My Redacted Life: Chapter 24 (Cont._3)

We reached Fayetteville after dark. As it was the spring of 1972, there were lots of Vietnam Vets enrolled, all celebrating survival, if you know what I mean. The semester was ending, but the town still bustled with students. Mike and Wayland were waiting for us. The first sign of oddity was that they had a pet.

It was some kind of small python that they kept in a closet, thank goodness. Brenda was not amused, but she took it all in stride. She warmed to Mike quickly, despite his strange choice of a pet, and they began what would become a lifelong friendship. If she was affected by Godshall’s charms, she never let on.

Fayetteville was still a quiet little place back then. We saw the area and I showed Brenda my name on the sidewalk that proved I actually was a graduate of that bastion of higher learning. Mike and I swapped war stories while she listened. Godshall was mostly out roaming about with his many female admirers.

Mike was enjoying himself. Actually, he would have stayed in the Army had he been allowed. That organization, however, had no use for OCS-commissioned officers after they had served their tour in SE Asia. Those who managed to come back whole or in part learned quickly that they were of no further use to America as far as the Army was concerned. Further, as we all learned, most civilians had little use for them at all.

The Department of Defense and the Veterans Administration were two separate organizations and gave no indication of communicating with one another at all. Once a soldier received his DD214, or condition of discharge, he no longer existed as far as the Army was concerned. As Eric Bogle described many of them, “… the armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,” they were left to fend for themselves.

College proved a good escape. As I noted earlier, the campus teemed with veterans, most in a continual state of panic over GI benefits that weren’t arriving on schedule or at all. It was better that their previous gig, though, and most prevailed.

We enjoyed our time there, hit a few of the old spots, laughed and joked with Mike, and enjoyed a couple of quiet walks around campus, holding hands. We talked about what a racket going to college was, though we hadn’t realized it at the time.

It was a good time. Actually, it was a great time, one of the best of my life. For you see, at one magic moment during the time there, while we were all alone, that woman—the one I had adored since the first time I saw her—looked into my eyes and said, “I love you.”

What now?

My Redacted Life: Chapter 24 (Cont._2)

Well, I had me a girlfriend. The thought kind of sobered me. What to do next? Ah, I had it. Road Trip!

So Brenda and I planned a trip to Fayetteville next weekend. I would introduce her to my friend Mike Dunkum and some of the crowd he ran with. That would put our relationship to the test.

I think I’ve mentioned Mike before. He’s the one who dropped out of college because, as he put it, “Inertia overtook me.” A recruiting sergeant named “Sergeant Goforth” (I’m serious) talked him into signing up for a tour in the United States Army with a path toward becoming a Green Beret officer.

He did. With his training and all, he arrived in Vietnam after I did, survived, then finished his four-year tour at Fort Hood while I was stationed aboard the USS Hunley. He returned to Fayetteville to finish his homage to higher education.

He was rooming with Wayland L Godshall, who was a real ladies man, one of those guys who just had something unexplained that made him attractive to the opposite sex. It wasn’t unusual for him, while standing and talking to friends in a public place, to have young girls, total strangers, walk up and ask for his autograph.

The thought did pass through my mind that I might better not introduce him to Brenda, but I figured that would prove a test of our relationship as well.

I went back to work. The days seemed a bit longer. Charles Witsell and I were working on the design report for the Hope project. That proved a major learning experience for me, watching him work and learning from him. I was writing most of the time, learning to pare down my words to simple declarative sentences and, like my pal Ernest, to distrust adverbs.

Friday finally came. I had the Green Angel all filled with gas and checked out. I managed to leave work early and we were soon easing our way to the home of the “Mother of Mothers,” my Alma Mater, the University of Arkansas, where sports teams were trained with ultimate precision, to break the hearts of their fans. I didn’t worry about that, though. I, as Bob Dylan said, “ ... [had] my little lady right by my side.” I even think she was glad to get out of town for a spell, even if it was with me.

Rush hour traffic wasn’t too bad in those days. The “white-flight panic” hadn’t hit yet, though it was on the way like a devouring demon. We talked. There wasn’t much else to do the except listen to the radio, which neither of us cared for very much.

I learned that she had considered teaching on an Indian reservation upon getting her teacher’s certification. She had also considered moving to St. Louis where her uncle lived and where teachers got a little better pay than the measly $400 per month that our state, to its eternal shame, paid those who taught its children.

The freeway ended at the Morgan interchange and we moved onto Highway 65. To the West, they were planning an entire new city on land previously owned by the U.S. Army. It would be called “Maumelle,” after a nearby waterway and would be one of only two cities built under the “New Town” program set up by the federal government. No one ever divulged the need or reason for a new city there. It was just one of those things that seemed like a good idea back when our country still dreamed big dreams.

I told Brenda about the project. Charles Witsell’s parent firm was working on it with an internationally renown urban planner named Constantinos Apostolou Doxiadis, a man with ideas as big as his name. She appeared to be interested. I never knew for sure. I would find that she was a master at keeping her true thoughts to herself.

Somewhere in America, 
the traffic engineer's
greatest nightmare.

We passed the time in talk, reaching the City of Russellville before dark. There we enjoyed another of those wonderful streets scenes of past life. Gorgeous mansions lined the highway amidst magnificent oaks that spread overhead, creating a long, leafy tunnel similar to the one in Hope. This view would also fall to the highway department’s wrath years later, but only after the police had to remove a group of ladies who chained themselves to the trees in protest against their being sacrificed to the automobile.

It never occurred to me back then to sacrifice for urban beauty. I had all the beauty I needed sitting next to me.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 24

The sexy little Redhead had pretty much told me she didn’t want to see me that evening. Oh well. As I started toward my apartment, I saw my neighbor perched, as usual, just inside her screen door. She evidently had started changing clothes after getting home from work and, distracted by the histrionics in the parking lot, had forgotten about her task halfway through.

Anyway, I tried not to look when she said, “Lovers’ quarrel?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You feel better than a certain basketball coach I could name.”

Always the last musician in the orchestra to hit the chord, I suddenly realized what just might have happened.

“Are you telling me …?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” she said. I looked at her and quickly averted my eyes.

“So that’s why it was my fault?”

“What was your fault?”

She was evidently in one of her quixotic moods. I resisted another look and turned toward my apartment. As I did, I heard, “It’s your big chance, sport. Don’t blow it.”

