- Mark Twain

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“Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.”

– Pat Conroy

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It was May 18th, 2008, and I had called and left Brian a few messages without a call back, unusual for him. I thought nothing of it until a few days later when I received a call and subsequent message from his brother Mike. I assumed it was for something related to Brian’s phone being out after I left a few messages for Brian at his Real Estate Office. It was a rare occasion that Brian had not called me back within a day or so, but he had two young kids and a life too, so I thought nothing of it. I was at home in Douglasville, my wife and two daughters at a wedding of a long time friend and former baby sitter, and I was enjoying a little time to work on my 1970 GTO convertible. It was a way for me to unwind, and there was a good chance I might not ride in it for a number of years, but I didn’t care. I had my son in college and my middle daughter about to get married so a few minutes alone with my hot rod and my tools seemed like a good way to spend the day. I was under the car when my cell phone rang and I was fully engaged in a four speed shifter install requiring both of my hands, leaving the call for later. I had the phone positioned where I could see the incoming number and recognized the prefix as LA (Lower Alabama for those of you with poor memories). My phone beeped telling me that Brian had left me a message, and I was glad he’d either A) purchased a new phone after he’d lost his, or B) he was calling from a land line and I could call him back there.

I figured he was fully aware that the statute of limitations was quickly approaching concerning the telling of our train ride oddesy, and he wanted us to get together during our annual visit to tell the whole story to our wives. It was silly, when I think of it, waiting all that time to tell, but we had made a blood oath to not tell and it became somewhat of a contest to see which one of us might spill the beans. As our hair grew grayer and our financial condition improved, we made a wager as to which one of us might tell the story before the twenty five year time limit expired. The wager was a case of Ice cold Dixie Beers in the long neck bottle and two rib-eye steaks. The loser would have to drive to the winners’ hometown and convey the spoils of victory, humbling himself, forever shamed by the inability to keep an oath. I would lose that bet, telling the story of our Train Ride to almost eight hundred people all at once, Brian in attendance, when the bet was lost by me. I picked up my phone, dialed my voice mail number and to my surprise, Mike, Brian’s older brother, began to speak. His message still burned in my memory banks like it was just a few minutes ago. It was:

“Jim, this is Mike, I have terrible new to give you…Brian was power washing the gables on his house when he slipped and fell twenty five feet to the ground. He laid there for four hours before the neighbor’s son found him and called 911. I’m sorry we didn’t call you sooner to let you know. Unfortunately, Brian passed away this morning from internal injuries he received from the fall. There was nothing the doctors could do, they tried everything to save him but to no avail. I’ll let you know when the funeral is to be held. I’m so sorry Jim, I knew you and Brian were so close”

I laid there on the concrete floor of my garage thinking Brian had engaged his older brother to pull the prank of all prank calls on me as a way of weaseling out of our bet. I would call him back and threaten to kick him in the butt for such a low rent maneuver and thinking of it before I did. I hit the ‘star’ button on my phone to call back the sender of the message and the phone did not ring one full ring before Mike answered the phone. “Hey Mike, this is Jim, what kinda crap has Brian sucked you into?” I said. After a few seconds of silence Mike said, “It’s real Jim, we lost Brian”. I could hear Brian’s dear momma crying in the background and I knew this was no joke. “Oh Shit” was all I could say. Mike continued, “I went to Brian’s car and saw where you had called him a number of times, he had CALL JIM written on the top of his message pad…” he trailed off, obviously emotional from the loss of his brother and my best friend. I promised him I would call him back when he had a better chance to talk. I knew he was going to have to be the strong one, his Mother and Father would be devastated by Brian’s passing. “You say when and I’ll be there, Mike, to help in any capacity I can” were my final words to Mike. “Thanks Jim, Brian loved you like a brother” he trailed off, sniffing back tears and doing his best to be the Rock he needed to be right then. I laid there on the floor of my garage, in shock, and mourned the loss of my friend. I cried like I had not since I was a child. I wept at the birth of my children, Graduations, and the few funerals I had attended for acquaintances and elderly church members when they passed. This one, however, was too close to home and a loss I could not fully accept. We had plans, the Train Ride twenty-five year limit was about to expire, we had a lot more living to do and both of our youngest daughters would get to play with each other every summer we visited. I was devastated, to say the least.

I spoke to Mrs. Horst the next day, listening to a mother that had lost her beloved son, and her telling me how much Brian always spoke of his friend, our friendship kept strong by the bonds forged over two years and twenty five years of communication. I just listened to her talk, agreeing with her about his life and commenting about his beloved children and his wife, who had also lost a father and a friend. I realized I needed to be a Rock also, for his mother and father, they had always treated me like a son and I needed to ‘man up’ for them right then. Mrs. Horst told me the date of Brian’s funeral, May 23rd, 2008 at the First United Methodist Church of Daphne at noon. The viewing was to be held the evening of the 22nd, and could I please come. “Absolutely, Mrs. Horst, I wouldn’t miss it for the world” my promise challenged by a new job and no days off. I asked my new boss if I could please attend the funeral of my closest friend and to my surprise he said “please go”. I agreed to work the day of the 22nd, leaving at Noon, giving Becky and I enough time to make it to the viewing if their was no adverse traffic to deal with. If I broke the speed limit by five miles per hour and no stops I could barely make it. The seven hour trip that usually took eight plus hours to complete required a land speed record breaking effort by me and a challenge I was mentally ready for.

We arrived at the church where Brian laid in state, and thankfully the casket was closed. I wanted to remember my friend smiling, his slight wandering cobalt blue eyes shining like it was his wedding day. Mr. and Mrs. Horst greeted me like the son they had not seen in months and I was glad to see Brian’s entire family in attendance. Their were hundreds of cars in the large parking lot, all friend s of Brian and Dana, and the entire Horst family. We had arrived late in the day, 7:45 pm when the viewing was at its tail end. Mr. and Mrs. Horst asked me to say a few words at Brian’s funeral, maybe tell a story about how long we had been friends. I, or course agreed, and that would be the stage where I would tell the Train Ride Story to every friend and family member he had. Their were four men scheduled to say a few words, a father that had met Brian through his son’s baseball team, a brother in law who told of how much Brian loved his wife and children and one long time realtor friend that relayed about how ethical a man Brian was. And then it was my turn, the one most of the dudes in attendance had heard of, the guy from “all the stories” Brian had told over the years. I took the stage in front of approximately 800 people and this is the story I told them:

“I am “that dude”most of you have heard Brian talk about, his fraternity brother and friend of twenty seven years, he and I made a bet twenty four years, eleven months and two weeks ago that I am about to lose right now, but it bears telling and I’ll risk it.
When I was a senior in College, after my College Football days had ended at Troy University, my residence was at the Pi Kappa Phi Fraternity house in the City of Troy, Alabama where Brian and I met while pledging. Our frat house was a mansion on North Three Notch Street, three stories tall and you could see for miles. One Friday toward the end of school, Brian and I were on the very top of the Frat House, in the observation

tower, used to watch for trespassers and rapscallions back in Civil War times. I knew my time was short at Troy as graduation was but a week away, we were drinking unpasteurized Dixie Beer from Louisiana- this particular vintage had a skull and cross bones on it warning you not to drink it’s contents if it ever got above 72 degrees. We were both poor, but the bargain basement suds purchased for $2.99 a case would do nicely and we were pondering ideas to pass the time. Brian and I were bored and about that same time a train was coming by about 1/4 mile away, on the tracks across a very large parking lot that ran behind the old Piggley Wiggley and through Troy. I had always wanted to ride a train across town and jump off just to say “ I‘d dunnit”. A “bucket list” item if you will and one I itched to give a try. About the time I had it on my mind making it’s way to my vocal chords, my friend Brian said “ever want to just jump on a train and ride it ten, maybe fifteen miles across town, and hitchhike back?”

I just laughed. We agreed that the next train to come we’d race across the parking lot and jump on. Twenty trains later and a whole lot of running amounted to no train rides for us and a worn out constitution. Sunday, two days later and final exams complete, Brian and I were the only two dudes left at the house awaiting my graduation ceremony the next Saturday, meaning we had a whole week to do absolutely nothing. We got settled and what did you know, a train came poking by doing two miles an hour. We both hauled butt and made the train, jumped on a flat car, and off we were to the other side of town. We jumped off the slow moving beast only to be met by another train, headed back back up the tracks to our original location, moving slowly, so we jumped back on thinking we’d ride back, jump off, bucket list item successfully checked off.

Or so we thought.

By the time ‘the other side of town’ came, the train was doing 75 miles an hour. By the time the train had slowed down to the point that we had the balls to jump off, it was going maybe 35 miles an hour and was approximately 185 miles from Troy, North, above Birmingham, Alabama outside of Cullman. If you know the way train tracks are laid out, you know that they usually take the straightest possible route, and mostly through the back country.

Yes, my friends, we were 185 mile from home in the middle of no where. Why did we jump then? Because the next stop was in Somewhere, Alabama, maybe Canada, many more miles from Troy than he or I planned to walk back from that day. We made the decision and jumped. First we quickly debated on whether to dive off (break an arm in the middle of nowhere) or jump (break a leg in the middle of nowhere). Jump and roll was the plan. Next was to get a running start or not to get a running start, running start won. Next choice was run towards the back of the train to slow down our momentum but have to land basically backwards, whack your head and eat dust OR run towards the front of the train: Better launch, forward landing, more momentum to clear the giant rocks (called Rip Rap) with the downside of having more acceleration to deal with at landing. We decided that a forward running jump, not dive, with roll if possible was the best plan. Understand that we debated this for about 3 miles (about 9 minutes at speed).

“One, Two, Three…Jump!”

When Brian and I basically ‘came to’, no bones broken but beaten like a cheap throw rug hanging on a clothes line, but not dead or mortally wounded.

It took a few minutes to be able to stand up. And when we did, it looked like a bomb has been shoved down both of our pairs of blue jeans. The butt was blown completely out of mine, legs torn, shirt ripped and both of us covered in Creosote (the black tarry material that covers Rail Road Cross ties). Brian’s clothes were also blown up, but he ripped the butt out of his blue jeans and boxer shorts so bad that he had to take them off (the boxers) and put them on backwards so the full butt crack was not showing. Neither one of us had our wallets, no money, nothing.

We shared numerous stories on the 26 strait hours it took us to walk/run back to Troy. We had endured much on that trip, way too much to share here with the time allotted. We had gotten two rides, one from an old WW II veteran, 60 miles above Montgomery on Highway 65 South, who made us ride in the back we were so filthy, and one from an elderly black man that picked us up 13 miles outside of Troy. I would like to ad that both men thought Brian and I were Black men based on the thick creosote make-up were both wore. He dropped us off one hundred feet from our original starting point and we made the final one mile trek through town, women crossing streets and children pointing at us like we were boogiemen. Some businesses closed as we passed through the square in fear of the bad element we represented. When we finally made it home and as were walking up the front steps of the Frat House, Brian turned to me and said…’If you tell anybody about this for twenty five years, I’ll swear you are a damn liar and a homosexual’.

We agreed right then and there not to tell that story for twenty-five years. Two weeks from this day would have been twenty five years and it looks I lose the bet”

My wife and his wife have heard them all. Only he and I knew this story and we’d laugh about it every time we got together over the 25 years of summers at the beach, and the phone calls to each other every two weeks (or so) to the point that our wives would get pissed at us for laughing every time we’d see a train or hear some story about something stupid that had been done by someone. We had made a blood oath not to tell.

Both of our wives, his family, and all his friends heard this story for the first time on Wednesday the 28th of May 2008, when I told it at his funeral. The place was rolling with laughter, All 800 people. His entire family and friends were laughing so hard you’d have thought they were in a comedy club rather than a funeral. I realized that Brian and I were to save this story for the time when it was needed the most. I am blessed to have called Brian Horst my friend and brother, thanks for the memories.

I miss you Brian.

THE END
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“Never shall I forget the days I spent with you. Continue to be my friend, as you will always find me yours.”~ Ludwig van Beethoven
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Copyright Jim Hall 2010

Brian and I woke up early, cleaned up the place as best as two dudes that never intended to darken the doors of the house we called home again could, and talked about the future. Brian said he’d be downstairs making breakfast so I packed my all bags in five minutes or less, prepared to go home or circumnavigate the globe. I could have accomplished either of those tasks with what I had in those bags. I proceeded to the kitchen for the last rib eye steaks Brian and I would share as fraternity brothers, and when I walked into the kitchen, Brian was sweating over the hot stove steaks and eggs sizzling in two separate pans. He had us two OJ and Crown Royals poured (it was twelve o’clock somewhere) and we ate and talked like we had weeks left before we parted company. It was a joyous time for me, and I could tell Brian was anticipating getting back to Mobile and on with the rest of his life, a new beginning for him too. We finished the last of the steak, drank all of the Crown Royal and Royal Crown, took our plates to the back deck and ceremoniously threw them into the woods. We were ending all things Troy and Pi Kappa Phi, and it was a happy and sad moment I have never forgotten. We stood there, looking into the woods behind our house, remembering all the parties and shenanigans we had jointly engaged in while time was not an enemy to us both. I heard cars pulling up in front of the house and I knew my family had arrived. We walked towards the front door, through the massive party room where Brian always won the fat date contests, through the formal living room where we had instructed the entire pledge class to strip and hood wink Casanova’s efforts to get laid, through the formal dining room where Dan the Man and Suzy the Floozy had met and secured their futures forever. I was thinking about all of that when the door opens and the first thing I see is my lovely future bride, suntanned and lovely, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds. My Dad and Mom, brother and sister trailing behind, more entertained by the size of the mansion I lived in at that moment rather than seeing me. I hugged my sweetheart long and hard, squeezing the air out of her like I had not seen her for years. Brian cut in on my efforts and he hugged her too, them being friends from the few trips we took together to Atlanta double dating with Becky’s friends from back home. I introduced my parents to Brian for the first time and Brian immediately became the southern gentleman he was raised to be, away from my influence. His ‘Yes Maam’s and No Sir’s’ delivered with perfection covering up the person I knew him to be. I had forgotten what a magnificent bullshitter Brian was and I knew he was going to be fine in the years to come. It was ordained to be so, as this was the beginning of the procession, the dance towards the Grand Processional I had eagerly anticipated and commented on numerous times during our long trip. I had worried I might not make it to right here right now and Brian knew it was important to me. His impeccable manners and perfect smooth delivery of the lies he had to tell, in order to cover up the circumstances of the fives days prior, left all questions concerning how we spent those days answered. We showed the folks around the house, my Mom and Dad marveling at the intricate woodwork and moldings on the twelve foot high ceilings, the handrails and the intricate stained glass windows held together by tooth paste and bubble gum, damaged and repaired after the rambunctious parties we had hosted there. When the grand tour was completed, my sister reminded me that the ceremonies were to take place at high noon and it was 10:30 a.m. and we needed to secure a parking spot close to the arena and they needed to get seats secured also.

