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

Welcome to part 5. Once again, if this is your first time here, you may click on the following link(s) to catch up on Part 1 thru Part 4.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

**** THE FOLLOWING IS A WORK OF FICTION.  Any semblance to a person, place, or experience is 98.8% fabricated. 

****  Also, I’d like to call attention to the featured image, by the very talented, Chelsea McKenzie.

 

Friends, Roadtrips, and Ephipanies 

The bar was rarely busy on a Sunday afternoon and in cases like today, I don’t mind if my staff has a drink or two, at least my current staff who have been with me from the beginning. I know them and trust them and as long as they are on the clock, they know that they have to keep it under control. Most of them stop by regularly when they are not on the clock as well, and then, well, all bets are off.

Today, as I spoke, I was so absorbed and immersed in my recollections, and between my glass and my story, I didn’t realize that Charla, our waitress, had drawn up a chair, a glass, and intently listened along with Cullen. I realized eventually that she was there, regarded her for a long moment, and asked, “How long have you been sitting there?” Charla, in her Kentucky drawl, replied, “Pretty much since the part where you were nailin’ some chick in the back of a convertible. I missed some of it in between, but I’ve pretty much connected the dots.” She was one of those people who lacked two things in life, a filter and the ability to care what others thought of her. She told me once that she had learned most of life’s lessons the hard way and I identified completely with that sentiment. “Well then,” I said, “Have you met my new friend Cullen? He is indulgent enough to have taken on the role today as Confessor. Perhaps he may be more interested in the hearing of your sins than of mine. I know I would.” Quickly Charla returned, “No, I’m good.” Cullen excused himself to go to the restroom and I told Charla to bring him another beer and to bring a bottle of Knob Creek for me. “A bottle?” she asked. “You want the entire bottle?” I nodded in an affirmative. “Give me your keys then.”  Without hesitation, I complied.

She left me sitting there, alone and totally engrossed in my thoughts, giving me time to digest what I’d shared, time to allow the reel of images of the green-eyed girl to run through my mind one more time. Part of it never gets easier; part of it only gets sweeter, of the rewinds and the replays.

Charla moved quickly around the room checking on the customers, taking orders, and such. I was so caught up in my thoughts that I probably wouldn’t have noticed her but she was so accustomed to the regulars that she just started yelling across the room, “Ben, you ready for a nuthern?” I chuckled a little to myself. I could never tire of her Kentucky accent and of the shortcuts she took with the English language. “Sambo,” she yelled, “what about your girl, is she ready for one? That’s a Jack Daniels Peach right?” “Vic, that’ll be $5.50.” “Hurry up, I don’t have all freakin’ day, shiiiiitttt! Ahole!”

Normally, one would think that a business owner such as myself would be cringing at what was occurring, but Charla was running the bar today. She knew her patrons and they knew her. They loved her and wouldn’t have it any other way. The first-timers in the room seemed a little taken aback at first, but Charla just smoothed it all over with her blonde hair, her blue eyes shining under the brim of a Red Sox cap, her gentle charm, and her Kentucky twang, when she said, “It’s ok sweetie, pay them no mind, they’re all idiots, showing every one of her pearly white teeth. Now, what can I get you, hun?” And just like that, she had them eating out of the palm of her hand.

I met Charla about eight years ago when she rolled into the parking lot on 3 bald tires in a 1992 Ford F-150. She walked in, looked around the room, and ordered a Miller Lite. By the time she finished the beer, she was my newest employee and has been here since. I never inquired as to her reason for leaving Kentucky, and she never offered. She just acts as if she was here when I got here, and there has never been a dull moment since.

Cullen returned, nodded a thank you for the beer, and sat back down. Dryly, he asked, “Did I miss anything?” I assured him that he had not and that I was about to continue where I left off, but that we had added another judge on the panel, indicating to him that Charla had reestablished her perch, sitting at the table with both feet up in the chair. “You know,” I mentioned to Charla, “You could be a little nicer to our customers.” “Bite me,” she returned and pulled her tee-shirt over her knees. She knows that it drives me crazy to see someone abuse a good tee-shirt like that, but she does it anyway. Charla acted as if she couldn’t wait, so she asked, “So did those guys give you any trouble?” Stretching out the word “trouuuuuble.”

“I knew them well enough to know that I would need to be leery of the spokesman of the two. He was about my age and had attended private school across the river. From what I knew of him, I knew that he could be a charmer, while at the same time exhibit the characteristics of a sociopath. I had heard that he had friended a guy from the West side of the river, only to invite him to ride around with him and a friend and spent the entire time attempting to goad a fight. I was referring to a stunt pulled by a high school-aged boy. I had no idea what this guy was capable of at 20 or 21 years old, but I doubted that he had mellowed after graduation. Back when we were in high school, it wasn’t unheard of for a group of guys from my school to ride around their school during the day or vice versa. Almost like rival gangs, there was always an attempt to gain some advantage. But being a large fish in a relatively small pond and having the best of things the world has to offer has a way of leading to wants, needs, and desires that exact an ever-increasing price. I had heard that after high school, my new rival had met with some hard times, finding it difficult to adjust to life on the larger stage and the details escape me as to what happened to the guy, but I’d heard that it wasn’t positive. I remember thinking as I crossed that river bridge that night, ‘Great, that’s just great. I get something going for me and now I got a guy trying to relive his glory days and somehow, he sees me as being in his way.’

