Cream of the Crop 11/Cream of the Crop 11-1.iso/faq/df9601g.zip/1R

Text File | 1996-01-01 | 13KB | 243 lines

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  THE DYSFUNCTIONAL YEARS
    by Jerry W. Davis
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    "Eat them beans, wear them jeans, I'm a little welfare boy,"
  Chuckie Johnson boastfully proclaimed; sticking his middle-finger
  toward the heavens. We scampered down the alley of homelessness,
  while the smell of poverty and despair assailed our senses. We cut
  our way through the grey curtain of pollution from the steel mills
  of the southern suburbs of Chicago and neighboring Indiana.

    Two friends we were, both the age of ten, living in poverty in
  the land of the dollar bill. The best of friends in the worst of
  times. We were children, to our parents we were expected to provide
  as adults. Chuckie and I had much in common: welfare and poverty.

    Chuckie was a stocky, freckled-faced, red-headed hick from
  Kentucky. His teeth bigger than last year's Kentucky Derby winner.
  He sure could do major damage to corn on the cob.

    It was a day liken to the others; the smell of mildew and
  urine creeped up our noses, like sewer rats we rummaged trash bins
  for a piece of the American pie; apple pie I hoped. We were glad to
  be outside, for a thunderstorm threatened to ravage our city,
  dampening our hopes for Saturday, our day off from school. Saturday
  not a day of viewing cartoons, but a day of escape from the heated
  torture chamber of apartment dwelling. A day of no fighting with
  rodents over food, or fending off overgrown roaches wanting your
  socks.

    Slowing our pace a bit we searched the alley for coins; looking
  odd as we stooped, like two hunch-backs, as our stomachs produced
  sounds heard for city blocks. We knew the alley behind the barf
  burger joint would contain loose change. The greasy spoons produced
  or induced indigestion, as the patrons, many attempting to eat their
  way to sobriety, would exit via the alley to upchuck their meals.
  After eating food not fit for human consumption, stomachs and bowels
  are emptied in the alley, as well as pockets of loose change.
  Chuckie and I shared views and French fries bought with the found
  coins.

    As the day would narrow, as well as our throats from thirst,
  we would venture to Chuckie's apartment; his family owned a
  television. I still remember the first impression of Chuckie's
  parents; an atypical displaced family from Kentucky who lived off
  the taxpayers and were said to be kin to Jed Clampette. I believe
  the family shared the same brain to conserve on thinking. Chuckie's
  mom was the first I met, Thelma Johnson; she appeared to be a taste
  tester for a pizza chain. She was a woman of much stature, huge in
  diameter; seldom moved unless necessary, it was seldom necessary.
  You could tell what she had for lunch by examining her attire;
  chili dogs I guessed, for chili and mustard stains occupied the
  black stretch pants three sizes too small. Chuckie thought the size
  of his mother was comical; he joked his mom once cut a whole in a
  sheet and wore it as a blouse.

    As I entered the shabby, rundown abode called an apartment with
  Chuckie, Thelma lay basking on what used to be a couch, picked from
  the alley, having only three legs. A wooden block held up one end
  of the couch as Thelma held down the other. Thelma's hair was dyed
  yellow, the smell of bleach lingered. Although in her late thirties
  she looked older, her hair thinning and falling out. No longer a
  picture of beauty, she appeared to have given up on life; she took
  little care of herself; sneaking up on a mirror to see who was once
  the fairest. Looking back, years of hard mountain living and city
  poverty took toll. Carrying much ugly baggage around, you look for
  a place to lay it down.

    Chuckie introduces me to his mother; she nods unable to speak
  for she is indulging in what appears to be a fifty-pound bag of
  potato chips. And as the crumbs tumble to the lint infested black
  couch, a roach jumps from Thelma's shoulder to retrieve the
  morsels. Thelma Wipes grease from her fingers on her stained
  blouse; missing a button due to extremely large udders. My mouth
  waters with anticipation, figuring she'd offer a handfull of the
  nasty chips; she never offers.

    Thelma motions for Chuckie to fetch another six-pack of Tab
  cola; a revolutionary new soda with only two calories per bottle
  and without the taste. She opens the first bottle inhaling sixteen
  ounces nonstop. Suddenly it sounds as though the thunderstorm had
  returned as Thelma expels air from the top end and gas from the
  bottom; the roar shook the dwelling. She held the bottle in the air
  marveling she could eat all she wanted and lose weight drinking
  this miracle brew; believing diet Tab her cure all.

    The roar was a bit too much, awakening Chuckie's dad; he jumps
  out of bed having slept the day; wondering if God had returned
  rapturing the church.

    Delbert was a man in his forties; of small stature; long
  sideburns and hair a shoe-dyed jet black; slicked back with some
  form of lard; he resembled Elvis, an ugly Elvis. Delbert walked
  with a cane, Chuckie informed me he only used the cane when he
  reports to the welfare office; claims he has a bad back.

    I would spend Saturday afternoons with Chuckie and his family,
  as all would gather round the used black and white television; the
  picture would roll as Delbert would move the coat hanger covered
  with foil to get better reception. The Johnsons' were into
  professional wrestling; on one occasion I remember Thelma becoming
  upset as the bad wrestlers were whipping up on the good wrestlers.
  She began yelling profanities, clenching her fists, and shaking
  them at the television. Suddenly she jumps from the couch, the
  atomic bomb thud rattles the environment as she makes way to the
  television, driving a metal popcorn bowl through the picture
  screen. All took cover as the explosion shattered glass and debris
  throughout the living room.