My brother grabbed my lone large zip up suit/duffle bag containing every possession I owned that day, and placed it in the trunk of Becky’s car knowing I wanted to ride back with her. Brian had to do some packing himself so he shook my Dad’s hand, my brothers, said his goodbyes to my sister and mother then gave Becky one more big hug turning to me last. I asked my parents and Becky to give us a minute, and on que they loaded into the separate cars they had driven and waited. Brian stuck his hand out for me to shake, and I shook it, unable to make eye contact with him. He hugged me so hard my back popped and we held it for a good minute, longer than I have hugged a dude before. I didn’t care, this was the end, man, and it was damn sad. He looked at me and said, “I’ll be hollering for you at your graduation and then I am hauling ass home, look for me in the very top row and I’ll do the dance we learned during our pledge quarter”. I laughed at the prospect, and Brian and I parted company. I climbed into my future bride’s car and headed towards my new life. I didn’t look back over my shoulder at Brian but stuck my hand out the window giving the thumbs up, tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. Becky could feel the gravity of the moment and she sweetly slid her hand over to mine and just held it. When we arrived at the arena, my brother said, “You and Brian must been best friends Jim”. I told him “He’s the most loyal friend I have ever had George, I hope someday I might have one more like him”.

I slipped my robe over my head, the crowd gathering outside the arena, future graduates filing towards the side double doors, some already wearing the Black Mortar Board hats reserved for graduating seniors that special day. I made my way inside and took my place along side my fellow graduates feeling a sense of accomplishment I had never felt before. I would have that feeling again when I married the girl of my dreams, the lovely Miss Becky Jackson, my family and all our friends there to watch our nuptials and the beginning of the greatest life I could ever have hoped and prayed for. She was a sophomore when I was a senior in High School and I remember the first time I ever saw her, I was hooked to her from that moment forward. I know God has a great plan when I look back on the insecure young man I was then, keeping me separated from her, aiding me in my maturity walk saving our union for when I was prepared to fully love her and make her my life long friend and partner. I had even asked to sign her annual my senior year, all the guts I could muster as I could not make words when I was near her. I signed her annual also, my senior annual, on page 82, my football number, and I inscribed it with this simple request. When I was positive we were going to spend our lives together, I informally asked her to marry me by asking her to retrieve her annual I had signed all those many years ago when we were still in High School together. I asked her to please turn to page 82 and answer the question I had written there. She looked at me puzzled and when she turned to the appointed page she looked at me and said “Yes! I will!” I remember looking at her signing my annual, her chestnut brown hair smelling like flowers and her skin as smooth as a baby’s, and I knew then I loved her. I signed her annual, thanked her and slammed it shut. I smiled at her and walked away hoping someday we’d meet again under better circumstances. I knew we had no future at that time and all I could hope and pray was she’d not get snatched up by a millionaire or someone better looking than I. Page 82 in her annual said “Remember this page. I love you and marry me.”-Jim Hall. It was more of a hope and a prayer then and I knew she was way out of my league. We crossed paths again the night before Thanksgiving Day five years later, and when I saw her I immediately asked her out on a date knowing this was possibly my one and only chance. We married on December 29th, 1985 in a ceremony held in a small church, just the way she wanted it, and Brian was my lead groomsman with my Dad as my best man.

I returned the favor to Brian when he married Dana, the love of his life, when Becky was pregnant with our third child, Jenna Kate, due in 30 days after Brian’s nuptials. I was his lead groomsman and when we went on his bachelor party, all of his friends said “You are the dude from all the stories Brian has told us over the years…did that stuff really happen or is he just making it all up?” He and I told all the stories from our Troy days to a crowd of men who sat silently, rarely blinking, mesmerized by the tales and probably wondering why their lives had been so boring. He’d talk and I ‘d pick up the story line, then he’d fill in the blanks I’d miss confirming the truthfulness of the much doubted tales he told to an unknowing batch of friends he’d made since he moved back to Mobile. Brian stuck it out and graduated from the University of South Alabama, and I was there, war whooping up in the very top row of the arena, dancing the same dance we had learned many, many years earlier. I had surprised him by showing up at his graduation ceremony unbenounced to him before it began. When his name was called, the same protocol was requested, please refrain from applause until all graduates received their diplomas and hold your excitement until the end. I was free, white, over twenty-one and itemizing my deductions every year so I could do as I damn well pleased. Brian and I weren’t blood kin but we were brothers just the same. Time had not erased the bond forged between us, even after kids, wives, houses, cars, braces, elementary school and all the domesticated things that drown out memories of a past life. It felt good to scream and holler in the silent arena for my good friend, he had made it to the other side and I was happy for him. When he stepped on stage, I hollered “HORST!!!” as loud as I could and he looked up in my general direction, unsure of what might be transpiring right then. He completed his business, did the split second hesitation for the snapshot, and walked down the steps towards the rest of his life. When he made it back to his chair, I hollered “Brian Horst!!” and stood up and did the dance. It took him a second to figure me out and he then stood up, pointed at me and he started doing the pledge dance too. He knew it was me and I could see his white teeth and blue eyes shining, knowing that I had kept my promise to him to be at his graduation ceremony. He was telling his fellow graduates sitting around him who I was and they all looked up in my direction, waved and gave thumbs up. I did as he did so many years ago at my graduation; I didn’t hang around to see him afterward, but jumped in my car and drove strait back home, eight hours there eight hours back in one day. Mission not forgotten and accomplished.

We stayed close friends for all the years after we had graduated, talking sometimes once a week and sometimes once every two weeks. We’d miss sometimes but we’d make up for it by calling twice sometimes three times a week to make up for lost time. We agreed we’d not even say hello but tell a joke before we’d begin our conversations, a standing rule between us. If I couldn’t get him on the phone or him me, if you know what I mean, we’d always leave ominous messages, cryptic in nature, and generally from the IRS or the CIA. My code name was Dick Johnson and his was John Dixon, making me laugh out loud twenty three years later when he and I were both trying to make a career for ourselves. We shared joys and heartaches, birth announcements and accolades, thousands of jokes told and hundreds of messages form governmental bodies whose acronyms spelled trouble for the receiver, at least as far as the secretary taking the message knew. Becky and I vacationed with our children on Dauphin Island every summer, spending a week at the secluded beach and always sharing time with Brian and his family, our children playing together like we had hoped for all those many years ago on the train ride we had taken years earlier. We were full grown men now, and we had not told the train ride story to anyone even our wives still had not heard the story. We had told parts of it, like walking up on a KKK meeting, or getting chased by a pack of wild dogs, but never shared the circumstances by which we had done those particular things. The smaller stories were a part of the bigger story and the Train ride was the frame work by which all those stories were made possible. Of course, he and I would retell the story between us when we’d cookout at his house and far from earshot of our wives. I wasn’t sure why after all those years, mind you, but the twenty five years statute of limitations was swiftly approaching and that story was going to be told by us both. We had to decide when we’d tell it, confessing to our wives about the self imposed sanction two younger men had agreed upon at the front door of the fraternity house after the trip made its conclusion. It might just sound to them like another bullshit story told by the two of us, but it was true and the only other person that knew the truth was my friend Brian.

It was the twenty fifth year after the train ride when the call came.

Copyright Jim Hall 2010

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Standing there on the podium, right hand extended towards Dr. Adams, personal friend and college roommate of the honorable George Wallace, Governor of the State of Alabama, I realized it was official. I heard my name called, “James Thomas Hall, Marketing and Finance” I had only five more steps to take before my diploma was in my hand. Nothing but sudden death or a well placed missile strike was going to keep graduation from becoming a reality five years in the making. I took two steps, and from the very top row of the massive basketball arena our graduation ceremony was being held in, I heard war whoops and shouts of adulation from my dear friend Brian. The master of ceremonies had asked for family members to refrain from shouting and clapping until the entire graduating class had been announced and applause should be reserved until then. Those rules did not apply to Brian, we were not blood kin but we were brothers. He was free, white and over twenty-one so he could very well do as he damn well pleased. When the shouting began, I received a somewhat of a dirty look from the President of the College as I approached, and I thought he might make me go shut the offender up before he’d hand over the Sheepskin. When I made it to his predetermined spot, I grabbed his hand and shook it judiciously, quietly commenting on the riff-raff that somehow always side-stepped the rules and found their way into the hallowed ceremonies we were engaged in. He looked at me, managed a slight grin, and ever so gently held tight to the diploma I was to receive that beautiful day. His gesture was one borne of experience, him thinking maybe he should not send a guy like me out into the world owning a diploma with “Troy University” stamped so prominently across the top. I wonder if it had suddenly occurred to him, based on my “file” that all governmental bodies seemed to keep on folks like me, that maybe I was not worthy of the diploma he held in his hand. This I knew, he was old and I could take him, even if it meant wrenching the proof of my degree out of his hand, whacking him with my Mortar Board then running off stage. Then I realized, he held on a split second longer so a photographer could seal the moment for eternity, available in numerous overpriced packages that would be mailed to our homes in just a few short weeks. There was no grand conspiracy; he was just trying to squeeze a little more money out of me by trying to sell me graduation photos.

I guess I had a lot to account for before I could rest, and whatever guilt that lingered passed in the seconds I held my breath, waiting for some official to tell me “sorry, sonny, you are short one P.E. credit for graduation” or “anyone shouting when your name is called nullifies your diploma”. I literally snatched the diploma from his hand, post flash bulb, and made my way off the stage. As I exited, I caught a glimpse of my future bride, my parents, my brother and sister all smiling at me. My awesome Dad was fighting his emotions and my Mom just held onto her husband, a sign they had somehow done something right as far as their kids went. I was the first on both sides of their extended families to obtain a college degree and they were as happy as I was. I made my way down the stage steps and joined my fellow graduates; all seated and waiting for the last name to be called. A ceremonial speech from a nationally recognized millionaire would come next, extolling his brand of wisdom upon the unhearing ears of the fresh college graduates prepared to break new ground in the world that lied ahead of them. I drank in the moment, the sounds, and the day, all of it knowing that this was the turning point for me. I sat back down, reminded of the way our trip on the train had begun and ended, all approximately in the same spot. Kinda like the short trip I had just taken to receive my much deserved diploma.

The days leading up to my graduation ceremony passed through my mind, like one last reminder of where I had come from to get to the seat I occupied at that moment. The event, I was certain might not take place (for me at least), was taking place and I was indeed a qualified participant. All I had to do was listen to some stranger make a poignant speech, throw my funny hat in the air after I had moved my tassel, and it was done. I had a good thirty to forty-five minutes to contemplate my final hours in Troy and my friendship with Brian as it pertained to our common home. I sat there in my cap and gown and looked up at where Brian was seated. When I found him, he waved at me giving the thumbs up, dancing around like he might be auditioning for a Broadway Musical or just as happy that his friend had made it to the other side. I was brought back to reality by the applause for the entire graduating class, all the witnesses standing and shouting, thumbs up and high fives exchanged between graduates. The applause went on for a good ten minutes and was much deserved by those receiving the attention. I had been through much to get here. I was guessing that not one single person wearing a gown and a hat in that crowd had been chased by a pack of wild dogs intent on eating them earlier that same week. No train riders, no long walkers, no KKK party watchers, no story tellers, nothing like the road I had traveled with my good friend that week. I had no tangible proof that I had endured much to be there, no fancy ribbon draped around my neck like those with strait “A”s or honor societies reserved for a different kind of ass-kisser than the ones I had been accustomed to playing football with. Nope, I was a face in a sea of students that day, but I had a unique story to tell about my trip there, unlike any other in the room save one. I guess a ribbon for not getting eaten by wild dogs and successfully jumping from a speeding train were ribbons I’d wear proudly in my mind. The best thing was I had a friend as a witness and it was a testament to true friendship, so rare anymore. I and Brian were but sojourners, and our brief stay had come to an end. I was happy for the life to come and sad for the life that was to end. I was to become fully accountable to the world and all those that had prayed and hoped that I would make it to this point, and disapointing those who knew I wouldn’t. The responsibility of that truth was like stepping under a barbell with the world on both ends, and my job was to squat that weight for the rest of my life.

I was ready.

It was Wednesday afternoon, three days before my graduation ceremony was to take place, and my family including my future wife, were to be in town early Saturday morning for the festivities planned concluding my long stay in Troy. Brian and I had cleared the front door after being dropped off by our cop buddy and pledge warden, absorbing the air conditioned comform like a sponge. The words of the twenty-five year challenge of silence surrounding our train ride still hanging in the air. Our first step was to go to the large cooler in the kitchen, pull out a case of cold Dixie’s and drink them until we were no longer thirsty. When we entered the room we were met with the smell of two partially cooked steaks lying in a frying pan, just as we’d left them a few days earlier. I grabbed the pan by the handle and walked out to the back porch of our frat house and heave-hoed the entire assembly as far as I could chuck it. The frying pan sailed considerably farther than its bovine derived contents, but the lift and trajectory I utilized made sure we’d not catch a whiff of the undercooked abandoned rib-eyes ever again. We had wasted two of the most beautifully marbled steaks I had laid eyes on the day we jumped that train. The trip, now that it was over, was worth the sacrifice and we even respected the loss with a moment of silence after they landed in our back yard. I opened the refrigerator and yes, there were indeed twenty more rib eyes awaiting our consumption, only now we didn’t have to ration them out between now and graduation time.

