The Bully

A grandfather's encounter with a violent small town bully shows even the best of men can't always hold back their dark, primitive side.

   

 

 

My grandfather was the epitome of what every man should be. A true southern Democrat, he was well-respected in our small, ultra-conservative community, even when his uncompromising attitudes on social injustice, race, and politics ran contrary to the popular notions of the day. Every Saturday evening, he, my grandmother, and I left my parents and the farm life behind. We drove the winding dirt road, bordered on both sides by dizzying rows of tall Georgia corn, until the black on black of highway and truck tires met to finish our trip into town to see a movie.

   During the ride, he and my grandmother talked nonstop of Hollywood's newest flick showing that evening at Platt’s Movie House, our town’s only theatre. My ears took in the names of America’s then-finest actors: John Wayne, Doris Day, Paul Newman, Elizabeth Taylor, Lee Marvin, Sandra Dee, and my grandmother’s favorite, Steve McQueen. Once in town, my grandfather dropped my grandmother off at Bell’s Drug Store and took me with him to a wonderful place named Odd Ball’s. 

   An old-time billiard hall, Odd Ball’s was an impressive gathering spot for the men of the town, full of wonderous things that fascinated a then young girl of thirteen years beyond the many games of pool played there. Dazzling lights covered in ornate stained glass hovered over every one of its ten tables, most full with players at any given time of the day. There were brass spittoons in every corner and thick green glass ashtrays topped tall round marble tables. The floor was made from solid long-plank southern pine, dark and light hues mixed, polished by hand to a high luster. A brass and oak-topped bar, set back from one wall, occupied the full length of the old room. I always sat there on a tall stool, sipping a bottle of Coca-Cola, watching my grandfather and his friends and their old-fashioned mannerisms of how southern gentlemen should treat each other: polite nods of the head, genuine eye contact but never impolite or menacing stares, strong grips during a handshake, hearty but no over-the-top laughing, and subtle pats--not slaps--on the back.

   Odd Ball’s was the only place I ever saw my grandfather smoke cigars and consume alcohol. His favorite drink was bourbon. He loved not only the taste but its color as well, showing me--more times than I cared to count--the beauty of its amber glow, sparkling when light diffused through the cracked ice he insisted it be drank with. Unlike some of the men there, he never imbibed or smoked to the point that the vile addiction of either was ever carried back to my grandmother’s house. He never sat while at Odd Ball's, preferring to move from table to table, stopping to share in the news of the week and make small talk with the other men, most farmers like himself, always listening politely without interrupting and speaking only in low tones, never raising his voice.

   My grandfather, while neither arrogant nor boastful in his demeanor, encouraged me to do as he did: take both pride in and responsibility for my behavior and never allow excess consumption or lack of forethought to dominate my life. He believed anger and jealousy were two of the most dangerous emotions and did his best to stay clear of their powers. As for bad attitudes, he believed they were like viruses: contagious and sometimes deadly. He was a man of peace, kindness, and empathy. 

   Regrettably, there was one unforgettable visit to Odd Ball’s where an unfortunate incident exposed the rarely-seen, irascible side of my endearing grandfather. It was that incident, an altercation between my grandfather and another man of his era, that compelled me to share this story, to show that even the best of men can't always hold back their dark, primitive side.

 

“Do any of you here think that youngster’s gonna get himself the big seat in Washington?” a raised voice said from behind the bar, near where my grandfather stood talking with a gathering of men, some of them his closest friends.

   “Not likely,” another man answered. “Hell, he’s too wet behind the ears to even be a senator, much less the President of the United States.”

   My grandfather took a sip of his bourbon and set it down. He turned and smiled at the man sitting nearby who’d answered the question. There was a glint in my grandfather’s bright green eyes I instantly recognized; he was getting ready to speak.

  

  He rarely spoke of politics, especially around my grandmother or me, but on those few occasions he had, I couldn’t but help notice how the eyes of others would light up and anybody within earshot would move closer and give him their undivided attention. Even my grandmother, who absolutely detested politicians and their campaigns and who typically excused herself from any such discussions, always stayed and listened until my grandfather had finished having his say in matters of state or the nation.

  

   “Wendell, if you’re speaking of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, well, I’m one of his supporters, and yes, I believe he will be our next president,” my grandfather said. “I’d be willing to put money on him if I were a gambling man.”

  

   Wendell Hazelton wasn’t the kind of man you wanted to cross, or God forbid, tangle with. He and my grandfather were men cut from the same cloth, both landowners, both homegrown to the county we lived within, a rarity in our modest community of mostly mill workers, sharecroppers, and poultry farms. The differences between my grandfather and Wendell, other than personalities and politics, were how much land each man owned and how each chose to manage it.

