“I always liked this one,” Ernie said, as he tacked up a brilliant poster of the Acropolis. At the bottom in large, white letters the word GREECE spanned a wide bar of blue and white stripes.
“Got this at a travel agency when I was in high school.”
Cole resisted the urge to tell him it was off at least an inch top to bottom. Within a few minutes Ernie hung a poster of a bull rider caught in midair as he headed for the ground, a pair of scantily clad buxom beauties in bikinis washing a bright red pickup, and a NASCAR poster honoring Dale Earnhardt. Cole was not sure how appropriate the bikini girls were in a sandwich shop and was having real doubts about what, if anything, he could feel good recommending. Then he unrolled a poster of B. B. King holding his guitar Lucille.
“This is nice!” Cole said, approaching the wall.
Encouraged by his find Cole began unrolling posters at a quicker pace. He found a handsome one of Will Rogers celebrating his 100th birthday. He put it aside and unrolled several more ragged mid-70s rock and roll posters. A plastic-sleeved tube caught his eye toward the bottom of the box.
“Where did you get this?” Cole turned and showed Ernie the partially unrolled original High Noon movie poster.
“I don’t know, probably from the old guy that ran the theater when I was in high school.” Ernie shrugged.
“You should have this framed, I bet it’s worth a mint.”
“The hell you say. I never liked Grace Kelly.”
“OK this looks pretty good,” Cole said, hoping it would be a subtle sign that they had done enough.
“You think? I think we need a few more.”
“How about one more apiece to balance it out over here.” Cole pointed to a section of wall next to the windows.
“Alright. But if it was up to me I would do about six more.”
“Sometimes less is more. You can always rotate with the ones left in the boxes. Keep ‘em guessing you know?” Cole offered.
Ernie continued to unroll posters until he suddenly said, in a lecherous growl, “Oh yeah! This was always my favorite!”
He turned and nearly ran to the wall. Next to the window he tacked a poster of Farrah Fawcett in a red one-piece bathing suit sitting in front of an Indian blanket. Cole went back in the stack to find a John Wayne poster of the Duke aiming a rifle at the camera.
“There, that ought to do it.” Ernie smiled. “You hungry?”
“I’m good.”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
All the way back to the house Ernie did an oral inventory of what he ordered. He projected the number of customers by their sandwich order, then divided the pounds of meat he had in the cold box by the ounces of meat he determined should go into each sandwich. Cole was ready to scream by the time they got to the driveway to the house.
“Let me out here and I’ll check the mail.” In the three weeks he had been there not one piece of mail had been delivered, but it was a clever enough ruse to get Cole out of the truck and Ernie’s hyperactive mathematical calculations.
Cole opened the mailbox, looked into the empty sheet metal cavern and shook his head. He waved at Ernie as he backed out of the drive and onto the road. He checked his watch; it was already a quarter to ten. On the way home Cole decided he better call a realtor and get the wheels turning to sell the place.
He meant to ask Ernie for the name of a good real estate office, so now he was left with the Yellow Pages. Orvin had the usual Century 21, Re-Max and Better Homes and Gardens office affiliations, but Cole wanted to give his business to an independent, go it alone kind of office.
After leaving a couple of messages to numbers that went unanswered, the photo of a pretty woman in the Better Homes advertisement caught his eye. He was about to leave a voice mail message when a cheerful voice picked up. Five minutes later he had an appointment to talk about listings and a date for lunch. Dory Cochran would arrive in about three hours. With the place straightened, the beds made and the dishes done, Cole decided to see how many notebooks he could get read before she arrived.
Dividing the remaining six notebooks in half Cole took one stack into the kitchen. He found that he was not only comfortable, but seemed to be able to read better at the kitchen table. Maybe it was from years working at a desk, but the position seemed to work well, and best of all he never dozed off while reading with his elbows on the table.