We had a decision to make, shower up and then drink more brews and eat steak, or eat steak, consume more beer then shower the nasty tar based creosote off our bodies. We decided to eat a steak, drink more beer, then shower and then eat another steak after the shower and drink more cold beer and maybe do the entire process over again if we had the energy. My steak cooking consisted of three main ingredients, butter, Worcestershire sauce and salt with a little garlic thrown in for good measure and bad breath. I whipped us up two eighteen-ouncers, perfectly medium, and we ate like ravenous wolves. We both ate the two huge steaks in less than five minutes including sawing and chewing. Upon completion, Brian looked at me and we both said “cook another” mine as a question and his as a statement and that’s what I did. He and I ate three perfectly cooked steaks a piece and consumed a twelve pack each of the ice cold Dixie long neck beers, and all in less than thirty minutes. I looked at Brian and he had steak juice all over his face, his neon blue eyes staring at me through the black face paint he wore, a shit eating grin and white teeth on display. “Best steaks I have ever eaten in my life, Jimbo” he said burping as he spoke, retrieving the last bits of meat stuck between his teeth with the butcher knife he used to cut the steak just minutes earlier. Three days of starvation and nothing to drink would have meant a dead dog freshly run over by a train would have tasted good spiced up properly and cooked medium well that day. I am bullshitting, of course, and the rib-eyes tasted like I had never tasted steak before in my life. A tribe of life long non-carnivores could have been converted by those six steaks I cooked that afternoon.

We finished our hastily cooked meals and exited for the showers. There were six showers in the frat house and the frat president had the very best, most hot water producing shower in the house. Brian told me to take the big dog shower as a gift for cooking such good meat, and graduation gift, and I obliged. It took me two hours and four Brillo Pads to scrub off the creosote from my arms, face, neck and hands. I took a dining room chair into the walk-in shower so I could sit, from being so damned tired from the previous day’s festivities. I walked to my room, put on a fresh pair of shorts, skivvies and a tee shirt and waited for Brian to show himself. I heard the shower running and thought Brian was finishing up. I waited for a good thirty minutes before going to the door and shouting his name only to be met with silence. I cracked the door and there was Brian, fast asleep in the tub, snoring like he was in a contest, bubbles up to his neck from the “Mr. Bubble” bottle he used as the only soap available to him I guessed. I reached over and cut the water to full cold, a crappy thing to do but he’d have done it to me, and he did not budge an inch from the icy cold shower he now was taking. I hollered his name a few times and when he came to, he was surprised to find himself in a bubble bath, asking me if I had somehow made the bubbles he sat in. He was worn slap out and I knew he was ‘talking out of his head’ so I just instructed him to get out and dry himself off, throw his clothes away and get into the bed. He complied but was destined to take a few more showers before the black tar evidence of our trip would be eliminated from his carcass. He climbed into the bed closest to the floor and was out like a light before his head hit the pillow. I walked back down stairs, retrieved a six of cold Bud’s (the fancy stuff) hiding in the back of the well stocked cooler, pulled a recliner out onto the massive upper porch outside of our second story room and planted myself in the comfortable chair. I planned to contemplate life, drink a few cold Budweiser’s in the goose neck bottle, and listen to the silence. I took one drink of the cold brew, reached down for the shifter and reclined the overstuffed chair to full back and noticed a satellite passing over hundreds of miles up in the night sky. It was the last thing I remembered before falling asleep. It was eight thirty in the evening on Wednesday.

I woke up to water falling on my face and realized I was not the subject of a prank. It was raining and I was on the upper porch, fast asleep in the recliner I had dragged out there the night before. I quickly jumped up and drug the huge chair back inside when the bottom fell out of the sky dropping enough rain to make Noah jealous. I looked over at Brian and noticed he had not moved a muscle from when he mounted the low lying bed the night before. I figured he was as tired as I was, and sleep was all we had to fix the problem that plagued us both. I looked at the clock on the wall and it said seven fifteen. I had slept from eight thirty P.M. until seven fifteen A.M., a record for me as I never operated on much sleep. I flipped on the TV to check current events and to my surprise, the evening new was on. I was immediately disoriented thinking the station had screwed up somehow; it looked like seven fifteen A.M. but in reality I had slept almost twenty four strait hours at one sitting! It had been over cast and I was under the large overhang that protected southern belles from the harmful sunshine meant only for slaves and poor people. The rain was the only alarm clock I needed that day, and I might have slept for another twenty four hours had it not blown in on my restful reclined body. When I was fully vertical, I had to crap so big I thought I might be passing a kidney stone. I took that huge dump and I am sure it out weighed most kindergarteners, and some grown ups. It was so huge I had to save it for Brian to see, a combination “DQ” with a Loch Ness Monster, rare when judging a crap for content. For Nomenclature purposes, a “DQ” was a dookie that had the spun top like a large Dairy Queen cone, replete with the swirlie thing on the top. This particular masterpiece had a starter log lying up on the bank, head out of the water like “Nessie” meaning additional points when judging such events. Apologizing at this point would be silly, ladies, so I’ll skip that apology and you’ll know all dudes have done it. I left the sculpture in the bowl for Brian and even shut the lid so the surprise would be just that, a surprise. When he rousted himself up (with a lot of prodding from me) he immediately went to crap and when he shut the door, I heard the lid to the toilet clank on the tank. After a few seconds of silence, I heard “Sweet Mother of God… that’s a nine point nine or quite possibly a ten!” A brief moment of silence passed and he slightly opened the door, stuck his head out and said “Excellent work my good man!”

We stayed up for the majority of that night, ate more steaks and drank beer until the wee hours of the morning. The next day we took one last ride around the city of Troy in the trusty Dodge Swinger, drinking Crown Royal and Royal Crown in the bottle, pointing to all the places we had created mischief, laughing at the shit we had survived. We were headed back to the frat house, taking the much heralded pledge course route, three miles covered for the last time before Saturday and the Graduation Ceremony that awaited me there. I can only think God himself might have given us one last test before we parted and it came in the form of a kid riding a bike. A part of the dreaded pledge course was a exceptionally steep hill and as we drove I looked over at the side walk and there was a boy of approximately eleven years old looking like he was preparing himself for something big. He was seated on a Schwinn bike, the cool kind with the slick on the back and chrome forks on the front, five speed shifter to change gears and a high chrome ‘sissy bar’ as they were called when I was a kid, his metal flake seat bolted to it. I didn’t think much of him until I glanced over a few seconds later and saw another boy, a ramp and ten other boys and girls all being lined up like cigars, and all laying in the path of the ramp. “LOCK ‘EM DOWN BRIAN!” was all I could get out fast enough to see what was about to take place. It was like seeing the birth of a con-man, unsure if it was the bike rider or the kid instructing the kids to lie down so the biker could jump, but a con-man was about to be hatched just the same. And I had a decision to make right then and there. Would I get out of the car and stop the rider, telling him of the impending pain that might be dealt to both him and surely his participants if he didn’t achieve his lofty “Evel Knevel” goal? Or, would I impress on the promoter of the event, the kid whose selling ability I admired even if misguided, the one convincing the kids to allow the bike rider to jump over them.

I guess Brian recognized my conundrum, and when I reached for the door handle to use my college wisdom on the rider and the promoter, Brian grabbed my arm and said “Would you have stopped you if you were approached by you back when you were their age?” I understood what he meant and let it go. I saw the young promoter look up at his friend, perched on his trusty steed made of chrome and Orange metal flake painted steel. It had all come full circle, Anaconda Jim was on the bicycle, and the narrator (the promoter) backed off to his safe position to see if Jim would indeed clear the pit of snakes laid out before him just past the hastily constructed ramp. He dropped his arm like a starter at the Indianapolis 500 and ran like a stick of dynamite was lit. He quickly stopped and from my and Brian’s vantage point we could see the events unfolding. I still had time to run and cut off the rider possibly avoiding destruction and dismemberment for the poor kids lying on their backs innocently awaiting their unknown fate. By the time I could make my brain tell my hand to reach for the door knob, the young rider appeared in my peripheral, really digging in to get up adequate speed. He hit the ramp and that thing disintegrated like it was made of cardboard or Balsa wood. He wiped out, tumbling over the other kids, bike tangled up in his legs after the failed jump ramp crumbled. It was an epic wipe out and Brian and I had witnessed it. In an instant, kids were crying and parents were running out of houses and par for the course, the promoter kid did what Brian and I had done numerous times when faced with such looming consequences…he ran. The college graduate in me wanted to shout to the parents, “It was his idea” but we would then have been exposed as a witness to the entire set up and disastrous outcome. That would not be good. The kid on the bike got his ass worn out by his mother right there on the spot as the kids that got landed on told their tale of woe. I felt sorry for the rider, but also realized he’s been suckered by the promoter kid that ran and hid after the calamity had hit. Brian and I looked at each other, shrugged, and drove away. Adulthood, for me at least, would have to start after I got my diploma.

And that was one day from right then.

Copyright Jim Hall 2010

When we entered the first establishment, we were met with a nervous, “Uh, hello, uh, is their, uh, anything we can, uh, do for you?” Brian answered in the best countrified voice he could muster; “Yep, how much for everything in the store, right now cash on the barrel head, how much for me to buy you out right now!” Brian said with an excited voice. Now, understand something, we were both so broke we couldn’t pay attention so it was a ploy he used just to screw with the innocent shop keeper. “Well, uh, I’m not sure, uh, I’ll have to answer that one in just a minute” the shop owner said. Brian continued “while you’re doing your gozinta’s and multipliers, I might take a minute to use your facilities, you got plenty of toilet paper now don’t cha?” Oh the look on the face of that poor shop keeper. “Uh, sure we do, right over there” he said pointing nervously towards the back of the store. Brian excused himself and inside of three minutes he returned saying “Allrighty then, how much for all of it?” I just stood there with a stoic look on my face playing along with the charade. “You mean you can’t tell me right now in five minutes how much you’d take for every item you have for sale in here” more of a statement than a question expressing the perceived stupidity of the shop keeper. Brian looked at me and said “James, let us leave this establishment never to return”. I answered with my best Morocco Mole impression “Yeeess, Master, Lets leeeeve this place”. Brian then looked at the shopkeeper, and said ‘This is no way to conduct business my good man, and, uh, you probably need a plumber I think I plugged the crapper up…to much cheese in my diet and I just had a breakthrough”. He finished with “Good day Sir” as he cleared the door to the shop and back onto the side walk. When we had just about cleared the plate glass window I saw the shop keeper running towards the bathroom Brian had visited just a few minutes earlier. “I just took a piss” was all Brian said with a strait face.

We slowly walked through the square, cars slowing down to gaze at us, couples suddenly ceasing conversations as we approached. Women pushing strollers crossed the street as we drew near thinking we might grab the babies they pushed consuming them for our supper. It was a sight to see I must say, all the finger pointing and dental work Brian and I got to inspect due to the dropped jaws of our gawkers. One boy, holding onto his mothers arm as she exited one of the local shops said “Mommy look at the Negros”. I guess we had hit the trifecta that day what with one little boy and a white and black man mistaking us for African Americans. “Hat Trick!” Brian said. That woman nearly yanked the little boys arm out of the socket when she nervously said to us “He’s just a little boy, please pardon him, won’t you?” “We get that a lot” Brian quickly said to her back as she scurried away, in fear that we might require a human sacrifice for the young boy’s indiscretion. Brian and I made it a point to stop at every window and peruse the items displayed there. We pointed and made out like we might be interested in purchasing some of the antiques displayed proudly in each window. Brian would make gestures like he was decorating some false wall somewhere, pointing and measuring, enough to make a seasoned Mime jealous. We also noted the fear on the faces of the customers and the owners of each store their faces in full view of us as we acted out our farce. All we wanted to do was to make them sweat a little and it worked. We circled the square twice just for the fun of it, noting that two of the business conveniently closed when we made the second pass by their door, the “CLOSED” sign still swinging from the recent activity. Brian made sure to Rapp loudly on the windows of the suddenly closed shops. I’m sure the owners were hiding in abject fear thinking we might enter and attempt to buy something…or maybe plug up their plumbing systems. He beat on some of the windows so hard he loosened the panes from their caulking just for good measure. It took only two passes around the square to bring commerce to a complete standstill in the small town. The only thing missing was tumbleweeds and wolfves howling off in the distance.

That’s when the police showed up. Two marked cars with two cops each, positioning themselves at each end of the street placing us strategically in the middle. When the cops parked their cars, two of the boys in blue faced us and two (one from each car) walked parallel to each other to lock us in, preventing us from running I assumed, utilizing the basic four square tactic. They closed in on us as Brian and I sat down on a bench on The North Three Notch Street end of the Square. We were within sight of the frat house (well kinda sorta) and now the cops were going to hassle us. Neither one of us had a stitch of I.D and if we did we didn’t look like the photos anyhow. I guess our last three days in Troy would be spent in the county slammer if we couldn’t talk our way out of this one. Three days of jailhouse chow and a story to tell my folks about how I landed in the joint before graduation.

The policemen approached us and before they could speak I preemptively said “Fine day for a stroll officers, isn’t it?” using the whitest voice I could. As the officers got closer I could hear the other two officers behind us approaching from the radios clipped on each of their belts. “Names please” the closest officer said, his voice as dry as a dirt sandwich, sporting a cop issue muted stare he surely must have practiced at home when shaving. Brian looked at me, the diplomat, and I said “Jim Hall and Brian Horst Officers” making sure each one felt the respect in a plural manner as opposed to singular. “What are you two doing in our town…” he said but was interrupted by a voice behind us, “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch” we heard as we turned to see our accuser. “You two look like you’ve been eaten and shit out of an elephant’s ass”. “Llama Salama, you dirty rat bastard, the only ass we’ve been close to lately is your mothers!” Brian said. The lead cop had his hand on his pistol as Brian spoke. We were standing face to face with a Pi Kappa Phi alumni that had graduated with a criminal justice degree a year earlier and had begun his career in Law Enforcement shortly there after. Mike, our cop friend, served as our pledge warden when we pledged the frat his senior year and last quarter before he graduated.