   “I don’t want the liberal son-of-a-b***h in the highest office in the land,” Wendell said. The men closest to him lowered their voices, a few even shut up altogether and just stood or sat quietly, a sensible practice when Wendell was noticeably agitated. Some of the men talking with my grandfather moved away from him, looked away, or stared at their drink as if a fly had landed in it.

   Wendell tilted his head back and laughed out loud, but no one in the billiard hall joined him. “Yeah, boys, our way of life as we’ve known it is gonna change for sure if that pansy-a*s gets elected. S**t, he’ll end up taking our farms and giving them to the darkies.” He pointed at my grandfather. “Yours too, Jackson Tillman.”

   Our farm--a real working farm and owned outright by my grandfather and not a bank note--covered nearly four-hundred acres and supplied most of middle Georgia’s demand for peaches, watermelons, and hogs.

   Wendell possessed ten times as much land, but didn’t work it. Instead, he had those who originally owned farms of their own but lost their hold on them because of hard times work for him exclusively. In addition to his thousands of acres of farmland, Wendell also held title to most of our small town. A great number of our townsfolk rented his houses, bought groceries, hardware, and clothing out of his general stores, and worked their lives away in his textile mills and slaughter houses.

  

   That man could go about anywhere in town he wanted without so much as an eyebrow raised, do whatever he pleased, without fear of anybody bucking him. But, if you so much as sneezed the wrong way around Wendell, and he didn’t like it, he could make your life a living hell.

   My grandfather had given plenty through the years, in both cash and homegrown goods, to those booted from their homes or forced out of work by Wendell's greedy nature. He had offered to buy our land numerous times, and with each offer, my grandfather politely refused.

   “Gaw-ah-dam, I hope our country don’t come to that,” another man said. He owned a laundromat in town but worked as an extra in our peach orchards in the summer. Skinny and stoop shouldered, the man had skin the color of pale bone, unlike my grandfather whose broad shoulders were always squared and straight, his skin dark from the Cherokee blood in his veins and the sun he worked under every day.

   “Excuse me, gentlemen, the language’s a bit out of hand in here,” the bartender said. He looked down the bar at me. “Young lady, you might best be covering your ears or go on down to the corner to Bell’s with your grandmother.” He was a short bald man who wore his long shirt not tucked in his pants, much like a barber. He tapped his fingers on the bar.

   “I’m near fouteen years and heard worse at school. I’ll be fine,” I said.

   “Suit yourself. You can stay as long as your grandpa stays.”

   “She'll be okay, Cyrus. Thank you anyway,” my grandfather said. “We’ll be leaving here shortly.”

   Wendell said, “Cyrus, give old Mr. I’m-voting-for-Kennedy here another bourbon, on me, his granddaughter, too." Chuckling, he continued, “I meant Coca-Cola for the girl. Heck, for that matter, give every man here another, all on me.“ He smiled smugly at my grandfather. “Jackson, this whole puke talk of Kennedy being our next president is making me sick and it ain’t gonna happen.”

   My grandfather returned a good-natured smile to Wendell, but I knew he wasn’t smiling inside. The light-hearted banter and humor he had when we walked in was now replaced with a serious tone.

   “Thanks, but I’ll pass on your generosity. One bourbon’s my limit.” He lifted his cigar to his teeth. His face had the look of a man fully composed of himself and without fear “And it’s going to happen, Wendell, whether you like it or not. Kennedy will be our next president, and we’ll all be the better for it.” He held his arms up, waving his hands to catch the attention of the crowd before they returned to the bar to retrieve the benevolence bestowed by Wendell. “Fellas, listen up. For the record, John Kennedy ain’t no pansy. He commanded a Navy PT boat during the war, got himself injured there, too.” He lowered his arms and then pointed at Wendell.  “And unlike some folks, he’s a family man, too. Remember that.”

   Wendell stood and closed the five steps between him and my grandfather like a lion after prey. The ball cap he was wearing fell to the floor. He did not bother to pick it up. Unlike my grandfather, who was a rather small and unassuming looking man, Wendell was tall and intimidating in appearance. His lower teeth were missing, which set his jaw off at an odd angle.

   I heard a familiar voice, but it wasn’t from any of the men in the billiard hall, some now donning their own hats and leaving money on tables as they moved toward the open front door. All of them tipped their hats as my grandmother walked up to stand next to my grandfather.

