From the Desk of The DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank

For anyone who isn’t aware, I’ll explain what I’m doing here. Recently, I posted an informal poll to see if my readers would be receptive to the idea of me posting a “serial novella” here. I received all positive responses, so I sat down and began to write. The following are the first words of this experiment. I hope you enjoy the read and come back to see how this story unfolds.

I am planning on publishing a new post every two weeks until we finish the book together.

*** I’d also to thank Chelsea McKenzie, the AMAZING commercial artist who produced the feature image above. You’ll be seeing more of her work on this site.

 

DBeazy

 

Indians, Bars, and Green-eyed Girls

As is customary for me, when times get rough and the pain gets real, I take a short drive to the outskirts. I’ve done this for years and as a man, alone and without offspring, I always felt the need to be at least, in the presence of people. There is a place there where the folks are welcoming, nonjudgmental, and the lights are low. I’m especially fond of the place; so fond in fact that it came up for sale a while back and I bought it. I figured if I was going to spend so much time there, I might as well own it.

Recently I had one of the days when the shadows grew longer and the weight, the weight of it all began to bear down. So I took a drive to that place, to wait, you know, just in case. For right or wrong, this is my deal. I’m stuck like the needle of an old phonograph playing a scratched album, I get so far, then jump back to the beginning. As I approached the bar, I saw familiar vehicles, and I noticed an unfamiliar Indian cycle parked precariously in the parking lot. Outside I paused momentarily to admire the craftsmanship of the Indian Chieftain before me. The bike was midnight blue and I especially liked the tan-colored seats and saddlebags.

Inside, the barmaid saw me, poured a glass of bourbon, and slid it across the bar as I approached. Membership has its privileges, right? The bartender knew my story as did any of the regulars there. They knew that I was not big on words and that I preferred to drink in solitude. Yes, that’s right, solitude in a public place. Not that I’m a heavy drinker, mind you, hmmm, I guess that is what we all say, but I don’t think I am. I suppose though that having solitude in a public place is nothing more than a ruse that serves to persuade the brain that I’m not alone, that I’m not losing it, and that I’ve not wasted much of a lifetime waiting and watching. Not for any reason in particular, but from the start, I made it my policy to simply be a customer any time I was in the bar not in the capacity as owner. I ran a tab and tipped the waitresses just like any patron. As I said, I had no real reason for this, except maybe to track the volume of alcohol consumed.

I saw an old-timer at a table in the back. I selected a table next to his, sat down, and observed the crowd. I caught a glance of the old-timer, nodded a greeting, and he thumped the brim of his cap. By process of elimination, I surmised and by the question, he confirmed that he was the owner of the Indian. “Nice bike,” I said. He responded, but as he did, the door swung open and light streamed through, revealing the silhouette of a shapely woman, followed by that of a tall man wearing a cowboy hat. I straightened to get a better view, hoping to identify the newcomers, but with the sun at their backs, all I saw were two figures. From the darkness of my back wall table, I stared and waited for the door to close behind them. Finally, the brightness from outside retreated and the dim filled the void almost as if the dim light physically chased the light from the room. Momentarily sidetracked, thinking about the properties of light and the absence thereof, I caught myself in a blank stare until the woman at the door turned to survey the room. Neon light revealed her face and she smiled and waved at one of the tables off the right. I released my gaze after recognizing the couple as regulars. Suddenly, the glass before me became the target of my focus and I relaxed and shifted in my chair.

