Oscar P and the Designated Paddle, Part 3

I looked again at the reflection in the picture hanging on the wall and saw that Mr. Boyles was planting his feet, winding up his swing, preparing for my punishment and what I perceived to be a re-balancing of the Force, to quote "Star Wars". It was no secret that Oscar could swing a mean paddle, evidenced by the numerous “tough guys” I’d seen teary eyed after their personal meeting with the school's head disciplinarian. I assumed that writing a theme for punishment was more of a long term commitment than most of my friends wanted, plus, you could never tell how harshly Oscar might critique the written word. So like me, the licks were a swift solution to a short term problem. After all, how much could a person (especially a dude who found himself on the business end of a paddle) write about anything, much less the platitudes of discipline (or the lack thereof). Their just wasn't that many new ways to BS about how you'd "never, ever, do it again" and after all, why lie? 

As I stood there, contemplating my next move, I saw the object of my soon to be sore backside. I noticed Oscar taking his practice swing, I assumed to get proper lift and separation, knowing he'd not get any do-overs. So he needed to make these licks count. He obviously had this whole thing down to a science, the "swinging the Hickory fashioned paddles with holes drilled in them for better aerodynamics and better ass planting when it landed on ones buttocks" thing. I noted that Mr. Boyles was implementing the "two-step" start maneuver when he was loading up for my ass cracking revenge, him practice swinging like a rookie baseball player in The Show for the first time, bottom of the ninth, full house, bases loaded and down by three runs. He intended for me to remember this for the rest of my life. In a few minutes, we both would…remember it for the rest of our lives I mean. When it looked like to me that he was properly warmed up and ready to swing, I reminded him that per school rules a witness was required. He insisted that Mr. Warnock, the residing principal, was on his lunch break, and none would be required. I didn't know that for sure, the witness thing I mean, but I was still contemplating my next move and it bought me a little more time. Mr. Boyles started his wind up yet again and took his first step towards my backside and I did indeed see a huge smile on his face as he moved in my direction.

When he started his down stroke, I timed my “reply” perfectly. 

I moved out-of-the-way at the very last second saying “I’ve decided to take the theme instead”, and all I saw was Mr. Boyles swinging for the proverbial fence as he blew past me, missing me completely, tumbling over his desk. The breeze he produced from his momentum parted my hair to the other side it was so stiff. To my amazement, he knocked every thing off of his desk and I mean everything, as he half dove, half tumbled his way over the large Mahogany structure upon which he conducted his daily business. I remember the sight of his military pressed khaki’s and the bottom of his black shoes and stark white socks disappearing as momentum and gravity propelled him over his desk, knocking his large chair over, including the coat rack his neatly pressed Navy Blue sport coat hung on. For that small of a space, it acted like a sound chamber making the biggest racket I had ever heard in my life up to that point. There was about ten seconds of stark silence, then next thing you know, I hear a huge commotion outside Mr. Boyles door and in storms the principal, Mr. Warnock. About that time, up springs Ole Oscar from behind his desk like he'd been shot out of a cannon, his fists balled up, starched white short sleeved shirt completely untucked, his numerous pens out of his shirt pocket and black horn-rimmed glasses all askew. Now I've seen some pissed off people in my life, but that day Oscar was red faced yet again, and for a completely different reason, and ready to throw down with yours truly. I just stood there, truly shocked at what I had just witnessed, never dreaming he’d fly over the desk like that. My more intelligent buddies and I had talked in detail in our Physics class about momentum and it’s effects, but this was a first hand lesson I’d not soon forget and one they'd probably not believe. I thought he’d just stop his swing and we’d renegotiate my punishment, knowing he’d not be happy but have to comply just the same.

About that time Oscar came from around his desk with his fists loaded, and Mr. Warnock says “Mr. Boyles! You have forgotten yourself Sir!” freezing him in his tracks, red-faced and fuming mad, but back to reality. Mr. Warnock spins to me and says “Mr. Hall! Explain!” catching me off guard. I looked past him and I noticed that there were about twenty faces in Mr. Boyles door, mostly students, and Mr. Warnock turned to them and shouted “OUT....NOW” and slammed the door in their faces. I stood there, still dumbfounded, and attempted to explained the situation to him in full, no knowing if I was coherent at all and speaking in broken sentences. What I ultimately told him, after I had gathered myself, was I had decided to write a theme rather than take the licks. Next thing you know Mr. Boyles was flying over his desk and up he comes looking like he wanted to fight me, then he (the Principal) walks in and now this. It was the complete truth as far as Mr. Warnock knew, and Boyles did not deny it, even saying he had not followed proper procedure by bringing in a witness, namely Mr. Warnock. I told Mr. Warnock I requested a witness but was refused, repeating the exact words Mr. Boyles told me concerning the Principals late lunch eating habits. Mr. Warnock asked me if I felt like he should notify the authorities concerning this matter, me thinking I was in some deep shit. I figured he meant Oscar might be on the short end of this, but I told him absolutely not. I also told him I was not going to write a 100 page theme and I had to have his assurance that I would not be harassed by Mr. Boyles any more that year. 

I actually felt sorry for Oscar when Warnock instructed him to apologize to me for the incident. Mr. Warnock gave me the look of death, making me know that I was on the thinnest of ice and had somehow skated off unharmed. I assured them both that I was on cruise control and flying under the radar, preparing mentally to move on to Troy and College football. Of course, by the time I’d gotten back to my class, the rumor was out that Mr. Boyles had tried to fight me and I’d flipped him over his desk, all bull crap but it was out there in the old timey internet, the dependable rumor mill. I felt just like a heel, ashamed of myself of the entire incident. This was not who I wanted to be, or be remembered for. I'd have just soon rode off into the sunset and forgot this whole thing.

