
"Yessir, I will. Thank you so much for calling." I heard the click on the other end.
They all stared at me.
"What? I couldn't tell him the truth, could I?"
"We thought that was great!" they said and laughed. I joined in the laughter. It took the edge off the guilt.
"So, what's on the agenda today?" one of them asked.
"Folly Beach!" came the answer. I was silent. They looked at me.
"Well, let's go."
I stayed in my seat.
"You guys go. I think I'm gonna stay home and rest up."
"Rest up! You aren't sick," said G--.
"I know that. But I think I'll stick around. He might call back. I don't want to be gone if he does."
"It's a beautiful day. The beach is calling again."
"Yeah, but I don't hear the call so loud now. I think I'll stay."
"If that's what you want, then stay. Come on guys, sand and surf. Off we go."
They tumbled out the door and into their cars. The rumble of V-8's burst upon the air. They backed out, whipped around and left a streak of rubber along the street.
I sat at the table trying to decide if I should call Mr. C----. I took the easy way out. I took a nap. The next day I returned to school with the excuse I had written. I couldn't look Mr. C-- in the eye.
He knew.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Meetcha at the Hollow...
Just the facts, ma'am. All the names in the following story have been changed to protect the guilty.
The Patio drive-in was packed when we got there. The smell of hamburgers and fries was in the air. WTMA was blasting away from the glassed in booth on the Patio's roof. I parked beside the old rusting Ford and switched off the engine.
"Has anybody heard from Tod?" I asked through the open passenger's window.
Frank looked over raised his beer and said, "Nope. He was supposed to get in touch but hasn't."
Dang it, I thought, he was supposed to call. A few days before he'd told me that he had a surprise for us, that he'd get back in touch when it was all set up. That was two days ago.
"You know him," said Casanova leaning out the back seat window of the Ford of many grey tones. Old Casa N. had earned the reputation for being a ladies' man. Tall and lanky with a shock of black hair spilling over his eyes seemed to be just what the girls wanted. "He'll call when he wants a ride."
He was right about that. Tod lived so far out in the boonies that nothing was there, just pines and oaks and the occasional gas station. The trip to his house took over an hour. It was a long lonely drive to that little community.
The curb waitress walked up to my window and asked for my order. "Hamburger basket," I said looking at the three undone buttons on her blouse. Her gum popping jerked my eyes to hers. She smiled, stuck her pencil in her ear, turned and sashayed back to the kitchen.
"Nice swing on that back porch," I muttered to myself. Number thirteen drove up during my distraction. As part of the football team he'd acquired jersey number thirteen. He never had a bad day in high school with girls surrounding him down the breezeway. Lucky was his name until Jersey thirteen was thrown his way. From then on he was "Number Thirteen."
"Hey, You guys heard from Tod?" he yelled through the window.
"No," we all said.
"Maybe someone should call him."
"Yeah, maybe they should. Gotta dime? I'll hit the pay phone." Frank flipped me a dime as I closed my door.
The dime clinked into the phone giving me a dial tone. I dragged the rotary dial around seven times. Tod's phone began to whir in the ear piece.
His dad answered.
"Can I speak to Tod?" I asked.
His dad called him to the phone.
"Tod? What's happ'nin', man? You never called."
"I got it man! You need to come over now and get it."
"What are you talking about?"
"I can't say over the phone. Just get over here as fast as you can. The sooner you get it out of here the better for me."
He hung up.
"What the..."
Casanova saw my puzzled look. He stopped long enough to ask, "What' wrong?"
"I don't know. Tod sounded kinda frantic. Wants us to come up there now."
"This time a night? That's almost like driving to Columbia and back." He shook his head and entered the men's room.
Back at the cars I told everyone what Tod said. The waitress returned with my order. I sat in the car while she waited then placed the tray on the window.
"Pay up, honey." Her request brought my eyes up to hers. "Like what ya see?" Her smile said the joke was on me.
I paid her and watched the swing return. She put extra sash in her shay.
"So, are you going?"
"I don't want to go alone. It's a long drive."
Casanova opened the passenger door and got in. "I'll go with you. Let's get started."
"I got a hamburger here," I said starting on a bite.
"You can't drive and eat. Give it here." I took the basket off the tray handing it to him. I dropped the tray on the ground and cranked it up.
"I'm really hungry," I said drooling.
"Have a fry," he said. A quarter of the burger disappeared in one bite. "Here. Habba pry."
Wiping the burger bits off my face I began the trek into the night.
When we arrived Tod was waiting outside in the chill air.
"Man, I thought you'd never get here. Turn The Bird around and back in. Open that trunk and hurry."
I turned her around and popped the trunk. Tod ran out of the wash room carrying a heavily weighed down white crocheted sack. He was straining as he gingerly placed it in the back. It settled with several clinks of glass. Tod slammed the trunk shut looking around with frightened eyes.
"OK. Get out of here and don't stop for anybody!"
"Aren't you coming with us?"
"No! Just get movin'."
We started to ask why but he blurted out, "Go! Get going! I'll tell you later. Just go!"
We slipped into the front seat and slammed the doors shut. A quick crank and we were off. Tod was waving us on in the rear view. It was getting late. His not coming was a good thing since I would have had to make the trip again to get him home.
We ended up at the Patio as usual. I parked where there was some light.
"Come on over y'all!" I yelled. They started over as I raised the lid to the trunk. Inside the sack had opened and a brown bottle was exposed. The label read Candadian Club.
"It's booze!" Spreading the sack's opening we saw 10 or 12 bottles of all different brands of alcohol. Rum, Bourbon, Irish, Gin, Drambuie--Drambuie? What the hell's that?--it was a smorgasbord of fine liquors.
"What the...?" We all stared into the trunk. I slammed it shut.
"It has to be stolen!"
"A bonanza! Wow! Where'd Tod get all this?" It was Number Thirteen speaking with visions of Sugar Rums dancing in his head.
"What are we gonna do with it all?" was my first question.
"Drink it! What the hell!" exclaimed Frank.
"Hell Yeah!" we all shouted.
"We gotta hide it. I can't carry it around in my trunk."
We all mulled over this predicament. Then I remembered the tree in the lot next to my house.
"There's a tree next door to the house. It has a hollow spot that might just be big enough for it all."
"Let's go see!" We piled into the Bird and sped over to the island and the hollow tree.
I slipped down the drive as quietly as I could. The folks were watching TV since the light in that room was still on.
I opened the trunk, took out the flashlight and handed it to Casanova. Frank took a couple of bottles. So did Number Thirteen. I grabbed my two and we fit them into the space in the trunk. With a velvet touch we placed all of them except one.
"I'll take it." said Frank.
"OK," I said. "Let's get out of here. I'll take you back to the Patio. We all gotta get back home. And don't tell anyone."
"Man are we gonna have a great Senior-Junior or what?" said Number Thirteen a smile spreading across his face.
Frank just held onto his bottle with a look of delite on his.
"Don't guess you'd get another burger basket would you?" asked Casanova looking at me with a big grin sloping across his face.
We split up after arriving at the patio. Doors slammed, engines turned over and tires screeched onto the highway home. We were set. Our Senior-Junior was going to be a blast.
That was our only venture into the underworld of crime. Over time the bottles were removed individually. My dad came upon them one day but never said a word to me until much later in life. The hollow proved to be a death sentence to the tree and it was removed long after our booty had been drunk. I think the statute of limitations is over now. Fifty years is a long time for the law to hold a grudge. But, then, who knows if I'm telling the truth?
The Patio drive-in was packed when we got there. The smell of hamburgers and fries was in the air. WTMA was blasting away from the glassed in booth on the Patio's roof. I parked beside the old rusting Ford and switched off the engine.
"Has anybody heard from Tod?" I asked through the open passenger's window.
Frank looked over raised his beer and said, "Nope. He was supposed to get in touch but hasn't."
Dang it, I thought, he was supposed to call. A few days before he'd told me that he had a surprise for us, that he'd get back in touch when it was all set up. That was two days ago.
"You know him," said Casanova leaning out the back seat window of the Ford of many grey tones. Old Casa N. had earned the reputation for being a ladies' man. Tall and lanky with a shock of black hair spilling over his eyes seemed to be just what the girls wanted. "He'll call when he wants a ride."
