My Redacted LIfe

Out earning today. Tune back in tomorrow for more thrilling adventures.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 38

Life rocked on. Brenda began teaching her second year of school, carpooling with a colleague. I was working on projects and continuing to study. Once a month, Tom and I would motor from Little Rock to Blytheville, Arkansas to attend the planning commission. Author John Grisham had been born there in 1955. By then 17 years of age and living in Mississippi, he was no doubt trying to decide whether to starve as a writer or grow rich from studying the law.

I had settled on urban planning, and was learning a lot about it. For example, cities in Arkansas weren’t required to plan at all. Those who chose to, however, all followed the same process as defined by state statutes. Arkansas existed as a so-called “Dillon’s Rule” state, a descriptor named after an old judge somewhere, named, aptly enough, Dillon. He opined that cities were creatures of the state and had no inherent powers, only those granted by the state. That was news to me, and it complicated things.

The secret was in the plan. If cities chose to make plans, they were to protect the health, safety, welfare and morals of the community. The plans set policy rather than law. In order to carry them out, the cities could enact zoning and subdivision regulations which did constitute municipal law.

Most people didn’t, and many still don’t, understand the difference. In reality, many cities simply adopted plans, then went about business as if those plans didn’t exist. Planning was important primarily (to many cities) because it made them eligible for certain grants.

It closely resembled the way our new household was forming. As the husband, and, by the power granted by no less than the Apostle Paul himself, I was head of the household. As such, I set both policy and law. The wife, in this case my new bride Brenda, was to adore me quietly and diligently while setting about to help me carry out my policies and enact my rules. Smooth is as smooth does, so to speak. I think that may be in the Scriptures somewhere.

Here’s how it really worked. I could set all the plans and policies I chose. No problem. Then it departed from standard doctrine. The rules we lived by had nothing to do with my plans or policies. A set of rules, rules that Herself enacted and enforced, governed our day-to-day activities.

It worked more peacefully that way. In similarity to the benefits of urban planning, compliance qualified me for benefits not available to the recalcitrant. As with any fledgling form of government, it took a number of years for the doctrine fully to establish itself as governing methodology, but it would finally settle into a standard process of “plan and ignore.”

That’s urban planning in a nutshell. Marriage is, after all, a metaphor for many aspects of modern life. That’s why it is fitting and proper that it be available to all.

Oh wow! This marriage thing
 isn't so bad, after all. Is it?
Women can rule. Neat.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37 (Cont._4)

Not much out of the ordinary occurred during our first month of marriage, except the near annihilation of a Sears salesman. It’s true.

It happened this way.

I only had an ancient TV set my sister had lent me. It worked sometimes, in some manner, but we decided that a young couple, both professionals, needed a modern, working television that befit our new place in society. There were only three commercial stations and PBS available, so installation would be simple. We could retire the heavy metal thing that had served me, when it chose to, until that point.

So off to Sears we went. Why Sears? It was the “in” place to shop back then, It carried everything. Besides, Brenda, during her first year of teaching, had acquired a Sears credit card. We were saving all our spare cash for the purchase of a home, so paying a TV off over a few months didn’t seem like a bad idea. Despite our good intentions, though, the plan almost went to hell.

A middle-aged salesperson showed us the choices, beginning with the most expensive, of course. As he babbled, I foresaw storm clouds gathering on the distant horizon. As far as the salesman was concerned, Brenda was invisible. This was a transaction between two men. This particular set would be great for watching those Razorback games or the popular local fishing show hosted by Jerry McKinnis. Just look at those colors. “Sir, you can’t go wrong with this one.” I heard the unmistakable sound of steam beginning to rise. The man just kept talking, his face only a few inches from mine.

Just for the pure fun of it, I suggested that he might ask her what she thought since she was the one paying for it.

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I thought you were married.”

“Oh, we are,” I said. “But it’s her credit card.”

A curtain of clouds spread over the salesman’s eyes. I might as well have told him that we were arranging a loan from a far-away planet in a distant galaxy. “You mean,” he said, “that she has her own credit card? And you want to buy a television set for the both of you with it? With her credit card? She really has one? I’ll have to check about that.”

