The Black And White Of Things

My Southern education contained a few tests.  Like the day I was walking back to Jewel’s house, carrying groceries.  From across the street, I heard a female voice, half angry, half fearful.  “Leave me alone, you jackass!”

 

I looked up.  Next to a parked car were three white men, in a circle around a black female.  I would have intervened regardless, but my heart started beating faster as I crossed the street.  The woman turned and I realized she was Vera Henderson.  George’s daughter.

 

The men glared at me as I approached.  I glared back, but only at the one leaning on Vera’s car.  He was the leader.  I could tell by their posture, the other two would run from anyone they couldn’t bully.  I set the groceries on the trunk of the car, gave the man my best smile, and said, “Hi, I’m Evan.  You must be one of Vera’s friends!”

 

He said, “I already know who you are.  You’re George Henderson’s n****r-loving toadie.”  There was that word again.  This time, it was directed at me.  I already knew there was not going to be a fight.  These three were probably the least tough men I’d ever faced.  But part of me was hoping this clown would give me a reason to punch him out.  I did not like that word.

 

I could smell the alcohol on his breath.  It was good to know their reflexes would be slower than normal, in the event I needed to move suddenly. 

 

My eyes were still locked on to the man leaning on the car.  I got to the point.  “This is how it is going to go down.  I will count to five.  By then you will either be walking away, or unconscious on the ground, in a puddle of blood.”

 

“Well now, that is real interesting, seeing as how there are three of us, and only one of you.”

 

For the first time, I made eye contact with the other two men.  “I have a question for the two of you.  How many times have you killed?  I’ve sent twenty-seven men to their graves.  Want to help me make it an even thirty?”

 

The men broke my gaze and looked down.  That confirmed how things were going to turn out.

 

I started counting, slowly.  When I reached two, I made a quick feint in the direction of the two men.  They both flinched.  At four, I took a step towards the one leaning on the car.  He held up a hand, smiled, and said, “Hold on there, partner.  No reason for you to get your panties in a wad.  We’re just hanging out, having a little fun with one of my girlfriends.”

 

He blew a kiss at Vera and said, “Try not to miss me while I’m not around, lover girl.”  The men walked off.  I asked Vera if she was okay to drive.  She was shaken but said she could.

 

“Is your father at the restaurant?  We need to talk to him first.”

 

“I’m not sure I want Daddy to know about this.  He might do something to those boys, and end up in trouble.”

 

“Vera, you won’t need to worry about what your father will do.  If you’d like, you can worry about what I’m going to do.”

 

I continued.  “We will talk to him, and I will convince him to let me handle this.  He’s the boss when it comes to barbeque.  I run the cash register and handle security.  This one is mine.”

 

By the time we got to the restaurant, I had written down the men’s names, and gotten what I needed to know from Vera.  The leader was Johnny Galloway.  The other two were his brother Billy, and cousin Henry.  They were the scions of the richest family in Pike County.  The Galloways owned a number of the businesses in McComb, including a fancy downtown restaurant.

 

They viewed the Hendersons as competition.  The Galloway boys had picked on George’s son and daughter before.  Now that they were old enough to drink, the false courage of alcohol took their harassment to another level. 

 

Vera said Johnny had “put his hands on me.”  The hair stood up on the back of my neck.  Johnny Galloway and his suckups were squarely in my sights.     

 

Fortunately for them, I was weary of violence.  There was a chance the boys would force me to defend myself.  If that happened, all bets were off.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t bloody them up until after I’d tried everything else.

 

As I expected, I saw rage in George’s eyes when Vera and I told him what happened.  He looked at me.  “D****t, Evan, we’ve worked so hard to make a place for our family in this community, and this is how we are treated.”

 

I said, “George, before you consider your options, think about this.  You’ve got a family, a house, and a business in McComb.  You’ve got a long list of reasons to spend the rest of your life here.  That is another way of saying you have a lot to lose.”

 

“On the other hand, I’m just a drifter.  Passing through McComb on the way to my next stop.  If I make enemies, I’ll just move on.  And, I happen to have experience with this sort of thing.”

 

“So, I’m going to ask you to let me take care of this.  There’s a good chance I can modify these boy’s behavior without resorting to violence.  I’ve already got an idea how to make it happen.” 

 

“If that doesn’t help, I will give the three of them a beating they will never forget, and I’ll be somewhere in the Siberian wilderness before anyone picks up my trail.”

 

George took a deep breath, sighed, and sat down.  I could tell by the look on his face, his knee was hurting.  And, I could tell he had accepted my offer.  He said, “Well, if it comes to that, I’ll visit you in Siberia.  I like to travel to new places and learn how they make barbeque.” 

 

I had asked Vera a lot of questions about Johnny and the boys as we drove to the restaurant.  I wanted to know where they spent their time, and what they did.  When she mentioned they liked to shoot pool and gamble at the Ice House, the idea began to form.  The Ice House is a bar, near the Amtrak station.  I remembered the effect alcohol had on Oleg’s pool shooting skills, from my days at the lodge.