I stopped, looked at Charla, and took a sip of Knob Creek. ‘Yes, I had a little trouble, but I seem to have gotten off track. What I mean to say is that in retrospect, the encounter with the assholes was only a symptom of a much larger issue. Yes, if one goes back, there will always be those times when testosterone got the better of us, and it served little or no purpose, but it’s best to let those moments fade. So let me get back to the main focus of the topic.’

I didn’t stay in town long that night. I simply failed to find a way to fill the empty. I longed for a weekend like the one previous and even at the inexperienced age of 20, I knew that I’d experienced more life in 48 hours than much of the world knows over a lifetime. Images still filled my mind of the weekend prior; the same images that fill my mind today. I knew that I could go the way of those who were left around town when my peers with proper goals, dreams, and aspirations had exited for their respective colleges. Deep down, I felt that I may have already missed a very important opportunity, taken an egregious turn a couple of years before, and though my folks would have made sacrifices to send me, I just couldn’t allow them. And though I didn’t choose the college route, I couldn’t allow myself to just hang out and ride around with friends every Friday night, every Saturday night, and every Sunday afternoon. It seemed like after meeting her, everything changed and that every subsequent Friday night in my entire life would be judged against Friday, August 27, 1982.  I went home early.

At home that night, I lay in my bed with the lights off and a blacklight on. The radio was playing softly and I gazed up at the ceiling. I turned on a lamp and read her note again and I saw that she had included the mailing address for her home for the next 4 years. My heart sank a little more when I thought about how long she would be away. The fact just sinking in for the first time. Back then, 4 hours apart was a really long way from home and long-distance calls were very expensive, especially for someone with little savings and no income at that moment. So I eased over to my desk, pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and I began to write the first letter I’d ever written in my life that would be put into an envelope and physically mailed. I attempted to remember the form and structure of a letter that we’d learned in school, but decided it would just be a note. There was so much I wanted to say, but I had no idea of where to start and I didn’t want my words to make me sound like a hick or something. Already, I felt a little out of my league just by the fact that she had escaped this town. Temporarily, maybe, but she was gone. So I included in that first letter something about town no longer being fun since she’d left and how bored I was and how much I missed her already. I can’t remember anything more of the prose of a lovesick 20-year-old boy, but I’m sure now that it was all pretty cheesy and I pray often that wherever she is, that she at least destroyed all of my notes.

Over the next days, I wrote note after note. I’m sure that she was getting more than one per day. Then early the next week, I got another note from her. Her words, at first, were unsettling. She spoke of the fun she was having and the new friends she was making. I felt at my core, that the chips were stacked against me and didn’t want to think about it. What had begun as a slight whisper when I encountered those two assholes somehow now felt a little more sibilant. I read on and began to feel more serene as she spoke of how much she missed me and that she couldn’t stop thinking about me. I decided that I might still have a chance. She asked if I would come to see her at the end of the week and I made up my mind that I would fight a Wampus cat at night with a switch if it stood in my way. My spirit began to rise and I couldn’t wait to see her.

I managed to convince my parents and I even sensed a little pride in my father’s expression, but my mother, that was a little more of a challenge. I guess she didn’t want her baby boy running off, chasing after a fast woman. I was nervous because I had never traveled off alone that far. I had never rented a hotel room but my dad did as dads do, he kept feeding me morsels of advice as he thought of them; his most important advice gem was: “Watch yourself, you’ll be on someone else’s stompin’ ground.” While I felt his stern regard, I was 20 and his advice fell upon deaf ears for the most part. “Just the same,” he said, “remember what I’m telling you.”

Thursday came and I left for Oxford about mid-morning, arrived in the afternoon, and without Google maps, Travelocity, or Expedia, I rode around aimlessly for a time. I checked into the Rebel Inn and was given a room on the second floor. I followed my mom’s advice and hung up my clothes so they wouldn’t be so wrinkled. I walked across the street to a curb store for snacks and beer, then I showered and waited nervously. She had told me that she had a night class, so I still had a wait with nothing to do. I waited and tried to imagine what the next two nights would be like.

The sun began to set, sending an orange glow across the motel, the pool, and the orange light streamed in through the gaps in the heavy and ancient motel room curtains. I opened a beer, stood on the balcony, waited, and watched. It was quite entertaining and educational to a 20-year-old to bear witness to the dynamic world playing out below that top-floor balcony and as darkness encroached, the world below became even more entertaining and definitely more educational. The activities I witnessed served me well later in life as I spent many a per diem night in motels and hotels all over this great country. Americana, I believe they call it. On that balcony, I felt grown, like I’d crossed the threshold over to adulthood. It felt good. Like there were limitless options awaiting, and that this awakening was all as a result of meeting her.

Finally, I saw a Mustang down the street, and I squinted and peered, trying to make out her face in the streetlights, but only saw a glare of lights and as she turned into the parking lot, the reflection of the word “Vacancy” from the Rebel Inn sign. I took the stairs two steps at a time at first, then slowed, realizing that it just wasn’t cool to be showing my anxious hand this early. Couldn’t have that, no sir, just couldn’t have that. Conversely, she saw me as she slammed her car door and ran towards me, leaping, wrapping her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, and kissing me all over my face. Then she slid down to the ground, never taking her eyes off of mine, those captivating green eyes. I smiled big, feeling like a GOD, clasped her hand and we started up the stairs. I remember that it crossed my mind that someone may be on the balcony above, just as I was earlier, watching our reunion and knowing exactly what was about to go down behind the door of room 201 of the Rebel Inn in Oxford, Mississippi.

 

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