Brenda began to move toward him. A voice from behind us saved his life. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Jim von Tungeln,” it said. “Whatever they want, let them have it.”

I turned to see a face I hadn’t seen in years. It was young Woody Bohannon, son of the elder Woodrow Bohannon, one of the true eccentric southern characters produced in such abundance by our state. I hadn’t seen young Woody since my high-school graduation. He was a couple of years behind me and had always struck me as one of the nicest young men on the planet. I would learn that he had attended college, graduated, and gone to work for the retailing giant, already reaching the role of senior manager.

We had a nice visit. The salesman sold Brenda a television set, thus assuring his continued life in the corporate world. Brenda maintained equilibrium, but it took a while for the steam to dissipate. Everyone finished the evening happy.

That Saturday night, we watched a show that had started airing the year before, one called All in the Family. It was about, as we saw it, a bigot forced to live in an increasingly diverse and tolerant world. We thought it pretty funny at the time.

Do me a favor and don't
talk to me for a while. Okay?

Sunday Break

Another short story, this one as close to reality as an aged mind could manage.

A Bag of Marshmallows

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            This is hardly a southern morality tale. It has no nubile farmer’s daughter. It has no beloved dog. It has no eccentric relative. It doesn’t mention a snake. Even once. But it circles around the seven deadly sins, all of them: envy, gluttony, pride, lust, greed, sloth, and even anger, like atoms around an electron. Or in this case, a marshmallow.

            Yes. I once loved marshmallow like the Savior loves a sinner. Because of them, I

-        Silently cursed those kids who could afford a ten-cent bag while I was stuck with nickel one,

-        Ate more than my share at any opportunity,

-        Boasted that I could eat more of them than any kid at Lakeside Elementary,

-        Dreamed of immersing myself in a soft, yielding, embracing pile of them,

-        Stole one or more of them at ever opportunity, and

-        Once pushed my little brother to the ground because he wouldn’t give me one of his after I had devoured all of mine.

This gave rise to my great plot and subsequent adventure. I was eight years old, a fact that placed me at school all day without the attendant good sense to control my impulses. These were more innocent and peaceful times, so when a kid reached the third grade and was sentenced to schooling for an entire day, the taking of lunch presented a veritable plethora of choices.

            One could bring lunch in a brown paper bag and enjoy it with others in a designated lunchroom, a choice generally reserved for the poor and the untrustworthy. One could take a quarter and walk four blocks north to the Pine Bluff High School campus and dine there at the cafeteria. One could walk the same distance due west on 15^th Street until one reached a diner called “The Little Chef” and have a hamburger or chili dog with drink for the same amount. One could walk one block farther and dine at a corner drug store lunch bar, expensive but classy.

            The rich kids, most of whom lived within walking distance, dined at home. They included some of the prettiest girls in town.

            Being an adventurous sort, and when I wasn’t on probation and sentenced to the lunchroom with a bologna sandwich, I opted for the western sites. I think it was because I silently dreamed that someday, when I had been particularly mistreated, I would just continue walking until I reached California where I would become a rich movie star. More likely it was because if I skipped a drink with a meal, I could purchase a five-cent bag of marshmallows at the drug store.

            Neither drugs for the dope fiend or solitude for the poet had a greater pull on one than the thought of a bag of marshmallows for desert.

            Therein sprang the plot.

            You see, they didn’t just sell nickel bags at the drug store. They sold ten-cent bags and these were tempting. But the piece de resistance, the Treasure of South Cherry Street, the Holy of Holies, was a 25-cent bag of marshmallows the size of a small pillow. They hung from clips on tall display stand like talisman on a totem pole. By the time I began concocting my plan, the image of those bags had invaded my mind until I thought of little else but the day I would buy one and devour its entire contents.

            But how? I only received a quarter a day for lunch, tightly tied with a knot in a lady’s handkerchief and placed in my left pocket each morning by my mother, one who knew too well that to advance a boy of my age funds for more than a day’s food was to telegraph an open invitation to Satan to make room for another soul.