I went inside, changed into jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. I put a jug of wine and a cup in a pillow case and walked down to the “Big Rock.” I sat all alone, just thinking. I had spent a year of my life once sitting alone by bunkers or in towers, staring at the jungle for six hours at a stretch. Much of the time I spent on trying to imagine what life might be like for me if I were lucky enough to, as the anthem said, “get out of this place.”

“The words of a silly song that Doris Day made famous (I read once that she hated it) floated along with the Arkansas River, “Will I be handsome, will I be rich …?” The handsome part was not gong to happen, but I was getting richer, both in finances and in prospects. How about it? Could she be the one? She sure as hell fit the bill, young, pretty, smart, feisty, and with a shared background.

Still, I sometimes thought about going back to San Francisco. I liked Little Rock. I liked San Francisco more. There might even be a place that I liked better than either. Then there was the ocean. Once you have lived by it, you never get over its siren song.

I knew enough about Brenda by now that I knew she would never move any farther from her parents than Little Rock, maybe Fayetteville.

Fayetteville?

Now that’s the way my mind has always worked. One minute I’m deep in serious thought. Then, like a human blackbird, I notice something shiny, my mind drops everything, and I fly after it, at least in my thoughts.

Fayetteville. Why not see if the Redhead wanted to go there this weekend and meet Mike Dunkum, the former Green Beret?

Hell yes. It would be great fun.

Only I wouldn’t be able to ask her until tomorrow, assuming she would even talk to me then. I packed my things in my pillow case and wondered home. Then I began to have doubts. Was it too early to start introducing her to my oddly turned friends? Was Fayetteville a mountain top too far? Had she had second thoughts, and maybe was on the phone with the basketball coach this very instant reestablishing vows with great sobs of happiness?

Was my dream drifting away in the fog?

What the hell was wrong with me?

I decided to read. I had lost my copy of Hemingway’s A Movable Feast somewhere and had traveled out to the bookstore that used to be in the Dillard’s store at Park Plaza Mall. Having asked the young sales clerk where I might find it, and having been pleasantly directed to the cookbook section, I had found it on my own. I was now reading it for maybe the third time.

Lost in Hemingway, now that was the way to spend an evening. Literature is a better mistress than any woman, I felt at that moment. It was much more reliable and consistent. Forget women. The beautiful ones, like the poor, would be with us always. I drifted along with old Ernest as he ended an outing with F. Scott Fitzgerald, warning us never to go on a long trip with someone you don’t love. Good advice.

I heard the sounds of fingernails moving along the screen of my living room window.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 23. (Cont._4)

Instead of going back to my apartment and trying to find Brenda, my Redhead and maybe girlfriend, I was going for a beer. And I wasn’t going for a beer with a couple of friends, I was going with two partners in the firm. That meant I was to keep my mouth shut, sip on my beer, no matter how many they drank, and listen to whatever they wanted to talk about. Oh, and I was to show my appreciation for being included.

That, as they say, really promised to “red-line the old fun meter.”

We walked to Capitol and Center streets, then crossed over to the northwest corner and entered a place on the corner called The Volkshaus, a faux-German place that served good Polish Sausage sandwiches and St. Pauli Girl beer, made in Breman, my ancestral hometown. That’s what I ordered. They drank American.

Most of the talk centered on our development project, Wellington Village. First, the land had to be, in the Engineer’s parlance “topo’d” meaning surveyors had to shoot elevations at specific points so that a map showing contour lines could be prepared. Then Jack would have to adjust his design to accommodate any undiscovered features.

The land was fairly flat, Jack observed, so there shouldn’t be any problems.

“We’ll see,” said the Engineer.

After that, the Engineer and his aid would begin work on the actual engineering drawings. They talked about a schedule and how much of a hurry the head of the firm was that they get into construction as soon as possible. They made a few disparaging observations about how little the president of our firm knew about the complexities of engineering and construction. Then they talked about how much money they would make when the lots were all sold, probably within a day or two after they went on sale. A cash flow analysis using that schedule of sales indicated the return would be substantial.

It would be nice, I suppose, if cash flow analyses ruled the Universe instead of ugly reality. I sipped my beer and tried to appear interested but not involved. They ordered another beer but I said I was fine.

The talk turned to military service. I stayed quiet. Jack had been a line officer in the Navy, which impressed me. The Engineer was an officer in a National Guard unit which, in those days, was the next best thing to avoiding the draft completely. I didn’t let on that I had ever heard of military service.

After what seemed like 50 years, the talkfest broke up and we left. The cheap bastards didn’t even pay for my beer, and it was expensive, being imported and all.

That didn’t really matter now. I fairly ran the five blocks to where my car was parked and rushed back to the apartment. What luck! I pulled onto the parking lot just as Brenda did and I parked alongside her car. That would make more tongues waggle. I jumped out and ran to her driver-side door and opened it for her. She looked at me a bit funny, but climbed out and stood in front of me.

Understanding women is
like trying to taste the wind.

Neither of us spoke for a moment, then I said, “Funny running into you. I was just going down for a hamburger. Want to go?” Then I noticed her eyes were red.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” That’s woman-talk, I had discovered, meaning something major was the matter. She took in a deep breath, and said, “I’m okay. I just had to have a sad talk with someone and I don’t feel like being around people right now.”

“A sad talk?”

“Delivering some bad news.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You should be,” she said. “It’s all your fault.” Then she took two steps, rose on here tiptoes, and kissed me. Before I could respond, she had pivoted and was running toward the apartment.

I guess I have been more confused in my life, but I can’t remember when.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 23 (Cont._3)

Monday came. I had to change my concentration from my Redhead to my career. Still, I wondered. Was she my girlfriend now? I’d ask my next-door neighbor next time I saw her. No use asking the Redhead herself. She’d just give me that funny little look she used so well and say, “Why do you ask?”

So, I went to work. I had piles of reports to go through from my week in Hope. The others were working on a project that was to get us into the land development business where the money was. The head boss had gotten a local savings and loan to finance the project and all was on “go.”

Jack Castin had designed a nice subdivision. As I have mentioned, the parcel lay between a large city and one of its suburbs. For the sake of maintaining harmless history, we’ll call its planned name “Wellington Village.” The reader will understand the need for anonymity later.

The bosses were pleased with the work I’d done in Hope. They stopped short of giving me another raise, but I could tell they were pleased because they gave me some more work to do, on top of everything else.

