Between Wrecks

by George Singleton

  I wish to thank the staff of Dermo-Laser for their expertise in Q-Switched Ruby and Neodynium YAG lasers, with three wavelengths, to break up “Abby” into smaller particles that vanished from my bicep, and then “Juanita,” which I had Python Dave tattoo prematurely. I know that y’all might exaggerate somewhat when you say that it’ll only feel like a rubber band snapping on the skin, but to be honest it felt a little more like a bad rope burn. Although I’m no psychiatrist, I feel certain that that notion of the rope burn urged me onward subconsciously to tell the story of Columbus Choice’s lynching.

  I would like to acknowledge the support of the National Endowment for the Humanities. I cannot, but I would like to do so. Evidently my plan of action regarding No Cover Available: The Story of Columbus Choice, African-American Sushi Chef from Tennessee did not sway the voting committee, or whatever they have up there at the NEH. I completely understand. I do not bear a grudge, nor do I wish to exact vengeance on any of the highly qualified members up there in Washington, D.C. I read recently that somebody received one of the NEH grants in order to work on the Selected Papers of Reggae Icon Bob Marley. Selected rolling papers, maybe. But I understand. Up until my biography of Columbus Choice hits the shelves of every college and university library in America (and Jamaica, I suppose), no one will understand how Columbus’s lynching affected our fast-paced modern-day society of men and women, the bigoted and the rational.

  I would like to offer thanks to the support I received from the National Endowment for the Arts, but, again, I didn’t receive one of their grants, so I cannot thank those people, either. I believe the NEA folks are up in our nation’s capital, also. Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough in my application that Columbus Choice was also a folk artist. He hung his primitive, naïve paintings—done with latex house paint on asbestos roofing shingles, cedar plank shingles, tin roof scrap, terra cotta shingles, and pieces of slate roofs. Unlike other folk artists of his generation, he didn’t paint on plywood, one-by-twelve pine lumber, sheetrock, or refrigerator doors. Why? Because he got the shingles back when he was in the army, learning how to cook fine kosher meals from his friend from Brooklyn, who may or may not have been a tyrant in the kitchen. I read somewhere how a supposed scholar received both an NEH and NEA grant to write a biography about the artist Joseph Beuys, who supposedly crashed a German plane in World War II, got rescued by Tartar tribesmen who wrapped him in felt and fat, and then went on to make all these sculptures using felt and fat. I found the book and read it. Well, I read parts of it, enough to know that Beuys made up that story about getting rescued by tribesmen. So one guy gets two big-ass grants to work on a biography of a lying artist, and here I am in Tennessee, dirt poor, living in a fucking campground part of the time, and I can’t get a reach-around from the NEA. Maybe I should’ve called my biography No Cover Available: The Story of Lying Folk Artist Columbus Choice, African-American Sushi Chef from Tennessee.

  But, again, I suppose those people in Washington, D.C., know a lot more about who deserves grant money as opposed to me. Or I. See, I don’t even know grammar, so maybe that should prove to me how come someone who makes a documentary of himself counting the thorns on a rose bush deserves monies as compared to an independent scholar wishing the world to understand the complex life of a black man in central Tennessee whose mission was to teach the masses about the dietary advantages of jellyfish.

  I want to thank whoever runs that reality-based television program that involves a tyrant chef. Without watching that show, I might not have understood how Columbus Choice wanted to prove everyone wrong in regards to his mastery of the kitchen.

  I want to thank Mr. Walker Hitt for not pressing charges, and that other guy for believing me when I said I walked into his place with a vintage Sheaffer fountain pen.

  The Southern Poverty Law Center, founded by good Morris Dees and Joe Levin in 1971, has done some extraordinary and brave work in regards to civil rights and hatemongers. I would like to thank them for their moral support. After I wrote them all about my project concerning Columbus Choice, they informed me that they didn’t tender financial support, outside of their “Teaching Tolerance” grants. They couldn’t give me money, though, seeing as I no longer taught History 101 at Tennessee Valley Community College after I walked off the job due to Juanita Wilkins’s misdirected allegations. One day, Southern Poverty Law Center, one day!