He was right about that. Tod lived so far out in the boonies that nothing was there, just pines and oaks and the occasional gas station. The trip to his house took over an hour. It was a long lonely drive to that little community.
The curb waitress walked up to my window and asked for my order. "Hamburger basket," I said looking at the three undone buttons on her blouse. Her gum popping jerked my eyes to hers. She smiled, stuck her pencil in her ear, turned and sashayed back to the kitchen.
"Nice swing on that back porch," I muttered to myself. Number thirteen drove up during my distraction. As part of the football team he'd acquired jersey number thirteen. He never had a bad day in high school with girls surrounding him down the breezeway. Lucky was his name until Jersey thirteen was thrown his way. From then on he was "Number Thirteen."
"Hey, You guys heard from Tod?" he yelled through the window.
"No," we all said.
"Maybe someone should call him."
"Yeah, maybe they should. Gotta dime? I'll hit the pay phone." Frank flipped me a dime as I closed my door.
The dime clinked into the phone giving me a dial tone. I dragged the rotary dial around seven times. Tod's phone began to whir in the ear piece.
His dad answered.
"Can I speak to Tod?" I asked.
His dad called him to the phone.
"Tod? What's happ'nin', man? You never called."
"I got it man! You need to come over now and get it."
"What are you talking about?"
"I can't say over the phone. Just get over here as fast as you can. The sooner you get it out of here the better for me."
He hung up.
"What the..."
Casanova saw my puzzled look. He stopped long enough to ask, "What' wrong?"
"I don't know. Tod sounded kinda frantic. Wants us to come up there now."
"This time a night? That's almost like driving to Columbia and back." He shook his head and entered the men's room.
Back at the cars I told everyone what Tod said. The waitress returned with my order. I sat in the car while she waited then placed the tray on the window.
"Pay up, honey." Her request brought my eyes up to hers. "Like what ya see?" Her smile said the joke was on me.
I paid her and watched the swing return. She put extra sash in her shay.
"So, are you going?"
"I don't want to go alone. It's a long drive."
Casanova opened the passenger door and got in. "I'll go with you. Let's get started."
"I got a hamburger here," I said starting on a bite.
"You can't drive and eat. Give it here." I took the basket off the tray handing it to him. I dropped the tray on the ground and cranked it up.
"I'm really hungry," I said drooling.
"Have a fry," he said. A quarter of the burger disappeared in one bite. "Here. Habba pry."
Wiping the burger bits off my face I began the trek into the night.
When we arrived Tod was waiting outside in the chill air.
"Man, I thought you'd never get here. Turn The Bird around and back in. Open that trunk and hurry."
I turned her around and popped the trunk. Tod ran out of the wash room carrying a heavily weighed down white crocheted sack. He was straining as he gingerly placed it in the back. It settled with several clinks of glass. Tod slammed the trunk shut looking around with frightened eyes.
"OK. Get out of here and don't stop for anybody!"
"Aren't you coming with us?"
"No! Just get movin'."
We started to ask why but he blurted out, "Go! Get going! I'll tell you later. Just go!"
We slipped into the front seat and slammed the doors shut. A quick crank and we were off. Tod was waving us on in the rear view. It was getting late. His not coming was a good thing since I would have had to make the trip again to get him home.
We ended up at the Patio as usual. I parked where there was some light.
"Come on over y'all!" I yelled. They started over as I raised the lid to the trunk. Inside the sack had opened and a brown bottle was exposed. The label read Candadian Club.
"It's booze!" Spreading the sack's opening we saw 10 or 12 bottles of all different brands of alcohol. Rum, Bourbon, Irish, Gin, Drambuie--Drambuie? What the hell's that?--it was a smorgasbord of fine liquors.
"What the...?" We all stared into the trunk. I slammed it shut.
"It has to be stolen!"
"A bonanza! Wow! Where'd Tod get all this?" It was Number Thirteen speaking with visions of Sugar Rums dancing in his head.
"What are we gonna do with it all?" was my first question.
"Drink it! What the hell!" exclaimed Frank.
"Hell Yeah!" we all shouted.
"We gotta hide it. I can't carry it around in my trunk."
We all mulled over this predicament. Then I remembered the tree in the lot next to my house.
"There's a tree next door to the house. It has a hollow spot that might just be big enough for it all."
"Let's go see!" We piled into the Bird and sped over to the island and the hollow tree.
I slipped down the drive as quietly as I could. The folks were watching TV since the light in that room was still on.
I opened the trunk, took out the flashlight and handed it to Casanova. Frank took a couple of bottles. So did Number Thirteen. I grabbed my two and we fit them into the space in the trunk. With a velvet touch we placed all of them except one.
"I'll take it." said Frank.
"OK," I said. "Let's get out of here. I'll take you back to the Patio. We all gotta get back home. And don't tell anyone."
"Man are we gonna have a great Senior-Junior or what?" said Number Thirteen a smile spreading across his face.
Frank just held onto his bottle with a look of delite on his.
"Don't guess you'd get another burger basket would you?" asked Casanova looking at me with a big grin sloping across his face.
We split up after arriving at the patio. Doors slammed, engines turned over and tires screeched onto the highway home. We were set. Our Senior-Junior was going to be a blast.
That was our only venture into the underworld of crime. Over time the bottles were removed individually. My dad came upon them one day but never said a word to me until much later in life. The hollow proved to be a death sentence to the tree and it was removed long after our booty had been drunk. I think the statute of limitations is over now. Fifty years is a long time for the law to hold a grudge. But, then, who knows if I'm telling the truth?
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Tupperware strong...
"It's in that hollow in the tree," I said pointing beyond the door. I found the Tupperware cake cover in the hall closet while one of the boys retrieved the bottles from the tree. There were four of us meeting at my place before going to school.
"I got 'em. I thought there was more vodka," J-- said holding up the two quarts he carried. R--- was cutting up the lemons and oranges dumping them into the cake cover. G--- was pouring the fruit juices over the sliced fruits. J-- broke the seal on the two bottles.
"Love that sound," he said as the paper seal making the bottle legal snapped with a twist. He turned it up and let the liquid flow into his mouth. The vodka's bite was relected in the face he made.
"Whew! Smo..uh, smooooth," he said blowing the heat out of his throat. He up ended both bottles over the large plastic Tupperware cake cover. G-- continued opening bottles of fruit juice and emptying them into the growing level of punch.
"How about these cherries?" asked R--. "Want them in too?"
"Hell yeah," I said. "Nothing like a good cherry."
"Especially one pickled in alcohol. Just a couple of those will give a good buzz after soaking."
Our morning meeting was on the day of the Junior-Senior. Our plan was to mix up this batch of PJ and keep it in the trunk of J--'s car. We'd slip out to sip a cup when we could.
"That should do it." G-- tossed the last empty juice can into the trash while I stirred the concoction with a wooden spoon.
"Don't want this stuff to eat up a metal spoon," I said with a chuckle.
"Who's gonna try it first?" We all look at each other. J--, a little light headed from his pull on the bottle, said, "I will. Got those paper cups?"
I opened the stack of cups and held it toward him. He took one. Then we all pulled a cup off the stack and dipped into the deep purple liquid.
"Kickapoo Joy juice," I said as I put the dripping cup to my lips. I wasn't so funny back in those days.
"To the Senior-Junior." We raised our cups.
"And to the good times after," said J-- with a leer.
"Oh yeah," we all said in unison.
"Man, that's good stuff," I said tossing my empty cup in the trash. I popped a couple of the Maraschino cherries in my mouth. I laughed as the they popped.
"Let's get the top on." I slid my thumb around the rim until it snapped into place. "Go open the trunk. I'll bring this out. Don't forget the cups," I said to no one in particular as I stepped out the back door. The old Ford sat in the drive. J-- was pulling the tunk lid up.
"Make room for the ambrosia." No one laughed again but I did see a smile.
"How about another one for the road?" Everybody reached for the stack o' cups while I unsealed the lid. We ran our cups along the surface avoiding the floating fruit.
"To PJ."
All together we raised our cups, "To PJ."
J-- slammed the trunk. J--,G--, and R-- opened the squeaking doors and piled in laughing out loud.
"I'll follow you in The Bird," I said. My parent's Ford Falcon was called the Bird because they had allowed me to paint the words on the front fender in old English lettering.
