My Redacted LIfe: Chapter 18 (Cont._3)

 After the near catastrophic incident on the parking lot, I had sold the old Ford sedan, gathered my funds and bought a new car, a green Porsche 914 sports car. I picked it up late Monday afternoon and spent an hour working through the shifting process. By evening, I thought I had it mastered.

To my utter disappointment, there wasn’t a soul outside at the apartment parking lot. I parked in one of the front spaces and stood for a long time admiring the Green Angel and wiping away imaginary specks of dust.

Nobody noticed.

I thought of five reasons during the evening to wander out and check for something I might have left in the car. I did every thing but sing out “Hey, look me over.”

Nobody noticed.

One Tuesday, I drove to work and parked on the farthest back portion of the lot to avoid careless neighbors. The crew at work was interested, but not ecstatic over my new status. No one bothered to walk the five blocks over to see it.

That evening was the Malvern Planning Commission meeting so I honored Interstate-30 with my presence. Other than a few truckers taking my Green Angel as a personal insult, nobody else noticed.

I parked conspicuously in front of the meeting place and told those coming in about my new car. They didn’t seem to understand its appeal to me, so I trudged into the meeting and gave it my best.

On the way home, I took University Avenue from the interstate up to Cantrell. At one intersection, I pulled up to a traffic signal and sat on the right lane of the four-lane. I looked over. Two gorgeous young women sat in a late-model Mercedes adjacent to me. They were talking and laughing, obviously lonely.

Ah, I had a plan. The City of Little Rock has this rule, maybe even a city ordinance, that a vehicle must stop at each traffic signal encountered. Any instance of a vehicle making a green light evidently gets someone at City Hall in hot water. Knowing this, I revved the engine on the Porsche. I would take off in a roar and gain an incredible speed before having to stop at the next traffic signal a block away.

My fantasy continued. Reaching the traffic signal themselves a short time later, the two women would look over, wondering just what kind of man could be driving a wonder car of just power and prestige? Windows would drop. Pleasantries would follow, and admiring looks would abound. The most voluptuous of the two would suggest coffee, and … well, you’ve seen the James Bond movies. Who knew what might follow?

The Green Angel.
Would she be feisty too?

With such a promising plan in mind, I revved the tiny engine again, noticing the short interval between the powerful roar and a whine reminiscent of a dentist's drill. I dropped a few RPMs and waited. The traffic signal seemed to be mocking me. It seemed an hour before I could see the perpendicular lens turn orange, and then.

The Mercedes began to roll forward. I popped the clutch in my car and shot the gas to her, expecting to be slammed back against the seat. I discovered to my dismay and embarrassment that I had put the gearshift into third-gear and not first. The Green Angel shuttered and sputtered as the two women drove away. I imagined that I could hear them laughing.

I didn’t even bother to look over when I reached where they waited at the next light, a block down the street.

Back at the apartment, it was dark and quiet. There wasn’t a light burning in any apartment, not even that of my next-door neighbor. I parked my new car, went in, had a stiff drink of single-malt scotch, and went to bed. I hoped tomorrow would be better.

It was.

Growing Up Southern: Pride

They used to hit our grocery store as a crowd, twice a day in season. First it was cotton choppers, later cotton pickers.

These were pre-mechanization days. Both operations were done by hand, by workers hired by the day. It would be hard for us to understand the level of the day-to-day existence led by these folks. I got a sense of it an early age, though.

There were men who owned flat-bed trucks outfitted with sideboards and tarpaulin covers and benches, much like a homemade version of a military deuce-and-a-half. They would pick up hands and transport them to a farmer’s field for some agreed-upon price. Those they picked up ranged in age from early teenagers to the ambulatory elderly.

On the way, they would stop at our store, shortly after daylight to purchase something for “dinner” and, shortly after dark, something for supper and breakfast, if they could afford both. When the crowd hit, the whole family turned out. Daddy would be behind the meat counter slicing bologna or whatever. Mother was the cashier. My sister had a spot in canned goods and produce. I had a Hershey’s chocolate box containing change to accommodate the sale of candy.

My mother always bragged that I could count change before I could read.

I didn’t get much business in the morning. If it had been a good day chopping or picking, though, I sometimes did a brisk business in the afternoon.

The thing I remember though, and I’ll never forget it for some reason, was an item I sold that wasn’t candy at all, and I only sold it on Saturdays.

It was tiny bottle of a cheap liquid labelled “Ben Hur Perfume.”

I valued my job, although it cut into sleep or play time. I felt that, even in dealing with the poorest of the poor—those the Galilean called “the least of those among us”— I was able, on occasion, to bring some small amount of joy in the form of a sweet reward for hard work, or a brief moment of pride and dignity to an otherwise unrelenting life.

A customer?