Harley This is a short story I wrote a number of years ago for submission. It is not part of the Purville stories.

Tom Smith @ 1,111 words

2575 East Captain Dreyfus  Tom Smith 1995

Phoenix, Arizona 85032

Telephone (602) 971-2654

HARLEY

A Short Story by

Tom Smith

HARLEY/T. Smith 1

Harley

He was the biggest, ugliest, meanest looking sonofabitch I had ever seen. And he was mad. Mad at me. A big, ugly, mean long-hair biker dude mad at me, and I’m just a mousy little teacher. Teach creative writing at the local college to little old ladies who want to write romance novels and pimple-faced kids who want to write the great American novel.

How’d I know he was mad at me? He growled. Sounded like a pit bull with a toothache. I looked at his woman, Motorcycle Mommas, I think they’re called. It wasn’t a lustful look. I had just never seen a woman like that, close up, that is. She wore a black leather vest and trousers. She had nothing on under the vest that I could see but tattoo’s.

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One said, “Eat me!”. Another, “Harley-Davidson. I was born to be rode.”

I saw their bike parked at the curb when I came into the bar. It was as big and mean looking as the owner. I used to ride a bike when I was in college. It was a Honda 90. Nothing like the big Harley hog parked in front of Bailey’s Bar and Lounge.

I had stopped at Bailey’s on my way home from my Thursday evening teaching session. I had heard that on Thursday nights they had poetry readings by local poets. Though I earned my living teaching and selling an occasional piece of fiction -- two novels, and several short stories to magazines -- my passion was poetry. I had written poetry since my high school days, but nothing that was ever published, except in those little chap books where they publish your poetry without a fee, but they sell the books for ten or fifteen dollars and they know you’re gonna buy five or six to give to your friends.

I had brought several of my poems with me, tucked away in my jacket pocket. Maybe, just maybe, if things worked out, like several others read theirs and they weren’t much better than what I had to offer, I’d get up and read.

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Now, I wasn’t sure. The biker dude had scared the hell outa me. I wasn’t sure if the wetness on my right trousers leg was draft beer I had spilled from the mug I was consuming, or perspiration, or what. Hopefully, they would leave before the readings began.

The two sat at the bar at a right angle to where I was sitting. The dude shot menacing glances at me if I allowed my eyes to focus in their direction. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but I had the feeling he was saying, “This bitch is mine. Don’t even think about it, or you’ll be dead.”

Hell, I didn’t want his woman. She scared me almost as much as he did. She was heavy, close to two hundred pounds or so, straight black hair that hadn’t been seen a brush or comb in weeks, yellow teeth and what appeared to be a diamond ear stud embedded in her left nostril.

The bar wasn’t particularly crowded, maybe twenty or twenty-five patrons. Most looked like college kids. A few coffee-house types -- mid or late thirties, but still going to school without any educational goal in mind.

The bar lights dimmed and a spot light lit the small stage in the corner. A slim beanpole blonde in a long

HARLEY/T. Smith 4

shapeless dress took the stage. She had a guitar slung over her shoulder. She pulled a stool in front of the microphone and sat down. “Testing.” Shriek. “Test. Test.” Shriek.

The bartender turned some knobs behind the bar.

“Testing.” No shriek. She strummed the strings and slapped the wood of the guitar several times. “My name is Melony and my poem is entitled, Blue.”

She rambled words that made absolutely no sense. At the end of each sentence she strummed and slapped the guitar again. Twenty or so sentences and twenty or so strums and slaps and she stood up to receive a polite applause.

Jesus Christ! My poems would sound like Robert Browning compared to hers. Maybe I would get up after all.

An emaciated man with a heavy black beard dressed in tattered jeans and a sweatshirt with cut-out arms climbed to the stage next. “My name is Soloman Judas John and my poem is entitled, Circumcision of the Mind.” He stared a full minute at the ceiling, then began. “Aughhh! Aughhh! Fuckin’ earth! Fuckin’ universe! Aughhh! Aughhh!”

I nearly fell from my bar stool. Poetry? He rambled on for four or five minutes with nothing more profound than Aughh! Fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that.