After a half-hour or so, the old man, wiry, wearing slack clothes, and a tattered trucker hat, spoke something in my direction, but I wasn’t paying attention. He made nothing of my disregard for him. I realized he had addressed me directly, so I expressed regret for my unintended rudeness and asked him to repeat himself. He said, “I used to ride a Harley until I got run over and left for dead.” I slid my chair to his table, extended my hand, and introduced myself. He returned the gesture looking me squarely in the eyes and firmly gripping my hand and said, “I’m Cullen.” I looked around the room again and inquired, “So Cullen, I would understand if a motorcycle accident prompted you to give up motorcycles altogether, but how is it that a motorcycle accident caused you only to change brands?” He studied my face, “Well, it’s not that I don’t like Harleys, they are alright. From the time I got back from Nam, I only rode Harley Davidson bikes. But some guy in a truck ran over me, thought I was dead, covered me with my jacket, and left the scene.” He listed a multitude of injuries and that no one had expected him to live. The old man continued to talk and as I mentioned, I prefer to sit in the back and wait, but I have to say, he was engaging and I found myself drawn to his story. He said, “I’m Choctaw, and I don’t know, I felt that the wreck and the near misses while on the Harley was a way of the spirits speaking to me. All through Viet Nam, and the things that happened or didn’t happen in life depended on my state of harmony or disharmony with the spirits. I can’t say that it is true or not, but I struggled with the idea. I compromised and bought the Indian and I’ve felt in step ever since.” Cullen went on for a while, sharing intimate details of his life. His wins, his disappointments, his total losses; all of the scenes that had worked together to shape the man he became. It seemed to me that I sat there meshed with a man who, for the most part, spent a lifetime invisible to most of the world, yet, touched many without aiming to do so. He reached into his worn leather vest and pulled out a small sandwich bag with a piece of paper inside. He unfolded it and slid it across the table to me. Cullen said, “When I woke up in the hospital after the wreck, a man that I didn’t know stuck his head inside the door to my room. He told me that he was the medic at the scene and had something to give me.” The medic said, “When I got to you, your leather jacket was pulled up over your face and this note was pinned to it.” I examined the tattered and worn page and read out loud, “I’m sorry for killing someone’s father.” Cullen might have been a person who, when he obtained an audience such as myself, embellished the details of his life. But he did not. He shared that he had wanted to be a sniper in the army, but never made the cut. I found this man to be unusually honest, especially for a guy who was talking to a stranger in a bar and with alcohol involved.

Cullen took a long draw from his beer and seemed to stare out into nothing as if the movie reel of his life was playing and he was gauging what else, if anything, he might share with me. I motioned for the waitress to bring another round. She returned shortly and I had difficulty getting him to allow me to pay for his beer. After a long minute, he took a swig and asked, “Why are you at such odds with the spirits?” The query took me by surprise. I paused, maybe for two full minutes, and said, “I wouldn’t say that I’m aware of any spirits, let alone being at odds with them.” I felt suddenly uncomfortable, like lying to my father when I was a child and his refusal to listen to my bullshit. Cullen said, “Ahhhhh, but they are there. You don’t have to be a Choctaw to see it.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Well,” he said, “You are a man in a roadside bar, sitting in the back, lost within yourself, and receptive only to the opening of the door. And, on a Sunday, I might add.” I thought for a moment, trying to frame a believable reply, but for some reason, I felt like he would be aware of any fabrication. But I told him that I owned the place and often stopped to check-in. I was a bit relieved when he said, “I figured something like that if only by the way the staff interacts with you. But that isn’t why the darkness hovers around you, is it?” I felt uneasy, again, like I was lying on the couch of a psychiatrist. At the same time though, I sat there amazed that this pitiful-looking old man seemed to be reading me like a book. He seemed to see things in me that I refused to, that I preferred to remain suppressed. Cullen said, “Who are you expecting to come through that door?” “Nobody,” I replied. Cullen lowered his head, rubbed his eyes, and nodded, “But you are! What gets you off balance? What are your last thoughts before you sleep?”

To this day, I have no explanation as to what happened to me or how a strange old geezer was able to get me to open up as I did. But I started and it seemed I ran on for hours. Lifting my glass to my nose, I savored the charred oak aroma, eyed the now brown liquid that just seven years earlier had started out as “White Dog.” My mind covered the events in history that occurred during the previous seven years and I considered everything the liquid inside those burnt barrels soaked up. It is said that not only does the liquid inside soak up the char and the oak but that the bourbon is also permeated by the history that is unfolding outside as it ages. I thought, “No wonder the clear “White Dog” turns brown.” I looked the old Choctaw in the eyes and I began to speak.