Dion was singing I'm a Wanderer as loud as the radio could bare. I heard them laughing and singing at the top of their lungs as they drove away. I followed along behind.
The old Ford's pipes rumbled over the road. Since the mufflers were shot it was the gutsy raw sound of straight exhaust announcing our arrival at James Island High. We bumped along the rutted drive.
"Slow down!" I yelled from my window. "You don't want to spill any of that brew in the back." He slowed to a crawl. I put the Bird into second and followed along. He found a space just behind section containig our classes. I pulled along side and killed the engine.
"How about one more cup before heading into class?"
"Hell yeah!" we all said. Up went the trunk hood, off came the Tupperware cover, in went the cups. R-- slipped his cup in a second time. He raised it high, "To gettin' blitzed!" he said.
"Shhh! A little less loud. We don't wantold man Kizer coming out here."
"Oh, yeah, I guess not," he said putting his finer to his lips making a shh sound. Then he gulped the cup down. Tossing the empty into the trunk he laughed out loud. J-- slamed it shut. G-- and I still had a half cup in our hands. Laughing and giggling like school kids--I guess we were school kids--we walked to class with the knowing smile of our secret plastered on our faces, plastered being the operative word. The PJ was beginning to have its effect. We went to our respective classes mingling into the crowd of milling students.
"I have to get my excuse into the office," I said taking a sip from my cup. The office was Principal Kizer's domain. I clinched the cup in my teeth as I searched for my excuse walking to the office. I saw one of my favorite teachers at the office door and greeted her.
"Good morning Mrs. T---. Could you hold this for me?" I asked handing her my cup. She greeted me and took the cup. I turned in my excuse and returned taking the cup back.
"Thank you," I said.
"You're welcome. And Rickey."
"Yes ma'am?"
"Be careful today," she said looking at the cup then at me.
"Oh, yes ma'am. I surely will." I laughed heading back to class.
The morning began to fly by. Of course we met at the trunk after first class for a topper offer then back for second period. The morning was moving along swimmingly. At least I was swimming along as the PJ took hold.
"May I be excused?" I asked my second period teacher. She nodded and I made a bathroom run.
On the way back I peeked into Mrs. S--'s classroom. One of the girls was making a speech. I looked around and Mrs. S-- signalled me in.
I sat in a desk by her. She leaned over to say something while the girl was giving her talke in front. Before she could talk we heard a voice cut through the speech up front.
"Why do we have to lishen to thish? She jush yammering on about nothing." It was R--.
"That's why I called you in," Mrs S-- said to me. "I know what you boys have been up to. Your buddy is going to get in trouble if he doesn't go home soon."
"You want me to take him home?"
"Yes, I do. I don't want him to get into serious trouble. It would be best if you took him home."
"Alright," I said. A get out of jail free card I thought to myself. "Come on R---. Let's take a ride."
"Oh, thank heaven. I don't have to lishen to her drone on and on and on and..."
"We get it, R--. Let's go."
He slid out of his seat and prpelled himself forward. I looked back. Mrs' S--- was shaking her head. I didn't see the smile I'd hoped for.
We swayed our way along the hall and out the back door.
"Were you lishning to that speach?"
I opened the door and he flopped into the seat. "She just went on and on... What a waste of time."
"It's OK. Mrs. S-- asked me to take you home," I said cranking the Bird. We arrived at his house to see his dad smoothing out the foundation for a new room he was going to add. While his dad was going inside I slipped around to the passenger side and helped R-- out.
"She just went on and on..." he kept repeating over and over. He looked over at the smooth glistening cement and started for it.
"You gonna be alright?" I shouted toward him.
"Yeah, yeah," he waved at me without looking. He was completely entranced by the glistening grey surface. I got back in the car and started it up. I looked over at R--- just in time to see him trip on the wooden mold. He fell head first into the wet cement. I backed up a little faster and whipped it around. I looked back. R-- was struggling to get up covered in the wet grey grit. I put it into first as his dad came running out the back door with a slam. His words were loud but uninteligible. He didn't seem happy at all, I thought to myself, and I was off down the road.
I decided to just go on home. It's a good thing I did. I heard that evening that several of our friends had been expelled for sucking on oranges that had been laced with vodka. J-- had left early. If he hadn't the punch might have been discovered during the search of all vehicles for alcohol.
"Where's my cake cover?" asked my mother that evening. "I was thinking of making a cake but couldn't find it."
"Oh, I'm sorry, mom. I leant it to J-- this morning," I said, looking around. "Do we hav any aspirin?"
"Headache?"
"Yes'm. And it's a doozy."
"I got 'em. I thought there was more vodka," J-- said holding up the two quarts he carried. R--- was cutting up the lemons and oranges dumping them into the cake cover. G--- was pouring the fruit juices over the sliced fruits. J-- broke the seal on the two bottles.
"Love that sound," he said as the paper seal making the bottle legal snapped with a twist. He turned it up and let the liquid flow into his mouth. The vodka's bite was relected in the face he made.
"Whew! Smo..uh, smooooth," he said blowing the heat out of his throat. He up ended both bottles over the large plastic Tupperware cake cover. G-- continued opening bottles of fruit juice and emptying them into the growing level of punch.
"How about these cherries?" asked R--. "Want them in too?"
"Hell yeah," I said. "Nothing like a good cherry."
"Especially one pickled in alcohol. Just a couple of those will give a good buzz after soaking."
Our morning meeting was on the day of the Junior-Senior. Our plan was to mix up this batch of PJ and keep it in the trunk of J--'s car. We'd slip out to sip a cup when we could.
"That should do it." G-- tossed the last empty juice can into the trash while I stirred the concoction with a wooden spoon.
"Don't want this stuff to eat up a metal spoon," I said with a chuckle.
"Who's gonna try it first?" We all look at each other. J--, a little light headed from his pull on the bottle, said, "I will. Got those paper cups?"
I opened the stack of cups and held it toward him. He took one. Then we all pulled a cup off the stack and dipped into the deep purple liquid.
"Kickapoo Joy juice," I said as I put the dripping cup to my lips. I wasn't so funny back in those days.
"To the Senior-Junior." We raised our cups.
"And to the good times after," said J-- with a leer.
"Oh yeah," we all said in unison.
"Man, that's good stuff," I said tossing my empty cup in the trash. I popped a couple of the Maraschino cherries in my mouth. I laughed as the they popped.
"Let's get the top on." I slid my thumb around the rim until it snapped into place. "Go open the trunk. I'll bring this out. Don't forget the cups," I said to no one in particular as I stepped out the back door. The old Ford sat in the drive. J-- was pulling the tunk lid up.
"Make room for the ambrosia." No one laughed again but I did see a smile.
"How about another one for the road?" Everybody reached for the stack o' cups while I unsealed the lid. We ran our cups along the surface avoiding the floating fruit.
"To PJ."
All together we raised our cups, "To PJ."
J-- slammed the trunk. J--,G--, and R-- opened the squeaking doors and piled in laughing out loud.
"I'll follow you in The Bird," I said. My parent's Ford Falcon was called the Bird because they had allowed me to paint the words on the front fender in old English lettering.
Dion was singing I'm a Wanderer as loud as the radio could bare. I heard them laughing and singing at the top of their lungs as they drove away. I followed along behind.
The old Ford's pipes rumbled over the road. Since the mufflers were shot it was the gutsy raw sound of straight exhaust announcing our arrival at James Island High. We bumped along the rutted drive.
"Slow down!" I yelled from my window. "You don't want to spill any of that brew in the back." He slowed to a crawl. I put the Bird into second and followed along. He found a space just behind section containig our classes. I pulled along side and killed the engine.
"How about one more cup before heading into class?"
"Hell yeah!" we all said. Up went the trunk hood, off came the Tupperware cover, in went the cups. R-- slipped his cup in a second time. He raised it high, "To gettin' blitzed!" he said.
"Shhh! A little less loud. We don't wantold man Kizer coming out here."
"Oh, yeah, I guess not," he said putting his finer to his lips making a shh sound. Then he gulped the cup down. Tossing the empty into the trunk he laughed out loud. J-- slamed it shut. G-- and I still had a half cup in our hands. Laughing and giggling like school kids--I guess we were school kids--we walked to class with the knowing smile of our secret plastered on our faces, plastered being the operative word. The PJ was beginning to have its effect. We went to our respective classes mingling into the crowd of milling students.