I sought out Mr. Boyles to apologize for the incident after I sat down with my dad and preemptively told him about the entire deal, not leaving out any details. A few days later, I rounded a corner with my standard fake hall pass I had produced with Mr. North's perfectly counterfeited signature, and there he stood. I automatically handed it to him without his asking, out of respect for him and his difficult position as head disciplinarian. I told him how much I regretted the entire thing, and I think I might have even agreed to a few "make up" licks as a sign of gravitas. He was a bit shocked by my approach, I guessed, but he just chuckled and turned me down flat. After that, Mr. Boyles was actually quite friendly to me for the rest of the year and I felt like we connected on some strange level. Now, we didn't eat lunch together every day after that or go camping, but we were cool. He was at graduation and shook my hand with a genuine smile and offered his congratulations after the ceremony. I visited the school a time or two in later years and when I’d see him, he’d smile and wave and be sure to shake my hand when we’d meet. I never saw him again after a few years and deep into my college major and football as an occupation. I saw his obituary on Facebook, learning he was an Auburn War Eagle and a WWII veteran. I knew he was a good man and also knew he had a family that loved him and will miss him. He'd left quite an impression on me, that was for sure. 

I know now, being older and somewhat wiser, that this world needs more men like Oscar P. Boyles walking it's halls. I'm just glad the original was walking mine. He was quite the hunter, that Old War Eagle.

Rest in peace and God bless, Mr. Boyles, rest in peace.

Oscar P. and The Designated Paddle, Part 2

Then it happened.

My best friend and I decided to sneak out of class one day and bolt to the closest convenience store for some much needed munchies. We were in his sweet 57 Chevy, one that stuck out like a sore thumb from the wicked black paint, blood red and white custom interior, and loud mufflers, none of which had a "quiet" setting anywhere I could detect. We decided to hit the Stop and Go up the street from school, planning to make our return when class was changing so we could re-enter the student parking lot and class without the possibility of being suspected of "leaving school grounds", a major infraction. Oscar happened to be walking through the smoking section (I assumed to do his daily shake down of the long hairs) located on the student parking lot side of the building by the auto shop and lunchroom. It must have been just as we were hauling ass (and I mean haulin' ass) out of the student parking lot. When we retrieved our goods from the Stop and Go, we headed out the glass and metal framed front door and there stood Oscar, grinning like a jackass in a brier patch. Apparently he’d jumped in his trusty Volkswagen and decided he’d follow us to be damn sure he’d caught his men. Of course, we were off school property and Boyles couldn’t so much as ask what time it was or for correct change to make a phone call. We were both surprised to see him, but we looked him in the eye and without saying a word jumped back into into my buddies 57 and off we went. Let me tell you this truth, that dude could drive. He backed her out of the parking lot, slammed it up into first and dumped the clutch. We made our speedy exit, sideways, boiling the tires and snatching gears, leaving double black marks as evidence of our visit, making our way swiftly back to the school grounds. Junior Johnson would have proud of my old friend that day. Driving was written into his genetic code.

We hustled back to the coaches office where we found Coach Davis, who wrote us a retroactive pass to be off school grounds “to retrieve my football cleats”… a total load of crap. Oscar protested that we were only at the store, noting that my house was nine miles away. I stated that we discovered my cleats in the car when we were headed to my house and stopped at the Stop and Go for gas. We got away with it much to the protest of one Oscar P. Boyles. He was not a happy man and I had made him, or was involved in making him, look bad…again. He obviously held onto the “English class” comment for my benefit and this, well, this was the cherry on his chocolate sundae, the ice cream type, of his displeasure of all things “me”. He was so red-faced when we bested him that I was sure he was ready to fight. I knew right then I was on thin ice for the rest of the year and needed to be careful…really careful. 

It was my last quarter of high school, just a few months before I was to go on to my chosen institute of higher learning and play the college game as I had done for the majority of my life. I was purposely staying under the Oscar P. Boyles radar, cruising along quietly, looking forward to getting out of there and on to bigger and better, or at least, more different things. I was running track to keep in shape, and I also enjoyed jumping on the Olympic sized trampoline located in the lower gymnasium. I got so proficient on the tramp that I could do double front and back flips, and getting massive air at will. I was able to jump high enough to grab onto the numerous plumbing pipes running throughout the ceiling and just hang there. It was something to do with all the time I had on my hands back then.

That particular quarter I was a teacher’s aid for my favorite teacher, Mr. North, and he'd regularly give me a pass to go and chit-chat with my football coaches, him not caring what I did nor where I was. Thing was, I could duplicate his signature perfectly, and still can to this day, signing every hall pass and some reports for him. On the day of my reckoning I indeed had a hall pass that I had "counterfeited"(as Boyles would later put it) and had signed Mr. North’s name to. I was busy hanging off the high plumbing when Mr. Boyles walked into the lower gym that day. He was making his rounds I guessed, looking for criminals, so I just hung there quietly, thinking he'd never look up to find someone breaking the "law". He turned to leave, took three steps, and calmly turned back, looked up, and knew he has his man. He immediately asked me to “dismount” and come to his office. I obliged him, thinking I was in the clear, no harm no foul.

Wrong.

