My father worked with his father every summer and after school when he became old enough. My grandad, Bebaw we called him, was a brick mason. He laid bricks for houses, blocks for foundations, and whatever else he could get work doing. Dad would mix the "mud" that was used to lay the bricks by hand using a a hoe and a wheelbarrow. He would also bring bricks off of a wooden palette up the scaffolding to my grandfather. Bebaw also hired a guy that worked with him full time, he was a black man named Moss.
Moss could not read or write and when Bebaw would give him his check each week he would get my Dad to sign it for him and take it to the bank. Then he would give most of it to Louise, the lady that lived with him, and he would take the rest and get drunker than Cooter Brown. H.R. would then drive down the middle of Bessemer Super Highway going about 15 miles per hour when he got drunk every Saturday. Like clockwork Bebaw would get a call from the Bessemer sheriff just about every Saturday saying, " I got yer negro down here, come pick him up." Dad and Bebaw would load up in the truck and drive down to the Bessemer police department. Dad would drive Moss home in his truck and Bebaw would follow and take Dad back home. This went on for some time until the sheriff finally got sick of it.
Like usual, the sheriff called Bebaw one Saturday and told him, "We got your negro down here again, but this time we won't let him out unless he has $500 bail. " So Bebaw went down to the police station and talked to Moss
"They arn't going to let you out unless you can give them $500 bail."
"Tell mista Lee to go talk to Weezy and get the money."
So Dad drove over to Moss' house and told Louise what the problem was. She went into the house and came out with a mason jar stuffed full of money. She gave it to Dad and went back into the house without so much as a word. Dad counted up the money and it only came to about $130. When Dad told Moss he didn't have enough money to post bail he said, "Well, don't you worry mista Lee, I'll be back to work come Monday or Tuesday."
Bebaw and Dad figured they wouldn't see Moss for months. After school on Monday, Dad was on his way to work with Bebaw and drove through downtown Bessemer. When he stopped at a red light he heard something land in the back of the truck and looked back and saw Moss laying in the bed of his truck wearing the black and white jumpsuit and shackles, waving at him to go on. Dad brought Moss to the job site and Bebaw gave him a hacksaw and told him to go out away from where they were and remove the shackles on his legs. Moss worked all day in his black and white striped prison outfit mixing mud and toting bricks. From then own when he drove down the middle of Bessemer Super Highway going 15 Miles per Hour a police car just followed him home and he was never put in jail again.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Bittersweet Beignets
I sat staring out of the window at our hotel room in the French Market Inn, on Decatur Street in New Orleans. My feet were resting against the window sill and I laxly held onto the tall marroon curtains and people watched as they walked by on the sidewalk below. In the distance the mighty Mississippi flowed towards the gulf pulling along huge tankers like they were toys in a draining bathtub. The sounds of street bands, peddling their wares a few blocks down, drifted past the glass my forehead was pressed against. Dad kept walking by down below and would occasionally glance up and grab my attention as he had the past few nights since we first got into town.
We didn't actually get into New Orleans until around 11:00 p.m Friday night. I was tired because I had worked all day long and we were short staffed, like most Fridays. Apparently a lot of people get sick on Fridays, but I shouldn't complain I have been "sick" before too. We quickly unpacked and decided we would walk up and down Bourbon Street so I could experience it for the first time. As we walked past of the many bars I looked up at the people in the balcony and saw Dad among them. He tried to get me to show him my man boobs for beads, he thought it was hilarious. I didn't sleep well when we finally did get in that morning.
When I did wake up my mouth tasted like I had been sucking the sheets all night and my eyes looked like hell from where my contacts had been in longer than usual. I turned on the little coffee pot in the hotel room and took a shower while it brewed. When I stepped out of the shower the smell of coffee permeated the air and I already started feeling refreshed. I laid down in the bed and looked out the window while I sipped as much coffee as I spilled on the floor. Everyone else around me started waking up and we decided to all go to Cafe Du monde for beignets and some better coffee.
We stood in line for a while and finally decided to sit down at a table and relax our feet for a bit. I nearly choked to death on the first beignet and quickly learned it was better not to breathe while in close proximity to powdered sugar. Dad was serving a young asaian couple about 6 tables over and he looked over at me and smiled. I just shook my head and buried my face back into my coffee cup. It happened like that quite frequently throughout the whole trip. I would see him around all the things that reminded me of him. I saw him outside the restraunt window blowing on a trumpet in a street band while I ate oysters on the halfshell. I almost tripped over him as he looked like a homeless man laying outside Margaritaville.