It seemed that a city, not one of ours, but a voice from the past of one of the bosses, was becoming fearful of the voting power of black residents. They had asked us to study the block statistics from the 1970 Census and lay out proposed voting districts that would assure a white majority in coming elections.

Hell yes, it bothered me. It was one of those “leave or deceive” moments that I would face occasionally in my career. Of course, I chose to deceive. Lack of a conscience was, back then, simply a benefit, a useful weapon in the arsenal of chicanery. Later. it would become a necessity for the highly successful. Four years of military life had pretty well emptied me of mine.

It would take me almost a week to arrive at boundaries that looked as if they met the mandate but were actually quite harmless. I don’t think anyone ever figured out the trickery, and I never told anyone. At any rate, the mayor stayed in office for years, so I don’t suppose he even needed the extra help that he assumed was there.

Back to the Monday, though. I had promised myself that I would forget the Redhead and concentrate on work. I almost made it, but not quite. Someone caught me staring into space once and asked if I had fallen into a trance.

“Concentrating on a problem,” I said, unconvincingly I’m sure.

Quitting time finally came. I set my work into neat piles and prepared to leave. There was no pressing deadline that required extra hours and no night meeting. Good. I’d hurry home and, if I didn’t catch Brenda, I’d at least talk to my neighbor about her. The “game was afoot,” as Sherlock Holmes would say.

I looked up see Jack Castin and the engineer standing in front of me.

“Yes?”

Jack said, “We’re going across the street for a beer. Wanna come?”

For crying out loud. I had other things on my mind. I had neither the time nor inclination to waste time talking about work or telling “war stories.” I had no intention of wasting valuable time that I could spend working on solidifying what promised to be a marvelous relationship. They would understand. To hell with them if they didn’t.

“Sure,” I said.

Decisions were becoming
the bane of my existence.

Sunday Break

Dear Friends:

I take a break this morning to contemplated the passing of an honorable American. With a warning of partisan leanings, I invite you read my thoughts elsewhere if you choose.

Be back soon with more events from a less than historic life.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 23 (Cont._2)

How do I get myself in such messes? It was a nice Sunday afternoon and I had driven my little sports car onto a man’s cow pasture. His daughter had just informed me that the man was coming to “beat you up,” as she put it. A white truck was coming fast, bouncing across the field toward my car.

I thought she might be kidding, but, with her, who could tell?

We reached my car at the same time as the truck. A man and woman were in it, and something white bounced up and down on the seat between them.

“Momma’s with him,” Brenda said. “That’s Frenchy in the middle.” She waved at them. The man did a quick, “fan wave,” and then looked toward me. He stopped the truck beside the truck, opened the door, and stepped out. The passenger, a dark-haired woman with glasses, did the same. I stood and didn’t move.

Brenda walked forward. “You caught us messing around with your cows, didn’t you?” She turned to me, “Meet my mother and daddy.”

The couple looked at me as if I had just walked down the gangway of an alien spaceship.

“This is Vernel’s neighbor at the apartment,” she said. “His name is Jim, but I think I’m going to call him Jimmie.”

Lots of life was
behind those smiles.

The man stepped forward and extended a large, freckled hand, one that years of hard work had obviously tortured without relief. “Julius Cole,” he said. We shook. He was wearing the tan shirt and pants of a farmer. Red hair erupted from his head and formed what they used to call “a roach.”

“I’m Hazel Cole,” the woman said. “Did you feed the cows for us?” She wore white blouse and a black skirt that reached just below the knees. She squinted through thick eyeglasses and smiled.

“We were just out for a drive in his new car,” Brenda said. “I thought I would show him the place.”

Before anyone could speak, shrill barking sounded in the white truck and I looked to see what looked like a small poodle leaping against the driver’s window.

“That’s Frenchy,” Brenda said. “Don’t pay him any mind.”

The dog continued his antics as I studied the couple. I could have picked them out of a crowd. The man was stout and ruddy, with the same complexion as Brenda. The woman had the same oval face beneath dark straight hair. She and her daughter could have been mistaken for sisters. I was to find later that it wasn’t uncommon for the two to be confused on the streets of Lonoke.

In short, it looked as if the parents had been shaken together in a sack, and the daughter fell out.

Julius was staring at my car. “What’s this?” he said.

It’s a cheap Porsche sports car,” I said. “I just bought it a couple of weeks ago.”

He began to ask me detailed questions about the engine.

Hell, I didn’t know. I changed the subject. “Brenda says you were in Europe during the war.” Then, it was still simply known as “the war.”

He looked up and his face took on first a dark look of suspicion. Then, in a second, it brightened. “Seventy-Ninth Infantry Division, just a rifleman ... France, Belgium, and Germany.”

“I was in the Navy,” I said quickly. “First in Vietnam, then at sea on the east coast.”

“Vietnam, you say?”

“Yes sir. Naval Security at Da Nang.”

“Vietnam.” He repeated it for emphasis.

I didn’t say anything.

“They didn’t treat you boys right,” he said. “We had it rough, but they didn’t treat you boys right when you got back.”

Hazel broke in. “Did you stop and see the folks on your way here?”

“No,” Brenda said. “We were just driving around and I thought I would show him some of Daddy’s cows.”

With the ice broken we visited. My next-door neighbor had been right. Once we disclosed that I was a veteran, I was fine.

We heard about the first time Julius came under fire. “I was still layin’ there when the Lieutenant ran back and said, ‘Let’s go. What are you waiting on?’ I told him ya’ll said ‘hit the ground’ and that’s what I did. He just laughed and told me to get up and come on.”

 Hazel filled Brenda in on some family gossip. We all relaxed and I enjoyed her parents. They were just like the folks I grew up around.

In time, Brenda said, “I guess we better get going. He has to go to work tomorrow.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Julius asked.

I tried to explain and failed. We left it at: I just worked in an office.

“I farm,” Julius said. “Never wanted to, but I do.” He motioned at his wife. “She works for the doctor in town.

“Dr. Holmes,” Hazel added, as if the additional information was vital.

We parted in good spirits. I wondered if I would ever see them again.

“Just pull the gate to,” Julius said as we started to leave. “I’ll fasten it when we leave. I think I have a cow over’t the back that’s about to have a calf.”

“Come back to see us,” Hazel said.

We found out later that her mother had told her best friend Edna, “It looks like Brenda has found herself one younger than she is.”

