Milk Run

This story was originally written for a writing course I took at ASU. It was the only story the instructor read at the end of the course. He liked the story and said I should try to get it published but that I should change the title since it gave away the ending. The original title was, "In Extremis." I submitted it to a couple of publishers a literary magazine in Canada published. It was the first writing that I was paid for writing. I have change a few words and punctuations from the original to make it more readable/

This story appeared in Green’s Magazine Volume XIV, Number 4

 

Milk Run

Copyright Tom Smith 1986

 

            “Major, wake up. We’re about thirty minutes out.”

            Major Jim Tobias opened his eyes and yawned. He had not been in deep sleep. He stretched his lanky six-foot-two-inch frame, then slowly eased out of the flight deck bunk.

            After a sip of bitter, six-hour-old coffee from the thermos in the flight deck, he slipped into the pilot’s seat of the Air Force C-130E transport.

            Jim adjusted his seat belt and shoulder harness, then slid the seat forward to the position he favored for landings and takeoffs. The total darkness outside the aircraft was occasionally punctuated with slashes of lightning ahead and below their altitude. The instruments were lighted with a dim red glow to enhance night vision, too dim for Major Tobias. He leaned forward and adjusted the instrument lights to a brighter setting. He remembered his glasses tucked away in his flight bag – the glasses the flight surgeon had ordered him to wear, especially at night, for depth perception. He was not comfortable wearing the glasses and the glare they created bothered him. He would do without them for this landing.

            Jim only know began to realize how tired he was. The brief nap had not relieved him of the fuzziness he felt – the result of too many Martinis at Chuck’s of Waikiki the evening before. Why he had sat there with the young co-pilot and navigator, rolling dice and matching drinks, he did not know. Stupid! There was some façade he had to maintain, he, the old pro of the group, the leader. In his younger, fighter pilot days, flying the F-100s and 102s, he could have out-drunk them, out-flown them, out-anything they wanted to challenge him on, but the younger days were gone and so was his body’s ability to recover rapidly from the effects of alcohol.

            At forty-four, Jim was the oldest of the flight crew members. The only one close to him in years was Technical Sergeant Fred Blackmeir, the flight engineer. Slats Haney, the co-pilot was a kid, maybe twenty-three or –four, as was his navigator, John Grogan. The two enlisted loadmasters, Jim Dooley and Ron Garten, riding back with the cargo, were also youngsters.

            As a young fighter pilot, Jim Tobias had been a highly regarded and often evaluated as head-and-shoulders above his contemporaries. Had his eyesight not started to fail he would have continued in fighters. By now he would certainly have been a lieutenant-colonel. Without the keen eyesight required of fighter pilots he was transferred to multi-engine transports and assigned to the Military Airlift Command.

            Gone now were the career goals he had set early in his Air Force life – command of a fighter wing – bird colonel, and maybe ever a star on his collar before retiring. Now, with only two years to go to retirement, and no prognosis for advancement in rank, Major Tobias had one final goal in aviation: to survive. He would be careful. He would continue to do his job, fly his missions, train and monitor his crew. He still maintained that sense of duty, but he would do these ever so carefully and ever so cautiously.

            “What’s the weather at Wake?” Jim asked the co-pilot over the intercom.

            “Twenty-five hundred broken to overcast; thunderstorms in the area…occasional moderate to heavy rain showers.”

            “Okay, Slats. Typical Wake evening.”

            Slats! What a name for a fuzzy-cheeked second lieutenant with no more than five-hundred flying hours. This nickname belonged to some death-dealing jet fighter jock screaming from the skies with guns and rockets blazing, not to some wet-behind the ears co-pilot on a Military Airlift Command C-130 milk run.

            “Okay, Slats. I’ve got it. Look over the Wake Island approach plate. I’ll want you to call my headings and altitudes on the approach.”

            Jim took over control of the aircraft. He began to plan his approach to Wake Island. In a few minutes he would disengage the auto pilot and fly the approach manually. A lot of younger pilots preferred to fly the approach on auto pilot. Jim preferred the feel of the aircraft. In fact, it was about the only enjoyment left in this kind of flying.

            “What the hell are we doing at twenty-two thousand? I thought we were cleared at eighteen?” Although he had scanned the flight instruments several times since he had taken control of the aircraft, it was the first time he had taken notice of the altitude.

            “Air traffic control put us here about an hour ago, sir – some kind of conflict with a Pan Am flight.”

            “Damn it! Now I suppose they will leave us up here until we’re over station. Get us a clearance down.”