HARLEY/T. Smith 5

He received a rousing applause from the gathering.

Several minutes passed without another reader taking the stage. I girded my loins. I would take the stage and read Wild Flower. It was the favorite of my poems.

As I started to rise, the Motorcycle Momma stood and approached the stage. Dude shot me another ferocious frown. God! Now what? I said to myself. Momma would probably get up on the stage and defecate. That would be the end of poetry reading for the night.

She sat on the stool and pulled the microphone to her lips. In the sweet voice of an angel she said,” My name is Evangaline and my poem is entitled, My Life.”

In wondrous rhyme and rhythm she related the story of her life. How remarkable. How sublime. This slob of womanhood, this fat, gross motorcycle straddling strumpet laid siege to my heart and soul. Her appearance changed before me. She was the Madonna. Helen of Troy. Guinevere.

Her voice was music, accompanied by heavenly harps and golden muted trumpets. It was not just poetry, but a true religious experience.

“And this dear folk, is My Life.”

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The entire room erupted into loud applause, whistles, stamps of feet.

She lowered her head. “Thank you.” She eased from the stool and walked to the bar where her escort waited. A broad smile crossed his lips. It was directed at me. Together, they left the bar, hand in hand.

A moment later, the deep-throated roar of the big Harley shook the window glass. A few revs and they were away. The pitch changed as the second and third gears were grabbed.

No one else in the bar made a move toward the stage. There was a strange hush over the group. I ordered another beer.

God! I want a Harley!

- The End -

Ol' Mose

OL’ MOSE

No one knew the age of Ol’ Mose, and he probably didn’t either. He had worked at the County Court House for as long as most people could remember. He was tall, slim and gangly, with long arms and huge hands, and was as black as a lump of coal. He was a “colored folk” but that was not the term used in Purville in those days. Though Ol’ Mose daily swept and cleaned the men’s and ladies’ toilets in the Purchase County Court House, he had to walk three blocks to the bus station to find a colored restroom to relieve himself, and it was dark, fetid and devoid of running water with which to wash.

Mose didn’t mind walking the three blocks to urinate, but with his advancing age he sometimes had a difficult time holding his water. More than once he had wetted his long-johns, which he wore winter and summer.

Mose’s wife had died fifteen years earlier when a fever hit the area. A lot of colored folk had died, and even some white. No one knew for sure what the disease was; they just called it the “fever,” but it hit the colored community harder than the white.

Mose had three grown sons, all educated in the small colored school south of town. They lived in Detroit now, all of them. One, the youngest, had even graduated from college and worked for General Motors in the design department. The other two also worked for General Motors on the assembly line. They were all married, had children, and they prospered in a city where the primary industry was unionized, and the union didn’t care if you were white, black or green. As long as you paid your union dues, you drew union wages, and it didn’t matter what color you were, you could pee in any toilet you wanted.

Mose visited the boys each summer for a week. They sent him a bus ticket and met the bus at the terminal when it arrived. The big city frightened Mose. It was crowded, jammed with cars and trucks and people, and all seemed to be in a big hurry to go somewhere. He was amazed to see white folk and colored folk working together, living together, eating in the same restaurants, riding in the same bus seats.

With each visit the boys would urge him stay and live with one of them. He wouldn’t have to work. He could play checkers and dominos all day if he wanted. Those were his favorite pastimes. But Mose would not. Purville was his home, where he was born and raised. Purville was where he married his wife and buried her in the small colored cemetery south of town. Purville was where he raised his family and where he worked. His job was important, though most would scoff at his janitorial labor at the Purville County Courthouse. He treasured his meager wages which put all of his sons through school and one through college. It paid for the small plot of land and the house he owned just outside the city limits south of Purville. It paid for the even smaller plot of land where he buried his wife. Purville was his home and would always be his home.

 

Mose rapped lightly on the Men’s restroom door. “This is Ol’ Mose. Anyone in there?”

No answer.