“What in The Hell have you two been doing and why do you look like two logs of shit?” he added. “These two are good fella’s, they’re with me” Llama said to the three other cops “although I might have to beat them with my night stick for general purposes just to get truthful answers out of them”. Our friend dismissed the two other cops and as soon as he did he said “spill the beans boys, what in the shit have you two done to look like such aborigines?” I said “Llama, my good man, you want the long version of the short version?” “Gimme the condensed version and I’ll give you a ride to the house” he said knowing he was still at work and the house was just a few minutes away. “Only if you cuff us and throw us in the back of the car asshole” Brian said meaning every word. So, Llama cuffed us and placed us in the back seat of the squad car, patrons and business owners emerging from their shops in collective relief. Barney Fife had saved the day and boy if the city folk knew the real truth. Officer Llama Salama circled the square for good measure and in typical style Brian and I gave snarled looks as we passed just to complete the show. I recall one woman hiding the face of her baby as we passed by. I’m sure she silently vowed to never let her small child grow up like the two hoodlums that had fallen off the strait and narrow path decent folk never strayed from. We might even get mentioned in prayers that week at some of the local churches based on the nature of gossip in small towns. It was perfect. We gave Llama the condensed version and he just laughed saying “Damn boys, I told you two to be originals but I’ll be damned if I meant it that way!” We made it to the house in five minutes and asked Llama to at least hit the lights and drive through the Rippy Mart parking lot so Dan the Man could see us. He came to the door as we passed and we both waved at him only to be met with confused stares and puzzled looks. We’d get to him later we vowed.

We did the last half mile back to the frat house in the back of a Black and White chauffer driven limousine complements of the Troy, Alabama Police Department. Llama pulled into the driveway of the antebellum mansion Brian and I called home and removed us from his cruiser. He un-cuffed us and we both gave him the double-tap man hug before we made our way back inside the house and modern conveniences. “Hey assholes”, Llama said with a degree of admiration and a little bit of inquisitiveness, “Did you two run the pledge course naked last year?”, his head the only part of his body still outside of the police cruiser.

“Damn right Llama, it was us” we said to our frat brother and pledge warden, we owed him the truth. In a few seconds he looked at us and said “YES!!” giving us the thumbs up as he left us standing in the front yard of our house. He sped off to his next call laughing as he exited, pumping his fist in excitement.

Brian and I walked up to the front door and as I reached for the doorknob Brian said:

“If you tell anyone about this for twenty five years I’ll swear you’re a liar and a homosexual”

“Deal”

Copyright Jim Hall 2010

Gary was a walk-on I met when I was a freshmen signee at Troy. He sat by me in the dining hall when I first arrived at Troy, considered a breech of ediquette back then, when two-a-days were taking place. It was an unspoken rule that all scholarship athletes sat together, quietly ostracizing the ‘walk-ons’ or those without scholarships, and the first rule I broke when I arrived. The walk-on dudes generally got the short end of the stick, playing and practicing wise, as the attrition rate was above 90%. I would not have put up with the crap these dudes had to endure just to say I had played the college game. They were called “shit squadders” because they did all the shit duties like hold blocking dummies and get the tar beat out of themselves daily. Gary was a good dude, tough as a two dollar steak, and I liked him instantly. I called him ‘Irish’ because he was red-headed and pale skinned, befreckeled and eyes as green as grass. The dude was six feet one inch and probably forty pounds over weight but willing. You can coach a lot of things but willing is one thing you must be born with. If you are not willing then nothing else mattered on the field. I had the opportunity to go up against Gary a time or two in scrimmages and let me tell you the dude was as solid as a rock and technically perfect. He dropped twenty five pounds in his freshman year playing in the grueling heat and it did him good. He survived two-a-days, rare for most freshmen players, and he established himself as eager to learn the system. He played the entire first year as a shit squad man paying his dues the hard way.

I told my position coach to watch Gary and his abilities in hopes my defensive coach might relay that info to the offensive line coach thus helping Gary get noticed. He came back in spring training after winter drills ready to compete for a scholarship and was rewarded with a partial ‘ride’ telling him he was in, at least partially. The next fall Gary came back ready and was rewarded with a full ride after the two-a-day drills, a dream come true for him I’m sure. I was proud for him and he had earned it the hard way. He came from a small private school in the middle of nowhere Alabama where nary a college recruiter dared venture when searching for a player. When the season got started good, maybe the seventh game, Gary got in a pile up and broke his leg in the worst possible place a man could; four inches above his ankle. We were practicing full speed and a blocking back fell on his leg, snapping it clean but through the skin. I was close to Gary when it happened, and I heard the sickening snap. He looked at me and calmly said “Jimbo, I think my leg is broken”. It was broken alright, and the sound of Gary’s pain as we carefully dismantled the pile up made me sick at my stomach. When the smoke cleared, Gary’s leg was at a perfect ninety degree angle below the knee, his large shin bone exposed through his skin and white as the center of an Oreo cookie.

I thought Gary’s football career was over, but I grossly underestimated his ability to overcome adversity. He rehabilitated himself, losing an additional thirty pounds over the winter break and doing our grueling winter drills with a leg cast. He got the cast removed and carefully rebuilt the strength in his leg, coming back to be an all-conference lineman his junior year and a true bad-ass in my book. He served as inspiration for our team; with coaches on both sides of the ball using his iron will as a coaching tool and something of which to aspire. Of course, Gary hated the attention and just wanted to play ball. My buddy Mr. Twain said “Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example” and it applied to Gary in spades. Attention was something Gary would have just soon skipped and he was just glad to be playing ball again. We became roommates my junior year and we also got along marvelously. He was a great friend and a guy that had earned every thing he got. Most of the prima-donnas I played with thought everything they received was somehow owed to them. Those guys proved to have a short life under the hellacious circumstances that came with being on our team. After Gary achieved his full scholarship status he was just one of the boys and no one dared screw with him.

In our junior year we had a freshman player, named Theory, sign on with our program. Gary and I were assigned to him by the coaching staff to be mentors as such and a wolf guarding the henhouse job. Our “job” was to keep a farm boy introduced to the big city (Troy was big city to him) out of trouble. It wasn’t long until Theory was getting caught out past curfew, drinking and smoking dope, and pissing the coaching staff of in a major way. Gary and I got pulled aside by our position coaches after practice one day and reminded to watch over Theory in an attempt to keep his playing status active. Gary and I invited the dumbass to our room to have a “come to Jesus” meeting with him in an effort to get him strait. When he appeared at our door he was stoned out of his gourd and unable to keep a strait face. Theory was a big dude and I mean big. He weighed a good 350 pounds and at five foot eleven inches he was as round as a basketball. He was quick and knew the college game but he was going down a deep well and taking every offer to ‘get high’ while he attended Troy. During our meeting Theory became sleepy and wanted to lie down on our sofa. He tripped and landed on our coffee table, smashing it to toothpicks and stayed right there until we got enough guys together to pick him up and transport him to his own bed. He made it one year inside Bradshaw’s barbed wire fence program and went home. Theory eventually made it to Georgia Southern and played under the late legendary Urk Russell, along side my future brother in law Ronnie, a hero of the Gulf War and and awesome helicopter pilot.

I mention Gary here and give you some of his back ground to tell you this one particular bit of information. I got punched the hardest I had ever been punched in Gary’s presence. He dated a good looking girl that happened to be an eccentric drama student and one that didn’t take rejection well. She was a fire breathing dragon, one of the rare beautiful red heads with green eyes and brown skin so tanned you’d think it was painted on…and she loved Gary. He asked me to come along with him in an attempt to break it off with her, kinda like a witness in case gunfire erupted or someone got killed. She was driving Gary’s pick up truck (for the life of me I didnt’t know why, maybe to keep her hands occupied) with Gary sitting in the front seat in the middle and I occupied the shotgun position passenger side. Again, I wasn’t sure why he asked me to come along, but I did anyway seeing he was my friend and all. I guess he pissed her off by saying something a dude might say, like I don’t want to go out with you anymore, and she locked down the brakes with tires squealing. She powerslid the truck into a parking lot near the golf course on the backside of campus like a seasoned stunt driver. She immediately started to cuss Gary and jumped out of the truck with Gary exiting behind her like they were connected by a rope.

As soon as he exited he ran right into a jarring left hook from the Red head and I saw his knees buckle a little. I jumped out to get a better look at the activities ’cause every dude likes a good scrap. It was, after all, a fight with a girl in it and ‘dude law’ stated it must be watched. I went running around the front of the truck just as she took another swing at him. He pulled away her missing his jaw by a whisker. He retreated to my position, in front of the truck and I backed away as best as I could but was stopped by the ditch on the passenger side of the vehicle. He was in full defense mode, blocking shots thrown like she might be related to Mohammed Ali, ending with Gary grabbing both of her wrists in an attempt to stop her pugilistic advances. When she realized she was pinned, she started to cry telling Gary he was hurting her. Being from the south, Gary fell for the trick and loosened his grip, receiving a perfect shot to the nose in return for the trust he extended to her. She was, after all, an actress. I felt like I needed to step in, in an attempt to bring some sense of calm to the situation, and therein lied my folly. When I walked up behind Gary he ducked and I caught the full force of her might, right in the mouth. It knocked me silly and pissed me off at the same time. I guess she realized what she had done and backed off. I’m sure I gave her the look of death and I could see that she was upset. All Gary could say was “How in the hell will we stay together when you punch out my friends?” She busted out crying, ran off over the golf course, and I never saw her again. Gary and I jumped in his truck and went and got us a beer. He was happy with the outcome and I, well, I just laughed it off. I thought I might punch her back if I ever saw her again. I wouldn’t have but I considered it for the first time in my life. I drank my beer through a straw that day fat-lipped from the fray and Gary looked no worse for the wear.

Brian liked that particular goodie and he had a good return story.

We saw the next road sign telling us we were within 19 miles of Troy…time was getting short! Just as soon as Brian started to talk he was interrupted by the sound of a decellerating truck. Victory was ours in the form of a flatbed truck driven by an elderly black man inquiring if we needed a ride. He asked where we were headed and we both said simutanously “TROY”. We jumping up on the flatbed assuming he wouldn’t let us ride up front either based solely on our appearance. Brian and I ensured ourselves a shorter ride by bolting up on to the trucks flat bed knowing that even if we rode just one mile it was one mile less we’d have to engage. “I’m headed that way boys, you’re in luck” was all I heard before he shoved the old work truck into gear revving the engine like he might be in a drag race. The truck surged and Brian and I looked at each other knowing we’d soon be back in the land of meat and ice cold cheap beer. We rode quietly enjoying the man made breeze that blew, not talking, thinking we’d finally made it home free. He was headed to Brundidge, just twenty miles below Troy and back to whatever business was painted on the side of his truck. All I saw was Brundidge Supply and didn’t know of another Brundidge anywhere close. He made good time, knocking out the remaining 19 miles in less than 14 minutes, shortening our walk by a good three to four hours plus some and maybe more. He blew past our stopping point turn off that would leave us with four miles to make it back to our frat house. He was kind enough to take us into the city of Troy, the back way, depositing us within one hundred feet of where we’d jumped the return train back towards the fraternity house. If you started here, added one hundred and eighty miles and the adventure that was now almost officially in the history books, you’d have been us over the last two plus days. It was an irony that wasn’t lost on either of us at that moment.

We thanked the kind fellow for doubling back for us and when we thanked him he said “Damn!! You are two white boys! What in the name of all things holy happened to you?” We looked at each other and calmly said “It’s a long story” pausing to see if he might be up for the condensed version, simular to the one we shared with Old Coot. “Gotta get myself back to Brundidge, it must be a good story though!” he said as he revved the truck engine and grinded the truck’s transmission into first gear. His words faded as he disappeard around the corner leading him towards his destination.

Brian and I had made it. One more mile striat through beautiful downtown Troy and we were back at the Frat house. We stood on South Three Notch Street facing North. North Three Notch Street was the name this street became as soon as we crossed the square in Troy and the same road our Fraternity house was situated upon. It was the final leg of our journey before we reached the frat house and a retracing of our steps of sorts. It was also the last leg of the Pledge course we had run completely nude a year or so earlier. I was certain of one thing, I didn’t care how sharp any eye was that might have spotted us the night of that legendary run, regardless of how close we might have come to them. When we ran through town in the buff we were as nekkid as the day we were born plus running shoes. We had most recently been mistaken for two black dudes, by a White man and a Black man, so I figured we were good to go. The identies of the two naked running frat boys would remain a secret for another day.

We looked at the tracks, looked at each other, smiled and started walking.

To be continued…

Copyright Jim Hall 2010

We walked and talked about a lot of little things we’d experienced in our lives, lamenting about the girls we’d been dumped by and those we’d dumped. Small “slice of life” things we’d dismissed initially but recalled as time allowed us the luxury of reliving them during our long hike home. Time to lament over these things would be a rare commodity after I graduated. I took advantage of the time, recognizing it for what it was, the last bridge to adulthood. No more hiding in the frat house and no more classes to take, no more conferences with counselors and no more changing of majors. It was here and that was that. I was about to be considered a man and I’d be itemizing my deductions in just twelve short months. No more “EZ” forms and full refunds of tax withholdings at the end of the year for me. The time had come and I was ready. I hoped Brian would go on to finish his degree and prosper back in Mobile. I pledged to call him once a week after graduation to give him pep talks concerning the matter. Maybe the best thing for him was to get away from me and moving home might serve as a catalyst in his quest for all things academic. I loved the guy and I wanted the best for my friend. He’d make it, somehow I knew he’d make it. Maybe he’d take something good away from our friendship. I knew I would.

We were finishing off our story telling for good measure so we’d have recollection of them for the years to come. We still had a few stories left so I’ll just run through them in no particular order. One of our brothers, I’ll call Casanova, insisted he’d somehow score with every co-ed at Troy University before he either died, got killed by a boyfriend or by a father. He was not particular about who the later it got and he would go after the crack of dawn if he didn’t score. Brian and I made it our business to knock this dude out of the saddle a much and as often as we could. He hit on my date at a frat formal once and he’d done the same to Brian. I truthfully didn’t care, seeing the 9:1 girl to guy ratio, but it didn’t sit well with Brian. I guess the “brotherhood” thing only stretched as far as trying to score one of your frat brother dates with Casanova. Brian was my very good friend and if he needed me for solidarity purposes concerning Casanova’s infractions, I was at his beck and call for revenge. Brian and I called Casanova by that name because he was like the character of the same name. He thought he was “swayve and de-boner” and could convince any and all women, both young and old, to fall under his spell. He was a true legend in his own mind. I will say he subscribed to the “if you keep slinging shit against the wall, some’s gotta stick” theory and I had to salute his consistency and non-stop efforts to get laid. But holy crap man, give it rest when it comes to your friends and frat brothers. He’d bring a steady stream of girls to our parties and he’d usually have the formal room, generally reserved for parents on the designated days they’d get invited and brothers trying to score with chicks. He was a busy dude and he kept the room tied up on a regular basis. We saw Casanova, nicknamed “Bird-dog” by us and ‘Bird’ for short, because he must have had an erection 23 hours a day. That included sleeping and from his one track minded activities that was rare. We never knew when the one hour ‘off’ might have been but I assumed it must have deflated every now and again. He scored a very good looking date at one particular party and he was putting the full court press on her every chance he got. In between ‘Gatoring’ songs and numerous “Animal House” selections we spotted Bird making the final maneuvers on his date just before touching down in the Family Formal Living Room. That’s where we’d hatch our plan and seek our much deserved revenge. Knockin’ a dude out of some was a crime in all 50 states but Bird deserved it and we were just the guys to deliver.