            The co-pilot keyed the microphone and transmitted. “Wake, Wake, this is MAC 37195. Flight level two-two, estimating Wake at four nine. Request descent and approach clearance…over.”

            The fire warning light on the number two engine flickered and went out.

            “Hey, Blackmeir, did you see that?” Jim turned to see if the flight engineer had heard him.

            The radio interrupted. “MAC 37195 is cleared to Wake Island VORTAC to hold northeast at five thousand…report flight level one eight, ten thousand feet and entering holding. Expected approach time is five-five. Expect further clearance as traffic permits…over.”

            “Did you copy the clearance, sir?”

            “Yeah, I got it. Did you see the number two fire warning light flicker…or am I imaging things?”

            “Yes, sir… just a second. I need to read back our clearance to Wake.”

            Jim eased the four engine throttles to the flight idle position. He placed his left hand on the control yoke and flicked off the auto-pilot with his right hand. He could sense the aircraft slowing. The ever-present sound of the air rushing by the flight compartment lowered its pitch. Jim flicked the elevator trim tab on the yoke three quick times to compensate for the change in airspeed. He waited, watching the airspeed indicator slowly unwind. At one hundred eighty knots he eased the nose over to maintain the descent airspeed.

The flight engineer slipped into the jump seat between the pilot and co-pilot seats.

            “Blackmeir, did you see the fire warning light on number two flicker?”

            “No sir, I didn’t. It did flicker several times earlier, while you were resting. The co-pilot told me.”

            The co-pilot spoke. “It did come on several times in rapid succession. It was dim but I could definitely see it.”

            “Well why in the hell didn’t someone call me? You know damn well I want to know when something like that happens.”

            “Sir, you were asleep,” Blackmeir replied. “I hated to wake you up. I’m sure it’s just moisture in the system. I had the same thing happen last month on this same plane…on a flight into Danang. Nothing came of it. I wrote it up but no one could find anything wrong.”

            “Okay. But understand me. When something like this happens again I want to know right away, whether I’m sleeping, eating or sitting on the crapper. Got it?”

            The airspeed had increased to one hundred-ninety knots. Jim eased back on the yoke to slow the aircraft to one-eighty. Lightning flashed across the sky ahead. The aircraft shuddered as it entered the tops of the towering cumulus clouds.

            “When we get this bird on the ground, Balckmeir, I want you to check it over top to bottom before we go up again, understand?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Jim put his full attention to flying the aircraft. The turbulence increased. He reached overhead and turned on the Fasten Seat Belt light as a warning to the two loadmasters in the cargo department.

 

            “Slats, go over the descent check list with Blackmeir. Looks like I’m going to have my hands full for a few minutes.”

            The plane lurched more violently. Rain pounded the skin of the aircraft. Eerie Saint Elmo’s Fire danced on the windscreen. The lightning was closer. Jim could hear the co-pilot and flight engineer conducting the descent check list. He kept his full attention on flying the aircraft. They had flown into a large cumulonimbus cell. The plane groaned and twisted and shuddered. Jim fought the controls to keep the wings level and some semblance of a descent. He should have detected the cell on the weather radar but the screen was so cluttered with return it was impossible to see individual cells. The lightning was blinding. Jim turned up the white instrument lights. To hell with the red lights and night vision, he needed to see the instruments clearly.

            The altimeter continued to decrease. Nineteen thousand…eighteen thousand. “Report flight level one eight, Slats…and report moderate to severe turbulence.”

            “Wake, MATS 3719 is out of flight level one eight, experiencing moderate to severe turbulence.” His voice had lost some of the professional coolness exhibited in earlier transmissions.

            “MAC 37195, this is Wake. Roger. Report ten thousand.”

            “Goddamn it! Now it’s on again,” Jim shouted. The number two fire warning light is on again! Any other indications?”

            “Yes, sir,” Blackmeir answered. “Now we’ve got a nacelle overheat light, a turbine inlet temperature light and a high oil temperature light – all of them”

            “Okay, let’s shut her down before the damn thing starts burning,” Jim called out the engine shutdown check-list from memory.

            “Fire Emergency Control Handle, number two.”

            “Pulled,” answered the co-pilot as he reached forward pulling the handle.

            “Engine Condition Lever, number two.”

            “Feather,” replied the co-pilot as he moved the lever full back to the feather position.

            “Fire extinguisher, number two.”

            “Wait a minute, goddamn it,” screamed the flight engineer. “Number one feathered…two’s still turning.”