As I waited in the office for Oscar's return, he was busy gathering evidence, visiting with Mr. North concerning my whereabouts. Of course, Mr. North had no idea where I might be at any time. I was his "aid", he trusted me, and he defiantly told Oscar that I regularly signed his hall passes (I'm guessing he didn't care much for Oscar either) for him, but even he couldn't tell which ones were mine and which were his. The pass Oscar presented to Mr. North looked exactly like his signature, so there was a good chance he had indeed signed it. Mr. North hadn't thrown me under the proverbial bus, so I thought I was clean. BUT, I was an unsupervised teachers aid AND there were no coaches in the lower gym AND I was jumping on a piece of school property without "proper" permission, whatever that meant. Ole Boyles had hit the trifecta, trumped up charges at worst and revenge for him at the best. Toss in the fact that I had manufactured my own hall pass and I was completely screwed. After verbally laying out the charges, he offered me the standard punishment, or so I thought, his standard 50 page theme or three licks with the EQUALIZER, the paddle he used on male students. I told him I’d take the licks before he uttered more than a few words. He then informed me that I’d get FIVE licks or my theme would be 100 pages. I assumed the extra two licks were for the English class thing and the Stop and Go incident, us staring knowingly at each other concerning my past “indiscretions”. I petitioned him to let me think about it for a few minutes just for the drama of the event and decided on the theme versus the licks, just to throw him off. I knew that two more licks above his standard three wouldn't be as bad as a theme, doubled of course. He noted, in what I perceived to be a joyful tone, that I would not graduate if said theme was not turned in “prior to” and was delivered as a coherent theme, double spaced, and readable. It was to be based on the evils of disrespect, chewing gum, rock and roll music, communism, excessive alcohol consumption, short pants, pre-marital anything, Twinkies, and any car with dual exhaust, shiny paint and a four speed. 

I realized Mr. Boyles was itching to finally bust my ass with his paddle and theme be damned, so I changed my mind and agreed to the licks, knowing he'd read every word and be more critical of my theme than my English Lit teacher, Mrs. Spriggs. Anyway, he'd get what he wanted all along and I could get on with my life. At least what was left of it there. I didn't sit around much anyway so what was a few days more on my feet, knowing my rump was going to look and feel like a freshly cut pair of Rib-eye steaks, burnt of course, in a few minutes from right then. He and I both knew he had me.

So I relented, and agreed to the licks on the spot. He asked me to please remove all objects from my back pockets, which I did, and “assume the position”, both hands on his desk. I looked at the picture hanging on the wall over his chair and I’m sure I saw him grinning in the reflection, his face clearly in view behind me, his eyes glowing red and shiny, savoring this moment he had so hoped for. He asked me not to look back at  him while he was administering the punishment he had so wanted to deliver my way over the past two years. In his hesitation, I though he might have reached down, as if to be retrieving a paddle he’d fashioned just for me. I guessed he had a wood shop behind his house and spent his evenings carving and sanding paddles with the names of most of my friends on them, each with its own special case, but mine with a red velvet lining and “JIM HALL” carefully carved in Old English script across the face of the paddle, perfectly spaced so JIM would be on one cheek and HALL on the other. I’m exaggerating, of course, but you catch my drift. 

Time was getting short and Ole Oscar was about to check off one more name on his short list of Seniors who's asses he wanted to crack before graduation. He'd whacked everybody I knew, so the list must have been down to a name or two. I might have even been the last name on it way back in 19 and 78 (you can toss in the and if it's been more than 30 years). He wanted my ass hanging on his trophy wall and I was finally his. My time had come and it was time to pay the piper, the fat lady was about to sing, Oscar was about to bust Jim Hall’s ass and maybe just retire and call it a career. There was no getting out of it. Now I want to make it clear, my High School football head coach used to give me three “all-purpose” licks every Friday, him knowing I was up to something but never sure of what. But those were "keeping you in the rows" licks and not revenge driven ones like the five Oscar had lined up for me that day. My butt was about to receive five of the hardest licks I had ever been on the receiving end of and I knew it. I braced myself for the experience that was about to come. Ole Oscar was in his left-handed swinging position and ready to roll, and I had an epiphany that would change our relationship for eternity. 

And I mean really change it. And that right soon.

The End is near! C'mon back Friday for the ending, you'll like it.

Ole Oscar P. and The Designated Paddle.

After missing our 35th Class reunion, I thought about this short story and decided to post it.

I got word today that Mr. Boyles, also known as “Ole Oscar”, head disciplinarian at Lithia Springs High School (my alma mater), passed away today, April 17th, 2011. I had to stop and take a few minutes to relay a funny story concerning the author and Mr. Boyles during my stay at Lithia Springs High…well, funny to me I guess, not so funny to Mr. Boyles. I guess the best way to describe our relationship was “Hunter and Hunted” with yours truly being the furry one with antlers . Mr Boyles and I had what one might call "an adversarial relationship", why, I’m not completely sure, but he was out to get me. I had numerous friends, close buddies, who had suffered under the tyranny of the massive paddle Mr. Boyles offered as an alternative to 50 page themes doled out for punishment administered for various sorts of in-school felonies. Everything from chronic tardies to cutting class, disrespecting a teacher or fighting with a future best friend, any and all of it ultimately was settled with either Oscar's paddle or your ink pen and fifty pages.