"I have to get my excuse into the office," I said taking a sip from my cup. The office was Principal Kizer's domain. I clinched the cup in my teeth as I searched for my excuse walking to the office. I saw one of my favorite teachers at the office door and greeted her.
"Good morning Mrs. T---. Could you hold this for me?" I asked handing her my cup. She greeted me and took the cup. I turned in my excuse and returned taking the cup back.
"Thank you," I said.
"You're welcome. And Rickey."
"Yes ma'am?"
"Be careful today," she said looking at the cup then at me.
"Oh, yes ma'am. I surely will." I laughed heading back to class.
The morning began to fly by. Of course we met at the trunk after first class for a topper offer then back for second period. The morning was moving along swimmingly. At least I was swimming along as the PJ took hold.
"May I be excused?" I asked my second period teacher. She nodded and I made a bathroom run.
On the way back I peeked into Mrs. S--'s classroom. One of the girls was making a speech. I looked around and Mrs. S-- signalled me in.
I sat in a desk by her. She leaned over to say something while the girl was giving her talke in front. Before she could talk we heard a voice cut through the speech up front.
"Why do we have to lishen to thish? She jush yammering on about nothing." It was R--.
"That's why I called you in," Mrs S-- said to me. "I know what you boys have been up to. Your buddy is going to get in trouble if he doesn't go home soon."
"You want me to take him home?"
"Yes, I do. I don't want him to get into serious trouble. It would be best if you took him home."
"Alright," I said. A get out of jail free card I thought to myself. "Come on R---. Let's take a ride."
"Oh, thank heaven. I don't have to lishen to her drone on and on and on and..."
"We get it, R--. Let's go."
He slid out of his seat and prpelled himself forward. I looked back. Mrs' S--- was shaking her head. I didn't see the smile I'd hoped for.
We swayed our way along the hall and out the back door.
"Were you lishning to that speach?"
I opened the door and he flopped into the seat. "She just went on and on... What a waste of time."
"It's OK. Mrs. S-- asked me to take you home," I said cranking the Bird. We arrived at his house to see his dad smoothing out the foundation for a new room he was going to add. While his dad was going inside I slipped around to the passenger side and helped R-- out.
"She just went on and on..." he kept repeating over and over. He looked over at the smooth glistening cement and started for it.
"You gonna be alright?" I shouted toward him.
"Yeah, yeah," he waved at me without looking. He was completely entranced by the glistening grey surface. I got back in the car and started it up. I looked over at R--- just in time to see him trip on the wooden mold. He fell head first into the wet cement. I backed up a little faster and whipped it around. I looked back. R-- was struggling to get up covered in the wet grey grit. I put it into first as his dad came running out the back door with a slam. His words were loud but uninteligible. He didn't seem happy at all, I thought to myself, and I was off down the road.
I decided to just go on home. It's a good thing I did. I heard that evening that several of our friends had been expelled for sucking on oranges that had been laced with vodka. J-- had left early. If he hadn't the punch might have been discovered during the search of all vehicles for alcohol.
"Where's my cake cover?" asked my mother that evening. "I was thinking of making a cake but couldn't find it."
"Oh, I'm sorry, mom. I leant it to J-- this morning," I said, looking around. "Do we hav any aspirin?"
"Headache?"
"Yes'm. And it's a doozy."
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Hands up! Dirtbag
We sat at the Patio eating the famous hamburger that was the size of a 45 record. The summer of '66 was winding down. C of C would commence again in a few days for my third year.
"Whatcha been doing Clyde?"
"Same old stuff," Clyde said. "You know Charleston. Not a whole lot to do."
"The Patio is the same. It won't ever change. Still the best burgers in town."
"How was your trip?"
"It was great! I never had so much fun."
"That's a long time on a boat. Think I'da gone stir crazy for seven days on a boat on the Atlantic." Clyde made a face tilting his glass of coke and Calverts.
"No, it wasn't," I said. "On the way back I slept through a hurricane."
"On the ocean? Wouldn't that thing have heaved around? I can't imagine seeing waves higher than the ship. You'da been bobbin' like a cork in the mill pond during a heavy wind. Not me. Uh uh."
"Well, I don't remember it. I slept through it. Guess all those hurricanes we rode through made me immune to the roughness."
"Don't think it's the same but if you want to think so..." Clyde looked at me like I'd eaten a bug.
"Anyway, that was on the way back. Going over there was lots to do. The booze was poured like it wasn't yours in the evening. They had lots of activities during the day. All the passengers were my age so it was great."
"So what did you and the rest of the drunks do?"
"I took a drawing class."
"Whoopee," he said.
"I tweeked the instructor's mind a bit."
"Huh?"
"He had models..."
"Nude models?" he smiled.
"No, clothed models."
"What did you do? Draw them without clothes?"
"No, I just drew them in a reversed pose. When the guy came over to check my drawing he looked at it, then the model and back again to my drawing."
"Thought you were crazy, huh?"
"He just looked perplexed. I asked him what's wrong. He just asked, "Is that the way you see her?' My answer was, 'yes. Why is there something wrong?'"
"Um," he said. "You have her opposite to how she is actually sitting."
"Huh? I do? That's how I see her. I don't know what you mean."
The look on his face was priceless. I sat in on his classes a few more times. Each time I'd draw the model reversed. He said he had never seen this in his life. I just told him, "It's how I see her." He began to ignore me so I stopped going. The joke was stale.
"So that's all you did?" Clyde was getting bored with my story.
'No there was lots more, but the best time was in England with the other half of my family. Every day was exciting. England won the World Cup while I was there. Everybody was dancing in the street til the early hours. All my cousins were the best. There was always something going on. It wasn't boring like this, sitting in a car at the Patio drinking beer, eatin' a hamburger."
I could tell I was getting to Clyde. His mood began to change.
I went on and on about the thrilling times I had with my English cousins at Margate and Ramsgate, my trip to London and the castles. My roaming the streets of Dover, my grandparents house on Dour Street. On and on and on until...
"Wow! That sounds so great, so exciting. You think this is boring? Sitting at the Patio? This has been the most excitement you had growing up in this podunk town. Your first beer. Your first real drunk. This is where you got the scars on your arm and you think it's all boring now?"
"Uh, yeah, I do."
"So you want excitement? You want real excitement?"
"Yeah, I do but I don't think anything you can show me here can match the night we won the World Cup..."
"So you want excitement." I nodded my head yes about to bring up another English tale but he moved in my direction his face angry. I dodged his movement. The glove box dropped open from his smacking the dashboard. He reached in grabbing his Beretta, his constant companion. I crouched down in my seat.
'So you want excitement?" he repeated. "I'll give you exciitement," he smiled that drunk smile edged with danger. It was a look I had become familiar with over the years. It always came when that one drink over his limit was reached.
"No! That's OK! I've had enough excitement for one night. Let's head home!"
"Hell, no! You want excitement. I'm going to give you excitement." He sat up and eased his left hand out the window pointing the gun at the brand new Kentucky Fried Chicken across the fence from the Patio. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! He emptied the clip into the sign above the KFC. And just as relaxed leaned back in tossing the gun into the glove box.
"There. That enough excitement for you?"
"Uh, Clyde, I think we better get back to the island."
"Hell no. I know everybody here. Nothings going to happen to us."
"Clyde, you just shot up the Kentucky Fried Chicken place. They don't like that. The cops will be coming."
"Naaah. The folks in the Patio told me they don't like that big sign and the smell of chicken frying. He'll be fine with me shootin' up that sign."
"I don't think so. I think you need to crank thois car up and get us moving back to the island."
"I'm not moving."
The owner of the Patio came out and rapped on the window.
"Yeah, man?"
"Clyde, I just called the cops. I'm giving you fair warning so you can get out of here. I can't have you shooting a pistol in my parking lot. So leave. Now."
"Oh, OK," said Clyde. His eyes weren't really registering the current events.
"He's right, Clyde!" Crank 'er up and let's get a move on."
He turned the key, slipped it in gear and began a slow roll out of his parking space. The owner slipped back inside the diner.