 

It would be risky, hanging out with men who I had just confronted.  Particularly with alcohol involved.  As usual, there was a Plan A and a Plan B.  Either we were all going to become pool shooting drinking buddies, or I was going to beat the tarnation out of them.  That is one of the Southernisms Jewel had taught me.

 

To have a chance against three men, I needed to be sober.  However, I couldn’t hang out with them in a bar, unless I was matching them drink for drink.  I would need a complicit bartender.  In other words, I needed a bartender who was not fond of the Galloways.

 

I made sure none of their cars were in the parking lot when I visited the Ice House.  I sat at the bar, nursed a beer, and made small talk with the bartender.  His name was Ed.  I told him a few stories about my uncle Eastwood, whose real name was Edward.

 

Ed seemed like a nice guy and I decided to test his feelings towards the Galloways.  “So, while I’m in town, I’d like to play some eight ball.  You know of any good money games around here?”

 

“A lot of folks will play you for a beer, and Clarence Hickam and his pals play for a dollar a game.  Five dollars a game sometimes, if it’s payday.”

 

I said, “I’d like to meet Clarence.  But I’m really looking for something bigger.  Anyone in town that will play for $20 a game?”

 

Ed scratched the back of his neck with his hand, looked down, and said, “Well there are the Galloway boys.  They’ve got money and they play here.  But if I was you, I’d steer clear of them.”

 

Bingo.  That was what I wanted to hear.  I told Ed what he needed to know about Plan A.  He laughed and said, “This will be fun to watch.”   I did not mention Plan B.

 

When I shoot pool with the Galloways, I will be drinking a traditional southern beverage.  Jack and Coke.  Typically made with a shot of Jack Daniels whiskey, over ice, mixed with Coca-Cola.  I wanted the least amount of alcohol possible in my drinks.  Sobriety was required for my plan.  But there had to be some, you can smell the alcohol in a mixed drink.  And on a person’s breath.  In the bar, we would be in close quarters.  If I drank straight Coke, the Galloways would notice.

 

Ed mixed a series of drinks.  We gave them a smell test and a taste test.  We decided that a third of a shot was the optimal amount of Jack Daniels.  When I went up against the Galloways, they would be consuming alcohol at a pace approximately three times faster than me.

 

I stood to leave, and laid $100 on the counter.  “Twenty of that is a tip.  The rest is to pay for these drinks and start a tab.”  I wrote my number on a napkin.  “Thanks, Ed.  Give me a call the next time the Galloways show up.”

 

The pool tables at the Ice House are coin operated.  When bars are busy, people line up stacks of quarters on the edge of a table to get into the playing rotation.  I put on my best smile and said, “Howdy, Johnny!” when I set my coins on their table.

 

The boys leered at me.  Johnny spoke.  “This is a reserved table.  Your kind is not welcome here.”  He said it in a loud voice.  The bar got quiet.  Everyone was looking at us.  I pulled a $20 bill out of my wallet and set it next to the quarters.  I said, “You play good enough to take Andy Jackson from me?  Is he enough to get on the table?”

 

Now that Johnny had the attention of everyone in the bar, he couldn’t back down.  He said, “You and me, next game.”

 

Fortunately, Johnny was good at shooting pool.  I wouldn’t have to fake it to lose to him.  I had no intention of winning, at least not at first.  He played with a look of intensity on his face.  He made an exaggerated fist pump and shouted when he sunk the eight ball. 

 

He glared at me.  I put another twenty on the table.  I turned to Billy and said, “How about it, you up for a game?”  Then I turned back to Johnny, smiled, and said, “That was so much fun, I’m buying this round.”  I turned toward the bar, caught Ed’s eye, and made a circular motion with my finger, pointing at the four of us.  The universal sign indicating “drinks for everyone.”

 

I made sure I lost more often than I won.  I kept buying rounds.  With Ed’s assistance, I was getting drunk a lot slower than my pool partners.  As my money flowed into their wallets, and alcohol into their bellies, they forgot we were enemies. 

 

By midnight, they were wasted.  The glares had been replaced with drunken laughter.  For the past two hours I had listened as they told me embarrassing stories about each other.  Anyone who walked in the bar would think I was a member of Johnny’s posse.

 

When Ed shouted “Last call!”, I looked at Johnny.  He was on the verge of passing out.  I poked him in the chest with my finger.  The slight pressure was enough to make him lose his balance.  I grabbed his arm as he leaned back.

 

I said, “You’re drunk.  Too drunk to drive.”  I held out my hand.  “Give me your car keys and I’ll get you home.”

 

Fortunately, I knew where the Galloways lived.  They were too far gone to give coherent directions.  I made sure they got inside the house.  I put the keys on a hook by the front door, and walked home.

 

That was a good start on Plan A.  There would be more male bonding with the Galloway boys at the Ice House.  It remained to be seen if it would have the desired effect. 

 

If the Galloway boys wanted me to be in their gang, they would have to show respect to my personal crew.  Since I worked for George, that would automatically extend to his children.

 

Now it was time to watch and wait.  Either the same bad behavior would repeat itself, or there would be evidence of a different attitude.  McComb is a small town and the Henderson kids will cross paths with the Galloways again.