All I cared about was that she held my hand all the way home, except when I needed it for shifting. I couldn’t help feeling I had just passed through some portal.

My Redacted Life

Next day, a Sunday, would become one of the most memorable in my life. It’s funny how some of the little things in life can do that to you. Perhaps by now, the Redhead and I were becoming a number. My neighbor caught me Sunday morning early coming from the dumpster.

“I guess she found out where you had been,” she said. I didn’t tell her that the flip-flops she wore didn’t match. She stood in her doorway attempting a seductive image and I didn’t want to spoil it for her.

“Yeah,” I said. “I told her I was out of town working.”

She said, “I told her I thought you had reenlisted.” She laughed. “I think she believed me for a while. Got real upset. What y’all got on for today? Church and then a pot luck?”

“Thought we’d ride out and maybe take some photographs,” I said.

“Nudes?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“Just looking for something to print the in Daily Tattler,” she said. She closed the screen and faded back inside. I saw her later and she still hadn’t figured out that her shoes didn’t match.

Meanwhile, we, Brenda and I, went for coffee at the Burger Chef. She was casually dressed in jeans and a yellow pullover, the yellow setting off her hair perfectly, I thought. It was mid-May and she was counting the weeks until school started. She said it would be at the end of August and she wasn’t happy about it. Since her thoughts made her grouchy, I sought to change the subject.

“Let’s go for a ride,” I said. “I’ll pack us some wine and stuff and maybe we can find a place for a picnic.”

“A picnic? You mean like on the ground? With all the creepy-crawly things and animal crap?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Let’s eat here and just go for a ride.”

We did. After crossing the Arkansas River, we turned east through North Little Rock and followed Broadway. She pointed out the western store B.F. Smith and Sons, where her father had outfitted her for riding horses. I pointed out Fischer’s Restaurant where the bus carrying Elvis Presley and his fellow recruits had stopped for lunch on their way to Fort Chafee and the United States Army. We noted an old sign, still standing, that had fronted a “Colored Motel,” back in older times.

We enjoyed ourselves. Somehow entertainment is both simpler and sweeter when you are falling in love.

We passed Hill’s Lake and continued toward Lonoke. She pointed out where one would turn to go to her childhood home. “It’s a gravel road or I’d show you,” she said. That was a relief to me. I was still a little apprehensive about things.

Instead, she directed me through the city to the north through the center of the town, which was a pretty place, with massive oaks shading the streets. We passed what appeared to be a public swimming pool, but maybe not. The kids enjoying the pool were all white, while young black kids hung on the tall chain-link fence watching.

When I asked about it, she reddened. “It was a public pool until it appeared they would have to integrate it. Then somebody thought it would be a great idea to sell it to the Optimist Club. It’s a private pool now and let’s, please, not talk about it.”

We didn’t. She directed me like a trained tour guide and soon we were well out of town. Some ten miles or so to the north, she pointed me east onto a narrow state highway. “This is where my mother was raised, she said, pointing south toward Lonoke as we passed small graveled lane. “Down at the end of the lane.” Then, “Turn here.”

She directed me down a well-maintained county road maybe half-a-mile or so before having me pull over to the left and stop before a metal gate. “Daddy rents this place for pasture,” she said, adding, “And he keeps some of his cows here.” She looked to me. “Want to see them?”

What could I say? She bounded from the car, loosened a chain holding the gate, swung it open and motioned me through. Then she closed and chained the gate.

The Farmer's Daughter

She directed me along a barely visible drive past a vacant farmhouse. We then wound around fence rows as she told me that the property belonged to families that had once lived here but had all moved away. “Through that gap,” she said, interrupting the history lesson.

We entered a large open field with a stock pond in its southwestern corner. A small herd of cattle and a pinto pony stood near it. “Get out," she directed. I obeyed. She took my hand and we walked the field, dodging manure piles as she told me details about the raising of cattle. She told how much her father loved it because he didn’t have to share any money gained from it with his family as he did with the row crops.

I had her stand beside a rustic section of fence and took her photograph.

We must have lost track of time. Before we reached the pond, we turned to see a white pickup truck bouncing across the field toward the Porsche. “That’s my daddy,” she said. “He’s going to beat you up for being in his pasture.”

Wasn’t that nice?

My Redacted Life: Chapter 22 (Cont._3)

Next day was Saturday and Brenda was gone. I went to the office to unload the material I had developed on my trip. I spent the morning arranging the material into stacks, then into files, and then into priorities. I would attend them seriously starting Monday morning. It appeared they were working on some new projects, including a small subdivision I’ll call “Wellington Village.”

With nothing left to do, I went to the apartment and rested. I picked guitar some, but my heart wasn’t into it. I read most of The Devils of Loudun by Aldous Huxley. I had seen the film adaptation starring Oliver Reed, which I found unsettling. For some reason, I bought the book and found it even more unsettling. It fed a growing animosity toward organized religion. Toward late afternoon, I decided to doze for a bit on the couch.

I was having a bad dream involving the scene of the priest being burned alive from the book and film when I heard a long scratch made along my living room window. I rushed to the door and stepped outside just in time to see Brenda stop at the top of the stairs, turn and look at me with her now familiar “What the hell are you looking at?” stare. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved work shirt. A pair of dirty sneakers covered her feet, and she wore a John Deere baseball cap. Her long hair streamed from the back in a pony tail.

Making sure that I was looking at her face and no place else, she said, “You got any beer?”

“Yes.”

“Save me one.” She turned and went to her apartment.

I was surprised, some 30 minutes later, when the door opened and she walked in. No knock. Nothing. She just walked in. I dropped my book and stared.

She had performed a magical transition. Her hair was still pulled into a tight ponytail. She wore fresh jeans so tight that you could have seen the impression of a tattoo on their surface. She had changed to clean sneakers, and a dark knit shirt with a Mickey Mouse logo over one breast. That’s all. Just the shirt. Nothing, it appeared, underneath. I stared. She glared. I raised my eyes, and said something stupid like, “Come in.” She walked toward me, carrying a package of cigarettes and a lighter in one hand.

“Gimme a beer,” she said. “I’ve got a case of ‘tractor-butt’ and I need some relief,” she said.

I rose and went toward the refrigerator. “You’ve got what?” I said, miraculously resisting the temptation to look for myself.