I had hoped to escape the specter of my recently deceased father in a place that was unfamiliar to me, but severing the memories of my father is like trying to cutoff my own arm with the heel of my foot. Now I take joy in the subtle glances I see of my father as I sit in my hotel room and look out the window. Soon I will be going back home to the living representation of him in the grandson he never met.
We didn't actually get into New Orleans until around 11:00 p.m Friday night. I was tired because I had worked all day long and we were short staffed, like most Fridays. Apparently a lot of people get sick on Fridays, but I shouldn't complain I have been "sick" before too. We quickly unpacked and decided we would walk up and down Bourbon Street so I could experience it for the first time. As we walked past of the many bars I looked up at the people in the balcony and saw Dad among them. He tried to get me to show him my man boobs for beads, he thought it was hilarious. I didn't sleep well when we finally did get in that morning.
When I did wake up my mouth tasted like I had been sucking the sheets all night and my eyes looked like hell from where my contacts had been in longer than usual. I turned on the little coffee pot in the hotel room and took a shower while it brewed. When I stepped out of the shower the smell of coffee permeated the air and I already started feeling refreshed. I laid down in the bed and looked out the window while I sipped as much coffee as I spilled on the floor. Everyone else around me started waking up and we decided to all go to Cafe Du monde for beignets and some better coffee.
We stood in line for a while and finally decided to sit down at a table and relax our feet for a bit. I nearly choked to death on the first beignet and quickly learned it was better not to breathe while in close proximity to powdered sugar. Dad was serving a young asaian couple about 6 tables over and he looked over at me and smiled. I just shook my head and buried my face back into my coffee cup. It happened like that quite frequently throughout the whole trip. I would see him around all the things that reminded me of him. I saw him outside the restraunt window blowing on a trumpet in a street band while I ate oysters on the halfshell. I almost tripped over him as he looked like a homeless man laying outside Margaritaville.
I had hoped to escape the specter of my recently deceased father in a place that was unfamiliar to me, but severing the memories of my father is like trying to cutoff my own arm with the heel of my foot. Now I take joy in the subtle glances I see of my father as I sit in my hotel room and look out the window. Soon I will be going back home to the living representation of him in the grandson he never met.
The Clock King
For eighty-six long years the old man had fought the war against the Clock King. His arthritic hands, poor vision, and balding head were his scars from the many battles. For a time it seemed he had found a way to momentarily escape the evil king's domain, but the Clock King always collects his dues. The old man settled down on the lightly padded wooden bench and tested the pedals of the steel guitar with his feet and lightly plucked the strings with his fingers. This man was determined to fight to his last breath.
I stood silently at the fireplace in the old man's basement ignoring the searing heat at the back of my legs. My full attention was on the warrior. He leaned over and spit dark fluid in a rusted coffee can and wiped the left over dribble with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Then he reached behind him and flicked a switch on the wall. With a snap hiss an electric guitar amp announced it's awakening, the hand spun pickups crackled and popped, and the air seemed to leave the room. The ritual was almost complete. The warrior's battered fingers lightly danced across the metal strings of the guitar while the long metal bar shaped the sound to his choosing. The weapon was tuned, his courage was stoked, and the warrior's heart was hardened for the battle.
I felt myself slip to the edge of the King's domain. His guards were there to try and stop me. Responsibility tried to pull me back, there were things to do and it was urgent they were completed, but I resisted. Perception tried to convice me that what I was experiencing was not real, that the Clock King would collect his dues, but I continued listening. Maturity explained that daydreaming was for children and I was not a child any longer, with adulthood comes wisdom, but I craved to be a child again. The warrior and I broke through the barrier and we became lost in a world of our own making.
The music lifted us on waves of brilliant color in an emerald and crimson sea, with each note plucked a star burst into life in the evening sky, and a lavender sun was in a perpetual state of sunrise. For what seemed like days we enjoyed each other's company. Stories were told, tears were shed, and not a word was spoken. Suddenly the world started to vibrate and pulse. The stars fell from the sky, the sun descended past the horizon line, and darkness enveloped the world as my cell phone vibrated in the pocket of my jeans.
Unfortunately perception was correct and reality came crashing back as the warrior collapsed ontop of the guitar and the music ended. I ignored my phone, and rushed over from the fire place to feel the old man's pulse. It was weak and fluttery. I picked him up in my arms and carried him upstairs to his bedroom. As I laid him on the bed his eyes slightly opened and he motioned for me to lean down where he could whisper to me.
"My time is up... so much I wanted to show you and so little time. Remember me."