            No, I would have to operate within the perimeters set for me. I had to skip the normal meal. It was that simple. Besides, a meal of marshmallows had to be at least as healthy, probably more so, than a chili dog. Tastier too. Yeah, that was it: a good plan made more sound by the reasoning.

            So one late autumn day found me walking west along 15^th Street with a jaunty air as if the world existed solely for my pleasure. My left hand clutched a quarter. (I always untied it while I was walking to lunch to avoid teasing.) As I passed the diner, I could feel the eyes upon me for I hardly ever opted for the drug store. I whistled and concentrated on a repair shop across the street. I turned casually south on Cherry and slid into the drug store sideways. Phase One was successful.

Once inside, I relaxed. Assuming a practiced nonchalance, I eased to the candy area and took what seemed like an hour, but could only have been a few seconds, to peruse the candy offerings as if I had the prerogatives of a Rockefeller.

Quite without warning, synapses tuned by billions of years of evolution registered a danger warning. An adult appeared, staring down upon me as if I were the least of creatures crawling upon the earth. “May I help you?” it said.

“Just want some marshmallows,” I said. “I have money.” I retrieved the largest prize on the totem pole. I stood without moving, feeling its weight against my chest, and waiting for the apparition to disappear.

“Having a party at school?” it said.

Now I was in a jam. Lying, my mother had warned me more than once, was a terrible sin, one of the worst. She petrified me telling about its deadly consequences and those of similar vile habits. A liar who allowed the allurements of sin to rule his actions was destined for a cruel fate, even blindness, or a partial state thereof. I pondered. I felt sweat forming on my brow. The potential consequences of my actions swirled about me like debris around a funnel cloud. My heart began to pump furiously at the thought of continuing this sinful escapade: regrets, nightmares, pimples, full or partial blindness…

The spectacles upon the bridge of my nose bear mute testimony to my next act.

“Yessir,” I said. “I’m supposed to bring the marshmallows.”

Surprised that I could still see, I stood patiently while it patted my head and moved to help another customer. I paid my quarter like a gambler paying his debt, executed an “about face” and left the drug store, Phase Two completed.

            I felt that a young dandy walking down Cherry Street snacking on a knee-high bag of marshmallows must have been a remarkable sight, even in a city as large as Pine Bluff. I assumed a swagger as I slowly tasted the first fat victim from the bag. I allowed the flavor to roam my mouth like a frightened pony circling a corral. The process took an entire block.

            On the next block, I crammed pair after pair into my mouth at once, just for the fun of it. As I chewed, I turned back to the east, deciding to flaunt my wealth by returning through one of the richest neighborhoods in town.

            Four more victims, now I was the Cyclops tasting the crew of Ulysses. I let out a soft roar and devoured another pair. I continued east, passing the homes of any number of pretty girls who must have been watching from their lunch with amazement. When I finished the crew, I slowly devoured the captain, grinning all the while.

            Then I released my inner gymnast and began pitching the soft white balls into the air and catching them in my mouth. Another block passed in this manner. I missed the fifth and it rolled into the gutter by the sidewalk. I didn’t bother to pick it up, for I had plenty. Besides, I was beginning to feel a little odd.

            Lest what follows strike the reader only as burlesque, allow me to produce empirical statistics that should be recorded in some vast reservoir of knowledge somewhere on the planet to serve as an object lesson to the logic-challenged.

            Statistic One: The difference between wanting another marshmallow and beginning to think you have had all you want is approximately four marshmallows.

            Statistic Two: The difference between thinking you have had all the marshmallows you want and not really wishing to eat anymore is approximately three marshmallows.

            Statistic Three: The difference between not really wishing to eat any more marshmallows and vomiting a white stream of projectile foam into a fence in an alley behind a house is two marshmallows.

            Statistic Four: The length of time an eight-year old boy must sit with his head in his hand lurching with drive heaves from eating too many marshmallows is somewhere between ten and 15 minutes.

            No cars came through the alley as I suffered alone. The only thing that passed in front of me was my life, and my regrets. I hadn’t apologized to my sister for reading her diary. I hadn’t looked after my little brother properly. (There was this matter of the “dirt sandwich.”) I hadn’t asked Nell Phillips to be my girlfriend. Hell, I hadn’t even made out a will.