March 17, 1941
A letter arrived today from Earl. He is in Bellingham in Washington state and working in the shipyards. He says there is a lot of work available. He claims that we will get into the war in Europe soon and there will be even more need for ships. Most of what they are building right now is going to the British Navy, but we will need ships soon too.
I am surely in need of a better job. The feed store puts food on the table and about half the rent, so the kind of money Earl is talking about would be a godsend. I will talk to Alma in the morning.
March 20, 1941
Alma is not thrilled with the prospect of moving. As always, though, she is in favor of more money. Josie and Connie are between boyfriends and both are excited about moving. Little George is only concerned with whether or not his dog can come along.
April 1, 1941
The rent is due and we won’t be paying it. Alma started packing for the trip. I traded our old car in for a 1936 Buick 4-Door Sedan. It is damn near as big as the ships I’ll be building. I figure the rent money would be better spent on getting us out of town than sticking around for another month.
We have sure got a lot more stuff since we came to Colorado and the old Ford would hardly hold the five of us, let alone all our stuff. The Buick seems a good fit for the near grown girls and the mess of boxes Alma intends to take with us.
I told my boss I would leave at the end of the week. He wished me luck and told me to go home. I don’t think he trusted me to stick around. What would I steal; he already pays me chicken feed!
April 5, 1941
We are camped in a nice little spot just across the Wyoming state line. It’s beautiful country. Georgie and I went fishing in a stream not too far from the campground. We each caught a fish! I have no idea what kind but they were good eats. Alma made flapjacks and bacon for supper and Georgie and I ate the fish.
This is the way people should live. We have a nice campfire going and a fellow not too far away is playing his banjo and singing songs. I can see his shadow against the fire. It is still a bit chilly but the campfire feels real good. The girls and Alma will sleep in the car and Georgie and I will sleep by the fire.
April 7, 1941
I don’t know if my old bones can take another night on the ground. Last night I nearly froze. I let the fire go out and had a real hard time getting it going again. In the morning we will drive on to Boise and get some supplies. I’m getting pretty tired of flapjacks. I hope we can get some meat for a stew or something. I must say, though, I am growing mighty fond of Swiss cheese sandwiches.
I like eating the sandwiches as we roll down the road. The car has purred like a kitten. The seats are soft and from time to time we can even get some music on the radio. A man we met this evening where we camped said that we should go on up through Idaho and cut across at Spokane and we would miss a lot of mountains that way. Sounds like a good idea to me. Two more days and we should be in Bellingham. The fellow showed me a map. I had no idea we were going to the farthest corner of the country!
April 10, 1941
Arrived late this afternoon. The Pacific Ocean is a thing to behold! The girls ran and jumped in the waves, cold as it is! Alma got all mad. But I said there would never be another first time of seeing the ocean and to let them be. She went and sat in the car.
It took some doing but I found Earl. He had moved from the place on the letter. Said he and the landlord had a misunderstanding. In the morning I will go and see about a job. Earl said no matter what they ask me, tell them I can do it. The crew will teach me what I need to know. Sure hope he’s right. I know nothin
g about steel, welding, riveting or anything else.
Earl is living with a woman named Doylene and his mother Stella. They took us in without question. The girls and Alma are bunked out on the back porch. It is screened in but because of the damp air there are heavy tarps nailed up over the screens. There is a chesterfield in the front room I will sleep on and Georgie is going to sleep on the floor by the stove.
They took us in and treated us like family. Alma had to show her tail feathers at dinner, God knows what started it, but Earl was prepared from the stories I had told him and it rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. Doylene was about three sheets to the wind and paid her no mind.
Doylene knows of a house for rent on the next block. Alma will go tomorrow and see if it is still available. Good signs all around.
April 18, 1941
First pay envelope! Bought groceries and a new pair of gloves and overalls. The work is hard and the hours are long but the pay is great. I am learning to weld after hours. The welders get paid a bonus on completion. Mostly I have carried rivets. Earl said not to worry, something a bit lighter will open up soon.