We had the standard “Ooobeedoo” purple punch, cheap and effective, and lots of it. Bird and his date had made the rounds to some of the local pubs so she was slightly hammered before she arrived at our festivities. Brian had warned the entire pledge class my senior year of school of his plan and he hatched it as a payback for Bird trying to score his date. It was a simple plan and it was this: when he maneuvered his way to the Formal Room we’d be waiting for him. There were eleven of us waiting for Bird and his date when we heard him rattling the door handle in an attempt to gain entry. When he did, our revenge was served how all revenge was best served, cold and in abundance. It was pitch dark when he finally got the large heavy door opened. He fumbled for the light switch briefly, his date giggling from what I assumed might be his advances and the Ooobeedoo kicking in. He managed to get the door opened, aiming his date towards one of the six plush leather sofas that lined the large formal room, normally reserved for dates and family. She landed between Brian and I in the middle seat not knowing we were in the room until the light switch was found. Bird finally found the switch then engaged it, filling the room with the beautiful light filtered through the hundreds of crystals hanging from the antebellum chandelier. The transition from total darkness to bright caused everyone in the room to squint.

When Bird’s date finally adjusted to the bright lights, she hesitated for about five seconds before she screamed like a banshee, practically knocking him down as she swiftly left the room in shock. Bird’s back was to us when she exited and when he spun around and adjusted his eyes, he was met with what I’m sure was a shock to his dates delicate constitution. She had lost her hard earned buzz in just a few seconds and Bird recieved ample payback for being such a whore-dog. There were eleven buck naked dudes sitting bare-assed in the formal living room. We all held individual gallon jugs of Ooobeedoo sipping on them like a Southern Belle might sip a glass of Iced tea in summertime. Bird stood there motionless and Brian said “Hey Dude, what’s up” in his typical smartasses style I recognized so well. “What in the Hell are you assholes doing?” Bird asked knowing he’d been knocked out of a chance at getting laid. “Sitting here in the dark, buck assed nekkid, drinking Ooobeedoo and talking to our pledges, why do you ask?” Brian said sarcastically. Bird started to protest, but we all busted out laughing before he could flap his trap. He stormed off in search of another victim and I assumed another location in which to ply his trade. He was relentless, reload and retry was Bird’s motto, and one I’m sure made him a millionaire after he graduated (if he did).

We had finally come across a sign saying “Troy___________35 miles”. We had walked fourteen miles and it took only four and a half hours. Maybe we’d be home by dark if all went well and neither one of us broke a leg or had a piece of Skylab fall on us. We made decent time to be so tired and ‘raggily’, a term one of the brothers used when he was worn out from practice, and one I placed in my vocabulary for use in proper context. Their was not a single item of clothing I deemed salvageable hanging on either of our backs. We truly looked like we had been stranded in a coal mine or gotten in paint battle with black tar as our only weapons. I would not have given us a ride either if I had spotted us while driving. I might even have called the proper authorities if I had been a respectable type and two black faced hoodlums were near my property.

It brought to mind a time when Brian and I helped a pledge feel at home in the neighbor’s front yard. Our poor pledge roommate, named Shannon, chose to room with us his pledge semester and it was one he’d never forget. That poor dude, nick-named “Shodden”, a name we called him after he’d consumed massive quantities of the purple party punch we made in 50 gallon batches before our massive social gatherings. It was close to time for Shannon to be initiated into the frat and we had green lighted him to get shit-faced at the very last party before hell week and indoctrination began. He got fully toasted, needing our help to get his small carcass to our room and into his bed. He was so totaled he didn’t even know how to pronounce his own name. “Shodden” was all he could say when quizzed the next day by the neighbor that found him sleeping in his front yard in his own bed.

Shannon was dimutive gent from Eufaula, Alabama a beautiful town full of southern tradition and mansions lining the streets. Standing in beautiful Eufaula it looked like you had been suddenly whisked back in time, waiting to hear news of the civil war. Shannon was one of Eufaula’s sons and his family had raised ten generations there. It was evident he was from a proud family with a long standing ‘Tradition of Existance”. His grandmother visited with his parents on family day and I met the sweet southern belle during a family weekend. She sat on one of the sofas her grandson had been parked buck naked upon weeks earlier as a part of ‘Bird’s Revenge’ as we’d call it afterward. I introduced myself to his parents and when she introduced herself, she said “I’m Movell Eliphalet Thomas, of the Eufaula Thomas’ and Shannon is my grandson”. She continued “We have a long proud heritage in Eufaula and Shannon is our baby” she said, not knowing the embarrassment she had delivered unto her grandson that day. “Shannon is our finest pledge and we’re honored to have him as a future Pi Kappa Phi” I told her with all the pomp and circumstance I felt like she deserved. She was the obvious matriarch in the family, doing 90% of the talking, all the bragging and she held the key to Shannon staying at Troy. Knowing that secret, I laid it on the southern charm as thick as I could. She seemed to be pleased with her visit and Shannon looked well fed, so he was safe for now.

I really liked Shannon; the dude was a little guy but scrappy as hell and I liked that. Maybe 5’ 6” and One hundred and thirty five pounds soaking wet. I took dumps bigger than him every morning but he took everything Brian and I threw at him and came back for more. He looked forward to the green-light party and the chance to get a buzz for the first time that semester. Brian and I ran heard on him for the duration of his pledgeship. I can truthfullty say we wanted him to complete the pledge ‘task at hand’ and become a brother. To say he tied one on at the green light party was an understatement. I will tell you now why he was nicknamed “Shodden” by Brian and I lest I forget. When he passed out after the party, Brian and I took every last stick of furniture, his carpet, his dresser, his hanging rack and clothes, all his shoes, toiletries, everything and carefully moved them five houses up the street. We then set his bedroom up exactly like it was in our giant room in the upstairs of the fraternity house. The three of us shared the room but Shannon was relagated to the floor with Brian and I having beds ten feet off the floor. Lastly, we carefully moved his bed, with him passed out in it, to the front yard of the house up the road from us on the main drag into downtown Troy. It was sight to behold, I must say, and one Brian and I were proud to have accomplished under the cover of darkness. When the sun came up and the people living in the house that had the new bedroom in their front yard arose, the best part of this story transpired.

We heard a gentle knock at our front door. Brian and I had not gone to sleep that day/night and immediately made our way downstairs towards the large leaded glass entryway and the massive front porch. I opened the door and there was poor Shodden, blankets around his shoulders and smelling like he had eaten a grape flavored distillery. The kind old man that lived in the house up the street told us he was surprised to see Shannon sleeping so restfully and marveled at how neatly the room was set up. We invited him in and we sat and chit-chatted about the prank. He (the old man) was good natured about the whole thing but asked for us to please remove the furniture before the day got going good. We woke all the pledges, chiding them for not properly looking out for their pledge brother and made them go retrieve the furniture immediately. I told you earlier that I’d tell you why we’d nicknamed Shannon “Shodden” and here’s why; when the old man woke Shannon up he asked him his name. Shannon, in his drunken half asleep stupor could only say “Shodden”. When the kindly old man delivered Shannon back to us he said “I asked the boy his name and he said SHODDEN, over and over again”

The name stuck. Shodden slept with one eye opened for the rest of the semester and stayed a little upset with us both for a few weeks. He got over it after we threatened to black ball him from the frat in the eleventh hour due to his attitude problem. We both were not serious about it (kicking Shodden out) but it worked, his attitude improved, so what the hell. In a few weeks he became a brother and all was well in Pi Kapp land. It was his turn to be the master of his first pledges and he kept the tradition, started by Brian and I, up in a mighty way. Five foot six feet of hell on wheels. That dude was a force to be reckoned with after Brian and I got through with him. He was one of us.

TROY_______________________27 miles.

We walked on and talked on…

Copyright Jim Hall 2010

I calculated we had been walking and running for at least 18-20 hours based on the approximate time we had left Troy. I calculated we had jumped the return train around 11:30 am, rode for a good three and a half hours at speeds averaging 50 miles per hour. That calculation was based on timing between mile markers and length of travel. I figured we’d traveled a good 175-185 miles north of our starting point. I was unsure of how we navigated ourselves through the backwoods of Alabama winding up near Cullman, 50 miles north of Birmingham as the crow flies. I knew it was 51 miles from Troy to Montgomery, strait up 231, and it was 91 miles from Montgomery to Birmingham up I-65. I guess we didn’t see any towns and highways as we rode due to the train’s back woods navigation coupled with the initial excitement of the adventure. We had our backs to the wind sitting at the front of the train car seeing everything as we passed it instead of seeing it before we got to it. We talked and laughed and lamented about the short two years we had become such good friends and all the situations we innocently found ourselves embroiled in by no fault of our own. We both sat silently, looking down on the road that would eventually take us back to Troy. We both knew the black pavement spelled the end of my time at Troy and our friendship would be a memory we’d both have to keep strong. I knew who my wife was going to be, the lovely Miss Becky Jackson, and she was waiting for me at the end of this trip. There were still a few days before my graduation and the thought of a life with her excited me. She and I had already had a very serious talk about marriage and she’d caught my eye so many years before we met again. I had dated some real beauties in my life, but none captivated my innermost being like her. For me, she was perfect, in every way a man could adore a woman. I had relayed that information to Brian and it was met with joyous approval. Brian knew he was going back to Mobile, his hometown, and he’d eventually meet the love of his life too. A beautiful girl named Dana he’d marry later.

We sat and talked for a good thirty minutes, resting briefly and ‘getting our story strait’ as it were, but mostly drinking in the moment. The color of the sky, how many shades of green the Alabama wilderness produced with the help of God and rain. The silent understanding we shared as friends closer than brothers. Brothers fought, we never had a single cross word between us and I was going to miss my friend after this adventure drew to a close. The smell of asphalt was a welcomed scent and provided us with an even walking surface. It was like and old friend, the highway, and I had not walked on the street in a good lot of years. I silently prayed we did not wind up between Troy and Montgomery, needing to prolong this journey, knowing full adulthood awaited me just days from then. I was not sad about the events to come; it was a chapter in my life that would go unnoticed and remembered only by the two of us. Our memories and the strength of our bond might fade in the years to come depending on my and Brian’s ability to maintain our friendship between Atlanta and Mobile. New and different lives meant priorities revolving around family and I thought maybe we could grow old and fat together, our wives and kids annoyed by the endless tales we could spin. Oh the stories we could tell if we both had the guts to tell them all truthfully. I could think of a lot worse things that might be able to happen to me than to have Brian as my friend as we both grew old and our kids grew up.

I sat silently and pondered my future.

“Hey you Fag” Brian broke the silence with his usual direct style, “We got a hell of a lot of walking to do so let’s get on with it”. So we did. We slid down the steep embankment to the concrete drainage easement and casually walked up to the highway. We stood right at the edge of the bright white concrete contrasted by the fresh black pavement. The bright yellow line was like the proverbial “Yellow Brick Road” described earlier. We stepped over the line and headed south towards L.A. and left U.C.L.A. to our backs. UCLA is the “Upper Corner of Lower Alabama” and LA is “Lower Alabama” for you dill weeds that like to read the very end of a story first. There is an earlier chapter explaining the nomenclature so stop here and get to it. There was not a car in sight in either direction and from our vantage point we could see two miles in either direction, telling me we either entered the ‘Outer Limits’ or we somehow made it onto a section of the interstate that was not opened for traveling yet and we had somehow navigated ourselves to it. We walked a good twenty minutes right down the middle of the road before a semi truck blew it’s horn warning us of it arrival. We did not look back but stepped to the median and before I could think of sticking out my thumb the giant tractor trailer passed us going a good eighty miles per hour. He blew his horns so loud I thought I might go deaf from the noise and Brian, in his typical style, shot him a bird as he passed. I hoped the dude would stop out of protest and I could use my much appreciated diplomacy to score us a ride. We would not get that lucky for another four hours.

We still had not seen any sort of signs telling us where we were going. I so didn’t care anymore and just mentally shrugged my shoulders and pressed on. I bet we didn’t see sixty cars while we walked and just a handful of semi trucks. Every mountain we walked down, then up, led to another mountain and valley. Sometimes I thought the next curve might bring us to a truck stop or an exit where humans with a little empathy might give us a ride. That particular curve never came. At the beginning of our sixth hour of walking we struck gold, in the form of an elderly gentleman riding in his old pick up truck. He pulled just past us and with what little strength we had we ran to his door. I asked him where he was headed and he had a single word answer, “South”. I told him we were headed south also and could we ride along with him for awhile. “Can’t see why not” he said his words sounding like Christmas Music to these tired ears. “You colored boys should not be walking out here in the middle of nowhere” he calmly said. Brian and I walked around to the passenger door and the old fellow said, “You both are way too dirty to ride up front here, climb in the back and take a load off”. Had I just heard him right? The old Coot thought Brian and I were black men? Sweet Mother of Jesus, we must have been coated with creosote so badly he couldn’t tell us from our heritage. Maybe he was just legally blind, like Dan the Man of Rippy mart lore, difference was he wasn’t wearing glasses. His old dog barked at us, and maybe that was his identifier, Coot’s dog barked at Black folks and strangers and he (the dog) thought we were both. Hmmm, that was interesting. I climbed into the truck’s bed and parked my back against the cab of the truck and Brian did the same. The low humming of the trucks engine, my horizontal configuration, and the total lack of sleep spelled a short twenty second recognition of the truck trip. I was out like a light and so was Brian.