I knew one thing for sure, Mr. Boyles had it in for me and I had no idea why. My Junior year and LSHS’s first year open as a school, I became aware of Mr. Boyles presence. I remember being at an orientation of sorts before that year started, during two a day football practices. I recall Oscar (what we all called him behind his back) coming to lecture us athletic types in the locker room after a long hot humid day on the gridiron. I vividly recall being exceptionally tired and irritated while he was busy giving his “Thar’s a new Sheriff in town…and his name is Oscar Boyles” speech and not being either impressed nor concerned. My dad gave me the one reason I needed to never, ever be a pain in someone’s, anyone’s ass as far as school was concerned, and that reason was this: because he damn well said so. I do remember not paying full attention to Oscar, breaking eye contact and glancing out the window silently vowing to not ever cross his path nor darken his door for purposes other than to say “Hi”. I looked back at him just as he said something about us not being treated special just because we were athletes, and him staring at me and asking if I understood him. My simple answer was ” sound’s like you passed English class, sir, and I understood you perfectly” followed by numerous laughs from my teammates. His face turned beet red and he gave me a look like he wished my mom could retroactively fill an infants grave with my carcass in it. I really wasn’t trying to be a wise ass, but I was tired and it was hot, and his singling me out just fell on me wrong. Difference was, he was in charge of ass whuppin’s and 50 page themes and you did not want to be on his radar. All of a sudden I realized I was a large blip on his screen and he had a long memory, one I’d soon bear witness to.

For the entirety of my junior year including every time I’d round a corner, there he’s be…eyeballin’ me like I had gone on a secret date with his best friends daughter. If I stepped out of a classroom to take a leak, he’d be right there checking my credentials and talking in that same disgusted voice I’d recognized when Ward Cleaver, Beaver’s dad on “Leave it to Beaver” would address Eddie Haskell on any level. I think I even got a rash of crap from him for having a miscellaneous penalty in a football game for mercy’s sake. I’m just kidding of course, but I realized he had it in for me. I guess the “we both passed English” comment landed on him wrong and he held a grudge. I did managed to get through my junior year with no trips to his office. I had a close call one time, accidentally calling a certain teacher who it was rumored was a Sears underwear model and a little effeminate by the nick-name every student called him behind his back. I did have to go to the office for that infraction, but luckily Oscar was on vacation that week and his surrogate wasn't in it for the money. I got a quick parent teacher conference accompanied by an apology from me and that was that. Mr. Boyles did corner me post vacation and tell me how lucky I was that he was gone that week. I asked him what in the world I had done to offend him so, and he got red-faced and wide-eyed all over again, mumbling something about wise-assed kids and lack of respect these days. Let me make this clear, I addressed him with respect when he addressed me, because it was the  way I was raised. All of my friends were raised respectful also. Even the “bad” kids.

My senior year rolled around and me and my senior buddies thought we were kings of the world. We had our minds made up that we “owned” our last year in school, meaning we were going to create some serious mischief with the freshmen class being our target. We did the standard stuff, handing out "swirlies" to the freshman football players, wedgies, sturnups and grundies by the dozen, water balloons (or any balloons filled with liquid) and general hazing as we saw fit. We managed to figured out how to get all the way on top of the school via the press box that looked out over the future football field and the current basketball court. There was a hidden door and we managed to sneak a key from our football coaches office to gain entry to the elevated position where we could do all manner of good and evil, depending on where you were currently standing I guess. Our favorite activity was to get trash cans full of water and dump them on the freshmen boys gym class while we were supposed to be having gym class ourselves. We threw numerous items upon the unwitting heads of those poor chaps, some that I cannot repeat here as some of the liquids were downright unpleasant. We’d do our deed and haul ass out from the roof of the gym heading straight to our coaches office to discuss football games and strategy, about the time Oscar would come stormin’ in thinking he was catching his man…or men. One of our coaches, Coach Davis, was a defensive coach and he always covered for us, lying to Oscar like a seasoned pro. Oscar’d quiz us as he walked out the door while Coach Davis shooed him out like a house cat underfoot, much to Mr. Boyles displeasure.

Wednesday brings more mayhem, check back then!

Number 50, Huck, Tom, and my Orange Krate.

I've reached a milestone of sorts. This is my fiftieth blog post and I'm doing it one fingered on my I-phone, ironically, as my computer picked up a virus and I'm having to do a system wide scan to make sure the old box will live another day. Its a good thing a human can find online software to search out the numerous illnesses a computer can contract, otherwise this laptop wouldn't serve as a decent doorstop. It's a "Nuthin Special" special, a five year old HP that works great, types OK, that is if you keep the cookie crumbs cleaned out when the grandsons come to visit. It will access the Internet with the best of 'em...sometimes. Sometimes, it's access is akin to beating drums Congo style, or sending up smoke signals at times but it gets me where I want to go when I need to. And, when I don't want to booger finger type like I am right now, which amounts to every time I post up. My old laptop is like an old car, the kind we used to drive back in high school, the kind without computers, with points and leaded gas, smoke belching tanks destroying the ecosystem at the turn of a key. Sorta.