"You want to drive a little faster, Clyde."
"No, I'm going to take it slow and ride around town for a bit."
"Are you crazy? You need to get to the island as quick as you can.' I was getting frantic at this point. Clyde's ambling ride around town lasted about thirty minutes. I was constantly trying to talk him into going home. He just looked at me like Robert Mitchum in Thunder Road.
"What's a matter, nef? Too much excitement?"
"If the cops catch us you'll probably go to jail," I screamed.
"I don't think so, but if you've had enough excitement for tonight I guess I can head home."
"Yes! Yes! Yes! I've had more than enough excitement. Get us home! Now!"
His lazy smile answered as he turned onto Spring Street heading in the right direction finally.
We were fine. We hadn't seen one cop's car since the shooting. As we passed the Patio on the left, heading for the Ashley River Bridge, we saw lights flashing in the parking area.
"See, nothing to worry about. We got a free ride back to the island."
As he spoke and we approached the foot of the bridge four cop cars with lights flashing and sirens wailing came to screeching halts in front, back and both sides. We were boxed in. The policemen stepped out of their patol cars hands on their weapons at the ready.
"STEP OUT OF THE CAR!" they shouted. "HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!"
"Jigs up," Clyde said getting out of the car raising his hands. I was doing the same but it was Clyde they handcuffed.
One of the officers came over to me.
"We're taking Clyde to lockup." Funny how all the cops knew Clyde. He was a friendly guy.
"If you want to get him out you'll need to raise bail." They told me the amount and where to post it. They confiscated the Beretta as evidence. The one speaking to me tossed me Clyde's keys. I sat in the driver's seat as the four police cars backed up and pulled into the street. They left me sitting there wondering how I was going to get the money to bail him out.
It wasn't easy but as the sun was coming up I had the money in hand. I turned it over to the bondsman sporting two days growth of beard on his face. He explained the terms. I thanked him. They had to wake Clyde up before bringing him from his cell.
That was a wild night I have to admit, one of the more exciting Clyde and I shared. As time went on it became more of a legend as it was retold by others. Last I heard Clyde walked into the KFC and asked for a hamburger. When told they only sold chicken he whipped out his pistol and commence shooting the menu above the heads of the ducking employees shouting, "I hate chicken! I want a burger like they have at the Patio not chicken!" When the clip was empty he calmly walked out the store to a parking lot full of flashing lights and wall to wall cops guns at the ready. Clyde just smiled raising his hands.
"Whatcha been doing Clyde?"
"Same old stuff," Clyde said. "You know Charleston. Not a whole lot to do."
"The Patio is the same. It won't ever change. Still the best burgers in town."
"How was your trip?"
"It was great! I never had so much fun."
"That's a long time on a boat. Think I'da gone stir crazy for seven days on a boat on the Atlantic." Clyde made a face tilting his glass of coke and Calverts.
"No, it wasn't," I said. "On the way back I slept through a hurricane."
"On the ocean? Wouldn't that thing have heaved around? I can't imagine seeing waves higher than the ship. You'da been bobbin' like a cork in the mill pond during a heavy wind. Not me. Uh uh."
"Well, I don't remember it. I slept through it. Guess all those hurricanes we rode through made me immune to the roughness."
"Don't think it's the same but if you want to think so..." Clyde looked at me like I'd eaten a bug.
"Anyway, that was on the way back. Going over there was lots to do. The booze was poured like it wasn't yours in the evening. They had lots of activities during the day. All the passengers were my age so it was great."
"So what did you and the rest of the drunks do?"
"I took a drawing class."
"Whoopee," he said.
"I tweeked the instructor's mind a bit."
"Huh?"
"He had models..."
"Nude models?" he smiled.
"No, clothed models."
"What did you do? Draw them without clothes?"
"No, I just drew them in a reversed pose. When the guy came over to check my drawing he looked at it, then the model and back again to my drawing."
"Thought you were crazy, huh?"
"He just looked perplexed. I asked him what's wrong. He just asked, "Is that the way you see her?' My answer was, 'yes. Why is there something wrong?'"
"Um," he said. "You have her opposite to how she is actually sitting."
"Huh? I do? That's how I see her. I don't know what you mean."
The look on his face was priceless. I sat in on his classes a few more times. Each time I'd draw the model reversed. He said he had never seen this in his life. I just told him, "It's how I see her." He began to ignore me so I stopped going. The joke was stale.
"So that's all you did?" Clyde was getting bored with my story.
'No there was lots more, but the best time was in England with the other half of my family. Every day was exciting. England won the World Cup while I was there. Everybody was dancing in the street til the early hours. All my cousins were the best. There was always something going on. It wasn't boring like this, sitting in a car at the Patio drinking beer, eatin' a hamburger."
I could tell I was getting to Clyde. His mood began to change.
I went on and on about the thrilling times I had with my English cousins at Margate and Ramsgate, my trip to London and the castles. My roaming the streets of Dover, my grandparents house on Dour Street. On and on and on until...
"Wow! That sounds so great, so exciting. You think this is boring? Sitting at the Patio? This has been the most excitement you had growing up in this podunk town. Your first beer. Your first real drunk. This is where you got the scars on your arm and you think it's all boring now?"
"Uh, yeah, I do."
"So you want excitement? You want real excitement?"
"Yeah, I do but I don't think anything you can show me here can match the night we won the World Cup..."
"So you want excitement." I nodded my head yes about to bring up another English tale but he moved in my direction his face angry. I dodged his movement. The glove box dropped open from his smacking the dashboard. He reached in grabbing his Beretta, his constant companion. I crouched down in my seat.
'So you want excitement?" he repeated. "I'll give you exciitement," he smiled that drunk smile edged with danger. It was a look I had become familiar with over the years. It always came when that one drink over his limit was reached.
"No! That's OK! I've had enough excitement for one night. Let's head home!"
"Hell, no! You want excitement. I'm going to give you excitement." He sat up and eased his left hand out the window pointing the gun at the brand new Kentucky Fried Chicken across the fence from the Patio. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! He emptied the clip into the sign above the KFC. And just as relaxed leaned back in tossing the gun into the glove box.
"There. That enough excitement for you?"
"Uh, Clyde, I think we better get back to the island."
"Hell no. I know everybody here. Nothings going to happen to us."
"Clyde, you just shot up the Kentucky Fried Chicken place. They don't like that. The cops will be coming."
"Naaah. The folks in the Patio told me they don't like that big sign and the smell of chicken frying. He'll be fine with me shootin' up that sign."
"I don't think so. I think you need to crank thois car up and get us moving back to the island."
"I'm not moving."
The owner of the Patio came out and rapped on the window.
"Yeah, man?"
"Clyde, I just called the cops. I'm giving you fair warning so you can get out of here. I can't have you shooting a pistol in my parking lot. So leave. Now."
"Oh, OK," said Clyde. His eyes weren't really registering the current events.
"He's right, Clyde!" Crank 'er up and let's get a move on."
He turned the key, slipped it in gear and began a slow roll out of his parking space. The owner slipped back inside the diner.
"You want to drive a little faster, Clyde."
"No, I'm going to take it slow and ride around town for a bit."
"Are you crazy? You need to get to the island as quick as you can.' I was getting frantic at this point. Clyde's ambling ride around town lasted about thirty minutes. I was constantly trying to talk him into going home. He just looked at me like Robert Mitchum in Thunder Road.
"What's a matter, nef? Too much excitement?"
"If the cops catch us you'll probably go to jail," I screamed.
"I don't think so, but if you've had enough excitement for tonight I guess I can head home."
"Yes! Yes! Yes! I've had more than enough excitement. Get us home! Now!"
His lazy smile answered as he turned onto Spring Street heading in the right direction finally.
We were fine. We hadn't seen one cop's car since the shooting. As we passed the Patio on the left, heading for the Ashley River Bridge, we saw lights flashing in the parking area.
"See, nothing to worry about. We got a free ride back to the island."
As he spoke and we approached the foot of the bridge four cop cars with lights flashing and sirens wailing came to screeching halts in front, back and both sides. We were boxed in. The policemen stepped out of their patol cars hands on their weapons at the ready.
"STEP OUT OF THE CAR!" they shouted. "HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!"
"Jigs up," Clyde said getting out of the car raising his hands. I was doing the same but it was Clyde they handcuffed.
