by Doug Worgul
LaVerne shook his head. “That guy is no prophet, son. What he is, is full of crap.”
While the black screamer’s grievances are mostly soteriological, the white screamer is just plain pissed. In fact, compared to the white screamer, the black screamer is really only a shouter. The white screamer screams with such ferocity that his vocal cords and the bulging veins on his neck and forehead appear always near the rupture point. He is a roundish older man with short cropped gray hair and a grayish complexion. His torn and worn-thin coat is gray and his stained and greasy trousers are gray. Sometimes he pushes a trash can and a broom around in front of him. When he screams his face turns a bright purplish red. Then it goes beyond red to white hot. He calls down curses of death and dismemberment on all within the sound of his screeching voice.
Once or twice a week during what he calls “screamer season”, LaVerne will be disposing of trash at the dumpster behind the restaurant, when he’ll first hear, and then see, the white screamer. It was after one of these sightings that LaVerne noticed that the white screamer never actually makes eye contact with the people in his vicinity.
One morning LaVerne was outside leaning against the backdoor drinking coffee when the white screamer approached from down the block pushing his trash can. He started right in as soon as he saw LaVerne.
“Eat shit, you asshole! I hope a bomb falls on you and blows you up cuz you’re a asshole and you know it! You don’t deserve to live! I want you to die! You need to die! I hope you die! I’m going to send a bomb to drop on top of you and kill you! Kill you! You’re a shit asshole and I’m going to throw a hand grenade at you and blow you up, you shit asshole!”
LaVerne went inside. A few minutes later he came back out and called to the screamer who was then fishing around in the trash behind the strip club across the alley.
“Hey! You! Screaming guy! Come on over here.”
The screamer looked over in LaVerne’s general direction and resumed his cursing. “A bomb! I’m going to drop a bomb on you and . . .”
LaVerne waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. You’re going to kill me with a bomb,” he said wearily. “Come over here a minute. You like barbecue?”
The screamer hesitated then pushed his trash can over to LaVerne, his eyes down.
“Here’s some breakfast,” said LaVerne, handing the screamer a slab of ribs wrapped in red butcher paper.
The screamer looked at the package for a moment, raised it to his nose and inhaled deeply, then turned and continued on his way pushing his trash can, the ribs tucked up under his arm.
“That ought to shut him up for awhile,” LaVerne said as he went inside.
9
Charles and Charlie
Ordinarily, after the lunch rush, LaVerne will go back to the office and take a nap and A.B will work the counter. But on one particular Tuesday, A.B. had to take his mother to her podiatrist appointment, so LaVerne was out front. A handful of customers loitered at their tables, mostly regulars.
“Mother” Mary Weaver, a local blues legend occupied her usual spot in the corner nursing a beer, having finished off an enormous mound of burnt ends, a double helping of greens, some cabbage and onions, and a piece of sweet potato pie. LaVerne always puts a small cruet of apple cider vinegar on Mother Mary’s table because she likes it on her greens.
Mary shops for her clothes in the plus-sizes department. Her wigs she buys at The House of Hair, downtown. Her particular model is blondish and bonnet-like, manufactured from a supernaturally shiny synthetic. Mother is past her prime as a singer, but remains hugely popular among Kansas City’s loyal blues fans.
Seated across from her, drinking coffee, was Pug Hale, her frequent lunch companion. Pug is a highly decorated detective in the Kansas City Police Department and the regular lead guitarist for the band that backs Mother on her local gigs. It’s no mystery how Pug got his nickname. His trunk is squat, thick, and cylindrical, but his legs are short and slender, and his feet dainty. His hands are delicate and fine-boned, and his brown freckled face is kind of pushed in around his bulgy dark brown eyes. It’s hard to imagine Pug’s tiny fingers navigating the neck of an electric guitar, but anyone who’s ever heard him play says he’s one of the best in town. Nobody’s ever asked Pug what his real name is.
Pug isn’t young, but he’s younger than Mother. And because she never married and has no family left, Pug looks out for her interests. Mother is trusting by nature and uninterested in the financial aspects of her career and has therefore been swindled more than once by exploitive promoters and con men. Arthritis, aggravated by her weight, has begun to limit her mobility and Pug now drives her to church and to shop for groceries. Once or twice a week they have lunch together at Smoke Meat. Pug always gets a full slab of ribs. No sauce.