When I started up this whole blog thing, I thought I might share my political views, being a conservative and all. But I realized a few years back that politics is exactly like World Championship Wrasslin' (not wrestling like in the Olympics, I mean Wrasslin), the fake stuff. My wise father once called it "The Poor man's Passion Play" and for good reason. Wrasslin, like Politics, is as classic a good versus evil scenario as it gets, except you can't tell the "good guys" from the evil ones, in politics I mean...they all wear the same suits and talk the same BS. Trust me, I've been to a full fledged wrasslin extravaganza, and you could tell the bad guys as soon as they cleared the ropes in the "Squared circle" as Gordon Soley, the voice of Pro Wrasslin used to describe it. He was the announcer back in my day, and he did his duties on the Super Station, channel 17, Ted Turners first foray into world wide TV domination. I will confess I have been to the Omni, on Thanksgiving evening, with Rick Flair fighting Dusty Rhoades as the headline match. I will also confess that I loved it, being a confessed people watcher, and that my people watching, as a hobby, was elevated to a much higher plateau that night. Seeing everyone from the old ladies to kids, dads and moms (both with chaws of tobacco in cheek) spitting mad and drunk throwing popcorn and drinks at the wrestlers as they made their way to the stage. It was a lesson I never forgot. Some folks need Opera to prove they are cultured, and some need World Championship Wrestling...I mean Wrasslin". I guess for my entertainment dollar, I'll go with the latter. For people watchers and psychologists, the admission should be doubled for the entertainment factor alone.

I'm not trying to sort out the problems of the world, I'm just trying to lighten up the day, share a laugh or two. It has been enjoyable and, to be transparent, harder than I expected. It hangs a writer (if I can go that far) out in the open, reveals ones lack of grasp as it pertains to the old "native tongue". I'm fifty three right now, and my grip on it isn't any better than it was in high school or college, but I'm not attempting to write a manifesto for future generations to sing "Kum-by-yah" to or hum prayers over. I'm just trying to give a perspective on life from a dude that has done a lot of stuff. Stupid stuff, good stuff, not so good stuff, exceptionally dumb stuff, stuff that I thought was good, then thought was bad, then knew (looking back on it), wasn't so bad after all. And that's a good thing. Get it?

Most of you probably know more about me now than I ever dreamed I'd reveal. When I write a lot if this down, then let it rest for a day, I'm reluctant to post it in fear of maybe giving some innocent child of yours a few ideas concerning mischief that they might not otherwise attempt if it weren't written down somewhere. I know I did. If not for Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, I might not have been the kid who struck out on his Schwinn Orange Krate bike with his thirty-five cent weekly allowance, forth grade education and a can-do attitude and head out, alone, to the mountains and valleys that was the city of Atlanta. I'd head up Avon Avenue, never crossing it and breaking my Moms strictest rule concerning crossing the street, staying on my side of the road the three miles till it hit Lee Street. I'd hang a left, and when I was in the Pilgreen's parking lot, I could see the skyline looming like the Appalachians or the Sierra Nevada's, screaming out to me like the Harlot in Proverbs, attempting to steal the wisdom from the weak minded. And I never technically crossed Avon Avenue...technically. She never specifically said anything about venturing out as long as it was on my side of the road. I knew I was venturing into certain ass-whippin' territory, but when she'd ask, I could honestly say I didn't. I mean, the city of Atlanta was on my side of the road...again, technically speaking of course. Now I could tell a stretcher (as Mark Twain put it) with the best of 'em, but in this case I was clean. Of course, God might mention it on my day of reckoning, but I was a kid back then and the Bible says he has mercy on fools and kids. I thought I might bring that up when my time comes.

 Atlanta was my Mississippi River and my bike was my raft.

I would make my trek ever so slowly, cautiously, adding a mile or two each day, sorting out the roads laid out in square grids, the old fashioned way. That was back when two wrongs never made a right (now called miss-spoke by the liberal media), but three rights could always make a left. I eventually got to where I'd ride all over the city, right down Peachtree Street, North Avenue, Piedmont and Ponce DeLeon, the Zoo and the Cyclorama, eating lunch at the Varsity back when a hot dog was ten cents and a coke was five cents. Some days I'd go to Piedmont Park and watch the hippies, occasionally catching a liberated woman who thought going topless was the "it" fashion of the day. I didn't object much but also didn't care much either. I was still in "girls are gross" mode back then, so it just didn't register. I know now that a few of those women are now in politics, running this country into the proverbial ground. I never really knew what boobs were until my friend Dickey McGrew pulled out one of his dad's Playboy Magazines and pointed them out to us all. I told them on the spot where they might see them in the flesh, as it were, and it would only cost them that weeks allowance for the keys to the kingdom. My flesh peddling days, although short lived, ended. It, along with my days of "Lone Ranger-ing" it into the city, officially ended too. When I'd make my ride, I'd always have at least three to six young men riding along with me. Seems like boobies do that to kids and men.

These days, my kids always maintain I am impervious to getting lost and I guess that's true to some degree, at least where Atlanta is concerned. They've been lost in the city a time or two and would call me, regardless of where they were, and I'd say "just read me the street sign where you are sitting" and have them out of a jamb in a jiffy. All from riding the tires off that Orange bike, the one I traded Keith Pruitt, even-steven, for a box of Hot-Wheels way back in the day. That style of bike was the Cadillac of kid-dom back in my day, and one I still own. I still drive my old route on occasion, with my bride by my side, and it'd like going back in time. Funny how that happens. Look up "Ethos Doctrine" and you'll get what I mean. I still feel it when I pull up to the Varsity and order my  three chili-cheese dogs with Pimento, two Onion rings and a big Coke with extra shaved ice. It reminds me that life is good and sometimes the most simple things are the greatest. I'll stop here with all that, don't want you getting all "verklempt" on me.

This writing thing is like that kid on the Schwinn, looking at the city off in the distance, wondering if he goes too far will he make it back home. The difference is now I have a college education and that same can-do attitude, so lets see where this ole bike will take us. It's got a banana seat and a sissy bar, room enough for at least one more, so hop on and let's roll!