  I hate to admit it, but I contacted the neo-Confederate group League of the South in hopes that they would pay me not to publish No Cover Available: The Story of Columbus Choice, African-American Sushi Chef from Tennessee. What the hell. Here’s the letter I got back from one of those people, who say that they’re not racists, et cetera, but still want to secede from the union because of black people: “Dear Mr. Stet Looper. We dont’ [sic] care about no books [sic] ritten [sic] about no niger [sic] juw [sic] boodist [sic]. If you ast [sic] us, a juw [sic] boodist [sic] is nothing more than a Judas.”

  It went on some more. Most of it was illegible—evidently supporters of the Confederacy don’t believe in typewriters, much less computers—but I’m pretty sure I made out “die, die, niger-lover [sic]” and “you cain’t [sic] spell ‘triggers’ without ‘grits’.”

  Have you ever noticed how “sic” and “sick” are close together in spelling? There’s a reason for that. I can’t claim thinking that up myself, though—I’m pretty sure I read it in “Dear Abby” one time. Anyway, they didn’t give me money to not publish the book, which makes me happy that I published it so more people will understand the hateful commitment of League of the South members.

  I want to thank the Clash for their song “Police on My Back.”

  I am indebted to the drug cartels of both Mexico and Colombia. When no one else would send me money to complete the biography, I had no other choice but to go find the sunken motorboat of Juanita Wilkin’s cousin, Willie Wilkins, who once transported marijuana and cocaine up and down the rivers of the Tennessee Cumberland Plateau. Willie took three years of Spanish in high school, and got tabbed to be a runner, somehow. I’m serious. I figured this out sans the help of his cousin: the Hispanic population had infiltrated the entire southeast because no one else had the work ethic to pick peaches, apples, burley tobacco, and so on. One of Willie’s classmates had a friend, who had a relative, who had a friend, and so on. Next thing you know, a guy named Guillermo is saying in Spanish to Willie, “Would you be interested in picking up some drugs and then trafficking them upriver to some people, who will traffic the drugs upriver to some people,” and so on, until the drugs reached Cincinnati, or Detroit, or Woodland Caribou Provincial Park up in Ontario.

  Willie got to taking the drugs, as they say. He became an addict, something I can understand, what with my booze problems. He got to where he took little slivers of the cocaine and ingested them into his nostrils, as cocaine people are wont to do. He pinched off pieces of bud and smoked it in a pipe, much like the pseudo-Rastafarians who read such books as The Selected Papers of Reggae Icon Bob Marley feel obligated. That’s what Spanish-speaking Willie did. Some educators believe that all of us need to know a foreign language, but I’m here to point out that people who concentrate in Spanish might turn to marijuana and cocaine usage, and those who’re inclined to learn whatever they speak in Afghanistan lean toward heroin. I don’t want to make any vast generalizations, but anyone enamored with Southern culture might be prone to scouring pastureland in order to harvest and partake of the psilocybin mushroom.

  And Willie, of course, got paranoid. He dropped off drugs one day and took in some money. He dropped off some drugs, and he took in some money. He dropped off some drugs, and he took in some money. I can see him doing all this. His long mullet hair flew in the wind, and he had no one behind him water skiing. I don’t know if DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration) officers actually followed him in a go-fast boat, or if he got all paranoid, but the next thing you know he shot a hole in his own hull, jumped out, and swam to shore. He told me all about it from the Brus
hy Mountain State Penitentiary, where he stayed because when he got out of the river he immediately stole a car, and kidnapped a woman, and got caught.

  Listen. You take a hungry, poor biographer who can’t get any financial support for his project—let’s say one intent on writing No Cover Available: The Story of Columbus Choice, African-American Sushi Chef from Tennessee—and tell him where a sunken boat half-filled with drugs and money might be, what you have is a biographer in a scuba suit. So I thank Willie. I thank the DEA for scaring people enough to think that they’re being followed even when they’re not.

  I want to thank that psychologist for teaching me that I can’t be too proud.