   “Oh, my Lord,” she said, her eyes wide in surprise as she looked at the long black line of sutures sitting atop Wendell’s bald head. The man’s skull looked as if somebody had come down hard on it with a mattock and tried to split him in two. “Goodness, Wendell Hazelton, what has happened to you?” She shook her head from side to side. “Who or what did that?”

  I was quick to notice my grandmother didn’t point impolitely at the sutures or ask Wendell “why” his scalp had been cut or split open. I think even she knew the mean man had enemies. My grandmother’s eyes softened, smiling up at the man looming over her and my grandfather. Her blue eyes did that a lot, even when the world wasn’t smiling back at her. To me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world when she set her eyes like that. Wendell evidently didn't see her in the same light. He glared down at her.

   My grandfather’s eyes flickered sideways at my grandmother. “Billie, go on ahead of me and Darlene. We'll meet you at the movie shortly.”

   Wendell lowered his head until he was face to face with my grandmother. ”That’s right, Misses Democrat, you best git. Ain’t no women allowed here. And it's none your goddamn business about my head.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward me. “And take that brat girl with you. Just like you, she ain’t welcome.”

   My grandfather opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. A loud yell interrupted him. “That’s enough, Wendell!” The man’s voice shot out across the room and bounced off the walls like a shock wave. Startled, I jerked upright and almost fell from my bar stool. Wendell turned his head to look back over his shoulder as did most of the men still there.

   Cyrus’s face was bright red. He held a baseball bat in one hand, gripping it tight, pointing it high at the copper-clad ceiling.

   “You best put that away ‘fore I shove it in the dark of your a*s,” Wendell said. “You forget’n who holds the note to this place, huh?” Cyrus lowered the bat. “And you’re behind in owing to me, too. Forget that as well?”

   The belittled man turned away from all the eyes upon him and pulled up his apron, twisted it in a shot glass. His back to the crowd couldn’t hide his humbled expression, though. Even I could see it from where I sat, reflecting back from the long wall-mount mirror hung behind the bar. His face turned from bright red to pasty white as he wiped sweat from his brow.

   “No, I ain’t forgot,” Cyrus mumbled, his words sounding somber. A few of the men quickly stepped forward and patted him on the back before hurrying out the door after tipping him.

   I came off my bar stool and stood beside my grandfather. I looked up at Wendell. He looked down at me with narrowed eyes and a scowl on his face. He spit tobacco at my feet. “You got no right to talk that way, especially to my grandmother.” Cyrus still stood with his back to us. He was looking down to the floor, his chin almost on his chest. I pointed at him. “Or Cyrus. You’re nothing but a bully, Wendell.”

   My grandfather put his arm around my shoulders and turned me away from Wendell, toward the door. “Go on now, I’ll take care of this.” He put the palm of his hand to my grandmother’s back and patted it lightly. “You too, Billie. I’m sorry, darling, this poor excuse for a man talked to you the way he did. Now please, the two of you go on outside and wait for me.”

   My grandmother and I walked to the door, both of us looking over our shoulder at my grandfather as he pulled himself free of his jacket. He lay it across a chair and then bent down and picked up Wendell's hat, offered to him, but the tall man swatted it away. "To hell with you, old man. You best follow behind your woman 'less you want your a*s whipped publicly." My grandfather said nothing in response. He began pushing chairs and tables from around him and Wendell, clearing a large open circle in the middle of the floor.

   “What the hell you think’n, old man?” Wendell asked. He had one eyebrow raised as he scratched at his chin, his head turning, following my grandfather’s ever-growing circular path.

   Again, my grandfather said nothing. He continued moving things, shoving this to the left, that to the right, pushing chairs away with his feet, occasionally raising his palms, waving them toward those in the crowd too close to his efforts. “Please move back,” he said every so often, but always with a smile.

   “What’s Grandpa doing?”

   My grandmother frowned and then sighed. “Tall things need lots of space to break their fall,” she said. The corner of her mouth turned up into an evil smile. “Your grandpa was one of the best fighters the US Navy ever had. His record as a boxer ain’t never been beat.”

  “Oh my god! Grandpa--a boxer?”

  “Yep, and he’s a little sparkplug of a man when he gets going.” The soft, loving look had disappeared from my grandmother’s eyes. They now looked fierce and determined. “I’ve only seen him like this one time before," she said, giggling. “He looked like a little bulldog back then, and even barked like one.” I began to giggle, too.

     A work-in progress soon to be finished....

 

            

Author's Note

This is just the start of a short story. I plan to finish it shortly as it's part of an anthology due to be published next year.