See you Monday!

Parlay-to maneuver to great advantage, my great advantage that is.

I need to set this part of the story up by telling you that I was in the hospital for a long period of time. I got to know the nurses that took care of me quite well and even got to know their habits concerning lunch and dinner. I attended a small church, maybe seventy-five members, mostly older sweet men and women that had retired and had lots of time on their hands.  A lot of these sweet old people have gone on to be with the Lord now and I will never forget their visits to me and the kindness they showed my small family while I was laid up. One of the older couples had a son that owned a Lance Cracker distributorship and numerous routes to keep the distributorship viable. The son did well for himself, and I had taken a chance on his business making a loan for him, because I knew how well he was raised and by whom he was raised. 

He was the kind of guy that if his business did indeed fail, he’d work two jobs to pay back his bank debt. He and I were good friends and when he said “if there is anything you need, please say it” he meant it. I never took advantage of his good will, just prayed he’d pay his loans as agreed and we’d call it even. That was until one day his Dad and Mom came to visit me, and asked if there was anything I might need. I said “I would really like some Captain’s Wafers to snack on when I’m up late nights”. Captain’s Wafers are the small rectangular buttery wafers you get when you order a salad at most any restaurant. They were the kind of buttery goodness kids fought over and concern of every mother interested in their offspring's diet. Usually a basket of these appetizers, with their magnetic plastic packaging, elicited the “that's going to ruin your dinner” lecture, one every mom used. What most parents (Mom's to be exact) didn't know was that most kids would have been satisfied with a big bowl of those crackers and a Coca-Cola with free refills.

The kind old couple put out an all points bulletin at church that I wanted Captain’s Wafers, and the church responded. Two days later I got a basket full of every kind of cracker made in the Lance Line of snacks, including cookies of every kind, cases of Captain’s Wafers and enough Fruit to feed a starving village, or two, in any third world country I had ever heard of. Those kind people kept this thing stocked full sometimes bi-weekly. There was so much starch and fruit in that huge basket, big enough to hold my two-year old daughter in comfortably, that I was unsure what I might do with all of it. I didn’t want to disappoint the older folks that now had a mission to upkeep, keeping the basket full, and I sure as heck couldn’t eat all of it. So I did the next best thing, I parlayed it.

par·lay (pär-laay)

tr.v. par·layed, par·lay·ing, par·lays

1. To bet (an original wager and its winnings) on a subsequent event.

2. To maneuver (an asset) to great advantage: parlayed some small investments into a large fortune. 

I used the booty I had received to help me get other goals accomplished. I was doing the best I could with it, seeings it had become a free source of currency. I would take a good bit of it to the rooms of some of the children on the children’s orthopedic wing. A pack of cookies and an apple did a world of good to some of those kids, like the pizza and beer did for me. It had become like a ministry for me as far as those awesome, brave kids were concerned. The adults that worked as nurses, well, that was where the parlaying came into play. The Kids I visited? They got it all for free. I could get around OK with the aid of my Pontiac (what I named my wheelchair), and the majority of these little ones reminded me of just how good I had it. Sometimes, in my minds eye, I see their faces and pray that all these years later that their lives are better. It had to be. Most had already endured enough pain and isolation to last a few lifetimes. I was good, and these little dudes and dudettes were proof.

If you recall my need for steam and pressure to clean the big parts of the transmission, you might know that I was in a hospital, where clean and sterilized stuff was a daily necessity. All hospitals utilized a machine called an “Autoclave” (I guessed there was an Autoclave, Wisconsin or Kansas somewhere, thus the name) a fancy name for a machine that took used stainless medical instruments like scalpels and hemostats, clamps and scissors, and hot steamed them to germ free perfection. They then would be re-used on folks like me, the guy that knew the habits of hungry nurses, all liking fruit and crackers as meals and sometimes just as snacks. I initially set my new-found bartering company up for getting my transmissions parts cleaned, which I did, but only by the night shift nurses when the hospital wasn't so busy. I then parlayed the snacks to both night shift and day shift when I needed something to drink or had visitors that might be thirsty. Funny thing about a hospital, you need a shot for pain, the nurses would be in there within a few minutes with needled up drugs and alcohol swab at the ready. A soft drink to whet one’s whistle, well, that might take an hour or better...if you were lucky. Unless you were the master of food and fruit in endless supply, as I was. I would usually tell my visitors who'd request a drink to just sit and listen, explaining the process by which one might need to have one’s thirst quenched. It would go something like this: 

“BEEP!!” me signaling a nurse. 

“Yes Mr. Hall, what might I do for you?” the nurse would respond rather dryly. 

“I need a Sprite and Two Cokes, and three cups of Ice” I’d say dryly back. The silence in between was to formulate the “offer”. 

“Two packs of crackers, an apple and a banana, and I’ll have it to you in fifteen minutes” the nurse would respond on cue. 

“Two packs of crackers and an Apple and have it to me in Five minutes and you got a deal” I’d respond, always altering the deal in some way, making them think I had thought it through.

 “Deal” the nurse would respond, usually minus a counter offer. 

My visitors usually would just shake their heads, thinking I had a ponzi scheme going of some sort and not surprised that I had somehow figured a way to circumvent the system. I was providing a valuable service to the nursing staff, keeping them in bargain snacks and nutritious fruit, and anyway the drinks would be charged to my insurance so no harm, no foul. I did ultimately finish rebuilding the 4 speed transmission in the hospital. I used suture and petroleum jelly to hold tiny parts together, re-assembling that aluminum bodied 4-speed tranny to perfection. I still run that same transmission, it’s still in that same 1974 Z-28, and it’s going strong, still shifts like “Butta”.