We have settled into the new house and Doylene gathered up some furniture from friends and relatives of hers. She is a mighty nice gal even if she does drink a bit. I would swap for Alma, and throw in the car, for her.
The girls both got jobs. Connie is working in a drug store at the soda fountain and Josie is waiting tables at a diner. They are happy and both like the people they are working with. Georgie enrolled in school and has made friends with some kids on the block. Even Alma has been smiling and I even heard her singing as she was cooking dinner the other night.
Surprisingly, the dates of the entries became sporadic. The entries dealt with learning his job at the shipyard, row with Alma, and meeting the young men, and some not so young, who came sniffing around the house after the girls. Several weeks at a time were skipped in the journal. Then Cole’s eyes landed on a most disheartening entry.
June 12. 1941
I am writing this at Earl’s. Alma would not unlock the door when I came home last night. She threw my clothes and several books and this notebook out the window onto the yard. I do not blame her as I have disappointed my family and broken my word. For the first time since I came back from Iowa I got drunk. Though it is no excuse I feel I must explain.
After our shift, on the way home, Earl talked me into going to a tavern he frequents. He said I could have a soft drink or cup of coffee if I didn’t want to drink. I agreed and went along. The place was full of men from the shipyards. It was loud and smoky.
As we made our way through the crowd I saw two colored boys that work my section. Willie Freabeau and Tommy Pepper were sitting at a table near the wall. I waved and they waved back. Earl said he would get us a drink and for me to grab a table if I could find one. I went in the direction of Freabeau and Pepper. A group of guys was leaving the table almost next to them so I went and sat down. I greeted the boys and we talked a bit about work. Earl arrived with a Coca-Cola and a beer and two men from the shipyard.
Everything was friendly and we were laughing and having a good time. I noticed Willie get up and go to the jukebox. Soon music was playing; Willie had selected Bessie Smith’s “St. Louis Blues.” I told Earl that was a favorite of mine. Willie kind of danced and shuffled back to his table. Within what seemed seconds a tall thin pockmarked redhead went to the jukebox and kicked it. The needle on the record scraped across with a horrible growl.
“We’ll have none of that nigger shit in here!” he yelled.
The place suddenly got real still. The redhead stuck a nickel in the jukebox and the hillbilly song “Sweethearts or Strangers” by Jimmie Davis started to play. Tommy stood up and Willie Freabeau tried to pull him back down but he would have none of it. Tommy reached around the back of the box and the song stopped. He put a nickel in and punched the buttons. The piano music of Fats Waller came from the jukebox and filled the room. Everybody started laughing and talking again. I smelled trouble and I think most everybody did but were hoping it was over.
About half way through “Ain’t Misbehavin’” the tall redhead came back to the jukebox, this time with a thick hard-looking bald guy. He tried his trick of kicking the jukebox again but this time it just skipped the needle ahead and kept playing. The bartender yelled out for him to leave the jukebox alone.
The bald guy said, “We don’t like nigger music.”
I had just told Earl how I hated that word. He knows about Mattie and has always showed respect for Colored folks, at least when he’s around me. We watched Tommy and Willie at the other table. They were sitting straight in their chairs and looking defiantly at the two men at the jukebox.
“You niggers got somethin’ to say?” the redhead taunted.
Earl stood up and walked towards the jukebox. “My friend doesn’t like that word. We think it is offensive to our buddies we work with over there. So, please, let’s not have any trouble.”
“You sidin’ with them?” the bald man asked.
“Just asking you to improve your vocabulary, that’s all.” Earl smiled at the men.
The redhead turned to the jukebox. The Fats Waller song ended. He put in another nickel and punched the buttons. This time “The Alamo Rag” by Adolph Hofner blasted from the jukebox. Red and the bald guy walked back to their spot at the bar. Several of their buddies gave them pats on the back.