“Tractor-butt,” she said. “Ain’t you never had tractor-butt?”

“Uh, not that I know of.”

“It’s when you’ve driven a tractor all day.” She took a beer and made a motion-question toward the couch.

“Yes, have a seat,” I said. “And tell me all about a tractor-butt. I’m terribly interested.”  

She moved slowly, like Joan Crawford about to deliver the most important line in a movie. She placed the beer on an end table, lit a cigarette, took a drag, turned her head, exhaled, and looked at me, all in slow motion. “In the old days,” she said, “tractor seats were jus big metal things with holes in them for a bit of ventilation. Daddy would come in from plowing all day and there would be red circles on his pants where the mosquitoes had bitten him through the holes in the tractor seat.” She took in a big gulp of beer and smiled. “I’d say, ‘look Daddy, you have tractor-butt.’”

And a mind reader as well.

Somehow, in those jeans, she managed to cross one leg over the other in a move so sexy that I feared it might blow out a light bulb. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just sipped my own beer.

“These days,” she said. The seats are plastic, but they will wear your little ‘hiney’ out when you’ve ridden on them all day.” She pointed her beer at me. “And don’t you dare look.”

God, but I was beginning to love that woman.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 22 (Cont._2)

“Where the hell have you been?” I never heard such wonderful words. She had noticed I was gone, maybe even missed me, the Redhead had.

She was standing in my living room giving me “the look.” I was just back from a week of working out of town, and she had taken charge.

I gazed in wonder. “Where the hell have you been?” Have you ever heard anything so sweet, Dear Reader?

I was still holding the pair of wind-chimes I had bought. My heart beat and the chimes responded weakly. I laid them on the couch with a non-melodic thump, and asked if she cared to sit. She did. I trembled. “Want a glass of wine?” I asked.

“Are you having one?”

“Sure.”

“A small one.”

I fetched the drinks and sat across from her. “The company,” I said, “sent me to Hope for a week to interview downtown business owners. I had to leave in a hurry.”

“So, you didn’t bother to tell anyone you were going?

“I, uh, didn’t have time to think about it.” Yes, it was a stupid answer, but I was befogged.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

I saw a trap yawning, ready to close. “The work,” I said, “was interesting. The nights were long and empty. Do you know anything about retail merchants?”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” She reached toward a britches pocket.

“No,” I said, much too eagerly. “No, wait one.”

I rose, fled into the bedroom and returned with the ash tray I had purchased along with the wind-chimes. “Here,” I said. “I bought this just for you.”

She smiled, actually smiled. I didn’t sit. “Need a light?”

“Please.”

I fetched the book of matches I kept in the kitchen, returned, and struck one. She held my hand, lit up, and said, “Thank you.” She leaned back on the couch with the ash tray beside her. She took a puff and exhaled, away from me. “Now,” she said, “tell me about these folks you interviewed.”

An hour later, we were still swapping tells about local characters we had known. I told her about the palsied man who drove an ice cream bicycle in my hometown, who had once been a star athlete before being struck with a strange disease, how his wife had sold tickets at a local movie theater to support them, and how he had been miraculously cured in later years.

She told me stories her father had told her about life in downtown Lonoke in the old days: about the man who stayed in a coal bin all day and tried to lure young boys, about the town bully who kicked over the shoeshine kit of a retarded boy each time he passed, and about how her uncle had broken the rich-kid bully of the practice.

We laughed and drank wine as the sun set over our new city. At the very epitome of good cheer, she said, “I think I’ll go now.”

A great sinkhole opened in my heart. “So soon? “Maybe a drive somewhere tomorrow?”

“Helping Daddy plow his soybean field tomorrow.” Non-committal.

“Maybe later.”

“Maybe.” Still non-committal.

“One more drink?”

She looked at me as if I were a specimen laid out in a dish. “A short one.”

We enjoyed the last drinks as she told me about the intricacies of plowing fields. The conversation lagged at last, and she stood. She looked at the wind-chimes on the couch. Smiling, she reached over and picked them up and held them by their string. “What’s this?” she said.

I thought, “It’s now or never,” I said, “I bought them for you. Thought you might like to hang them on your patio.”

She examined them and held them up. She moved her hand slightly and they made a tentative sound. “Bought them for me?”

The wine emboldened me. “They might not be as romantic as a carton of cigarettes,” I said, immediately regretting it.

I can still see her there
with a doodad in her hair.

She leaned her head to one side and moved toward me, her face less than six inches from mine. “And what did you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Don’t pay attention to me. I’m tired, and I’ve had a few drinks.”

“You’re worried about a carton of cigarettes?”

“Oh, no, not really. I just know you might have others in your life.”

She held the wind-chimes at arm’s length and moved them slightly. Their sound was stronger, more melodic, than before.

“Would it help,” she said, “if I told you that you don’t have a thing to worry about?”

Before I could answer, she stepped forward, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed me full in the mouth, her arms encircling me, one hand grasping my neck from behind, and the other holding the gift I had bought for her. I tasted the wine, the cigarette, and something I’d never known before. I smelled the freshness of her hair, and, through closed eyes, saw her face.

Behind me, the wind-chimes rang, making a joyful sound.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 22

After what seemed like ten years, in the spring of 1972, I finished my week’s job assignment in the SW Arkansas City of Hope. And full of hope, I packed to leave. I had finished a little early and had stopped in a gift shop on the way out of town. There, I purchased an ash tray and a nice set of metal wind-chimes, just the sort of thing to hang on one’s patio.

I had driven over to report to Mike Kelly, the man in charge of the project for the city. He was pleased but anxious to get started. I promised pass the word along, and left. There were two streets leading to I-30. I chose North Hervey because of its sheer beauty. Near Downtown, huge oak trees bordered the street, their branches meeting and forming a leafy tunnel that shaded motorists and pedestrians alike. It a magical stretch of street, similar to other spots in other cities.

Before long, these breathtaking spots would fall victim to the highway department’s chain saws, another case of urban beauty and repose sacrificed to the automobile, the emerging god of urban planning.

I wasn’t thinking about this at the time. I could only see the vision of the Redhead, who might, or might not, be looking forward to seeing me again. I eased the Porsche onto I-30 and headed North.

It was only about 100 miles back to Little Rock, but the devil of anticipation had stretched the distance to at least twice that. Somehow or other, though, I managed the ordeal. There was little traffic on the freeway, so I had ample opportunity to reflect.