The old man passed away as I sat at his bedside. It was months before I returned to the basement of the warrior's house. Dust had settled on the amplifier and the bulb had blown in the ceiling light. A beam of sunlight shined in through a small window and illuminated the steel guitar in the surrounding darkness. I sat down on the small wooden bench and picked up the heavy steel slide and the finger picks. I pulled my fingers across the strings and found myself amazed that they were still in tune. The memory in my fingers took me to the first song the warrior taught me. The tune of "Amazing Grace" softly carried me to the timeless world of my imagination. I found my grandfather waiting for me.
I stood silently at the fireplace in the old man's basement ignoring the searing heat at the back of my legs. My full attention was on the warrior. He leaned over and spit dark fluid in a rusted coffee can and wiped the left over dribble with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Then he reached behind him and flicked a switch on the wall. With a snap hiss an electric guitar amp announced it's awakening, the hand spun pickups crackled and popped, and the air seemed to leave the room. The ritual was almost complete. The warrior's battered fingers lightly danced across the metal strings of the guitar while the long metal bar shaped the sound to his choosing. The weapon was tuned, his courage was stoked, and the warrior's heart was hardened for the battle.
I felt myself slip to the edge of the King's domain. His guards were there to try and stop me. Responsibility tried to pull me back, there were things to do and it was urgent they were completed, but I resisted. Perception tried to convice me that what I was experiencing was not real, that the Clock King would collect his dues, but I continued listening. Maturity explained that daydreaming was for children and I was not a child any longer, with adulthood comes wisdom, but I craved to be a child again. The warrior and I broke through the barrier and we became lost in a world of our own making.
The music lifted us on waves of brilliant color in an emerald and crimson sea, with each note plucked a star burst into life in the evening sky, and a lavender sun was in a perpetual state of sunrise. For what seemed like days we enjoyed each other's company. Stories were told, tears were shed, and not a word was spoken. Suddenly the world started to vibrate and pulse. The stars fell from the sky, the sun descended past the horizon line, and darkness enveloped the world as my cell phone vibrated in the pocket of my jeans.
Unfortunately perception was correct and reality came crashing back as the warrior collapsed ontop of the guitar and the music ended. I ignored my phone, and rushed over from the fire place to feel the old man's pulse. It was weak and fluttery. I picked him up in my arms and carried him upstairs to his bedroom. As I laid him on the bed his eyes slightly opened and he motioned for me to lean down where he could whisper to me.
"My time is up... so much I wanted to show you and so little time. Remember me."
The old man passed away as I sat at his bedside. It was months before I returned to the basement of the warrior's house. Dust had settled on the amplifier and the bulb had blown in the ceiling light. A beam of sunlight shined in through a small window and illuminated the steel guitar in the surrounding darkness. I sat down on the small wooden bench and picked up the heavy steel slide and the finger picks. I pulled my fingers across the strings and found myself amazed that they were still in tune. The memory in my fingers took me to the first song the warrior taught me. The tune of "Amazing Grace" softly carried me to the timeless world of my imagination. I found my grandfather waiting for me.
Those Who Stand
Larry snarled and pressed down harder on the gas as he raced toward his home. He had hired a private investigator on a whim, who in turn provided him with the pictures spread out over the bench seat of his truck. Every penny he had spent had been worth it to him. He desperately loved Evelyn with all his heart, had loved her ever since tenth grade in high school. Regardless, the pictures said she had not returned the favor and his heart was torn to shreds.
"Under the seat Larry," what seemed to be his conscience whispered.
Listening to the subtle messages in his head and disregarding all reason he pulled out his service pistol. He checked the chamber and laid it across the dash of his 1970 Ford pickup truck like it was a snake in his hands.
Its what she deserves, she broke your heart. Now you blow hers out; I bet he's still there.
Larry whipped into the trailer park, his tail end knocking over trash cans. He continued spraying gravel everywhere, all the way back to his home. Larry slammed the front of his truck into the unfamiliar car in his driveway, and time suddenly stopped, except for Larry's unknown passenger.
"Crap I am not believing this," a slim man with a gnarled smirk on his face said from the passenger side of the truck. He looked over at Larry, whose face was already on its way to planting itself into his steering wheel. Someone had taken an interest in what was going on here and had paused the happenings of the real world. The skeletal yellow skinned man stepped out of the truck and slammed the door. The impact of the door shattered the side view mirror, but even as the glass tinkled onto the ground the mirror seemed to shimmer and revert back to the way it was. The skinny man tugged at the front of his black suit and spit on the ground trying to decide what to do. He reached over to the inside of his pocket and took out two bone white dice with red pips and tossed them on the ground. "Snake eyes...well time to go!"