One of the officers came over to me.
"We're taking Clyde to lockup." Funny how all the cops knew Clyde. He was a friendly guy.
"If you want to get him out you'll need to raise bail." They told me the amount and where to post it. They confiscated the Beretta as evidence. The one speaking to me tossed me Clyde's keys. I sat in the driver's seat as the four police cars backed up and pulled into the street. They left me sitting there wondering how I was going to get the money to bail him out.
It wasn't easy but as the sun was coming up I had the money in hand. I turned it over to the bondsman sporting two days growth of beard on his face. He explained the terms. I thanked him. They had to wake Clyde up before bringing him from his cell.
That was a wild night I have to admit, one of the more exciting Clyde and I shared. As time went on it became more of a legend as it was retold by others. Last I heard Clyde walked into the KFC and asked for a hamburger. When told they only sold chicken he whipped out his pistol and commence shooting the menu above the heads of the ducking employees shouting, "I hate chicken! I want a burger like they have at the Patio not chicken!" When the clip was empty he calmly walked out the store to a parking lot full of flashing lights and wall to wall cops guns at the ready. Clyde just smiled raising his hands.
Monday, January 2, 2012
It's a nice piece of furniture...
"Be careful, boys," my dad said. "Bring it in nice and easy."
"OK, where ya want it?" The delivery men, bent over with the weight of it, stood still while dad pondered.
"Over there, I think," he said pointing. The two lugged it to a spot at the end of the big room in front of the window. Dad dropped the curtain to soften the glare.
"We'll have to move some chairs so we can see alright," he said more to himself than anyone else.
He said thank you to the two men who nodded as the walked out the door.
"Is there anything special I need to know?" dad asked following them out.
"Just plug it in and enjoy," said the driver climbing into the truck. The side was awash in letters reading Morris Sokol Furniture.
While the truck eased down the drive, dad opened the front door. I slipped in behind him with a door slam. His face registered annoyance at the sound but his interest lay in the big room.
He stood in front of his new purchase. Mom was in the kitchen preparing supper. She looked over and asked, "How does it work?"
"The fellow said to just plug it in." Dad was standing in front to it staring in admiration.
"Now that's a nice piece of furniture," he said with a smile. In front of him sat a mahogony box with a window. The window reflected the overhead light on the protective glass front. Behind that glass was the picture tube, or CRT, as it would be called later. The letters A D M I R A L stood out in base relief beneath the dull green window. On either side of the letters were large circles of plastic we called knobs. The left one switched the box on. The right one clicked around to the channel selections. We didn't use it much after clicking it to the number 5. There was only one television station in Charleston at that time. Channel 5 which came on at around six in the morning and signed off around eleven at night. We didn't know that at the time.
Dad brought out his polishing rag. With a loving hand he rubbed the cloth over the wood frame removing fingerprints left by the delivery men. He leaned in close and with his breath formed a slight haze of moisture over one particularly stubborn print, then rubbed extra hard. Lifting the rag he smiled. His eyes roamed along the sides. The wood was stained a rich brown and shined to a high gloss. A frown played across dad's face as he ran his finger along the side.
"There's a scratch here."
My mother rushed over to look. "It isn't that bad. A little polish ought to fix it right up."
"They shouldn't sell it if it's defective."
Mom went to the cupboard and picked out the can of polish. She took the rag and rubbed some into the scratch. After a quick buff it wasn't noticeable. Dad's smile returned.
"When are you going to turn it on?" I yelled, the excitement finally bursting forth.
"I guess I need to plug it in," said dad. The wire hung out the back beneath the huge extension which covered the part of the 21-inch screen that projected out of the box.
"Be careful of that bubble in the back," I pointed at the big cone above the cord. Dad lifted the plug and pushed the prongs into the recepticle. I ran around front to see. Nothing.
"It doesn't work," I said.
"You have to turn this dial." Dad grabbed the left knob and turned to the right. I stared at the window.
"Nothing! It's broke." My disappointment was more than evident.
"No, it isn't. It just takes a minute or two to warm up." Dad put his hand on my shoulder. We stood staring.
After a minute or two the screen lit up with black and white specks in constant movement. Dad turned the knob a bit more. Out of the speakers came a noise--cshcshscsh.
"Is that it?" mom asked.
"Give me a minute. This dial should give us the station. He clicked the knob in a clockwise direction. The numbers written on the dial came to a stop under an arrowhead at the top with a loud click. One, grey-white with static. Two, grey-white with static. Each number gave the same response. Our disappointment increased with each click. The fifth one was different. A voice came into the big room. The speakers worked great. The visual portion was a window full of unrecognizable lines wriggling diagaonally.
"It's broke," I said again.
Dad looked at me disapprovingly. My place was to be seen and not heard. I clammed up.
"It is not," he said. He reached between the two knobs and pulled on a horizontal door which revealed a row of black sticks protruding forward. "The man at the store said this picture can be straightened out by playing with these things."
He began to turn them. One said horizontal. That one eased the diagonal lines into a recognizable picture. The person on the screen, who had been talking the entire time, looked almost perfect except for the occasion twist to into the diagonal direction. The next one had horizontal written beneath it. The picture became steadier as he rolled the tiny dial between his thumb and forefinger. Next came the one labeled sharpness. The fuzzy face became more lifelike under my dad's increasing expertise. He stood up and backed off to survey his handy work. Three feet back the picture returned to its diagonal predilection.
"Bugga!" he said returning to his crouched position in front of the box. After several repeats of this act he produced a sharp image with good sound.
He pulled the chairs around and closer to the window so that we sat facing the screen. These were the chairs that had been facing the other nice piece of furniture near the kitchen. They used to sit in front of the great Philco radio. When the chairs were nicely rearranged mom switched the Philco off. I watched the warm yellow glow that lit the band of glass under which all the station numbers were protected slowly fade.
Our attention was now captured by the new piece of furniture. The flickering light of the tube and sound of the voice drew us in. We sat. We watched. There were only pictures of men speaking but it was magic and it was in our big room.
"Pretty good picture," dad said.
"Yeah," mom and I answered.
"And all you had to do was plug it in," I said. "I thought you had to have a huge antenna on the roof."
"No, just the wall plug. A pair of rabbit ears might give better reception," he said.
"Rabbit ears?" My mind pictured a bunny with wriggling nose chewing on a carrot.
"Not a real rabbit. It's a small antenna with two metal spikes that stick up like a rabbits ears."
"Oh."
After about an hour I had to run next door to tell my cousins we had a televison set. "And you only have to plug it into the wall. You don't need and big antenna.'
They looked at me unblieving.
"We might have to get some rabbit's ears but no big antenna."
They looked at me perplexed. I laughed and ran back home.
As I walked in I looked at the Philco darkened in the corner. The familiar voices and music that once floated from it's face, silent. Over by the window at the end of the great room came voices and the glow of pictures. I looked back at the Philco, turned away and joined my parents in front of the televison.
Dust began to settle atop the silent old piece of furniture stuck in the darkened corner.
"OK, where ya want it?" The delivery men, bent over with the weight of it, stood still while dad pondered.
"Over there, I think," he said pointing. The two lugged it to a spot at the end of the big room in front of the window. Dad dropped the curtain to soften the glare.
"We'll have to move some chairs so we can see alright," he said more to himself than anyone else.
He said thank you to the two men who nodded as the walked out the door.
"Is there anything special I need to know?" dad asked following them out.
"Just plug it in and enjoy," said the driver climbing into the truck. The side was awash in letters reading Morris Sokol Furniture.
While the truck eased down the drive, dad opened the front door. I slipped in behind him with a door slam. His face registered annoyance at the sound but his interest lay in the big room.
He stood in front of his new purchase. Mom was in the kitchen preparing supper. She looked over and asked, "How does it work?"
"The fellow said to just plug it in." Dad was standing in front to it staring in admiration.