McKenzie Nelson was there with Suzanne Edwards at a table by the window. McKenzie sells ads for KC.21, the alternative news and entertainment weekly favored by the city’s tattooed population. She’s pretty in a black lipstick, black nail polish, multiple piercings kind of way. A.B. used to have quite a crush on her.
Suzanne Edwards sells trendy furniture at a store across the street from Smoke Meat. Stores like Suzanne’s are increasingly common up and down Walnut Street, and on Main, one block over. This is a source of aggravation and anxiety for LaVerne.
“It makes me nervous, all these hippie, yuppie stores comin’ in here,” he says. “Pretty soon someone’s gonna want to throw us out and put some organic yoga thing in here.”
He tends to look with suspicion at anyone coming into the restaurant wearing a suit and tie, assuming he’s a banker or developer with designs on the building.
Over by the door sat Ferguson Glen.
Ferguson comes in at least once or twice a week. Sometimes he’ll spend the entire afternoon writing in a notebook, reading, or sometimes nodding off at the only other window table. Ferguson is an ordained Episcopal priest, though he has never pastored a parish. He is a literature and writing professor at St. Columba Seminary of the Midwest on Truman Road.
A novel Ferguson Glen wrote in 1968, when he was 24 years old, was nominated for a Pulitzer. His publisher and the literary establishment at-large expected great things to follow, which never came to pass. Subsequent novels were not forthcoming.
Since then he has written three respected, but largely ignored, volumes of essays exploring such themes as “The Cold Hard Silence of God” and “Jesus: My Savior Not My Friend.”
Ferguson is tall and slender. His thinning gray hair is long and combed back from his forehead. His weak blue eyes frequently look like as if they’ve been crying. Ferguson admits he has a serious drinking problem, but shows no inclination to do anything about it. He lives alone in a loft across the street from Smoke Meat.
Del James also lives across the street. Del is a sculptor and has converted half of his loft into studio space. He’s a burly guy with a beer gut, close-cropped white hair and is usually dressed in denim bib overalls, white T-shirt, work boots, and a four-day beard. Del is nearly deaf and requires hearing aids in both ears. Even with this assistance, people still need to talk loudly and clearly to him in order to be understood.
Del has developed a strong regional following and on the Tuesday in question, his lunch guest was Charles, a gallery owner visiting from Los Angeles. Charles was in town to look at Del’s work and discuss a possible show in L.A. Charles wore freshly pressed blue jeans torn just so at the knees, an oversized tooled-leather belt with an elaborate silver buckle inlaid with turquoise, and electric-blue snakeskin cowboy boots. This was topped off by a melon-colored Western-style shirt with mother-of-pearl snap buttons. Charles seemed to have expected the streets of Kansas City to be heaving with cattle and cowboys and wanted to be dressed appropriately if called upon to do-si-do or rope a stray.
Del wasn’t the only customer entertaining an out-of-town guest. Bob Dunleavy, CEO of the engineeri
ng firm building the new downtown arena, was there with Whitey Skomacre, a sports marketing consultant from Oregon.
R.L. Dunleavy Engineering and Construction was founded by Bob Dunleavy’s grandfather in 1934. It has since become one of the Midwest’s leading design-build firms. The company has played a major part in nearly all the major building projects in Kansas City for the last sixty years.
Bob starting eating lunch at Smoke Meat on a regular basis when his firm was building a new parking garage for the convention center, located a few blocks north of 17th and Walnut. Sometimes he comes in alone and reads the Wall Street Journal over a pulled pork sandwich and a Diet Coke. Other times he comes in with some of his crew. They linger over pie and coffee long after their lunches are finished, laughing loudly at crude inside jokes. Sometimes A.B. or LaVerne have to remind them that other people are waiting for tables. Bob is good-natured about this and always complies with a smile. He’s one of LaVerne’s favorite customers.