So far, I deduced, I had managed to spend time with Brenda and not cause a ruckus. It would have been tempting to revert into my Navy persona and make a fatal move, but civilian life had taken hold and made me respectable. Now, like Ulysses returning from Troy, I was sailing home to my Penelope, bearing gifts and a heart full of hope. Would she be waiting? Even my Green Angel seemed anxious to learn the answer. I found her doing almost 90, and we had to have an understanding.

There was no way to contact my bosses and make a report short of stopping to find a pay phone, and I wasn’t about to do that. Also, traffic would be building in the downtown area, so my best shot was simply to go home and call in from there. How’s that for rationalizing?

As I pulled into the parking lot, my heart soared. There stood the Redhead, talking to my next-door neighbor. Saints preserve us. She was wearing a yellow shirt and blue jeans that had been trimmed at the thighs. Her short but shapely legs soared from them, her feet just kissing the ground. Her long hair flowed down her back and glistened in the late afternoon sun. She had a rectangular box clasped under one arm and appeared absorbed in animated conversation.

I thought she saw me drive in, but I couldn’t be sure. Before I could make a determination, she spun in the opposite direction and climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartments, faster than I had ever seen her move. Her hair bounced on her back, waving as she spun onto the balcony, and she disappeared into her apartment.

My neighbor was still standing by here door as I waddled up carrying my suitcase and gift bag. She was wearing a half-shirt gathered under her breasts and white shorts. The zipper was fastened, but the button above it remained unfastened so that an additional triangle of her flawless skin remained uncovered above a slim thread of elastic. She didn’t move.

“Been out of town working,” I said, though she hadn’t asked.

“Figured as much,” she said. “You just missed Brenda.”

“Oh? How is she?”

“I’ll let her tell you,” she said. “Her boyfriend got back from basketball camp this week.”

My knees came close to giving away.

“He bought her a carton of cigarettes as a coming home gift,” she said.

“I’ve got to go call the office,” I said. I turned to my own apartment.

Inside, I threw my luggage on the bed, made the call, and took the wind-chimes from their bag. I sat on the couch, holding them by their string and letting them move just enough to make their soft lovely sound.

Disappointment aroused my inner-sailor. “Dammit to godalmighty hell,” I said to myself as I prepared another oath. Before  I could, someone knocked on my door. I resisted the urge to shout “Go away.” Instead, I walked to the door, still holding the wind-chimes. I opened it.

Brenda stood there, her oval face never having looked so soft and beautiful. It was serious, though. Her eyes looked up into my face and then moved left and right, before settling back. “May I come in?” she said, noticing the wind-chimes. She had changed the shorts for a nicely pressed pair of khaki britches. They made her legs look even shapelier than had the shorts. She waited while my eyes took her in.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t have if I had wanted to. I motioned her in, moving aside to let her enter. The chimes rang softly, sounding stupid I thought.

She turned around slowly, eyeing the chimes again. She put a hand on one hip and struck a pose like a 1940s movie star.

“Where the hell have you been?” she said.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 21 (Cont._4)

So, my plans to sweep the Redhead completely off her feet within a week of our first date fell to the whims of an uncaring fate. Instead of romancing her, I was working over a hundred miles away in the City of Hope, Arkansas, stuck there for a week.

Now don’t get me wrong. Hope is nice place. Back then, as well as now, it was filled with wonderful people. It just wasn’t where my Redhead, Brenda, was. That made all the difference. The days went by okay, but the nights proved tortuous. I read, and imagined all sorts of things. I hadn’t even been able to find her, or anyone, to let them know where I was. I even wondered if it would be appropriate.

That would amount to presupposing that she gave a damn. My fantasies soared around my head like flying monsters from a Sci-Fi movie.

Maybe she had sashayed by some new fellow, much more prosperous and handsome than I.

Maybe her basketball coach had swept her away, carrying her in one arm and dribbling away with the other.

Maybe Sean Connery had driven through the city going somewhere and had spotted her.

Maybe she found out that I really didn’t like Daphne du Maurier books all that much.

Maybe she found out that I had once gotten busted once for slipping over into Tien Sha Village without permission, in the company of a guy named Beaton and up to no good.

Maybe she had forgotten my name.

I concentrated on my work, which I must say was interesting. I was interviewing representatives of maybe the last generation of downtown merchants in America. Absent socio-economic developments in their communities, over which they had no control, they would almost all disappear before long. We would lose a part of America’s soul along with them.

They worked under antiquated business principles. They understood that there was only so much money circulating around town for retail purchases. Their job was to maintain their share, and not become wealthier by driving their fellow merchants out of business.

They knew their customers’ names, history, and habits. If one sold a necktie to a man who couldn’t tie it, no problem. The salesperson would stand the customer at attention, tie a perfect knot, loosen the tie, slip it over the man’s head and it was ready for service next Sunday morning.

No amount of encouraging could prevent them from parking their car directly in front of the door to their business. The customers didn’t mind. They assumed that the owners deserved the spot. Besides, it let the customers know that the owner was in.

Downtown Hope, Arkansas,
before modern times got hold of it.

They weren’t above delivering their goods to those with limited means of transportation, and that comprised a large percentage of the elderly.

The first thing they did of a morning was to sweep the sidewalk in front of their stores.

They served their community, supported their church, and never failed to purchase an ad in the high school yearbook.

In short, they were participants in the city, not predators.

We won’t see the likes of them again. Toward the end of the week, I got to thinking one night, and decided that if I ever saw the Redhead again, I would be a better person for having gotten to know those simple merchants, in their simple stores, in a simple place called Small-Town America. How could we have known that it was living its last years?

My Redacted Life: Chapter 21 (Cont._3)

 It was Monday and I fairly cake walked into the office. I had spent a good portion of the weekend with the Redhead. Wow! “Things are looking up in my world,” I thought, “To hell with yours.”

We had talked, Brenda the Redhead and I, about more rides in the evenings when I got off work. The days were getting longer and she was off from school until the fall. Oh man. In another week, I could, if I played my cards right, have her convinced that I was a man of substance and the life of a basketball coach’s wife wasn’t for her.

