Doc in Danger

 THE RIDE: Part One

We never could remember how he ended up tied to a bucking bull calf.

Or, some wonder, did he really? There is argument to this day. Some say yes. Some say no. Everybody agrees, though, that it sounded a lot like him.

His name was Furlough Thompson. He was born in November of 1943, so folks that were around back then understand how he got the name. Mama said old lady Thompson had five kids already, so she was running out of ideas by then and she never had been the imaginative sort in the first place.

When her husband left to go overseas, she told everybody that her prayers would keep him safe from the Nazis. When he didn’t come home after VE day, she took it in stride. “Them French women is she-devils,” was about all she would ever say about it. She didn’t like to talk much in the first place. In more sophisticated places, they would have called her “Taciturn Thompson."

After a period of real suffering, she married a man who worked at the Arsenal in Pine Bluff and she and the kids had it better from then on, although his—her new husband’s—skin turned yellow from the chemicals he worked with and he quit going to church on account of it. At least that’s what he said. It seemed that the prayers of Furlough’s mama never got completely answered. They weren't denied, just modified on their way back from Heaven. "His ways is different from ours," was the typical response to such things back then.

But I’m “branching.” Mama always said I did that. She was kin to the Tuckers who were famous story tellers, the bunch from down around Pansy. Pansy isn’t far from the Hogeye Bend community where Pappa was from. They met, he and Mama, at a play-party get together at General Lee Bohanon’s house before the first world war. That’s the one Mr. General Lee’s boy got killed in. His name was Stonewall Bohanon but we never knew him. We all just figured his name helped contribute to the heroism that got him killed.

            Anyway, Furlough being the youngest and spoiled, without a come-home daddy, he grew up wild, unmanaged, and untamed. By the early Fifties, he was a solid member of our little group that terrorized the good folks around the Snake Island community. We first just called him “M.D.,” some for “mighty dumb,” some for “most daring,” and a few, though never to his face, for “missing daddy.” Later, someone hit on the idea of just calling him “Doc,” and that’s what he went by the rest of his life. He was fearless to a fault, ignorant of pain, and totally unable to predict the consequences of his actions. He never volunteered for, but never declined the offer of, an adventure. He was, we all felt, the very picture of bold action.

That’s where the bull calf came in. Bravery, imagination, fearlessness, leading by example, you could have assigned a bunch of motivators.

I always just laid it off on pure boredom.

Continued next Fiction Friday

My Redacted Life: Chapter Two (Cont. _7)

Okay, so I had traveled to Little Rock to visit two young urban planners and find out about job prospects. They knew of none. That’s what I had expected. I should be on my way back to my boyhood home now, with the developing skyline of Little Rock in my rearview mirror. I should be planning my route back to California, this Arkansas caper at its end. Sex, drugs, and cable cars beckoned.

But no. They had invited me to lunch and there I sat, in the Greyhound station waiting for the time to go and meet them. Idled passengers napped, optimistic young ladies in short dresses mingled, children squirmed and bounced, and this entire cross-section of America seemed to sense something better just over the next horizon.

I waited and watched. Over the last four years, I had gotten good at that. One of the young ladies offered to give me anything I wanted if I happened to be interested. A job? Well no, something else. I’m fine. Too bad.

I waited some more. What would we talk about at lunch? I had already confessed to them that I had little to offer a potential employer in terms of experience or skills. I had learned to exist in close quarters with a wide diversity of other people and I knew how to get a job done just in time, not too soon, and not too late. I did share with them that I was anxious to gain experience and skills and was well aware of the fact that I possessed little marketability in the civilian world. In other words, I could be a cheap, but inexperienced date for the right employer.

At last the time came to depart. As the last of the wandering girls headed my way, I stood, winked at her, and walked back out onto Little Rock’s Main Street. It was bustling with folks headed for lunch, or somewhere. I passed the site of the F.W. Woolworth store where, at 11.a.m. March 10, 1960, some 50 brave students from Philander Smith College had marched from campus, were refused service at the whites-only lunch counter, and were arrested for their uppityness.

Things were changing in America, even in Arkansas. I thought this was good and wondered what all the fuss had been about. Of course, though, the United States Navy hadn’t allowed segregated eating facilities since the Truman Administration, way ahead of the curve, as they say today.