Bob’s guest, Whitey Skomacre, was a short man with a heroic comb-over and a nose that looked like a red Bartlett pear. On the way in he saw the framed newspaper clipping about LaVerne’s stint with the Athletics, which provided him with the opportunity to express his opinions about Charlie O. Finley, the owner of the Kansas City Athletics. Whitey felt strongly that Finley was the most brilliant and underappreciated innovator in the history of the National Pastime. Bob and Whitey stood in line behind Del and Charles.
As they approached the counter, Del asked Charles about his name. “I’m a tad hard of hearing so I may have missed it. Is Charles your first name, or last?”
“Oh, I just go by Charles,” said Charles.
“Beg pardon?”
Charles spoke louder. “Just Charles!”
Del got it this time. “Justin Charles.”
“No! Charles! Only Charles. One name. Like Cher.”
Del heard, but was unsure he understood. He discontinued his line of questioning.
“So, what’ll you have?” Del motioned in the direction of the menu board behind the counter.
“Well, whatever I choose will be wonderful, I’m certain,” Charles said loudly. “I’m so looking forward to this. An authentic Kansas City experience. You are so famous for your barbecue here. And this little place is, well, just so quaint.”
By the time Del and Charles stepped up to order, LaVerne already didn’t like Charles. He didn’t like his joint being called quaint, and he didn’t like people with only one name, even though he’d never before met anyone with only one name.
Del ordered his usual. Pulled pork, applesauce, cabbage and onions, and a beer.
“What’ll it be?” LaVerne asked Charles without looking up from his order pad.
“Hmmm,” said Charles, touching his chin lightly with his fingers. He wore a large turquoise ring. “How about a grilled vegetable platter? But no onions, please.”
He smiled at LaVerne.
LaVerne did not smile back. “First of all, we don’t have platters. And next of all, we don’t grill anything here.”
Charles was confused. “I thought this was a barbecue restaurant.”
LaVerne clarified. “It is a barbecue restaurant. It’s not a grilling restaurant.”
Del picked up on bits and pieces of this exchange. “The pulled pork is real good,” he told Charles. “I recommend it.”
Charles was flustered. “But I’m a vegan.”
“I’m a Texan,” snapped LaVerne. “So? What’ll it be?”
Charles scowled at the menu board and sighed. “Oh, dear. I guess I’ll have the greens. And maybe the red potatoes.”
While they waited to order Bob and Whitey continued their discussion about Charlie O. Finley. Whitey was doing most of the discussing.
“Finley was miles ahead of his time. That whole thing with the mule and the robot rabbit that supplied the umps with balls? Genius. Plus he had a real eye for talent. Rocky Colavito. Catfish Hunter. Reggie Jackson. Rickey Henderson. Some of the all-time greats.”
Whitey was on a roll. Bob nodded and glanced anxiously over to see if LaVerne was hearing any of it. He couldn’t tell.
“Then the orange baseballs. It was a huge mistake that the league never adopted the orange baseball. The green uniforms, white shoes, and handlebar mustaches. Pure genius. He brought entertainment back to the game. That’s why baseball is in the doldrums now; there’s no one like Charlie Finley around anymore. He was one of a kind.”
Whitey hadn’t expressed any curiosity about the young outfielder he’d read about in the newspaper clipping, and Bob had not had an opening into which he could squeeze the information that a former employee of Charlie Finley’s was about to take their lunch order. When Del and Charles turned from the counter with their trays, Bob and Whitey stepped forward. LaVerne glared at Whitey. He’d heard every word. Bob rolled his eyes at LaVerne. LaVerne hated Charlie Finley. The fact of which Bob Dunleavy was well aware.
LaVerne looked at Bob. “What’ll you have, Bob?”
Bob offered up a pained smile. “We’ll both have the brisket, with beans, and a couple pieces of sweet potato pie. And Diet Cokes.”
Whitey wasn’t paying attention to the order. He was waiting to resume his oral arguments. LaVerne pushed their trays across the counter and walked off into the kitchen. Bob and Whitey took seats at a table next to Del and Charles. Charles was wolfing down his greens.
“Oh, my,” he said. “These are delicious.”
“Beg pardon,” said Del.
“These greens are delicious,” said Charles loudly.
“Told you so,” Del said smugly.
Charles examined his greens. Then, in horror, he exclaimed “There is meat in here!”