I don’t think I dreamed at all when I fell into the thick black darkness of the wonderful sleep I enjoyed in the bed of ‘Old Coot’s’ truck. I was laying on farm tools, shovels and a pitchfork, and maybe something else but it mattered not to this old tired bag of bones. I eventually heard a voice calling out to me and felt a prodding in my side. “Hey Son!” I heard twice when I was coming to, “It’s the end of the road for you two”. I snapped awake, thinking he might have taken us back to the KKK regional gathering we had accidentally strolled upon earlier. I was lucid enough to recall him thinking Brian and I were two black men at the beginning of our journey, so if he hauled us back to the White Sheet meeting we’d all get a huge surprise before it was over. He started to poke me again and I grabbed the cane he held out of instinct. “Take it easy there sonny, I’m a friend”. His words sounded like a grandfather comforting his grandson’s tears for the first time, and it made me feel comfortable if even for a moment. Brian was standing along side the old fellow outside of the truck when I came back from dreamland, so we at least weren’t about to be the main course at some backwoods feast. I had seen “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and knew I’d never get those two hours back as long as I lived, but gleaned a little info from the experience so it wasn’t all bad. I sat up and immediately recognized we were off the side of the road. The old fellow told us, “This is as south as I get, I’m headed east then north to home. I went to Birmingham to visit my Daughter and her family and I am headed to Tallassee.” I knew from numerous trips back and forth from Atlanta to Troy that Tallassee was between Montgomery and Auburn on I-85 so he had covered some serious ground for us while we slept.

The old guy told Brian that he had picked us up on I-65 sixty miles above Montgomery. He had taken us through Montgomery and deposited us on US Highway 231, 49 miles from Troy Alabama. I was so overwhelmed with appreciation I would have hugged the old fellow if I thought he might not crown me with that cane he toted. It took him a few minutes, but he figured out we were both white guys and he asked Brian what in the hell were we doing that far from Troy. Brian half explained the scenario to the sensible old guy, but hesitated, thinking the wise man might make us climb back into his truck and take us back up the road to walk a little further, just for being so stupid. I was wrong about that assessment and the sweet old man. He said that after World War Two and his stint with the Navy, he hitch hiked across the USA a time or two just to ‘sort things out’ after the experiences he had. I recognized the far away stare when he talked, almost in code, about having trouble reconciling war and its purposes. I had seen the same stare in my Uncle Sheridan’s eyes as he was a Vietnam Veteran and had been ‘in country’. I started to ask him more about his experiences but decided to let it pass. He said he’d admired us for taking the chance train trip and reminded us how the best parts of it might never leave us, giving us comfort in harder times that would surely come.

I saw a slight tear in his eye when he extended his hand towards mine to shake. I guessed he’d been alone and he was glad for the company, even if Brian and I never said a word to him. If not for the brief conversation, we might not have known anything about the gentleman that so kindly given us a ride. When I latched onto the old mans hand I noticed a strong grip, I assumed from years of hard labor on a farm, and a tattoo on his forearm. The way we shook and the area the tattoo was located made the inscription easy to read. It said:

“U.S.S. INDIANAPOLIS”

I was standing with a member of the “Greatest Generation” as Tom Brokaw so accurately identified them, and a true hero. I looked him strait in the eye and told him “Thank you, sir, for your service to our country”. I knew the story behind the USS Indianapolis and to be standing with a survivor rendered me speechless. When the ship was torpedoed, 1196 men were on Board, 300 went down with the ship, four days later 316 men were found by accident, the rest perished in shark infested waters in the Philippine Sea. I had read the story numerous times and studied it in history books. The ship had carried the Bomb. It was top secret and there was no record of her sailing carrying its world changing cargo named “Little Boy” that would eventually level Hiroshima and spell the beginning of the end for Japan. It also ushered in the Nuclear Era and all that came with it.

He had delivered the bomb, floated and survived in shark infested waters for four days with no sleep, listening to his friends get eaten alive wondering if he was next. To top it off his Captain was incorrectly held responsible for the deaths of the men who perished that fateful day. Old Coot told us he hitchhiked a cross the USA a few times to ‘sort some things out’. My God, this great man had seen more bad things in those four days than Brian and I might see in a lifetime combined. What an honor to have stood in his presence if even for just a few minutes. Meeting him made all the hardships we endured by our own hand seem small in comparison.

I was rejuvenated and we both aimed ourselves towards Troy. If we averaged three miles per hour we’d be there in fifteen short hours!

To be continued…

Copyright Jim Hall 2010

I have never before seen someone go from fully animated to nearly catatonic as fast as Brian did when he completed his first bite. His nose began to run so fast he needed a bucket to catch the fluid flowing from it. His nasal membranes must have broken down in protest of what it had endured during Brian’s consumption of the death sausage. His eyes began to water so badly I though he might be crying, except he looked more shocked than upset. I can truly say I have never seen a person lose so much clear liquid from their nose and eyes as fast as Brian had done, and that was after only one bite. He attempted to speak but only squeaky sounds came out, sounding not so much human, but more like he had trapped a wharf rat in his throat and it desperately wanted out. I felt kinda sorry for him, albeit brief, as the expression on his face was similar to what dudes meeting their end in quicksand might make. If the movie version of a quicksand death was what it might really look like, then Bryan was headed for a Golden Globe Award at the least and an Oscar at best for his performance. Maybe, I reasoned, an actor faking a quicksand death was what someone eating a death sausage really looked like, learned in Low Budget “B-Movie” acting school. Whenever I see a movie involving quicksand elimination I think to myself “Wow, that’s what Brian looked like when he ate the Devil’s Hot Dog”.

I wasn’t even sitting inside the Swinger yet and I could smell the fumes from the hastily chosen lunch snack Brian had only bitten once. I reached for the door handle, pulling the door open only to be met by a wall of acrid spicyness so overpowering I cannot even begin to describe to you here. Brian quickly rolled his window down in what I assumed was the fastest way to dispose of the remaining six inches of anthrax in a bun. I think he was stunned or in shock, unable to move, when I hopped into the seat next to him. He seemed paralyzed by the full frontal assault on all of his senses, so I did what any friend would do in a simular situation…I asked him if he needed me to drive. It was the only thing I could come up with at the moment and proof that I was also under attack from the spicy odor radiating off the Red Devil he held in his hand. He gazed at me with a pitiful look as if he needed me to read his mind. “You need something to drink?” I asked him…he gathered himself then slowly nodded his head, looking like a bobble head doll might in the back window of the family Chevrolet purchased as evidence of a beach vacation. It was mean, I know, but I snickered at his calculated misfortune and inability to utilize the wisdom given by the convenience store clerk prophetess.

We had not even circled the parking lot before I was back inside the store. I was seeking medical advice from a woman that looked like she might double as a rodeo clown from all the make-up she wore. Her bee-hive hairdo, sky blue eye shadow and thick white smoke made for a site seen only when UFO’s appeared in the night sky and a TV station needed an expert local commentary. When I re-entered the store she was straightening out the Velvet Elvises stacked ‘lean to’ style by the beer and chip isle. She whirled around, staring at me like I was someone she had not spoken to in the previous ten minutes of her life and like I might have startled her with my quick re-entry. “Help you…” she droned, sounding more like a statement than a question and with a hint of annoyance thrown in for good measure. Her hazel green blood-shot eyes locked on me like I might be at our hometown Rippy Mart and she was the new cashier, warned about two college boys looking for dented merchandise. I could only assume she didn’t get a lot of company during the time between lunch and dinner so she probably took the time in-between to clean up the joint. She stood quietly waiting for me to tell her why I had invaded her space, puffing on her stogie, her head barely visible thru the thick white smoke that circled her face like the rings around Saturn. The smoke provided so much coverage I was sure if James Bond himself would have been there he would have ‘got wood’ seeing the fogbank she laid down and the camouflage cover it provided.

“Uhh, I think my friend might be about to explode” was all I could say, my nearly completed college education hiding itself from my vocabulary. She hesitated for a split-second, then blurted out “I told you and I told you but neither of you would listen…Milk, uhhh milk, yea, that’s what he needs…and lots of it.” She nervously shuffled and mumbled like she might be having an LSD flashback, or called as a material witness in a murder trial. She was nervously puffing on the stogie like her life depended on it, and from inside the thick smoke haze that surrounded her, a finger pointed towards the stand up cooler and the beverages. I grabbed a quart of whole milk only to be interrupted by her reaching over my shoulder to grab a full gallon shoving it into my hand. “You’re gonna need at least a gallon…and here, take some Pepto Bismol and Rolaids, layering the three as you go”. We stood there for a brief second, eyes locked, and she said “It’s free of charge Honey but you can’t stay here” shoving me out the door with her hand on my back like I might be a long lost moocher in-law on the way back to where I might have come from. Just when I cleared the door I felt the slightest push right at the end of her finger tips when I exited toward Brian. I started to turn back in acknowledgement of the gesture and I swear I heard the door lock behind me. We were no longer welcomed at the Louisiana Store. I assumed she got on her CB radio and warned the rest of Louisiana we had made it into town.

As I walked back towards the car for the second time in fifteen minutes, Brian was sitting there, Red faced like he might have painted his cheeks and forehead with war paint. He was wide-eyed and drawing very short breaths like he might be using Lamaze breathing and soon having a miracle baby. I noticed when I re-entered the car that the sausage responsible for Brian’s malady was nowhere in sight, not in the floor board of the car or under the seat. I got out, walked around to the driver’s side and didn’t see it on the ground nor did I see a dead animal within a fifty foot radius of the car. I figured that was as far as a critter would get if he ate the meat fashioned Angel of Death Brian had attempted to consume. I was hoping he had thrown it out like a smart dude would have, but in just a second I realized the dumb ass had eaten the entire friggin death sausage. I was standing at the driver’s door to the Swinger and calmly told Brian to get out of the car and I’d drive us to New Orleans. I had to help him manuver the short trip around the car, him walking like he was an elderly man and practically holding him up from his weakened state. He was lucid when I sat him in the passenger seat, communicating with grunts and squeaks rather than words. I instructed him to drink some milk, then layer the Pepto Bismol and Rolaids, repeatedly per Dr. Rodeo-Clown-Cigar-Smoker-Convenience-Store-Clerk’s orders. He did as I instructed while we proceeded on towards our destiny with Brian glassy-eyed and mumbling like a middle easterner with a speech impediment.

I drove for about thirty minutes when it happened. Brian had finally made it to a point where he could talk legibly and all he said was “I gotta puke” sounding more like a talking volcano warning villagers of it’s impending deadly payload. We were traveling a good seventy five miles an hour when he hung his head and half of his body out the window and let her rip. I had to grab him by his belt as he hurled, thinking he might fall all the way out of the window while puking and grunting like a ruttin’ Buck in heat. My friend dropped some serious industrial puke down the side of the Swinger that day. The toxic contents of Brian’s stomach decorated the side of his car like some late 1960′s abstract Andy Warhol painting gone very wrong. He hurled for a good thirty minutes and dry heaved for another twenty and it all came to an end when he flopped back in the seat, looked at me and said one thing and one thing only:

“Smooooth”

I just looked at him, hesitated for a brief second than began to laugh so hard I almost wrecked. I had spent the last hour holding him by his belt loops and he made it all good in one word. I fully expected to see a hole in his chest like some alien seed had been planted then gestated exiting like the critter did in “Alien”. We decided to leave the Warhol racing stripe down the side of the car, all pink with chunks of Rolaids and death sausage, looking like a decoupage nightmare or modern art, depending on your perspective.

When we finally pulled into New Orleans we went strait to Bourbon Street to look for some late night action in the Big Easy. It had taken us six hours to get to our destination, factoring in the time spent babysitting Brian’s hot-dog affair, so we cut to the chase when we arrived not wanting to waste any more time than necessary. We walked into the first sleazy dive on the street and ordered some brewskis after grabbing a seat at the bar. It wasn’t long until the place was populated with roudy bikers, and like the Atlanta trip, it became quickly obvious to me we were not welcomed, once again, based on our looks alone. One particular biker dude looked at Brian and flat out told him “haul ass city boy” followed by a quickly delivered “now!” his bellicose tone familiar to us both. The rough neck asshole biker dudes we seemed to attract like flies to potato salad had found us again. Not the Atlanta Biker dudes we befriended but the specific breed of asshole biker dude. I kept my mouth shut looking for the biggest dude in the group, just in case we had to make a run for it and kicking that specific dude in the balls might be in short order and key to our escape. When stood up Brian bowed up, a southern term for sticking out your chest and marking one’s territory with bravado rather than urine (like the animals do), and the biker dudes followed suit. I quickly noticed that picking the biggest dude out of this bunch was like picking out which bullet to shoot if you were a Cowboy and faced with a lot of Indians to kill armed with a single shot rifle. Once again the math was not in our favor so I implemented the diplomacy act when faced with such odds. I told the biker dudes we were just about to leave, making living for one more day a reality I hoped Brian could latch onto in his weakened state.

When made it to the door I noticed that numerous bikers were perched on Brian’s car and that just didn’t seem to sit well with him that day. We had four-wheeled in it, roof surfed on it, jumped stuff in it, slept in it, got Auburn revenge in it and even double dated in it when necessary. The difference was Brian had extended his permission to do those things. These guys were friends with the dudes who had just ran us out of a bar we had bought a beer in, and they were sitting their big asses on Brian’s car. Brian casually walked over to one of the big Hog’s and calmly slung his leg over the big leather seat and plopped his ass down on the Harley Davidson motorcycle parked closest to his Swinger. I noticed the abstract pink racing stripe painted down the passenger side of Brian’s car contrasted nicely with the sea of black leather presently on full alert and staring at my friend. It only took a second for the owner to identify himself by quickly removing himself from Brian’s hood and marching over to where Brian sat making “Vroom Vroom” noises while spinning the throttle. “Whaaaaaaa, wa whaaaaaaa, wha-whaaaaaaa, wha-whaaaaaaaaaaa” was the sound Brian was making as the biker dude walked over to his motorcycle. Brian was imitating the sound of a bike in full ‘haul ass’ mode shifting through the gears…and doing a very respectable job of it I might add. The biker dude said and I quote “You must have a death wish sitting on my GD motorcycle boy”…Brian just smiled and kept on making the same sounds and flipping his wrist between “whaa’s” making the biker dude madder and madder by the second. Brian abruptly stopped and said with a blank look on his face “you assholes don’t seem to mind sitting your fat asses on my car, do you? I thought I’d just extend the same courtesy back to you degenerate anti-American smelly excuse for humanity”.