A person thinks odd thoughts when alone on a big city street. I began thinking about the various forms of bravery. There was the combat zone kind, the storm at sea kind, and the demanding human rights kind. I didn't think for long though, I was already back at the Hall Building.

The guys didn’t take me to a lunch counter. They took me to a place called “The Capitol Club,” and it was fancy, cloth napkins and the whole bit. I’m sure I looked a bit out of place among all the suits. Jim Vines was even wearing a three-piece one. Tom showed a great deal of self-assurance by wearing a sports coat. Between the two of them, they seemed to know everyone who walked by. I didn’t know a soul.

A waiter came. Tom knew him by name, or seemed to. It was long before the time in Little Rock at which one ordered cocktails at lunch. I watched them closely and when they ordered iced-tea, I did the same. I remembered what a girl friend in college had told me about her mother’s advice to a daughter who had begun dating. “Don’t order the most expensive item on the menu, and don’t order the cheapest. Order something that looks healthy and wouldn’t be difficult to eat in public.

I didn’t have to worry on that account. The Capitol Club offered neither barbecued ribs nor corn on the cob. I ordered the same thing Tom Hodges did. A person couldn’t go wrong that way.

Some small talk ensued as we dined. Jim told a funny story about a planning commission meeting he had attended. Tom asked me about a legendary football player from my home town named James “Jitters” Morgan. I was proud to say I knew him and graduated a year behind him. Turns out Tom had played against him in high school and still remembered the bone-jarring tackles. He asked about a girl he knew from college, and I said I thought she got married and moved away. Too bad, he said, with a far-off look in his eyes.

Was this it? Lunch in a fancy place with small talk? I had begun to assess the time I had left to endure this. Once again, I could hear the ships sounding in San Francisco Bay and hear the seagulls fighting overhead. I took a bite, one that was to prove the most difficult in my life to chew and swallow.

Jim looked at Tom. Tom nodded and looked at me. I took the fork from my mouth and looked back at the two of them.

“We thought,” Jim said, slowly as was his habit when putting a lot of thought into what he said, “that we might offer you a job.”                  

Well I'll swan.

Morning Thoughts: September 25, 2017

When I first enrolled at the University of Arkansas, African-American students were segregated into one dormitory. I can’t remember its name for the life of me. I seem to remember it was a wood frame building that looked more like a barracks than a dorm.

They had done away with it by the time I left and had integrated the dorms, years after they had integrated the classrooms. Justice came slowly in those days, hardly like a mighty river, more like a sluggish bayou.

Over the years, I have witnessed more than a few incidents that demanded courage. I’ve witnessed some that produced courage. One in particular stands out in my memory. It demonstrated a bravery almost rapturous in its glory.

The U of A had some sort of beauty contest each year in the Greek amphitheater. All the sororities would send their top picks across the stage dressed in their finery, and every male heart in the crowd would spend an evening pining for the unattainable. It was quite a sight. Each fraternity had a favorite sorority and the contest could get raucous at times. The students had a good time.

Then one year, from out of nowhere, the African-American dorm announced that it was entering a contestant. That caused quite a stir and, if I remember, boosted that year’s attendance, more from curiosity and a chance to mock and demean than for any other reasons.

I suspect it was a last-minute decision, for when the contestant’s name was called she appeared in a modest white dress, more suitable for church than a beauty contest. She hurried across the stage without looking at the crowd, then disappeared into the annals of campus history.

The stage was small, as I remember, but that must have been the longest walk a human made that night. The catcalls were, I can only imagine, painful to the core. The laughter must have been worse. The bravery was, to a boy from the segregated South of Arkansas, galvanizing. There are many faces of courage. Rescuing a wounded comrade under fire is one. Making a short walk through an almost visible curtain of hatred is surely another.

There is no chance that this girl received even a scintilla of consideration as winner of the contest. Yet, she towered over all of us there like a colossus. I’ll never forget the ephemeral journey she made from one side of the stage to the other amidst the taunting and disbelief. I still like to believe that it changed my life for the better.

I’ve no idea who she was, or what may have happened to her. If she is still alive, she is at the age where she could have a grandson playing professional sports. As I read the news this morning, she came to mind, and I wondered what she might think of a loved one making a brave stand to bring attention to racism and to produce justice for his people.

Courage: pass it on.