Mose opened the door, hung his cleaning sign on the outside knob of the door, and pulled a cleaning cart inside. He flushed each of the three urinals and two commodes and then poured pine-scented fluid in each. With a brush, he scoured the ceramic bowls and troughs. He poured a small amount of the liquid on a rag and carefully cleaned the exteriors. Next he cleaned the mirrors and finally began to swab the floor with a cotton mop.

Just then the urge hit Mose. He needed to pee, but he would first finish the mopping then make the three-block walk to the Greyhound Bus Station. He moved the mop back and forth covering every inch of the tile floor.

The urge hit again and there was wetness in his crotch. “Oh, my God!” he said. “Oh, my God!”

Mose opened the stall door to one of the commodes and entered, locking the door behind him. He unbuttoned his trousers and his long-johns, and with a sigh, let go a powerful stream of urine.

“Who’s in there?” a voice said.

Mose didn’t answer, but he cut short urinating and buttoned up his long-johns and trousers.

“I said, who’s that in there?”

“It’s jus’ me, sir. Ol’ Mose. I be cleaning the commode. You wants in here, sir?”

“Come out here right now!”

Mose flushed the commode and opened to door to find one of the court clerks standing there. It was the one named Wilbur. “Here you are, sir. All nice and clean. I jus been…”

“You were pissin’ in there, weren’t you? I could hear you pissin’. You weren’t cleaning nothin’.”

“No’sir. I jus’ been cleaning the commode.”

“Don’t be uppity with me, nigger.  You were pissin’ in a white folk’s toilet. You been pissin’ in here all the time, haven’t you? Better not lie to me, nigger.”

“No’sir. Jus’ this one time. That’s all I done.”

“You know better. This here toilet’s for whites. I’m gonna tell the judge and he’ll fire your black ass.”

“I’se mighty sorry, Mista Wilbur. I hadda go so bad. I jus’ couldn’t hold back. I only did it once. I ain’t ever gonna do it again.” The dam broke. Urine flooded Mose’s trousers running down his legs.

 

At 9:39 the next morning, a Greyhound bus departed the Purville station heading north toward Paducah. DETROIT was on the marquee above the windshield. Mose sat in the back seat of the bus on the right hand side, a space reserved for coloreds. As the bus crested the railroad overpass, Mose saw the city limit sign.

You are now leaving Purville, the friendliest town in Kentucky Hurry back

THE ALL AMERICAN BOY

 

The All American Boy, if there ever was one. Elwood Jones. Handsome, a smile that would melt the chill of the most chaste of virgins and  probably the best halfback ever to play football for the Purville Panthers. Need a quick six points? Hand or pass the football to Elwood and the chances were better than fifty percent he would score. A blind date? Same result.

Elwood was a Purville native, born, reared and educated in the little town in southwest Kentucky. He was raised by his mother and tutored by his older brother. His older brother would have been the best halfback to ever play for the Purville Panthers, but a little thing called World War II got in the way. His playing fields became the bloody battlegrounds of Europe.

Elwood not only charmed the female students at Purville High School but also the teachers – all except Edna Nolan. A combination of Cary Grant, Jimmie Stewart, Gary Cooper and Ronald Coleman couldn’t have charmed the English teacher at Purville High School. In her classes you got what you earned, nothing more and nothing less.

Bookwork was not Elwood’s forte. Football was. For all of his senior and junior years he was the go-to guy. His head fakes and quick cuts became legendary in the Western Kentucky Conference. Opposing coaches built their defenses for the Purville games just to stop him and not very effectively. And when they did manage to stop him for several plays the quarterback handed the ball to the other halfback, Ed Hensen, not as fast or elusive as Elwood but a quality halfback in his own right. Stack the defensive line and the Panther quarterback, Billy Joe Johnson simply took three steps back and threw the ball downfield to Chet McClusky, Purville’s six foot two inch All State end and star basketball player.

The 1949 Purville High School Yearbook pretty well spells out the accolades of Elwood Jones: Football Letterman 3 years, Football All State, Football Co-Captain, Letter Club President, Key Club, Best Looking and Most Ideal in the PHS Popularity Contest, Junior and Senior Homecoming King.