About the time the word ‘humanity’ faded to silence two New Orleans cops rounded the corner and walked strait over to our location. “Any trouble here this evening gentleman?” one said cautiously. “Naw” both Brian and the Biker dude said simultaneously knowing the local cops were fresh and Mardi-Gras had not gotten started good yet so the jails were empty. “Keep it that way” was the last thing the law men said before exiting making eye contact with both parties. I knew any dumb moves by either one of them would land them both in a freshly hosed out cell for the duration of the five day party. As soon as the cops crossed the street, the biker dude grabbed Brian by his tee-shirt and told him to “get your GD MFing no good SOBing ass off my bike or face death”. Brian grinned and replied, “OK, but you’ll have to tell your boyfriends to get their fat asses off my car first and only after you have a breath mint or two”.

“Oh Shit” was all I could think of, here we go again.

From where I was standing I could see the dude balling up his fist ready to punch Brian when he least expected it but not during his dismount. His buddies were also removing themselves from Brian’s car in anticipation of showing Brian how much they objected to being called girls. As soon as the bikers hopped off Brian’s car, a string of fireworks went off, startling everyone in a one hundred foot radius of our location and sounding like small arms fire. The dude holding Brian drew back to punch him while everyone else was busy being distracted. Before he could connect with Brian’s skull I drilled him right in his temple knocking him over the motorcycle he owned causing a domino effect with the other bikes parked next to his. He was out cold, not moving a muscle and that gave Brian and I the cover we needed to get to the car, dive in and haul ass. Brian quickly cranked the slant six and blasted the horns causing the crowd that had formed to part like the Red Sea. The other biker dudes were attending to their cold-cocked friend, pulling him off the toppled bikes and onto the curb. I assumed the knocked silly dude told them what had happened based on all the pointing and cussing he did. I locked the doors just before one of the biker dudes grabbed the door handle in an attempt to snatch me out. Brian floor-boarded the trusty Dodge driving strait over the accordioned motorcycles like they were part of Bourbon Street’s cobblestone pavement. The bending and scraping sounds eminating from the belly of the Swinger must have sounded exactly like Brian’s stomach sounded when he attempted to digest the death dog now painted down the passenger side of our escape vehicle. The leathered up tattooed biker dudes stood in stunned silence, watching the whole event unfold like some nightmare out of a Twilight Zone episode. We made the first right available off Bourbon Street, just about the time I saw the cops run over to where we had initially made our hasty exit. The last thing I remember seeing, as I looked over my shoulder down Bourbon Street, was a biker pointing at the back of our car as we sped away. We drove through six parishes that night with our headlights off before we found the interstate and I-10, escaping sure death or a jail visit. We got a good laugh out of it and talked all the way to Dauphin Island where we’d hide out until the whole thing blew over or our provisions ran out. We went to the vacation house of the young lady Brian briefly dated in Troy, the daughter of the anal retentive hi-tank dump dude that had been so rude to him when we first met. Brian knew where the key was hidden so we stayed there for the four reamining days of Mardi-Gras and had a great time. We both attended Mardi-Gras that year, from Fat Tuesday until Ash Wednesday, escaping with our lives yet again and living to tell about it.

I could hear what sounded like the Highway, so we ran towards the noise and lo and behold, we were back in touch with civilization!! All we needed was to figure out exactly what Interstate we were on. Troy, here we come!!

Copyright Jim Hall 2010

As Brian and I continued on our walk, he recounted a time we ventured to New Orleans for Mardi-Gras from Fat Tuesday until Ash Wednesday (that’d be one whole day) and the circumstances surrounding our short (or shortened) visit. We decided to travel to Louisiana despite my objections to the notion, factoring in the past experiences I had endured there. I gave it the old “what the hell” and went anyway but only after a small degree of prodding by my good buddy and partener in numerous crimes, Brian K. Horst. My agreement to return to the State of Louisiana was borne purely of resignation on my behalf (see aforementioned prodding) and it was a mistake . The word had gotten out that the New Orleans Police department was possibly going on strike again. A large dose of “Blue Flu” was rumored, simular to the fiasco that was Mardi-Gras in 1979 and the lack of a police ‘presence’ threat meant this year it was going to be the party extraordinaire. Call it the bash to bash ‘em all, the “Coupe De Grass” as I heard a hillbilly so eloquently call it one without so much as a hint of a French accent. He’d used the term used in reference to a time when he described having to shoot a fella over moonshine (In Tennessee just in case you were wondering) and I called Bullshit on him for that particular remark. Come to find out later he’d actually ventilated a dude up for messing with the family ‘shine still. Note to self: don’t mess with a Moonshine Still, even if you are stuck in the proverbial middle of nowhere and have nothing to drink.

Before we left, Brian and I stocked up for our trip in the usual fashion, making a stop to see our legally blind Rippy-Mart buddy ‘Dan the Man’. We paid our legally blind friend a visit the night before we headed out for the land of the lost boys, also known as New Orleans at Mardi-Gras time. We decided snack foods and high protein items were our best bet as we would probably not sleep much. We took into account the fact we didn’t have a place to officially park our asses for the night, or nights, as the case might be and depending on luck. We decided we’d just get to New Orleans and see which way the wind blew us after we arrived (our typical Modus Operandi) and one that brought us repeated success. The directional ‘wind’ I mentioned earlier would prove to blow exceptionally hard for us, gale force if you will, sending us into another biker shit storm and resulting escape from the Big Easy. After our trip concluded I considered the name “Big Easy” to be a bullshit name, the place wasn’t neither ‘Big’ nor was it ‘Easy’, for us two at least.

Whatever prejudice I might have had against the “Coon Ass” state during my football career, I had decided (at least temporarily) was borne of a scheduled ‘good-versus-evil’ scenario. The scenario played itself out every other year when my football team invaded the space of the Louisiana opposition and our poor treatment there remainded a reminder of our foul trip. I noted, on the in between years, the way they (the coon asses) were treated by the University when they visited Troy to engage us in the Gridiron activities that purposed our annual meeting. It was the rule, ‘treat them like you’d like to be treated’, the Golden Rule of inviting a guest to your town. Bradshaw insisted upon southern hospitality before he laid an ass-whuppin’ on you you’d lie to your grandkids about many years later. Truth was, you’d bury the revenge styled ass-whuppin’ Bradshaw laid on you in the dark corners of your mind where most ass-whuppins go to hide and just pretend like it never happened. I had done it and so had most of the dudes I had ever played ball with at one time or the other. Concealing a good ass-whuppin’ was a fact of life and one every man must face; the feel of cold concrete on your back after you’ve had your ass kicked in. A smart man knows that sometimes the cold concrete is metaphysical in nature, but it’s there just the same. Any man that says he hasn’t had his ass handed to him at least once in their life is a damn liar and a Vespa rider. Nothing against “Vespa” mind you but you gotta admit, a beautiful woman on a Vespa scooter is a hell of a lot more appealing that a dude on one. Hulk Hogan on a Vespa is like John Wayne on “Queer Eye for the Strait Guy”. It just wasn’t meant to be. Now try to link ass-whuppins and Vespa riding in a story, I think I just did and I’m better for it.

Mardi Gras is as wild as the March wind as far as a party goes. The event is totally out of control and the Police are present just to make sure no one gets purposely killed. Imagine an open Voodoo ritual or Santa Ria style ceremony replete with sawed off chicken heads and candles burning then throw in floats, beads, jazz music and lots of drunk people and you have Mardi-Gras. During the Mardi-Gras season, and if you had enough money, you could catch the previously described Voo-doo rituals six times a day in just about any back alley in New Orleans. Mardi-Gras is when the whole world just tells New Orleans “OK, you can do just about anything you want except Kill people in public” and call it a party. I will say that my one and only trip to New Orleans Mardi Gras ‘I saw it all and then some’, and Brian and I would be glad our trip would be short lived for number of reasons. As the saying goes, “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” so, I guess if you are trying to cripple a guy, you can go through his stomach also, and Brian found that out the hard way. More on that in a minute.

Brian and I had pre-planned this particular trip in that we both went to our professors and layed down a lie as thick as a concrete slab on a airport landing strip for clearance purposes. Our excuses usually involved having to donate a kidney to a family member or something so far-fetched that the deed would not be easily documented for truth by said professor. I think Brian donated seven kidneys and two livers my senior year, grand total, and maybe his heart twice. I was a Senior anyway and I made good enough grades so I was golden, excuse or not. I’m not sure if Brian went thru the same procedures I had when planning our trip, that is as far as fabricating up a surgery story for a relative, but he was always game for a road trip so we got along swimmingly. We had stocked up on snacks and cheap beer, sold blood for a tank of gas (not really but it sounds cool), made two sandwiches for the road consisting of two 18 ounce rib-eye steaks cooked to perfection and jammed between whatever two slices of fresh bread might be available at the time. They qualified as sandwiches simply because they were indeed cooked meat resting between two slices of bread. The actual truth was the bread was our small way of staying in step with good manners based on Southern traditions taught to us at a young age, plus the fact we didn’t want to eat the steaks bare-handed. Not to say we wouldn’t have, mind you, but there is no substitute for good manners and the bread represented the difference between having them (manners) and not having them. If you ate a steak with your bare hands you were a miscreant and a savage, but slap it between two slices of bread and you were practically a poet. Add in the fact that consuming a steak, on a plate, using a knife and fork, proved exceptionally difficult when driving or being a passenger (yes, we had tried it) so steak sandwiches won. The bread also served as a sponge for the juices that typically ran out of a excellently cooked ‘Medium-Well’ Rib-eye steak seared to perfection by yours truly. And lastly but certainly not leastly (?), the bread kept our shirts from being a bib, meaning we maintained our cultured poet status for one more day.

Brian wondered out loud if the cow born with the Rib-eyes we were sawing on (eating) knew how much we enjoyed the efforts of him (or her) at the moment of our consumption. I’m sure the knowledge of our pleasure would have made whatever bovine death it (the cow) might have experienced worth it. If cows indeed have an afterlife, have a sense of pride, or could be happy anywhere outside of India, where term “Sacred” and “Cow” was coined and still the only place the two names might show up in the same sentence, or used as a colloquialism, this particular cow would indeed be there…and proud. Our bovine consumption conversation wasn’t a deep one, involving the depth of the ocean or the vastness of the universe, but it was deep enough so I played along. I still maintain if God did not intend for us two legged folk to eat cows, he would have put Rib-eyes and Filet Mignons in squirrels, making them harder to catch and much more exclusive. I for one am glad God put steak in cows and made them easy to catch. I’ve had squirrel, and let me tell you it’s close to chicken but not even in the same continent as steak and squirrels are a whole lot harder to keep in a corral than cows so God worked it all out perfectly as far as I could tell. A big “Thumbs up” on the whole Cow thing God, you da man.

Brian and I should have known this was going to be a trip for the record books, based on the simple fact that we got pulled over three seperate times on our way to New Orleans. I guess the word got out that Brian and I were headed to New Orleans…we were stopped by the law-both local and state and for the life of me I didn’t know why. Looking back on the event with 20-20 vision, I’m certain that maybe God himself was trying to keep us from going to the Big Easy, and sending as many messengers as he could to try to prevent it from actually happening. I will say, I mentioned that fact to Brian a time or two, but we both just laughed it off as coincidence and pressed on. I guess anything short of a meteorite landing on our hood could have stopped us, so we kept on plugging towards our goal. Initially, we were pulled over by the Troy cops, one hundred feet from our driveway between our Frat house and the Rippy Mart. He asked us where we were headed and we both said simultaneously “Mardi-Gras”…three second pause…he then just shrugged and said “Stay out of trouble men”. Same thing on cop number two, he was a Troy cop also, issuing us a warning ticket for a busted tail light or something along those lines, and for good measure. The third cop was an Alabama State Trooper that pulled us at Tillman’s Corner, on I-10 just before you crossed into Mississippi. He lighted and sirened us like we might be escaped convicts, and maybe that wasn’t very far from the truth, looking back on it. Brian suggested we jump out of his car and be waiting, spread eagle and IDs on the hood, for the trooper to do his thang. The State Trooper laughed at us and asked us why we were in such a hurry, “Mardi-Gras” was our two-word simultaneous answer, and one that was a two time winner after we said it. He also let us go with a general purpose warning and ‘wished us well’ whatever that might mean.

We climbed back into the sex mobile (aka birth control Swinger) and Brian stated “I don’t care if we get pulled over twenty times, I’m gonna be drinking fresh Dixie’s and crappin’ out Shrimp Creole before this night is over”. We both snickered at the prospect of eating spicy food so hot you’d have to duct tape an ice cube to your butthole just to cool it off. I wasn’t big on spicy food back then but even the water had hot sauce in it during Mardi-Gras, so you girded your loins for the visit and kept the whining to a minimum. Unless you imported your own chow you were guaranteed to be eating hot and spicy food for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the duration of your stay. Even the chicory coffee had a twang to it so strong it would make a seasoned coffee drinker switch to Ovaltine or maybe give up coffee drinking all together as a hobby. Most all of the local consumables in Louisiana took a whole lot of gettin’ used to and I didn’t plan on being there very long anyway, so it was all good as far as I saw it.