“I never know what the catalyst will be. It could be something as simple as the way the sun filters through the clouds at that one instant during the day, a burger, the smell of the pines in a clearing, or the sound of the wind blowing through oaks as the leaves dry and begin to curl, fold, and turn brown. Or it could be a young girl in a crowded restaurant or walking across a parking lot and into the local market. Not just any girl, no, not any girl, but one who, depending on the moment, may present as one at the inceptive exodus of adolescence, or may carry herself with all the confidence of a woman years older. And without question, any woman, regardless of age, possessing eyes the color of the waters of Ambergris Caye. Regardless of the stimuli, there are times when the memories of that late summer all those years ago come flooding over me, then every fiber in my being seems to become electrified.

I’ll never forget it. I was at the local drive-in burger joint, sitting on the tailgate of my pickup sipping on a “doctored” 32-ounce drink. I watched the cars as they drove up and stopped or just used the drive-in as a turn around to circle back in the opposite direction. Later, I planned to be the one making the circuit, just driving around town, stopping and visiting with friends, or trying to find out if anything interesting was going on. That particular evening, I was there early aspiring to take advantage of the last weekend before most of the kids around my age would be in town for one last “throw down” before returning to their respective high schools or colleges. At the age of 20, I had opted not to take the college route which was probably a good idea. But my summer job had played out and as of that day, I was unemployed. I viewed the weekend as sort of a last hurrah. Beyond that, I had to take some serious stock in myself and take some concrete steps toward a life beyond.

I had not been there long when I noticed a mustang convertible approaching with Hank Williams Jr. music blaring. I guess at this point, all of the stars and planets aligned to set into motion a vortex with such force that swept in it everything in its path. Traffic around the drive-in was busy with vehicles backed up and as if destined to be, she stopped just a few feet from where I sat. Two things struck me as she regarded me over dark sunglasses and smiled. She seemed to have a glow around her exhibiting an air of confidence, independence, of freedom, and secondly, she had the deepest green eyes. Fueled by liquid courage and in an act totally uncharacteristic of me, I yelled out, “Where are you going?” She stared at me. Seconds or maybe minutes passed, our eyes locked and all movement stopped. All sounds ceased. I’m pretty sure that my immediate world became void of temperature even. Though I didn’t realize it, the moment held an unremitting, exacting significance to the rest of my life.

She leaned her head to the side, hair shifting on her shoulder, and said, ‘Just ridin’. Wanna come?’ She revved the engine a little while I closed my tailgate and locked my truck. I got in and she squealed the tires a little as we jerked forward. In our interchange, traffic had backed up behind us while at the same time, all vehicles ahead of us had either parked or continued back in the direction they had come. We rounded the building and as we hit the street, she floored it. Tires squealed again, the convertible fishtailed a bit before rocketing forward. I glanced in her direction and before me, I saw a beautiful girl with an impish grin, and for a millisecond, a cautious fear enveloped me but left as quickly as it arose.

The town wasn’t a large one, so within a short distance, we would be encountering the downtown area, with a couple of 4-way stops, a couple of traffic lights, and most importantly, the police station which was centrally located in town. We stopped at the light adjacent to the police station. I have to admit that I was a little intimidated by her apparent disregard for the authority of the law. Her music screamed and she constantly revved the engine. A cop appeared outside the building, and I slid down in the seat a bit as he issued a stern look and extended a pointed finger signaling us to behave ourselves. The light turned green and though I half expected her to squall the tires again and leave the cop standing in smoke, she just smiled and waved and eased through the gears and out of view of the cop. Out of view of the cop, yes, but out of earshot, absolutely not, and at the earliest opportunity, she downshifted, popped the clutch, and stood on the accelerator. I envisioned blue lights, gruff-speaking cops, and handcuffs. Thankfully, none materialized and though I was wound tight as a banjo string in an igloo, I made a conscious decision to “just go with it,” afraid of what the night would bring while simultaneously afraid of what I might miss if I stopped there.”

To be continued………

 

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