            Jim focused on the engine control panel. The number one condition lever was in the feather position. Number two was still in the run position. “Damn it! You feathered the wrong engine. Take a look…see what you did. You feathered the wrong damn engine.”

            “Yes, sir.” The co-pilot swallowed hard. “Sorry, I…”           

“Hold everything,” Jim yelled. “Stop.” He wrestled the aircraft to a wings level position and slowed the descent. “Okay, now…let’s get this right or we are going to drop this big son-of-a-bitch right into the Pacific Ocean. Co-pilot, don’t touch anything else…hear me? Tell Wake we have a mayday and require immediate landing. “Blackmeir, put number two engine condition lever to feather. Shoot the fire extinguisher to number two and secure it.”

            “Mayday…mayday…mayday. This is MAC 37195. We’ve secured the number two engine…possible fire…”

            The aircraft commander interrupted. “We’ve secured the number two and the number one engines. We will attempt a re-start on number one. I want immediate approach and landing clearance…now!”

            Blackmeir continued feathering and securing the number two engine. “Number two is secured, Major. What are we going to do with number one?”

            With his attention fixed on the engine instrument panel, Jim had let the descent nearly to level out. The airspeed had dropped to one hundred fifty knots and he was drifting left of the VORTAC instrument approach course. Fly the airplane…fly the airplane, Jim told himself…above all else, fly the damned airplane! Let the crew handle the emergency. That’s what is supposed to happen in an emergency. But the young co-pilot had already screwed things up badly. He would have to count mainly on the flight engineer for assistance.

            Jim took a deep breath. “Okay, Blackmeir, let’s get a restart on number one. Do it by the checklist, step by step. Do it right.”

            Jim quickly reviewed the VORTAC instrument approach plate clipped to the yoke of the aircraft: headings, altitudes, checkpoints. Although he was familiar with the Wake approach, the quick review restored his confidence.

            “MAC 37195, this is Wake…roger your mayday. You are cleared immediately from your present position to the Wake Island airport. Advise when inbound from procedure turn. Break. All aircraft in the vicinity of Wake Island, we have an emergency in progress. Contact Wake on one-two-five-point five for further instructions.”

            They were dropping out of the clouds now. The turbulence, except for an occasional bump, subsided. Jim could see the lights of Wake Island below them – even see the runway lights. This wouldn’t be too bad after all. He would pay close attention to his flying…right on airspeed…right on altitude. The outbound leg of the approach would be like flying into an ink well with no horizon or outside visual reference, but he was a competent instrument pilot and had experienced numerous emergencies during his eighteen years of flying. This was simply one more…keep cool…fly the aircraft. He would laugh one day with his pilot friends over a dry Martini as he related this particular incident.

            The C-130 crossed over Wake Island VORTAC at twenty-eight hundred feet – a little higher than normal, but Jim could compensate for the extra altitude on the outbound leg of the approach.

            “Is number one back on yet, Blackmeir?”

            “No, sir. I think we lost it!”

            “What do you mean, lost it? Isn’t it turning?”

            “It came out of feather, sir…but I think it de-coupled.”

            “You mean that it is just wind milling out there?”

            The de-coupled propeller created a tremendous drag on the aircraft. Especially on an outboard engine. Now he could feel it. The plane was yawing to the left. It took his full strength to hold it straight. Jim shouted to the co-pilot. “Get on the rudder with me. Give me hard right rudder!”

            Jim struggled desperately to control the aircraft. The co-pilot’s panic rendered him useless. Jim banked sharply to the right, making an early procedure turn. At least he wasn’t turning into two dead engines. The altitude was approaching one thousand feet. Jim shoved the number three and four throttles to full power. The altitude dropped to eight hundred feet. He could see Wake Island ahead…the runway lights now were clearly visible.

            “Blackmeir, we won’t be able to lower the gear with one and two out. We’ll belly in. Yell at me if I get below one fifty on airspeed. Co-pilot, tell Wake we’re coming in gear up – and we can’t make a go-around.”

            The co-pilot did not respond.

            “Never mind! Blackmeir, alert the loadmasters over the PA for a crash landing.”

            Jim tried desperately to hold five hundred feet of altitude but the airspeed dropped to one hundred forty knots.

            “Sir,” Blackmeir cried out. “One forty!”

            “Yeah…damn it. I can’t hold altitude and maintain airspeed.”

            The yaw became more violent. It took all the strength that Jim could muster to hold the nose straight. They were drifting to the left of the runway, about a mile ahead of them.

            Jim could do no more. He had applied all the flying skills he possessed. Coaxed every foot of altitude, every knot of flying speed he could.