On a cold rainy November evening in 1947 while Purville played one of their most important football games of the year Elwood was not on the field. He and his mother stood alone under a single umbrella on a wooden platform at the Purville Railway Station awaiting the arrival of a casket carrying the remains of the other Jones boy. No newspapers cried aloud his achievements. No letter jackets, no trophies, just a Silver Star for gallantry, a Purple Heart, and a citation signed by President Harry S, Truman.

A serious knee injury his senior year prevented Elwood from playing football for a major university or any football career beyond. His success in life came later on as a manager for a large manufacturing company in Lexington. Elwood’s hero in life was not the myriad of college football players who went on to glory on the gridiron or in the professional ranks, but an older brother who would have been the greatest halfback ever at Purville High School had he not sacrificed his life for a greater cause.

Pone A'Bread

PONE A’BREAD

 

            Bully and Marge Clinton owned Bully’s Market, located on South Street in Purville. It was a small market but was favored by many residents over Kroger’s and the A & P for its fine cuts of meat. Bully was a butcher who knew his trade well. Marge was the cashier and was some fifteen or so years younger than Bully.

            Bully’s first wife, who had been the cashier, had died a number of years back from pneumonia.

            A brief ad in the help wanted section of the Purville Progress brought Margret Carter to Bully’s Market. She was nineteen years old and had worked at one of the clothing mills in Purville. He hired her on the spot and six months later added wife to her job title.

            Bully and Marge were happy and prospered in the little market. They had no children; it was not that they didn’t want children, but a medical problem prevented this from happening and in time they learned to live with this fact.

            Over the years they had always employed a Purville High School student to make deliveries and help out around the store, and in a way these boys became their children. The boys would work several afternoons a week after school and all day on Saturdays. Saturday was delivery day and Bully’s little 1936 Chevrolet panel truck was packed full of grocery bags destined for households in the city and nearby countryside.

            Following football season in November, 1948, the delivery job became Tommy Stone’s.

            Jack Dowdy, who had the job, was a basketball player and as the football season ended, the basketball season began and Tommy would not play basketball his senior year.

            Tommy was a conversationalist, though he probably couldn’t spell it. He could talk to anyone at any time about anything and make them think he knew what he was talking about. This was a trait that he had picked up from his grandfather, who had quite a reputation in Purville, and it served Tommy well. Within a few weeks of starting his delivery job at Bully’s, he garnered the favor of all the delivery customers…except one.

            That one was Pone A’bread. Her real name was Maude Carteridge. She

was ninety-three years old, blind for years, and resided alone in a small second floor room in a boarding house on South Ninth Street. A room she hadn’t left in years. She had outlived three husbands and two children. Her other children had moved a great distance away to a state that Maude could not remember, and they never visited.

            No one in Purville, at least in recent years, had seen Maude outside the boarding house. She sat there night and day, in an old oak rocking chair, awaiting the arrival of the Grim Reaper who, in truth, was probably afraid to approach her.

            Tommy had no warning. When he checked the grocery bag ready for delivery one simply said: Pone A’bread 409 S 9th, second floor right at the top of the stairs. The bag contained one loaf of bread and a tin of snuff.

            He made several deliveries on his way to Ninth Street. At the Campbell’s, Mrs. Campbell asked him how the new high school principal was working out.

            “Just fine, Mrs. Campbell. Everyone likes him.”

            At the Delaney’s, Joe Delaney asked how the football team would do next years with most of the good players graduating in May.

            “They’re gonna do just fine, Mr. Delaney. Got some real good juniors and sophomores coming up.”    

            At the address on South Ninth Street, Tommy retrieved the small bag containing one loaf of bread and a tin of snuff. He had never heard the term. Pone A’bread and had no earthly idea what it meant. It certainly wasn’t a person’s name.

            He entered the front door of the old two-story house with small bag clutched in his left hand. It was cold inside and smelled of dampness. Taking care, he climbed the stairs and knocked gently on the door at the top of the stairs. There was no response from inside, and he knocked again more loudly. He heard an unintelligible sound from inside so he opened the door slightly and knocked again.