Here was my plan. I would ask my neighbor or Brenda’s roommate what kind a music the Redhead liked. I would walk down to Moses Melody Shop in the 300 block of Main Street and buy a phonograph album suited to her taste. I would stop at Pfeifer-Blass while I was there and get a nice ashtray, maybe even something tasteful to hang on the living room wall. I would buy the latest James A. Michener book and leave it lying around somewhere conspicuous. I would rescue my sister’s old electric typewriter and put in on the kitchen table as if I were just starting on my epic.

I would have her “snowed” in short, wanting to find out more about me and what had obviously been an interesting and adventurous life. I would be quite eager to share, aggrandize, and redact as necessary. As I formed my character, it would be one of Sean Connery’s looks, Paul Newman’s physique, John Paul Jones’s heroism, Ernest Hemingway’s intellect, and Erich Segal’s sensitivity.

The poor girl would never know what hit her, but I had to get busy so I wouldn’t lose the momentum I had going. The world literally would be “my oyster,” to borrow from The Bard.

When the boss called me into his office, I didn’t suspect a thing. Within ten minutes, my world lay ruined and devastated at my feet.

No, he didn’t fire me. It was worse. Had I been fired, I could have put my courting plans into action while I drew unemployment.

It, as I say, was worse. We were supposed to make a team visit to the City of Hope to interview business owners about plan proposals for the renovation of the central business. Four were scheduled to go: the two bosses who were planners, Ron McConnel and I. Plans called for completing the assignment in one long day in a veritable blitzkrieg of action.

But, said the boss with a smile. They had gotten busy. Ron was needed for engineering. And, he said with doom fairly dripping from his mouth, they now felt that having one person do all the interviews would improve the consistency of results.

Want to guess who the one person would be?

“But,” I said, “that’s a lot of driving back and forth.”

“No, no,” he said. “You’re to stay down there until you finish. Christie has already booked you in the local motel. Now you’d best get moving so you can get at least half a day’s work done today. The questionnaires and other materials are packed and waiting in the lobby. Load them up, go home and pack, and get going. Time is money. Tell that new girlfriend of yours that you’ll be back Friday.”

New girlfriend. How did he know?

Have you, dear reader, ever seen films or photos of the tall, failed, public housing in St. Louis being demolished?

That was my world at this moment.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 21 (Cont. _2)

We went out for a ride the next day, the Redhead and I. We took “Old Highway 70” out by Hill’s Lake where they had filmed scenes of White Lightening. This prompted her to direct me to a home not far away where they had filmed the final shootout in the action film Bloody Mama. It had featured legendary star Shelly Winters and an unknown aspirant no one had ever heard of named Robert De Niro.

The fake bullet holes were gone from the house. Spanish Moss still hung from the massive trees where they had replicated a Florida location. We marveled for a moment and moved on. It didn’t take much to impress us that day.

I drove slowly, and we talked, finding much common ground. As I mentioned earlier, we had had families with rural backgrounds. We were both un-enamored of organized religion, particularly the cult varieties. This led to the discovery that we had both read the James A. Michener classic Hawaii in the tenth grade, albeit six years apart. Further, the experience had left us both with a slight distaste for most missionaries.

We were what you would call “Blue-dog Democrats” and oriented toward liberal and progressive ideals. Her high school had been integrated. Mine hadn’t, although both the University of Arkansas (sort of) and the United States Navy (completely—cannon fodder has no color) had been during my stay. I had survived both experiences with neither scars nor embedded diseases.

It was a glorious day. She tied her hair back and we took the top off the sports car. Then we drove around more. They were beginning to plow the fields, and I could tell she loved the smell of freshly turned earth. In fact, she told me so.

I can remember parking at one particularly scenic spot and making out for few minutes like a couple of teenagers, although the Volkswagen didn’t offer a chance for much intimacy. Still, the experience made me shiver inside. I had carried a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine and couple of plastic cups in the trunk, so we toasted the day before leaving.

The house was still there.
Only the bullet holes were missing.

Have you ever heard, Dear Reader, of anything more romantic?

We got back to the apartment complex late in the afternoon. After replacing the car’s top, I took the remaining wine from the trunk of the car and invited her into my apartment for another drink. She smiled, cocked her head winningly, and said, “No.” With that she turned and went up the stairs. I stared at the ascent, wondering which of us she didn’t trust and whether nature had ever produced a more perfect body.

When I turned toward my apartment, my neighbor was outside hers, leaning against the door. She wore tight jeans and sandals and was leaning with an elbow against her front door frame. She had neglected both a bra and the top three buttons of a loose satin blouse. She grinned and said, “Well if it isn’t one-half of the top gossip story around the old apartment complex.”

“Don’t forget,” I said, “that you are the one who suggested it.”

“Yep,” she said. “Just keep listening to me and you might find your way to Heaven.” With that, she turned quickly, narrowly avoiding a revelatory accident, and went inside. I stood pondering what she had said and smiling.

The weekend had passed, though. I turned, unlocked my own apartment door, and went inside. Heaven would have to wait.

Hell was waiting for me the next morning. I just didn’t know it as I sat down to finish the Boone’s Farm.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 21

What could match as a follow-up to such splendiferous date as I’d had Friday evening? I think I whistled all morning, off key, of course. I went to the office, where a group had gathered to put the finishing touches on some project. They had found out about the date and wanted to know details. It got a little testy when someone asked an untoward question, but I shut that up right quick. This wouldn’t be a topic for jokes, now or forever.

I lunched at the Burger Chef hoping I might run into Brenda, or at least her severe twin. Nope. Just the usual Saturday crowd of folks sat around trying to cure a hangover from Friday night. Lucky me, I had neither a hangover nor unhappy prospects. I was beginning to believe the civilian life was better than the Navy. The food wasn't as good, but other things were better.

Back at the apartment, I had better luck. The girls were just getting back from having lunch somewhere else. They were all wearing shorts, although Brenda was wearing hers most spectacularly, I thought. There wasn’t one bra between the three of them. My neighbor was arousing particular attention from men on the parking lot. I only had eyes for one of the three, though. If she noticed, she didn’t let on.

They stopped to exchange greetings. They lined up three abreast (no pun intended) directly in front of me and queried me about what I had been doing. I struggled to keep my eyes elevated and my smile noncommittal. Then, as if following a screenplay, the other two left Brenda with me, exiting with knowing smiles. After they had gone a few steps, their heads turned away and I’ll swear I heard giggles.  Once alone, I asked Brenda if she might like to catch a movie that evening. “Which one?” she asked.