 

If invoked, Plan B would require little more than my fists.  Maybe some elbows and knees thrown in for variety.  But if it came to that, there was one thing I would need.  A way to get out of town ASAP.  I scanned through the want ads for cars for sale.  I needed something reliable.  I didn’t care what it looked like. 

 

The ad for the 1979 Ford truck caught my eye.  It had engine problems, but was only $300.  Eastwood’s F-150 was a 1977 model.  Almost identical.  He and I had worked on it many times.  I could fix anything small myself, and have one of the local repair shops take care of any big problems. 

 

I would need tools and some help getting the truck running.  I had noticed a big garage behind the Galloway house.  That evening, at the Ice House, I told the boys about the truck, and asked if I could use the garage to work on it.  When I said I’d bring the beer and order pizza, he and the gang were all in.

 

It took a couple of weekends to get the F-150 up to snuff.  I had to admit, the Galloway boys knew what they were doing under the hood.  When we got it running, we took a test drive down Interstate 55, to Hammond, Louisiana.  It was a 100 mile round trip.  By the time we pulled into the Ice House, I was confident the truck would serve me well, in the event I needed it for a getaway.

 

As the boys and I celebrated our automotive prowess over beer and pool, the irony crossed my mind.  If Plan B is executed, the Galloway boys will get a very bad beating.  Followed immediately by me hitting the road, in the truck they helped me repair.

 

The Galloways did not experience Plan B.  As far as I know, they never messed with the Henderson kids again.  But I would use the truck to leave town, soon enough.  For other reasons.

 

George and I had hauled the food truck to Birmingham, Alabama.  We were there four days, at the City Stages Festival.  A heavily attended, multi-stage musical event.  We sold a lot of barbeque.  The last night, George and I were hustling, trying to keep up with the customers.  The venue was packed.  Hungry, drunk customers were lined up at all of the vendors around us.

 

I heard loud, angry voices in front of me.  After I handed my customer his change, I looked up.  Just in time to see a man point a small handgun.  Then, a shot rang out.  The man he had been arguing with let out a scream and fell to the ground.  For a moment, there was complete silence.

 

My military reflexes kicked in.  I ducked.  George kept a .38 Special under the counter.  I was pulling it out when George’s voice broke the silence.  I turned.  George was standing right behind me, pointing his giant arm at the man with the gun.  When he spoke, he sounded like a preacher, promising hellfire and brimstone to the wicked.

 

“You sir, the man with the gun!  You are in violation of God’s Word!  In the name of all that is Holy, you must drop that weapon, then fall to your knees and beg for the Lord’s forgiveness!”

 

I don’t know if George was the bravest man I’d ever met, or just crazy.  To paraphrase Eastwood, never bring a sermon to a gun fight.  Of course, my uncle wasn’t six foot six, 350 pounds, with a voice like James Earl Jones.

 

George’s speech worked, at least partially.  The man dropped the gun, then took off running.  I realized it was my turn. 

 

George had blown a big hole in the defensive line.  I wouldn’t have any trouble running the ball into the end zone.  I put the gun down, jumped over the counter, and started chasing the man.

 

It didn’t take long to catch up to him.  He was short and chubby.  I’d spent years running in the mountains of Alaska and Asia.  By then, policemen were heading towards us from the other direction.  I gave the man a shove.  He fell forward and tumbled to a stop.  He took a blow to the head when he hit the ground.  He was in no mood to resist when the police got there.

 

The next morning, I woke up depressed. 

 

I liked working for George.  I was comfortable living in Jewel’s house.  But the shooting the night before highlighted a nagging feeling, one I’d had ever since I left Alaska.  Everywhere I’d been, the majority of the folks I encountered were good, peace loving people.  But, there was one in every crowd.  It seemed I could not escape other people’s drama and violence.

 

I decided it was time to leave McComb.  I could always come back later if I changed my mind.  I hadn’t burned any bridges.  I’d have a job, a place to stay, and a bartender who knew how I liked my Jack and Coke.  But my instincts told me the future was somewhere else. 

 

In the hotel lobby, waiting for George to check out, I scanned the brochures on the counter.  Usually, they didn’t interest me.  One caught my eye.

 

I’d seen pictures of the place before.  It was St. Peter’s Church, in Rome.  But it wasn’t the real thing.  It was an intricate replica, made by a Benedictine monk named Brother Joseph Zoettl.  It was in a park north of Birmingham, a place called Ave Maria Grotto.  In total, the monk built 125 astonishingly detailed miniature reproductions.  Most had a religious theme but the monk had an eye for art and history.

 

He had built the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Alamo, even a scene from Hansel and Gretel.  Brother Joseph had made all of these works of art, by himself, by hand.  He used discarded building supplies, sea shells, and whatever else he could find.  According to the brochure, he spent 50 years working on the project. 

 

I’d never heard of Cullman, Alabama, or St. Bernard Abbey.  But the pictures and Brother Joseph’s story fascinated me.  I folded the brochure and put it in my pocket.