            “Who’s here?” someone cackled.

            “It’s your groceries from Bully’s, Mrs…” Tommy looked again at the bag in his hand. “…Mrs. Bread.” The room reeked of stale urine.

            “Tarnation! What’s your name, boy?”

            “Tommy, ma’am. Tommy Stone. From Bully’s Market.”

            “Come ‘round har so you can see me, boy.”

Tommy walked around the rocking chair and stood in front of the woman. Her face was leathered and the corners of her mouth turned down grotesquely. A brown drool dripped from the corners of her mouth. Her hair was thin, approaching baldness. A tattered shawl draped her shoulders, and a wool blanket covered her lap and legs.

“Watcha see, boy? Whatcha see?”

“Ma’am, I see a lady in a rocking chair.”

“Look at me, boy. Look hard. Look at my eyes.”

“Ma’am..I don’t…”

“I’m blind, cain’t you see? I ain’t got no eyeballs. They’ve done rotted out of the sockets. Did ya bring me my pone a’bread?”

“Yes, ma’am. There’s a loaf of bread…and a tin of…”

“A loaf? I always get a pone, not a loaf. Put it on the counter, boy, and git yerself out of har. I’m awaiting to die and I ain’t gonna do it whilst your standing there.”

Tommy put down the bag quickly and left. He had never seen such a hideous old woman in his life; he had never seen such a deeply etched frown.

Bully chuckled when Tommy told him about Pone a’Bread. “I didn’t tell you about her, son. She’s been a customer of mine for many years. Used to come to the store when she was younger, tapping along the aisles with her white cane. Squeezing the loaves of bread. Asking for a pone of bread.”

“I’ve never heard of a pone of bread before.” Tommy said.

“It’s what the old people call it or used to. So did I when I was a youngster. Over the years we just began to call her, Pone a’Bread instead of Mrs. Carteridge. She gets a loaf of bread ever’ Saturday morning. I always throw in a tin of snuff also.”

And, indeed, each Saturday morning Tommy would stop at the old house on Ninth Street, climb the stairs, and knock on the door and enter. He would place the bag containing the loaf of bread and the tin of snuff on the counter.

And each Saturday morning, Maud Carteridge would call him over. “Boy, come har. Tell me whatcha see?”

Tommy would look at the twisted old face, the turned down mouth with the brown drool, the thin wisps of white hair. “I see a beautiful lady who has lived a long life and is waiting now to join her family in heaven.”

Never a smile and always the same response. “Boy, yar as blind as I am. Git outa har.”

Tommy Stone continued to work for Bully until two weeks before his graduation from Purville High School. When he wasn’t making deliveries, Bully instructed him on the art and skill of butchering meat and wrapping it. In time Tommy made most of the cuts for deliveries unless, a customer asked Bully for a special cut.

On Saturday morning, May 7, 1949, Tommy made his last deliveries for Bully’s Market. Before starting the deliveries, Bully and Marge Clinton gave Tommy a gold Bulova wristwatch for his graduation. Another one of their adopted sons was about to leave on his journey of life.

Tommy altered his route this special Saturday, saving Pone A’Bread for last. It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when he climbed the stairs one last time. A gentle knock and he opened the door as always. What struck him first was the sweetness and not the rank odor he was used to smelling. The room was dark. He placed the bag on the counter and awaited his order to, “Come har, boy.” But no such demand was made. He walked to the front of the rocker and saw not the old twisted face. It was old but had lost some of the hardness. The edges of her mouth turned upward in a smile, no brown drool on  her lips. Tommy touched her hand and it was cold. He adjusted the shawl that had slipped from one shoulder and pulled the wool blanket up tightly around her. He placed her left hand over her right. He placed a gentle kiss on her cold cheek and left the room.

At the bottom of the stairs Tommy was greeted by Cletus Boyer, the owner of the old boarding house on South Ninth Street. “How’s old Pone a’Bread doing today, son?”

Tommy paused for a moment not knowing quite what to say. Finally he smiled. “She’s happy today, sir. Very happy, indeed.”

(This is a true story and I am that Tommy)