Which one? Hell, I didn’t know. I didn't care. What did that have to do with it? That woman had the best knack for keeping a man off-balance that I’d ever seen. I activated my storehouse of stupidity. “I’ll surprise you,” I said.

Not much of a movie.
But one fine date.

“I don’t like surprises.”

“Then I’ll check the newspaper and get back with you.”

“Do that,” she said. Then she sashayed away like Cleopatra leaving the royal barge.

The movie turned out to be one called Two-Lane Blacktop, a silly, but harmless, flick staring James Taylor and Dennis Wilson, two singers who couldn’t act their way out of a wet paper bag, and the immortal Warren Oates, who held the whole thing together. I think there was a girl in it but I hardly noticed.

As the great Paul Newman once said, "you don't notice hamburger when you're with steak," or something like that.

For Brenda and me, the film's main attraction was that some of it had been shot in Arkansas, more specifically in a part of the state with which we were familiar. This included scenes along Highway 15 near the city of England, Arkansas and the once-famous drag-strip at Carlisle.

It kept us entertained. When we had finished our popcorn and drinks, I ventured to hold her hand, a small step for me but a grand step for history.

She didn’t slap it away.

My Redacted Life Chapter 20 (Cont._4)

My first date with young Brenda Cole was coming to a close. We left Arkansas Fats after a beer and drove back to the apartment building. I invited her in for a glass of wine. Surprisingly, she accepted. I seem to remember we sat and talked, but I can’t remember everything. I know she told me a bit about growing up as a farmer’s daughter.

I was terribly interested, and made every effort to express it in my demeanor.

Perhaps I played some music on the cheap phonograph I bought while in college for the express purpose of listening to Bob Dylan records. I still had some of them, but she didn’t seem like a Bob Dylan sort of girl. In all likelihood, I simply sat and stared, mostly, while she talked.

She asked, could she smoke? I was up like a flash and back with a saucer to use as an ashtray, making a mental note to purchase one. I did have a book of matches from some bar. She lit up and gave me a severe look that said, “This is as relaxed as I will get.”

I was emboldened by the wine.

I did tell her about getting my draft notice and hurriedly joining the Navy to keep from going to Vietnam, and how well that had worked out for me. This made her laugh. She finished the cigarette, mashed it in saucer and handed it to me. When I returned from putting the saucer away, I sat beside her. She didn’t shoo me away.

Summoning up the level of courage it took a WWII GI to charge a machine-gun nest, and helped by the wine, I ventured a kiss. To my surprise, she acquiesced. Not overly enthusiastic she was, but she didn’t slap me, which was an alternative response I had considered in planning the venture.

I was in what I imagined Heaven to be, except for the faint taste of smoke. “Well,” I said, “that was nice,” or something equally stupid.

Then she said, “I’ve got to go.” Just like that. She stood, straightened her long hair and said, It’s been interesting.” Not fun, but interesting?

I was devasted.

The wine became my pal again. “Tomorrow night?” I managed.

Dreams are dreams. I was
free to pick my own.

“We’ll see,” she said.

“We’ll see?” What the hell was that supposed to mean? Unless she got a better offer? Unless her basketball coach came to town? Unless her pals convinced her it might not be safe to pal around with an Arkansas Fats habitué?

I was encouraged.

At least she didn’t say, “No.” Instead, she said, “You don’t have to walk me upstairs. I think I can find the way.” I saw through that one. She knew there would be two sets of eyes peeking through curtains to see how the adventure ended: her sisters tried and true, Vernell and Rita. She wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.

I was polite and understanding.

She stopped at the door, stood on her tiptoes, gave me a quick “peck,” and exited. The soft smell of her hair and perfume remained, but she was gone.

Me? I was lost forever.          

My Redacted Life: Chapter 20 (Cont._3)

My first date with the “aggravating beauty” Brenda Cole was going well. We had finished a nice Italian meal at a small place on Cantrell. I hadn't said anything really stupid or offensive so far. What next? Then it dawned on me. One of Little Rock’s most unique meeting spots was just across the street.

Somehow, when they built a modern supermarket there, they had left small building smack dab in the middle of the parking lot. It housed a small bar and diner upstairs and steps led to a more intimate and less formal room downstairs, not much larger than a modern living room. They served beer, and, if I recall, sometimes had an entertainer adding to the ambiance. It was only open, the lower room, in the evening.

It was the kind of place, it seemed to me, that might impress a young lady who didn’t appear to be easily impressed.

 Arkansas Fats, they called it. Not many people knew about it and even less dared venture below. Someone on Riverside Drive had introduced me to it. It was that kind of place. I asked the lovely Miss Cole had she ever been there. She said, “No,” accompanied by a look that she might have used had I asked if she’d ever been to a Klan rally.

“Come on,” I said. “You’ll get a kick out of it.”

“I’m sure,” she said.

We got in the sports car, drove to the intersection and doubled back into the shopping center parking lot. There are certain streets in Little Rock that simply cannot be crossed by pedestrians, Cantrell being one of them. We parked outside the building housing the bar, and I noticed how shabby it looked. It clearly outdated the supermarket and I imagined that there must have been a story there somewhere.

Anyway, she was a good sport about it and went in with me, only looking a bit quizzical as we descended into the lower level. I supposed she trusted me, not always a good idea.

We wrapped up the evening with a beer and passable fellowship with other adventurous souls willing to descend into the catacombs. Honestly, I don’t remember if there was entertainment that evening. I was transfixed by the effect of the dim, soft mellow lighting on the face of the woman with me. It was as if the entire room had been lit by candles designed specifically to capture the highlights of her face and hair.

She lit a cigarette, took a sip of beer, and leaned back as if to say, “Well, Jocko, you got me here. What’s next?”

Seriously, it was a dive dug beneath
 a parking lot and called "Arkansas Fats."

I do remember wondering if she was impressed by my unique knowledge of legendary Little Rock “hot spots” or totally grossed out by my presumption.

I decided I wouldn’t think anymore about it. It wasn’t a time for negative thinking. We drank our beer, talked softly, and she even smiled a couple of times at my silly chatter about some strange planning commission meeting or other. If she felt insulted by my choice of entertainment, she didn’t show it.

Would we follow this date with another? Who knew, or who cared? We would always have Little Rock, and tonight.

I decided I would find out about the future soon enough. One thing I’m sure of, though. Not many men can say they fell in love in the basement of Arkansas Fats.