We’re moving this party to Monday/Wednesday/Friday, so…come back Friday!

Car buddies, Bank buddies, and Buckwheat.

Curt had formulated a plan and it worked. There was another box holding the rebuild kit and gasket material, another holding my traveling tool box so I could dis-assemble and reassemble the transmission. That was my car buddy “gifts”. My banker buddies also had presents. They had a box carefully wrapped and it was the exact size of a cooler. When my nurse walked in, she said “Jim, isn't you birthday in March?, its July!” One of my banker buddies said “It’s belated, we couldn't all get here and we just wanted to show our support”. The cooler had a case and a half of Ice Cold Long neck Budweiser’s in it and we had a brew or two. The second, and most important box held three “Carnivore Specials”, pizza’s from DePalma’s Pizzeria, my favorite pizza joint located in what I called “Buckwheat” the industrial area between Bolton Road and Buckhead, the high brow area of Atlanta. DePalma’s Pizza Joint was situated on the de-facto dividing line between my car buddies and my bank buddies, at least in my mind. It was one place they all could agree to meet. I just had to face in a different direction to wait for my buddies, hi-brows from the North, and low-rent from the South. I liked them both with equal enthusiasm.

The Carnivore Specials had every kind of meat known to man on top of them, cooked to perfection and topped with the best cheese I have ever tasted. The super large could feed a small army, and we had three and a half small armies in my room. I had Ice cold beer, Pizza, and my buddies from both sides of the tracks all at once in my hospital room. I looked one more time for a box with a stripper in it, but that box didn't make it through the door. It was a night I’ll never forget. It made me feel good and I knew I wasn't forgotten by my friends, regardless of where they lived and how much money they made. Right then they all made considerably more than me, but none were richer.

Of course, my nurse came in after the party ended, meaning visitation was over. I gave her and the other nurses a pizza to keep them quiet so they let us do our thing and nobody was any poorer for the celebration. She told me I’d better keep it to myself and there’d be no trouble. I told her I was in it for the long haul and the only person that might see any trouble was her. I laid that groundwork to help aid in my transmission fix-it plans my buddies had delivered as a true gift to fight off boredom. I made it clear to her that I wanted the transmission left in my room and even told her why. I needed something to do and that was it. She just shook her head and said she’d “allow” it as long as there were no more parties involving car parts, beer, and pizza in my private room again.

Curt has taken the side inspection cover off the transmission and had run gas through it to rid it of the smelly transmission “dope” that was used as lubricant by the manufacturer. It was an awful smelling mess that would get in your skin and stink like a dead ‘possum if you didn't scrub it off with soap or gasoline. All the old school car dudes I knew called the lubricant “Whale Sperm Oil” it was so thick. I later learned it (the Whale Sperm Oil) was what was used way back when to lubricate manual transmissions. I figured it must have been based on the way it smelled. I guessed it was why you didn’t see a lot of whale babies. If the spunk of a whale smelled this bad, no wonder a female whale might turn tail and run. It stunk like the south bound end of a north bound skunk.

I carefully disassembled the “Muncie” 4 speed, named for the plant that manufactured the transmission for General Motors, located in Muncie, Indiana. No fancy nomenclature, mind you, just named for the city that thing was built-in, simple and effective. When I disassembled the transmission, I put the parts in the bath tub in my bathroom and filled it with “Dawn” dishwashing liquid, a necessity when working on any greasy car item, casserole pan, and any oil soaked bird (seriously) that might need the oil disbursed and dissolved from it feathery clothing. This stuff worked like a champ and was as integral a part of any car dudes grease relief repper-twa (fancy french word alert) this side of WD-40. I’d sit on the porcelain facility, and with my hospital supplied toothbrush scrub those tiny parts as good as I could. There were hundreds of parts making up the inner workings of said transmissions, from hundreds of small needle bearings to the large input shaft. They, all together, made up the backbone of any good hot rod.

Here is where it got interesting. Some of the bigger parts, like the case and the front cover, the rear tail section, the large input shaft and the helical cut gears needed the kind of cleaning my Dawn Liquid and elbow grease could not provide. Steamy hot water and pressure was the ticket and I had a plan.

Well, I thought I'd get this wrapped up in two days, but hey, it's free. See you tomorrow!

One broke leg and a busted up 4 Speed needing repair.

I was in the process of raising a family when I was involved in my accident. I was run over by a young man driving a jeep the day before he was to graduate from High School. I was riding my ten speed bike back from the park where I’d go to run every day. I won’t bore you with the details other than to share with you that I was laid up in the Hospital for two years, and losing my left leg at the shin was a distinct possibility. I kept it, ultimately, but it was a chore. I think I had more than 60 operations of various and sundry kind, but, hey, who’s counting. Upside for me is that I win the best scar contest every year at our annual Memorial Day family reunions. I've beat out my Uncle John’s Ax blade across the skull hands down now for the past 22 years running. But that’s a story for another day. I guess when a car guy gets laid up in the hospital for a long period of time, that same car guy might attempt any task, however impossible, to make time pass. I was one of those guys. Let me tell you I had so much time on my hands I literally laid in my hospital bed one day and watched the seconds tick away on a clock for 24 straight hours. I’m not sure of what you definition of boredom might be, but for me, that day was mine. I read everything I could get my hands on, and I mean everything. I read labels, books, magazines, charts, graphs, statistics, surgical procedural books and just about anything else that wasn't nailed down, and a few that were. I’d even read automotive assembly manuals, my favorite. I'm not talking "Hot Rod" or "Car Craft" car magazines, those were a  given. I mean the manuals used on the auto assembly lines when cars were being produced in the plants. It was great reading for a serious car dude, even a crippled one like myself, but only if I could convince my wife or any of my friends to bring me one or more. I remember getting the assembly manual for a 1969 Camaro and being so glad I thought I might cry when it was laid in my outstretched hands. I think I might have even hugged it longer than I hugged my dear wife upon both’s arrival to my bedside.