He didn't even have enough time to look up as his body slammed into the side of the trailer and slid to the ground with a sickly thud. While coughing up yellow spittle he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a box of cigarettes. He slowly hit the box on his palm and snatched one out with his teeth. Then he snapped his fingers in front of the cigarette and it blazed to life as he slowly took a draw."You got here quicker than I thought you would." he murmured past cinched lips.
"The need was great enough to snatch me away from what I was already doing," said a voice from behind Larry's truck. The skinny man grunted as he pushed his weight up off the ground and brushed his backside off. Looking over his shoulder he saw the trailer shimmer and revert back to normal."Well we might as well get this over with, banish me back to Hell and you get started on repairing what I've done so far," he grinned as he bent over to pick up his dice and put them back in his pocket.
"Not gonna be so simple today Lucky, I've got a few questions that need answering," said a tall, dark haired, pale skinned man who stepped around from the back of the truck. He wore a long brown coat over an open button white shirt neatly tucked into black pants held on by a silver buckled belt with the word Omdim on it surrounded by gilded feathers. He pulled his coat behind him and held it back with his hands on his hips and all Lucky could do was stare at him wide eyed and open mouthed. His cigarette winked out on the ground from where it had fallen out of his mouth. "I didn't do anything serious enough to warrant you coming here Mikey," Lucky stammered. "Well, Larry here would probably disagree if he knew what his conscience had really been saying," Mikey said then lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes looking to be in deep thought. He quickly looked back up when he felt a sudden weight at his hip. He reached down and slowly drew out a long shining sword from the sheath at his hip.
Larry threw his hands up, but before he could protest he was pinned to the aluminum siding of the trailer with the sword in his torso, plunged pommel deep. The smell and sound of sizzling demon flesh wafted up to Lucky's own nose causing him to wretch. His bony hands wrapped around the pommel on the sword and tried to no avail to remove it."You know I can't betray my master, or I will be held in Hell forever,"Lucky sputtered.
"Lucky I already have a pretty good idea of who your master is," Mikey said reaching into Lucky's suit pocket and pulling out the dice he had picked up earlier. Mikey held them in front of Lucky's face and squeezed his hand, crushing the dice into a fine white power that he blew into Lucky's face. "I just want some confirmation."
"Well you can take your questions and shove them up your feathery whit-"
"Now Now now lets not be rude," Mikey said as he smiled and put his hand on the sword hilt and slowly twisted it. The sounds of crunching bone echoed through the still trailer park as the sword twisted the demon's insides and the wall of the trailer. Lucky's mouth opened in a soundless scream and his hands flailed at the sword, desperately attempting to remove it. Lucky's eyes began to roll back to the top of his head and his lips began to barely mouth an incantation. "Stop that!," Mikey said as he grabbed Lucky's head and slammed it against the wall behind it.
"Okay, okay I'll tell you who I am working for. He's just letting me do a few jobs before he really accepts me in anyways. All I know is his name, not what he is really after." Lucky snarled. He also decided to stop kicking his legs since it didn't make the sizzling pain lessen any. "The only name I was given was Jack, and he laughed and said he hadn't been called that in a long time when he told me. Then he told me to setup Larry here on, pardon the pun, a highway to hell." Lucky coughed up yellow gunk that ran down his chin and onto his white shirt as he finished.
"Well that's all for now, if I need anything else I guess I will ask this Jack when I find him," Mikey said as he slowly pulled the sword out, dropping Lucky to his knees gasping for air. Then he lifted the sword behind his back and slashed the blade through Lucky's neck, and turned him to a small pile of ash that blew away with a whisper of a breeze."Pity it won't last," Mikey said as he shoved the sword in his scabbard. He surveyed the mess Lucky had caused and grimaced. He knew he had come to late, Lucky had set to many actions in motion and there was not enough time to change the flows of events about to take place. His head lowered and his shoulders visibly slumped as he walked a few steps and vanished.
Without warning time went back into motion and Larry's truck slammed into the unfamiliar car in his driveway crumpling it and his truck against the trailer that now rocked on its cement blocks. the engine instantly died on Larry's truck and the only sound was a scream from inside the trailer and Larry's muffled groans.The door of the trailer flew open with a petite blond haired woman running down the makeshift stairs in nothing but red heels and a robe she hurriedly tried to pull on. Right behind her a shirtless man groaned at the site of his car smashed against the trailer. Moments later shots rang out in the Alabama night.
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