"Now that's a nice piece of furniture," he said with a smile. In front of him sat a mahogony box with a window. The window reflected the overhead light on the protective glass front. Behind that glass was the picture tube, or CRT, as it would be called later. The letters A D M I R A L stood out in base relief beneath the dull green window. On either side of the letters were large circles of plastic we called knobs. The left one switched the box on. The right one clicked around to the channel selections. We didn't use it much after clicking it to the number 5. There was only one television station in Charleston at that time. Channel 5 which came on at around six in the morning and signed off around eleven at night. We didn't know that at the time.Dad brought out his polishing rag. With a loving hand he rubbed the cloth over the wood frame removing fingerprints left by the delivery men. He leaned in close and with his breath formed a slight haze of moisture over one particularly stubborn print, then rubbed extra hard. Lifting the rag he smiled. His eyes roamed along the sides. The wood was stained a rich brown and shined to a high gloss. A frown played across dad's face as he ran his finger along the side.
"There's a scratch here."
My mother rushed over to look. "It isn't that bad. A little polish ought to fix it right up."
"They shouldn't sell it if it's defective."
Mom went to the cupboard and picked out the can of polish. She took the rag and rubbed some into the scratch. After a quick buff it wasn't noticeable. Dad's smile returned.
"When are you going to turn it on?" I yelled, the excitement finally bursting forth.
"I guess I need to plug it in," said dad. The wire hung out the back beneath the huge extension which covered the part of the 21-inch screen that projected out of the box.
"Be careful of that bubble in the back," I pointed at the big cone above the cord. Dad lifted the plug and pushed the prongs into the recepticle. I ran around front to see. Nothing.
"It doesn't work," I said.
"You have to turn this dial." Dad grabbed the left knob and turned to the right. I stared at the window.
"Nothing! It's broke." My disappointment was more than evident.
"No, it isn't. It just takes a minute or two to warm up." Dad put his hand on my shoulder. We stood staring.
After a minute or two the screen lit up with black and white specks in constant movement. Dad turned the knob a bit more. Out of the speakers came a noise--cshcshscsh.
"Is that it?" mom asked.
"Give me a minute. This dial should give us the station. He clicked the knob in a clockwise direction. The numbers written on the dial came to a stop under an arrowhead at the top with a loud click. One, grey-white with static. Two, grey-white with static. Each number gave the same response. Our disappointment increased with each click. The fifth one was different. A voice came into the big room. The speakers worked great. The visual portion was a window full of unrecognizable lines wriggling diagaonally.
"It's broke," I said again.
Dad looked at me disapprovingly. My place was to be seen and not heard. I clammed up.
"It is not," he said. He reached between the two knobs and pulled on a horizontal door which revealed a row of black sticks protruding forward. "The man at the store said this picture can be straightened out by playing with these things."
He began to turn them. One said horizontal. That one eased the diagonal lines into a recognizable picture. The person on the screen, who had been talking the entire time, looked almost perfect except for the occasion twist to into the diagonal direction. The next one had horizontal written beneath it. The picture became steadier as he rolled the tiny dial between his thumb and forefinger. Next came the one labeled sharpness. The fuzzy face became more lifelike under my dad's increasing expertise. He stood up and backed off to survey his handy work. Three feet back the picture returned to its diagonal predilection.
"Bugga!" he said returning to his crouched position in front of the box. After several repeats of this act he produced a sharp image with good sound.
He pulled the chairs around and closer to the window so that we sat facing the screen. These were the chairs that had been facing the other nice piece of furniture near the kitchen. They used to sit in front of the great Philco radio. When the chairs were nicely rearranged mom switched the Philco off. I watched the warm yellow glow that lit the band of glass under which all the station numbers were protected slowly fade.
Our attention was now captured by the new piece of furniture. The flickering light of the tube and sound of the voice drew us in. We sat. We watched. There were only pictures of men speaking but it was magic and it was in our big room.
"Pretty good picture," dad said.
"Yeah," mom and I answered.
"And all you had to do was plug it in," I said. "I thought you had to have a huge antenna on the roof."
"No, just the wall plug. A pair of rabbit ears might give better reception," he said.
"Rabbit ears?" My mind pictured a bunny with wriggling nose chewing on a carrot.
"Not a real rabbit. It's a small antenna with two metal spikes that stick up like a rabbits ears."
"Oh."
After about an hour I had to run next door to tell my cousins we had a televison set. "And you only have to plug it into the wall. You don't need and big antenna.'
They looked at me unblieving.
"We might have to get some rabbit's ears but no big antenna."
They looked at me perplexed. I laughed and ran back home.
As I walked in I looked at the Philco darkened in the corner. The familiar voices and music that once floated from it's face, silent. Over by the window at the end of the great room came voices and the glow of pictures. I looked back at the Philco, turned away and joined my parents in front of the televison.
Dust began to settle atop the silent old piece of furniture stuck in the darkened corner.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Must be 18 or older...
Second grade was over. Summer claimed us. Endless days of sunshine, running wild across the golf course shoeless--ouch! ouch! stickers! hop! hop!--and running for supper as the sun set. They've been called wonder days. Yet there I lay in bed sick. A fever kept me inside under the covers. I could hear the chatter of my cousins and friends through the open window drifting along with the wavering simmer air. I couldn't join in. I had the mumps.
Beneath my right ear and along my jaw line was a swelling that shot pain through my head. I thought my jaw would rupture. The pain was overwhelming at times. It seemed to go on forever, but it didn't. Eventually the swelling subsided. The pain eased and I began to smile again. It wouldn't last though. The left side of my face began to swell and the fever slipped back. I was in that bed for some time. When my face returned to its natural size, the fever left me and the pain was gone I needed to recuperate. It had left me weak and I wasn't able to join the kids outside.
I had read all my funny books. In those days TV had nothing to offer a kid til late in the afternoon or on Saturday mornings. I sharpened my pencil. I ripped some lined paper from my school notebook. I started to draw. The pictures coming from my pencil included people drawn like balloon animals. No stick figures under a blue line of sky with a yellow radiating circle for me. I gave my figures substance, girth, a rolly polly presence.
Soon I gave them character also. I put a cape on one. Then ears, whiskers and a tail. Mighty Mouse was my favorite comic. It was time for him to have a companion. Someone to help fight the crime in Terrytoon land. I gave him a lasso attached to his side. Then I drew a cape on his shoulders tha formed a V down his chest. Next I gave him a logo embroidered in the V formed by the cape. He boldly stepped forth from my pencil to the blue lined page. Power Mouse was born. Defender of the goofy gopher. Hero to the chattering chipmunk. Nemesis to the stinky skunk and cackling crow. A mighty--oops--powerful foe to all creatures in his universe. Hmmm, universe? He didn't have a universe. It was up to me to provide that universe with the sliding graphite of my magic pencil.
So, to help Power Mouse, Wonder Rabbit burst forth onto the blue lined universe in the making. Dopey Dog and Cobey Cow came to graphite life. PM lassoed CC from passing through the pink line on the left. WR flew to the rescue of DD. Page after page of drawings were caught by the breeze from the open window like the calender leaves in a movie. I drew the entire summer.
When summer was over I returned to RTS--Riverland Terrac School--and the third grade. My new found ability I shared. I would attach my panel of antics on blue lined paper to the bulletin board at the start of class. The world I had created I wanted to share. My teacher removed them and handed them back to me. "We don't have a place for this, Rickey. Please don't put any more up."
I was dumb founded. I made my little world just like in the funny papers. Three squares on a rectangular piece of paper, each square filled with characters and talk balloons. My career as a cartoonist ended with a fizzle.
I continued to draw, but kept them to myself. Power Mouse and his friends faded into memory. He was replaced by meager attempts at likenesses in magazines. I still drew cartoons for fun but they were mine.
Some time in the late 50's a man by the name of Sheldon Mayer began to draw a cartoon called Sugar and Spike. It was premised on babies speaking their own language in goos and burbles. They understood each other though grown ups had no clue. It struck a chord with me. For some reason I thought the creator of this comic would understand. I wrote him a letter filled with my drawings of long neglected mice and rabbits. A few months later I received a letter in the mail. Sheldon Leonard had taken the time to answer a querie from a child. I was overwhelmed. His advice, after telling me how good my drawings were, was to draw constantly and attend college, if possible, to further my knowledge of art. His short answer meant the world to a child with a meager talent. I saved those two pages for years. Sadly, they are gone now.
I did continue. I added paint to that budding career. I bought self-help art books. I bought the John Gnagy Learn to Draw kit. How much I learned was debatable. Then it came. A book of matches. On the cover was a picture of a girl and the words DRAW ME!