For those of you reading this (and that would be zero) an assembly manual is the book that a car manufacturer would give to the various stages of construction when a car was making its way down an assembly line. Not the whole book, mind you, just the parts and pages pertaining to the job at hand. These books were to show the assembler how to do a specific job, say how to properly install a headlight and how tight to torque it to the headlight housing assembly or how many shims to put in a fender for proper alignment, if that be the station where that particular job was being done. Some genius took all of the different pages and made them into three inch thick assembly manuals for the consuming public. You might think that would be reading akin to watching grass grow or cars rusting or watching golf on TV, but some smart dude (or Dudette) smacked a home run when he thought it up, and unfortunately, it wasn't me. Assembly manuals are big business and I can attest to the nature of an assembly manual, its egg head reading and only for the exceptionally bored or engineers…like I was (bored I mean) on my two-year vacation at the Georgia Baptist Hilton. I had a project car waiting me back at my house. It was a great car, a 1974 Z-28. It had the bad-assed 350 LT-1 motor, by then designated as an L-82 Corvette engine due to the lower compression pistons, smaller cam shaft and cast iron intake manifold. It still made  a very respectable 290 horses (underrated) and was second only to the Super Duty 455 engine that found its way into the Z-28′s ”F-Body” brother at General Motors, the Trans-Am. I had bartered and traded a rebuilt small block Chevy engine, a tach-drive distributor (keep reading) and a four speed shifter out of a 67 Corvette even for the car.

I was a poor young Dad with two kids and a wife and a mortgage, but I had always had a hot-rod car of some sort and this one was mine. It needed everything re-done, and I had the time to do it, seeings I was busted up from my accident. I could only work on the car when I was at home, which was rare. So I broke the car up into segments to work on, Engine, transmission, interior, suspension, paint & body, so I could hopefully get the car running again sometime in the future. The four speed was purdy much shot and it needed a rebuild. I had already ordered the rebuild kit, with all bearings and gaskets included, and I had made a plan to get the transmission rebuilt. All I needed was to figure out a way to get the Muncie 4-speed into my hospital room. I contacted one of my car buddies and told him about my plan. Curt, the dude in question, said let him worry about how to get the 4 speed into my room and just concern myself with getting well. The following week, he said he had a plan worked out, and just sit back and watch it unfold. I guessed it would be under cover of night and involve breaking and entering, just this time it would be to leave something and not to take something away. I braced myself for the worse, as the dudes I hung out with were entirely different from the guys I used to work with. I was a banker by trade but a car-dude at heart. Car guys usually were a little rougher around the neck than the traditional button down guys you’d meet while under the employ of a Federally Insured Banking Operation. On occasion, I’d get the chance to intermingle my car buddies and my work acquaintances, over beer or lunch, and both usually said the same thing:

“You don’t really hang out with those people do you?”

It was like living two lives, really, the one that liked going to NASCAR races at Atlanta Speedway, and the Drags at Commerce Drag Strip on the red neck side of life. I also went to Football and Baseball games with my hi-brow friends and our customers, all under the guise of expanding my business base at the bank. The Bank paid for all the trips to the pro ball games, but the races were a hell of a lot more fun, and considerably more expensive. If the truth were known, the bank would have done a lot better spending its money at the races. A heck of a lot more business and loyalty could be had just for buying a guy a few beers,and I even suggested it once in a bank meeting with my superiors. Let me tell you they looked at me like I had just grown another eyeball or said something about the advantages of Credit Unions, akin to cussin’ in front of your grandma at church as far as banking circles went.

The following Tuesday afternoon, when Curt got off from work, he called me and told me the transmission would be delivered that evening and just play along with the charade. I simply told him “OK” and waited with bated breath and restricted sphincter, a saying my Dad used when he was being sarcastic, but fitting here as sneaking a 125 pound 4-speed transmission that was a good three and one half feet long was going to be a stretch. Seven O’clock rolled around and just as I thought the boys might have decided to back down from the delivery, I heard a small commotion out by the nurses desk, not gunfire or rattling sabers  just the commotion that accompanied a crowd of folks in small confined area.

My nurse came to the door and told me “Jim, you have a number of visitors, you want them all at once or a few at a time?” I was somewhat taken aback, but told her to send ‘em all at once. My buddy Curt had contacted the bank I was working at before my accident, told a few of my banking buddies that they were planning a visit. He also told a number of my car buddies a visit was planned also and what was going down. the first person to walk through the door was Curt, holding a birthday cake, with thirty one candles lit on top, two of my other buddies carrying a big box wrapped in the funny papers with Duct Tape securing the corners. I assumed it was so the it's contents wouldn't fall out of the end of the “present” or bust through the bottom of the box. It was pure genius.

 By the way, it wasn't my birthday.

More tomorrow! I'm gonna wrap this hospital crap up.