Willie Freabeau stood up and walked to the jukebox. He looked at the record spinning inside. He reached behind the machine and unplugged it from the wall. Then with a swift quick jerk yanked the cord out from the machine.
“Adolph. Ain’t that that Nazi’s name who’s sinkin’ all these ships we’re buildin’? Why in hell we wanna listen to Nazi music?” Willie looked over at me and Earl and shrugged.
The redhead and the bald guy came back at Willie. “You callin’ us Nazis, nigger?”
Earl and I stood and turned toward the two white men.
“We’re all just tryin’ to have a drink after work here...” Before Earl could finish his sentence the bald guy hit him across the side of the head with a sap. Earl went down and lay motionless.
“You want some?” the redhead said to me.
Tommy was standing next to Willie and shook his head at me. In the flash of an eye Willie went in his pocket and flipped open a straight edge razor.
“I say we all go about our business, fo’ somebody gets hurt.” Willie moved the razor back and forth in front of him.
“Nobody getting hurt ‘cept you, boy.” The bald man moved toward where the two black men stood.
I started to bend to check on Earl when I was grabbed from behind. “Best you mind your own business,” a whiskey soured rush of hot air said. Two men pinned my arms against my back.
Everything from that moment went so fast I can’t say for certain how long it was exactly. Willie slashed the redhead hard and deep across the chest as he rushed him. Tommy took two hard blows to the shoulder and forearms trying to defend himself from the bald guy’s sap. Blood ran from the redhead’s open wound, but he grabbed a chair and jabbed it at Willie. Tommy kicked the bald guy and hit him twice to the face. They twirled about exchanging punches. Then the bald guy landed a hard blow to the side of Tommy’s jaw and he went down.
I didn’t see clear what happened next but the bald guy knocked the razor from Willie’s hand with his sap. The redhead crashed the chair against Willie’s head and shoulder. Willie’s knees buckled but he didn’t go down. The bald guy picked up the razor and gave it to the redhead. The redhead grabbed Willie by the back of the neck and forced his head down. The redhead clamped his knees on Willie’s head and with a great upward motion of the razor cut his throat. Blood shot everywhere it seemed and pumped out in long gushing spurts. The men holding me let go. With a second upward pull of the razor Willie’s body fell to the floor, his head still between the redhead’s knees.
“This is a warning to any black sombitch in town. This
is a white man’s bar. And it is gonna stay that way!” The redheaded man spun about to face the dumbfounded crowd. Willie’s head was still locked between his knees.
The bar fell silent once more as men began moving back away from the scene. Sometime during the fracas the owner of the tavern came around the end of the bar. In his hands was a baseball bat. He swung the bat with all his might and mane and hit the redhead in the back of the head. Willie’s head dropped to the floor as the sound of the redhead’s skull crushing from the blow of the bat, echoed off the walls. The redhead fell face down, the back of his head completely caved in.
“I want everybody out of here now!” the owner screamed.
I grabbed Earl under the arms and drug him toward the back door. A pint bottle of rye stood on the bar. Without thinking I grabbed it and shoved it in my pocket as I passed.
Outside men stood in small groups looking back at the bar. In the distance I could hear a police siren. I shook Earl and patted his face until he came to. I helped him to his car and I drove him home.
Sometime between the bar and Earl’s I managed to down the pint. When I got home I was pretty drunk. I remember harsh words from Alma and her not letting me in. The next thing I know I was waking up at Earl’s.
July 28, 1941
This is my fourth day without a drink. I am feeling pretty shaky. It is so hard to shake this demon of mine. Sometimes I feel as if the alcohol is part of my marrow. I get sick if I drink, I get sicker if I don’t. It is the in between I live for. I don’t drink at work except a nip at lunch. It steadies my hands.
I had a dream last night that Mattie came to me. She said that she wanted me to not drink. I never had a dream of her the whole time I was sober so I think at least the drinking brings her back for a little while.
Cole Dust Cole Page 30