I think I can do that, I thought to myself. Taking an unlined sheet of paper I drew it over and over until it was an exact duplicate. The inside of the cover was the promise of the career of a commercial artist. Norman Rockwell was one of the artists who taught through the mail. I could learn from the king of commercial artists by sending this in. It said that if the drawing showed talent I would be accepted by this prestigious correspondence course. Normal Rockwell teaching me. Wow! I sent it in without saying anything to my parents. A couple of days after I promptly forgot it.
Two months later late in the evening the phone rang. I jumped up and answered it.
"Hello."
"Hello. I'd like to speak to Rickey please."
"I'm Rickey."
"Well, hello, sir. I'd like to welcome you as a student to our fine Correspondence course."
"Huh?"
"The Famous Artists Correspondence Course. You sent in your drawing from our advertisement a couple of months ago."
"Oh, yeah."
"Well, it showed real talent. So much so that we enrolled you in our course. If you can send us the first payment of $100 we will send you the first lesson."
"I don't have $100, mister."
"Well you signed a contract."
"Huh?"
"You signed a contract. That match book cover has your signiture on the dotted line. It's a valid contract. So if you would send your first payment."
"Uh, I don't have $100. I don't even know how to get $100."
"It's a contract. We need that first payment in the next 30 days. The fist lesson will be mailed out.'
"DAD!!" I yelled. The man was beginning to scare me.
Dad walked into the room. "What's wrong son?" he asked. Tears were forming in my eyes.
"This man says I owe him $100."
"What?! Give us the phone. Hello."
"Hello. To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Rickey's dad."
"I was just telling Rickey that we need the $100 so we cn send the first lesson."
"$100? What are you talking about?" The man on the other end explained to my dad about the match book cover and all the rest. He looked at me as he listened.
"Well, you do know you are talking to a 12 year old don't you?"
"Uh..."
"You can't expect my boy to be bound to a contract he signed since he is only twelve now can you?"
"Well, uh..."
"I don't think we have anything else to discuss, do you?"
"Uh..."
"I didn't think so. Good bye." He dropped the phone in its cradle.
"Don't worry about it anymore, son. He can't collect from you. That contract isn't legal since you are under age. Maybe you could tell us next time you send in an application?"
"Yes sir," I said.
And my art career flew into the sunset with that phone call.
(As a side note: After that when I saw the ad for the Famous Artist Course there was an addendum--applicant must be 18 or older. I don't think it was that phone call but...)
Beneath my right ear and along my jaw line was a swelling that shot pain through my head. I thought my jaw would rupture. The pain was overwhelming at times. It seemed to go on forever, but it didn't. Eventually the swelling subsided. The pain eased and I began to smile again. It wouldn't last though. The left side of my face began to swell and the fever slipped back. I was in that bed for some time. When my face returned to its natural size, the fever left me and the pain was gone I needed to recuperate. It had left me weak and I wasn't able to join the kids outside.
I had read all my funny books. In those days TV had nothing to offer a kid til late in the afternoon or on Saturday mornings. I sharpened my pencil. I ripped some lined paper from my school notebook. I started to draw. The pictures coming from my pencil included people drawn like balloon animals. No stick figures under a blue line of sky with a yellow radiating circle for me. I gave my figures substance, girth, a rolly polly presence.
Soon I gave them character also. I put a cape on one. Then ears, whiskers and a tail. Mighty Mouse was my favorite comic. It was time for him to have a companion. Someone to help fight the crime in Terrytoon land. I gave him a lasso attached to his side. Then I drew a cape on his shoulders tha formed a V down his chest. Next I gave him a logo embroidered in the V formed by the cape. He boldly stepped forth from my pencil to the blue lined page. Power Mouse was born. Defender of the goofy gopher. Hero to the chattering chipmunk. Nemesis to the stinky skunk and cackling crow. A mighty--oops--powerful foe to all creatures in his universe. Hmmm, universe? He didn't have a universe. It was up to me to provide that universe with the sliding graphite of my magic pencil.
So, to help Power Mouse, Wonder Rabbit burst forth onto the blue lined universe in the making. Dopey Dog and Cobey Cow came to graphite life. PM lassoed CC from passing through the pink line on the left. WR flew to the rescue of DD. Page after page of drawings were caught by the breeze from the open window like the calender leaves in a movie. I drew the entire summer.
When summer was over I returned to RTS--Riverland Terrac School--and the third grade. My new found ability I shared. I would attach my panel of antics on blue lined paper to the bulletin board at the start of class. The world I had created I wanted to share. My teacher removed them and handed them back to me. "We don't have a place for this, Rickey. Please don't put any more up."
I was dumb founded. I made my little world just like in the funny papers. Three squares on a rectangular piece of paper, each square filled with characters and talk balloons. My career as a cartoonist ended with a fizzle.
I continued to draw, but kept them to myself. Power Mouse and his friends faded into memory. He was replaced by meager attempts at likenesses in magazines. I still drew cartoons for fun but they were mine.
Some time in the late 50's a man by the name of Sheldon Mayer began to draw a cartoon called Sugar and Spike. It was premised on babies speaking their own language in goos and burbles. They understood each other though grown ups had no clue. It struck a chord with me. For some reason I thought the creator of this comic would understand. I wrote him a letter filled with my drawings of long neglected mice and rabbits. A few months later I received a letter in the mail. Sheldon Leonard had taken the time to answer a querie from a child. I was overwhelmed. His advice, after telling me how good my drawings were, was to draw constantly and attend college, if possible, to further my knowledge of art. His short answer meant the world to a child with a meager talent. I saved those two pages for years. Sadly, they are gone now.
I did continue. I added paint to that budding career. I bought self-help art books. I bought the John Gnagy Learn to Draw kit. How much I learned was debatable. Then it came. A book of matches. On the cover was a picture of a girl and the words DRAW ME!
I think I can do that, I thought to myself. Taking an unlined sheet of paper I drew it over and over until it was an exact duplicate. The inside of the cover was the promise of the career of a commercial artist. Norman Rockwell was one of the artists who taught through the mail. I could learn from the king of commercial artists by sending this in. It said that if the drawing showed talent I would be accepted by this prestigious correspondence course. Normal Rockwell teaching me. Wow! I sent it in without saying anything to my parents. A couple of days after I promptly forgot it.
Two months later late in the evening the phone rang. I jumped up and answered it.
"Hello."
"Hello. I'd like to speak to Rickey please."
"I'm Rickey."
"Well, hello, sir. I'd like to welcome you as a student to our fine Correspondence course."
"Huh?"
"The Famous Artists Correspondence Course. You sent in your drawing from our advertisement a couple of months ago."
"Oh, yeah."
"Well, it showed real talent. So much so that we enrolled you in our course. If you can send us the first payment of $100 we will send you the first lesson."
"I don't have $100, mister."
"Well you signed a contract."
"Huh?"
"You signed a contract. That match book cover has your signiture on the dotted line. It's a valid contract. So if you would send your first payment."
"Uh, I don't have $100. I don't even know how to get $100."
"It's a contract. We need that first payment in the next 30 days. The fist lesson will be mailed out.'
"DAD!!" I yelled. The man was beginning to scare me.
Dad walked into the room. "What's wrong son?" he asked. Tears were forming in my eyes.
"This man says I owe him $100."
"What?! Give us the phone. Hello."
"Hello. To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Rickey's dad."
"I was just telling Rickey that we need the $100 so we cn send the first lesson."
"$100? What are you talking about?" The man on the other end explained to my dad about the match book cover and all the rest. He looked at me as he listened.
"Well, you do know you are talking to a 12 year old don't you?"
"Uh..."
"You can't expect my boy to be bound to a contract he signed since he is only twelve now can you?"
"Well, uh..."
"I don't think we have anything else to discuss, do you?"
"Uh..."
"I didn't think so. Good bye." He dropped the phone in its cradle.
"Don't worry about it anymore, son. He can't collect from you. That contract isn't legal since you are under age. Maybe you could tell us next time you send in an application?"
"Yes sir," I said.
And my art career flew into the sunset with that phone call.
(As a side note: After that when I saw the ad for the Famous Artist Course there was an addendum--applicant must be 18 or older. I don't think it was that phone call but...)
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