Del nodded. “That’s what makes ‘em so good.”
“But I’m a vegan,” wailed Charles.
“You said that before,” noted Del. “What exactly is a vegan?”
“A vegan does not eat meat!” Charles appeared about to cry.
Mother Mary Weaver had been listening to all this from her corner table. “Pug, if that idiot in the pink shirt don’t shut up, I’m going to have to do something to shut him up.”
Pug sipped his coffee. “I think they call that color melon, or maybe coral. Not pink.”
“Well, his ass is going to be pink after I’m through kickin’ it.”
Pug laughed. “Calm down, Mother.”
Charles stood up. “Mr. James, we have to go,” he said. “This place is disgusting!”
Mother had had enough. “You! You sit down and mind your manners.”
She picked up a rib bone from Pug’s tray and flung it at Charles with a flick of her wrist.
The bone hit Charles on the right cheek, splattering his face and his coral shirt with sauce. This so startled Charles that he stumbled backward flailing his arms. He landed in Whitey Skomacre’s lap sending both of them sprawling on the floor.
Whitey jumped back up ready for a fight. Except that in the tumble his big flap of hair had flopped over in the wrong direction. When he realized this, it became his primary concern. Charles was screaming “Oh! Oh! Oh!” still flailing his arms. Whitey interpreted this as combative behavior and as soon as he had reflapped his hair he assumed a fighting stance.
McKenzie and Suzanne were enjoying the show. Ferguson had fallen asleep—or had passed out—his forehead flat on the table.
Pug shot out of his seat and grabbed Charles by the back of his belt and trotted him out of the restaurant. “Maybe it’s time for you to find somewhere else to eat, sir. Someplace with carrots or broccoli.” Del followed, scratching his head, uncertain as to what had transpired.
Inside, Whitey puffed out his chest as if he’d just won 15 rounds, and was about to sit back down to finish his meal. But LaVerne, who had emerged from the kitchen when Charles started screaming, had other plans. He took
hold of Whitey by the arm and hustled him out the door. Bob slunk along behind.
“What are you doing?” Whitey protested. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Go tell that to Charlie Finley,” LaVerne said. He turned to Bob. “Sorry, Bob. Hope this doesn’t mess things up for you.”
“It’s alright, LaVerne,” Bob said. “I’m the one who ought to be apologizing.”
LaVerne went inside and began cleaning up the mess. Pug returned and retrieved Mother. As they left Mother said to LaVerne. “They was both idiots, LaVerne. You don’t need that kind of business.”
LaVerne nodded. “See you next week, Mother. Later, Pug.”
Only McKenzie, Suzanne, and Ferguson were left in the place. The women got up to leave.
“Too much excitement, LaVerne,” said McKenzie. “We’re outta here.”
“Don’t you put all this in that paper of yours,” he replied.
Suzanne paused at the door to check on Ferguson.
“He’ll be alright,” said LaVerne. “I’ll see he gets home.”
The three of them looked at Ferguson.
That’s when Ferguson farted. A long, sustained brap that rattled loud against the hard plastic chair.
“Jeez!” said McKenzie. She and Suzanne hurried out, fanning the air in front of their noses with their hands. LaVerne returned rather quickly to the kitchen.
About ten minutes later A.B. returned from his mother’s podiatrist appointment.
“Did I miss anything, boss?” he asked.
LaVerne thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. Ferguson farted.”
10
April 1968
The Athletics released LaVerne Williams from his contract on March 26, 1968. The GM called that morning with the news.
“You got a lot of talent, LaVerne, and we like you a lot. We hate to do this. We had big things in mind for you. But the docs say it looks bad. They say your shoulder’s real iffy. Maybe it’ll get better, but probably not. Either way, you’re done for the season. And maybe for good. I don’t like sayin’ that. And you shouldn’t take my word for it. You should get a second opinion. Maybe a third. And I encourage you to shop yourself around after you’re healed up. You’re real fast, LaVerne. There might be a club out there wanting a good base runner like yourself. Anyways, we wish you the best. This isn’t personal. It’s just baseball. We got to move on. And so do you. We wish you were comin’ with us, but that’s not how it worked out. So, we wish you the best. And Angela and little Raymond, too.”