  I’m not sure how or why the local VFW club thought that I was a veteran of any of the foreign wars, but the bartender there, Vic Partlow, needs a pat on the back for putting up with me during those long, drought-like days when I couldn’t figure out how to handle Columbus Choice’s life story without becoming “involved” or “attached” or “subjective.” Furthermore, I want to thank Vic Partlow for letting me in for free on the nights when comedian Mighty Max showed up on what I learned later was some kind of Crystal Meth Circuit, as opposed to the old Chitlin Circuit. Mighty Max might’ve been the worst comedian of all time, and I have the handheld Sony Clear Voice Plus Microcassettecorder M-470 with Auto Shut Off, which I used about every day in order to speak out what thoughts I had regarding the biography, to prove it.

  Anyway, I need to thank Mighty Max, also, for letting me know that if he can make it, then anyone can make it. Listen:

  Some jumper cables walk into a bar. The bartender says, “Man, you look horrible.” The jumper cables say, “Don’t get me started.”

  A sixteen-penny nail walks into a bar and the bartender says, “Can’t serve you. You’re already hammered.”

  A right-wing radio personality walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Can I get you anything?” and the guy says, “No thanks, I’m already really fucked up.”

  A hairbrush walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Hold on, buddy. Don’t bristle up on me.”

  A tongue depressor walks into a bar and the bartender says, “Get out of here. You make me gag.”

  A blow-up rubber sex doll walks into a bar. The bartender says, “What’ll you have?” and the sex doll pauses before saying, “It was just on the tip of my tongue. Well, fuck me.”

  A pair of pliers walks into a bar, but the bartender says, “We don’t serve tools.”

  A screwdriver walks into a bar and orders a vodka and orange juice. The bartender says, “What are you, a cannibal or something?”

  Some confetti walks into a bar and the bartender says, “I can’t serve you seeing as you’re already torn up.”

  A rectal thermometer walks into a gay bar and gets a hero’s welcome.

  Nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine lottery tickets walk into a bar. The bartender says, “Sorry, we don’t serve such losers.”

  A rasp walks into a bar and asks the bartender, “Can I drink here if I promise not to grate on your nerves?”

  An air horn walks into a bar and the bartender says, “If you’re intent on blowing, follow the rectal thermometer next door to the gay bar.”

  A bipolar woman walks into a bar, but the bartender says, “Last time you were here you split without paying.”

  An atom walks into the bar and the bartender says, “Last time you were here you split without paying, and all hell broke loose soon thereafter.”

  A candelabra walks into the bar and the bartender says, “Can’t serve anyone already lit.”

  A linebacker walks into a bar. “Hey, don’t rush me,” says the bartender.

  A bowling ball walks into a bar. He says, “I’d like a pint of Mad Dog 20/20.” The bartender says, “You can drink better wine than that. You’re not in the gutter anymore.”

  A bowling pin walks into a bar. He says to the bartender, “I’m thirsty, and I don’t have any money.” The bartender says, “Spare me.”

  A spigot walks into a bar and asks, “What do you have on tap?”

  A spigot walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Sorry, but we don’t serve drips.”

  A ceiling fan walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Draft?”

  A blood drive nurse walks into a bar. The bartender says, “You want another pint this soon?”

  A rabies victim walks into a bar. The bartender says, “I guess you’re ready for another shot in your stomach.”

  A revolving door walks into a bar. The bartender shakes his head and says, “Turn around.”

  A bottle of Wite-Out comes into a bar. “I can’t serve your type,” says the bartender. “Disappear, buddy.”

  A chunk of fresco walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Can’t serve you. You’re plastered.”

  An ATM machine walks into a bar and orders drinks for everyone. The bartender says, “What are you, like, made of money?”

  A length of bubble wrap walks into a bar. The bartender says, “I’m going to keep a close watch on you. Don’t pop off.”

  A champagne cork walks into a bar. The bartender says, “I’m going to keep a close watch on you. Don’t pop off.”

  Carbon paper walks into a bar. The bartender says, “I guess you’ll be wanting an Old Fashioned.”

  A typewriter walks into a bar. The bartender says, “I guess you’ll be wanting an Old Fashioned.”