I recall Brian and I stopping at a convenience store just inside the Louisiana border on the Mississippi end where the hang-downs of Mississippi meet Louisiana (look at a map, you’ll see what I mean). Most convenience stores in Georgia and Alabama and every other State that I considered ‘normal’, had Hot dogs spinning on the odd looking roaster machine with the buns warming underneath. The machines in question usually accompanied a small kiosk that included all the fixin’s a hot dog might need. Mayo, Mustard, pickle relish, onions, hot sauce, all the fixin’s as long as it fit inside the little 1/3 ounce foil packets you had to use your teeth to tear open before consumption. That was not the case in Louisiana, based on my observances, and one I still marvel at whenever I pass through the state on my way to somewhere else. There were cylindrical shaped items spinning on the large machine resembling hot dogs. The odd colored meat filled casings dripped juices that sizzled from it’s ingredients reacting chemically to the metal surfaces they rested upon rather than the temperature of the actual item itself. I swear, one of the selections had a ‘skull and cross bones’ label concerning it’s consumption. The florescent orange sign was posted on the machine, warning you not to get any of the drippings from the item in any open wounds, cuts (I guess it was a regular happening in Louisiana) or in your eyes! This same spinning object was a shade of Red or Pink I had never seen before or since and one I’m sure must have been a by-product of some abandoned NASA experiment. Maybe because the color didn’t show up in any color spectrum in our known galaxy. I guess if you were going to offer a food item that might kill you post consumption, coloring it the alarmingly reddish-pinkish-ish hue these death dogs were colored might serve as a warning of sorts. That is, if the skull and cross bones didn’t work sufficiently, or you were deaf, blind and mute and void of nasal membranes or tastebuds. Typical of most stores in Louisiana, this one sold live bait and I noticed the crickets closest to the Skull and cross bones Red Devil sausage were all dead. My curiousity got the best of me and I picked up one of the Red Devils (It was what they were called) with the rusty steel tongs closest to the machine and smelled it, just for the sake of smelling it, like a fool. Let me tell you my eyes watered for a good hour and fifteen minutes just from getting that sausage too close to an olfactory gland hooked to my body. It was like snorting chinese hot mustard then needing commercial grade Visene (available in every college town I have visited) to clear your eyes of the reddish glaze late night activities without sleep usually brought. I should note here that I figured out why the bait crickets died closest to the hot dog machine. Someone used the same tongs to grab the crickets for bait and the juice from the death sausage killed them.

I dared Brian to eat one of the same cricket-killing-tong-rusting Red Devil sausages from Hell and like the fool my friend was agreed. He managed to get it in the bun and to the counter, holding it like it would bite him before he bit it, awaiting whatever fate might be dealt him for taking the challenge. I will say right now, although Brian bit it first, it would definately bite his ass back later on that evening. “You gonna eat that mister?” the rode hard and put-up harder woman asked Brian from behind the counter. She was partially hidden in a haze of gray cigarette smoke, standing with one hand on her hip and one eye half closed from the dark colored ‘Cigarillo’ style half cigarette/half cigar she filtered her breathing air through. The Cigarillo eminated smoke that seemed to flow towards the half-closed eye regardless of how she turned her head and it made her look pissed off when she addressed Brian or breathed. The Cheroot she toked opon bobbed up and down as she spoke and the falling ashes kept time with her words, fluttering white specs on top of the counter like some snow globe scene gone way wrong. “I had considered it” Brian said with a confidence that was misguided at best and fueled by youthful pride and a self proclaimed cast iron stomach. “Listen Sweetie, I’ll make a deal with you, if you’ll just throw that thing back on the rotisserie, or the trash, we’ll call it even and I won’t charge you for it…trust me, you’ll thank me later”. She said it with the confidence of someone who had witnessed the carnage that one of the frighteningly reddish-pinkish death dogs would surely bring to it’s unwitting consumer. Brian looked at me as if my words of approval were the only key to his needing permission to put the well done Red Devil Death Dog back where it came from thus bypassing the experience altogether. I was going to give him that permission, and even had the words formed in my brain running to the downspout of my mouth. When I opened my cake hole the only thing that came out was:

“You pussy”.

Brian purchased the scary sausage ‘thing’, grabbing two packs of the tiny spicy mustards and a splash of Tabasco Sauce, along with our other items then made his way confidently towards the door. “Honey” the cashier aimed at me, “I put one of those on the rotisserie every day and at the end of the day I throw it away…even the locals won’t eat those damn things. One kid ate one on a bet and was hospitalized for burns to his exit chute when it finally clawed it way out”. She continued, “I wear rubber gloves when I take one frozen out of the box, in the cooler, so I won’t get any of the juice on my skin. I also turn my head away when I walk it over to the cooker and shield it with my other hand just for good measure. Its June, and if he doesn’t throw it back it’ll be the second one I’ve sold this year, the first being to the kid I told you about earlier with the scorched plumbing”. She finished by saying, matter of factly, “He’d be safer to just go to the bathroom, sit on the toilet, and just drop it strait into the bowl bypassing all the trouble his digestive system will give him for eating that awful thing”. For a brief second, and it was brief, I thought I might go and warn Brian not to consume the Red Devil and we’d just call it even. I would even retract the ‘you pussy’ statement that brought him to the inglorious state he would soon find himself in (he didn’t know it yet but he would be in a most inglorious state and that right soon). “Nah, Brian likes spicy food” was all I could muster, snickering as I turned and walked towards the door.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned” was all I heard as the glass door closed behind me.

As I walked towards the car I noticed Brian taking a big ole honkin’ bite of that Red sausage death dog thing colored by the blood of the Devil himself. “Oh Shit” was all I had…

the story continues…

copyright Jim Hall 2010

I had a cottage industry going from filling out tardy and missed class forms, then forging professors and teachers signatures on those forms, concerning grades and attendance our coach distributed twice a quarter while we were in season. I made ten bucks for each forged signature and fifteen each if the instructor had a doctorate degree IE ‘Dr. Green’ or ‘Dr. Assenholen’. I justified the 50% higher fee by stating the risk I was taking by forging a doctor’s signature, a crime only a step below forging a fake prescription. It was all BS, but it worked, and I prospered because of the positive cash flow generated from my forgeries. My forgeries were spot-on and never questioned by any coaching staff or administrator charged with reviewing and approving such documents. I did have a competitor on another floor do some cheap knock-off signatures, but he sustained injuries after his low rent forgeries were found out by the school’s administration. He got worked over by two members of the track team that year for his transgressions and came to know personally that you shouldn’t make a discus thrower and a shot putter, on steroids, look stupid. Getting the boys in trouble due to your discount, low quality forgeries might get your legs broke. I generally only provided the service to the football team, the baseball team occupying the forth floor east opposite us, and most of the golf team. The golf boys always had money and got a five dollar surcharge, just because I heard one time golf was a thinking man’s sport, and I thought they ought to pay more. The attendance/tardy program, implemented by Bradshaw, was an outward attempt to keep all football eligibility intact, at least on the surface. It was an effective deterrant, but it was also the only the way a candidate for the “get off my bus” club was chosen once and sometimes twice a year, so somebody was walking home.

I knew in my heart Bubba was not going to last much longer in the football program Bradshaw stood watch over. Bubba was the type of guy that just went along with any deal until it pissed him off, he’d say “screw it” then move on to the next thing regardless of what it might be. He was a sophomore my senior year and we had racked up eight wins so far that year, we were going to play an opponent that we could beat handily meaning the stage was set for the ‘put off’ we had all eagerly anticipated. When the buses momentum began to slow I knew immediately something was up as I never slept when we were traveling. Sleeping made me tired and sluggish and I just didn’t like to sleep before a game, so I’d pass the time reading. The night was made for sleeping in my opinion, and sometimes it was for staying up all-night, but not sleeping in the day was a rule I rarely broke and this day was no exception. I was in the very back of the bus and Bubba (the subject Bubba, not any of the three others) was in the seat in front of me, snoring like he was in a competition to see who could sleep the longest and loudest. As the bus slowed I nudged him awake telling him to be prepared as the ax was about to fall on someone. I didn’t know for sure who get their walking papers but I knew it wasn’t me. I never violated any rules, overtly at least, and my attendance was perfect in every class, at least as far as the coaching staff knew. When the bus driver made his full stop ending with the whooshing sound of air exiting the brake system, Coach Bradshaw waited for a good thirty seconds before he left his seat, He’d then get up out of his front seat and eyeball every player up and down the isles before he made his calculated power play. He’d have the driver turn up the interior lights so every player could see him and anxiously wait for the verdict to be read. Their had not been one single player that hadn’t violated his rules, in some form or fashion, as they were too numerous to avoid. Any player, regardless of their goody two-shoes status, unintentionally violated one of Bradshaw’s rules at least four to five times a day. It was like being blindfolded and being required to successfully walk in a mine field for your daily bread. It was any man’s guess as to who might get the privilege to walk back to Troy that day but I just knew Bubba was the guy. Bradshaw gave his standard “this is going to hurt me considerably more than it might hurt you” speech, choking up like a seasoned actor reaching a perfectly timed and much rehearsed scene. He then followed the charade with a few seconds silence before he nailed the coffin shut. The time had arrived…

“Bubba Mueller” Coach Bradshaw said in an elevated and irritated tone, like he’d just revealed the results in a voted upon contest. “Right here dude” Bubba replied from the back of the bus Jeff Spicoli style, reminding me of when the pizza guy showed up in Mr. Hand’s class in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” to deliver the surfer dude his pie. Bubba’s reply and style of delivery did not sit well with Coach Bradshaw and he challenged him to use a more refined tone when addressing him. “Use respect when you address me son” he said with his much used Drill Instructor voice. Bubba just sat there and didn’t say a word, never breaking eye contact with the man that held his short term plans in his hands. “Son you need to exit the bus for missing curfew numerous times and numerous other team violations you have accrued over the past eight weeks”…silence…”did you hear me Bubba?” more silence. Bradshaw walked quickly halfway towards the back of the bus as a way of showing Bubba he really really meant what he said (a vital part of the charade). His agressive style was akin to challenging Bubba to a physical contest and one our coach might surely come out on the losing end of. “Bubba Mueller get your ass up out of your seat and exit this bus”…more silence. “Or what, you’re gonna throw me off you worn out old son-of-a-bitch?” Bubba shouted as he sprang out of his seat and headed for Bradshaw like he was going to turn him inside out. Instantly, the assistant coaches all jumped up from their seats and bolted towards the back like movie extras coached to hit a well timed mark. “Bubba Mueller I know you are upset but rules are rules and…” Bubba cut him off mid sentence “”take your rules and stick them right up your ass you fucking bastard!” I was speechless along with the rest of the riders on the bus. “Move your dried up ass back and let me pass” he said, not moving until Bradshaw exited the bus, giving Bubba a clear passage to disembark. Those of us that had money handed Bubba cash as he exited, as a means of helping him make it back to Troy or wherever he planned to go that day. We all watched him leave the bus sticking his bird finger right in the face of our head coach as he passed by, just to seal the deal.

“I guess Bubba didn’t like getting woke up” one of my teammates said half joking, half ironic. I wanted to laugh my ass off and was duly impressed by the wit and timing of that particular morsel of comedy. I kept my amusement to myself however and was certain any peeps from the peanut gallery might quickly get Bubba a walking partner.

We kicked the butt of our opponent that weekend, but not before Bradshaw accused me of being a poor influence on Bubba, stating that he (Bubba) would not have confronted his authority in such a gregarious manner if I’d taken him under my wing like a ‘good senior would have’. What he didn’t know was Bubba was a loosely contained forest fire and any illusion of control by any authority figure was just that…an illusion. I agreed with Coach Bradshaw concerning all the counts he accused me of that day concerning Bubba just to be patronizing. He even threatened to make me walk home just because I agreed with him and I decided that was also fine with me too. Bubba had single handedly embarrassed our Head Coach in front of God and the entire team. That reality meant collateral damage would ensue in the form of more threats and reprisals if any additional violations of his numerous rules occurred, perceived or otherwise. I knew if he sent me packing that meant his starting nose guard and his starting left tackle would be busy walking home and not playing the game our scholarships required of us both. The odds of a loss loomed considerably larger when two pieces of the defensive puzzle went missing due to some strange power play, enacted semi-annually as a way to show young men “who’s the boss”. The black players had the “Cullman All-Steak” intimidation twice a year and the white players had the “walk home from here” intimidation twice a year. Bubba had single handedly changed the rules when he stepped off the bus that day late in the season. Bubba didn’t go back to Troy that weekend, he walked to a nearby gas station and called a friend to come pick him up, staying gone for nearly two weeks. The NCAA came down on Coach Bradshaw like a ton of bricks for that stunt with TV news crews and newspaper reporters camping outside our field house awaiting some sort of verdict as to Bubba’s whereabouts. Bubba eventually was heard from, purposely missing the last game and basically telling Coach Bradshaw to shove it up his ass in a way no one had done before or since. That incident and numerous others spelled the end of Bradshaw’s tenor at Troy and no-one was saddened by the loss, but many sent letters saying they approved. I saw Bubba one last time when he came by and picked up his stuff from the dorm room we shared and he filled me in on his trip and the circumstances surrounding it. He told me point blank he was going to flunk out that year. Bradshaw’s power play was a perfect way of telling the empire Bradshaw had erected with wins, but maintained with fear and intimidation, to just “F OFF” as he liked to put it. Bubba said he called his parents and told them both where he was and what he was doing, both of them overseas with the military, meaning he had no one to be immediatly accountable to. He told me half jokingly that if Bradshaw was going to stick it to him he was going to return the favor in spades. Bubba said he hung out with a buddy of his that attended another college and stayed wasted, enjoying college for the first time since he signed up.

That stunt, in conjunction with numerous other violations spelled the end of Bradshaw’s reign at Troy. It was probably for the best anyhow as I thought Coach Bradsahw had tired of the three ring circus he called a coaching job. Bradshaw did well after his Troy days as his life long buddy and close friend Paul W. ‘Bear’ Bryant arranged for him to be the general manager at the Ebro Dog track near beautiful Tuscaloosa, Alabama and home of the Alabama Crimson Tide. Rumor was Bear left a generous stake in Golden Flake Potato chips to Coach Bradshaw and he lived a privileged life for the rest of his days. I spoke to my Coach via telephone, when he was ultimately confined to a nursing home later in years and grasping at life, lamenting to me about the numerous mistakes he made during his time there. He surprisingly acknowledged his regrets surrounding the ill timed ‘All-Steak’ trips and the bus incidents. His mind was still sharp in his last years, he rattled off my statistics, my home town, and my parent’s names almost twenty years after I had played for him. He even asked me to forgive him concerning the way he treated me, and I of course did and still do. I still maintain he is one of the five top influences in my life and still maintain that fact to this day. I know now that I needed a man like Charlie Bradshaw to keep me “in the rows”, as my Dad used to call it, referring to a stubborn mules desire to stray off the neatly laid out rows destined for crops to be planted in. I needed a Marine Corps Drill instructor and a full Psychology Major to guide me and Bradshaw was that man. I’m thankful for that now.

“Damn” was all Brian said as we continued to walk…I could see the sun starting to show its first signs on the eastern horizon. We still had a ways to go…”My turn” Brian said…

Copyright Jim Hall 2010