            “Not now…damn it…not now!” He pushed the right rudder as hard as he could. His leg quivered and numbed. With all the remaining strength in his body he tried to raise the left wing with the control yoke.

            One hundred thirty knots.

            One hundred twenty knots.

            Three hundred feet of altitude.

            One hundred ten knots.

            The aircraft shuddered. The right rudder pedal lost its pressure…the nose came up abruptly, then pitched down and rolled left,

            Jim felt the impact. Glass and debris pushed against him…then cold water…crushing cold water,

            Suddenly it was warm…and quiet…and the crushing ceased. There was a deep sense of release  and relief.

 

……………….

 

AIR FORCE ACCIDENT REPORT 03-66

 

NARRATIVE: A Military Airlift Command C-130E aircraft, serial number 137195, enroute from Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii, to Wake Island crashed on approach to Wake Island Airport in thirty feet of water approximately one quarter of a mile from the approach end of the east runway. Investigation revealed that the number two engine had suffered fire damage and was secured at the time of impact. The number one engine was operating but the propeller decoupled from the engine at time of impact. Engines three and four were operating properly as well as all other systems at time of impact. The aircraft impacted the water in a nose low left wing down attitude with the left wing tip making initial water contact. The left wing separated from the aircraft and the fuselage fractured at station 240. The aircraft exploded shortly after impact and sank in thirty feet of water. All six crewmembers suffered fatal injuries.

            It is the unanimous opinion of the Accident Investigation Board that the primary cause of the accident was pilot error and poor airmanship displayed on the part of the aircraft commander. Major James T. Tobias, USAF, deceased.

           

Tom Wyman

TOM WYMAN

Tom Wyman had graduated from Purville High School in 1938, at the top of his class. He excelled in mathematics and the sciences. His father was a highly respected pharmacist and owned the Wyman Drug Store in Purville. Tom was a city boy and had never spent a day of his life on a farm, nor did he want to do so. His father wanted him to follow his footsteps and become a pharmacist also, but Tom wanted to be a mathematics and physics teacher. His high grades in high school and the glowing reports from his teachers assured him a scholarship at the University of Kentucky.

In 1941, World War II broke out and young men the age of eighteen and older became subject to the selective service draft. Those attending college and maintaining good grades were deferred from the draft, and Tom was at the top of his class at the University.

After he graduated in May of 1942, he then became subject to the draft. With the urging of his university advisor, Tom enlisted in the United States Army and requested the Aviation Cadet Training program. He had never considered flying before, but he knew that flying had to be better than fighting on the ground or on a rolling pitching deck on some naval vessel at sea.

At the young age of twenty-two years, First Lieutenant Tom Wyman was flying co-pilot on B-17 Flying Fortresses based in England. Shortly after his twenty-third birthday, he was a designated aircraft commander, flying bombing missions over the European Continent controlled by German military forces.

In the short span of two years he had gone from being a carefree college student to commanding a killing machine, not only responsible for his flight crew but to other bombers and their crews in formation with him, to his squadron, his air wing, the Army Air Corps and to the United States of America.

The happy lines around his eyes and lips deepened and no longer expressed happiness. His already tight lips tightened even more, and the youthful grin he often flashed in college days disappeared. The twinkle in his eyes that had made him a favorite of the girls and ladies in high school and college became a blank stare of one who had seen death and destruction first-hand.

Following the required number of missions in the European theater he returned to the states to be a flight instructor, which pleased him for a while, and he lost some of the edginess he had experienced flying missions over Germany. But soon he realized that the young men he trained would soon be off to death and destruction of their own and some would surely meet their demise in a spinning, burning twisted piece of metal.

Tom requested and received training in the new B-29 Super Fortress and orders to a bombing squadron located in the Northern Mariana Islands. There he participated in the final destructive bombing raids on the nation of Japan.

And where did all of his college and military training lead him? Not to a classroom teaching mathematics or physics. Not back to college for an advanced college degree with the government paying for his books and tuition. Not to a job that would utilize his mathematical and science training and skills. In 1946, Tom Wyman returned to Purville with a Piper J-3 Cub he had purchased with his meager savings, landing at a small grass airfield just east of town. He painted a sign that read: Airplane Rides $5. That was where Tom Wyman ended in 1946. Not only did this disappoint his father, but most of the town people found him odd.

War does that to some people.

 

 

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.

HARLEY/T. Smith 2

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.

HARLEY/T. Smith 3

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.”

HARLEY/T. Smith 6

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)