  Dr. Kevorkian walks into a bar with a little Chinese boy. The bartender says, “We don’t serve youth in Asia.”

  A car cigarette lighter walks into a bar. The bartender starts listing off the night’s specials. The car cigarette lighter says, “Don’t push me.”

  A golf cart walks into a bar. The bartender says, “This place is exclusive. Members only. We only serve people who drive Caddies.”

  A three-wood walks into a bar on Pizza Night and orders a beer. The bartender says, “You want a slice to go with that?” The golf club says, “Fuck you.”

  Y’all might’ve experienced the Mighty Max Spectacle yourselves, and if so, I hope you remember that the reason he is on this planet is so that the rest of us will understand how we can be anything that we wish to be. We could become vice president. I know for a fact that after witnessing Mighty Max a third or fourth time, I convinced myself that I too could be a stand-up comedian, and found myself straying from the task at hand.

  When looking back on my own life, I think that I have a four-person gang to offer my unremitted appreciation when it comes to molding me into the biographer I am today. Sure, I know that when every biographer is asked, “Who do you see as your mentor?” or “Whose work got you into writing?” and so on, they usually come up with the standard answers: Thucydides, Dame Edith Sitwell, Samuel Pepys, and Doris Kearns Goodwin. (One time I asked Abby what she thought of Pepys, and she said to me, “They’re all right, but I like traditional Hershey’s Robin Eggs better.”) Anyway, whenever someone should ever ask me what got me into writing about real things that happened, like I pointed out to the best of my ability in No Cover Available: The Story of Columbus Choice, African-American Sushi Chef from Tennessee, I only have to offer this as an answer: The Inventors of the View-Master—Fred and Ed Mayer, plus Harold Graves and William Gruber. I’m sure that they’re all dead by now, but I want to thank them for offering me the opportunity growing up to see vivid, lifelike, 3-D images of places like the Great Pyramids, the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, Stonehenge, Carlsbad Caverns, the Grand Canyon, and comedienne Lucille Ball. It’s all cause and effect, I suppose. My parents didn’t want to buy a television, so they got me a View-Master. I looked at these places far, far away from my home in South Carolina and knew that I wanted to go places. So I took up punting a football. And then I excelled at Forty-Five High School and got a scholarship to Vanderbilt University. And then I shanked too many fourth down punts for something like a twelve-yard average and got released from the team, and then I studied history, and then I got the opportunity to do one of those stud
y abroad programs in Egypt, France, England, New Mexico, Arizona, and Hollywood.

  And then my parents said to me, “Why should we pay good money for you to study in Egypt, France, England, New Mexico, Arizona, or Hollywood after we went out and bought you that View-Master 3-D stereogram systems so you could see all of those places already?” So I stayed at Vanderbilt and took more history classes, and through what can only be called a fortuitous, serendipitous event, sat in my third-favorite history professor’s office one day when he said to me, “Damn, son, why don’t you go hang out with Columbus Choice for a while,” like that—meaning, “Why don’t you go kill yourself?” I guess. Well I didn’t know who the hell Columbus Choice was at the time. And of course I wanted to impress my third-favorite history professor. So I went and looked things up on the microfiche and on the microfilm and in the newspapers stacked up in a back room of the Jean and Alexander Heard Library—I need to thank those folks, too—because this was a time before the Internet.

  Goddamn! I thought. Goddamn, this guy Columbus Choice was a black man who owned a sushi place and he got hanged, stabbed, and shot all on the same day by Sid and Jack Plemmons. I thought, Why has this not been on the national news? I thought, Will my first- and second-favorite history professors be upset with me because I don’t wish to continue ongoing research on the lives of Wendell Lewis Wilkie and William Jennings Bryan?

  I didn’t think at the time, Right about now a baby named Juanita Wilkins is being born, and later on she will be in my History 101 course at Tennessee Valley Community College, and she will accuse me of offering her a grade for sex after she said the N word in a class made up fifty-fifty of black and white “students,” and then she will become a phlebotomist in the Harriman/Oak Ridge area, and then maybe she and I will have a little bit of a relationship that will help me forget Abby.