    Another adventure worth mentioning was the time Chuckie invited
  me to go to church with his family. There was an empty storefront
  below Chuckie's apartment which was used as a church; the church
  folks were called "Holy Rollers." Chuckie thought the reason for
  the visit was to get a free food basket, maybe money. We watched
  from the upstairs window as the church members brought several
  black boxes resembling cages into the storefront church.

    We began making way downstairs to the church as Thelma throws a
  book at Chuckie's little snot-nosed sister; standing in the hallway
  picking her nose and wiping on the sleeve of her hand-me-down yellow
  smoked stain dress; two sizes too small. Telling her to get the lead
  out of her unleaded behind.

    Clomping behind was Delbert with his cane; I hoped he was sober
  and would not fall onto us. At the bottom of the stairs all wait as
  Delbert was the first to enter the church. We are greeted at the
  door by the pastor; as with most sinners we take our place in the
  back row of the church.

    The service opens as the lanky, aged, holly-roller pastor
  announces to the church there are visitors tonight and souls need
  be saved. Several musicians began playing guitars, a drum, and a
  tambourine. As the songs continue the volume becomes louder, the
  crowd reacts, waving their arms and speaking in foreign languages.
  Soon several are in the isle, dancing in a jerking motion; much
  like voodoo. As their bodies twitched, the anorexic preacher began
  hollering things about Jesus. The Chuck Berry style gospel music
  increases to the level of creating deafness.

    The preaching continues and several older ladies make their way
  to the front and are slapped upside their heads by the pastor.
  Suddenly they wither to the floor; blankets are placed over them so
  as to cover their nakedness. Who'd want a beaver-shot of these gals,
  most over sixty? I thought the preacher was crazy and the rest were
  fools. Chuckie and I giggled as the pastor scampers to the pulpit
  proclaiming the Lord was there. Looking around the church, I didn't
  see a person fitting the description.

    The pastor stomps his feet, telling the members there were
  sinners in their midst. He looks toward the back of the church
  straight at Delbert and Thelma, wondering if they were prepared
  to meet Jesus?  Delbert became squirmish, knowing the way to heaven
  was in the building; he wanted the hell outta there. The service
  went too long for Delbert; he didn't want religion, he wanted a
  handout.

    All had moved to another isle, except Delbert who stood his
  ground. Hoping the service would end and he would go his merry way
  with a picnic basket. The end came sooner than thought as the pastor
  informs Delbert no food would be given until they prayed with him.
  He asked the other members to go to the rear of the church to help
  Delbert make a decision about Christ.

    The members surrounded Delbert in the rear seat as he attempted
  his escape; left to fend for himself. Delbert eventually gives in,
  allowing the members to drag him to the front of the church before
  the alter. Delbert's cane slides across the floor as he wipes specks
  of blood from his elbow; a rug-burn from the carpet in front of the
  pulpit.

    The pastor then says; "The Lord saved whores and he will save
  you brother Delbert. Accept the power of the Holy Ghost; take up
  a serpent; fear nothing poison."

    Delbert closed his eyes waiting for the circus to end. The
  pastor asks the members to lay their hands on Delbert and pray for
  his back to be healed. He instructed others to fetch the boxes from
  beneath the rear of the alter as the musicians began playing faster
  and louder. The crowd became even more agitated and frenzied.

    Delbert was unaware of events as many laid hands upon him and
  the music was pre-Hendrix. The pastor opened the black boxes or
  cages dumping the contents on the floor behind Delbert. The pastor
  began handing them out to his flock. As Delbert wheeled around, he
  almost fainted as he saw an assorted collection of copperheads and
  other rattlesnakes. Either it was the fear of the Lord or survival
  of the unfittest, Delbert began stomping the floor with his narrow
  pointed boots, which he used to kill cockroaches in corners,
  smashing the heads of the snakes. He reached for his cane and began
  chopping the snakes as he would use a hoe on a garden, nonstop
  until all were slain.

    As Delbert was about to turn on the preacher and his flock with
  the cane, the police had arrived and arrested Delbert for disturbing
  the peace and attempted assault.

    Growing up during the early sixties in the Chicagoland area
  and having friends like Chuckie made for an interesting childhood.
  Growing up -- life changes, unfortunately, history is made and all
  good and bad things must come to an end. Delbert was killed by a
  jealous husband and Thelma moved the family back to Kentucky. Thirty
  years later I moved back to West Virginia. I had not seen nor heard
  from Chuckie during the years. I was working as a reporter for a
  one-horse town newspaper along the border across the river from
  Kentucky. I was assigned to cover the Senatorial election of
  Eastern Kentucky, the coal fields; an area of importance to all
  concerned.

    As I made my way to the campaign headquarters I noticed the
  sign outside, the candidate's name was Chuckie Johnson. I didn't
  think nothing of the name until I met the candidate.

    "Eat them beans, wear them jeans, I'm gonna be a little Senator
  boy," proclaimed Chuckie Johnson, as he high-fived me.

                                 (DREAM)

  Copyright 1995 Jerry W. Davis, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  --------------------------------------------------------------------
  Jerry's a novice writer of fiction and humor looking for continuing
  publication. He writes about life experiences with a sociological
  slant, he has a BA in Sociology. He finds much humor in rural life
  and enjoys writing about his WV roots and about deviant groups.
  Surprisingly, you can even email Jerry: [e-mail]
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