            When I had quit retching, I folded top of the bag of marshmallows—it still appeared, somehow, to be full—and slowly gained my feet. I used alleys to escape the prying eyes of the fancy homes and found my way at last back to 15^th street where I placed the remainder of the bag of marshmallows in the hollow of a tree, although I knew I wouldn’t return for them. Back at school, I avoided classmates as I eased into the classroom and began the worst afternoon of my life.

            This was more than 65 years ago and I have never willingly eaten a marshmallow since. In fact, I become nauseated to this day at the very thought of one. While contemplating this account of the incident, I happened to be in my hometown and with my business in the city completed, I drove the route from the old elementary school, now closed and boarded after yielding to one of those mega-campuses wherein they incarcerate students for eight hours a day to prevent episodes such as mine. I also passed the corner where the drug store stood.

            The neighborhood is no longer affluent. Nell Phillip’s home has disappeared, all that remains is a slab that looks too small for a real house. Cheap “For Rent” signs struck the cadence as I drove along. Parked cars had destroyed all the lawns. I slowed when I came to the corner where stood the tree in which I had stored the remnants of my unholy adventure. All that remained was a withered stump, the remainder having fallen, as have so many of our dreams, to age and reality.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37: (Cont._3)

It all ended soon, the wedding that is. We enjoyed a nice reception and met most of the folks in Lonoke County who knew my new bride. That was nearly all of them, as Hazel had worked in the local doctor’s office for years. Also, the two families had been around for a spell, well-known if not infamous. Most inquired as to what I did for a living or what church I attended. A few wanted to know, indirectly, if I had completed high school or college. I could tell I had landed amongst people who liked to stay informed.

Uncle Roy took pictures. Vernell and her sister looked gorgeous in the gowns Brenda had sewed for them. The parents got to know one another, and I had a chance to visit Leland Bassett, down from Fayetteville. A lady who worked with Hazel had made a splendid wedding cake. We cut it and did the full routine. I do believe I behaved satisfactorily. At least I never received censure from the three harpies who had been retained to supervise my pre-wedding training.

It was a good sendoff. We flew to Denver the next day, then to Aspen, where I fulfilled my brief assignment. We rented a car and drove farther into the mountains. We shopped and ate well. So far this marriage thing was going well. Before we knew it, we were on the last leg of the flight to Little Rock, ready to face the reality of life as a married couple.

I soon discovered that she didn’t roll a tube of toothpaste correctly: from the bottom up, choosing, simply to squeeze arbitrarily.

She discovered that I didn’t always pick discarded clothes from the floor immediately upon dressing.

I discovered we didn’t have enough vertical storage area for all her makeup.

She discovered that I snored.

And so on. Maybe marriage wasn’t as simple as some imagined. Maybe one only masters its intricacies in a bleak classroom labeled “experience.” Unlike some other of life’s trials that must be overcome, though, it was a hell of a lot of fun trying.

I went back to work the next week and discovered that the company’s subdivision was progressing. We weren’t allowed to sell lots until the improvements were completed, or some sort of payment assured for their completion. Despite this, early interest bloomed and there were already “dibs” on some of the lots. We talked enthusiastically of selling the thing, enjoying the profit, and beginning another. What could possibly to wrong?

Have you ever gone to a skating rink and watched the tall, thin fellow with oily black hair, sideburns, form-fitting jeans, and a tight black tee-shirt with a pack of Lucky Strikes folded into one sleeve? Yeah, the one who glides around the floor with unbelievable ease and grace, making turns and moves so breathtaking that the girls gasp. Recall how easy he made it look? Anybody could do it.

That’s the way we felt about land development.

As I was trained to do.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37: (Cont._2)

Robert Julius Cole, survivor of the Battle of the Bulge and the invasion of Germany, walked his only child to the alter for marriage. The look on his face suggested that surviving an artillery barrage may have been easier. But, he left her with me, and the preacher took over. Julius joined Hazel in the audience. Vernell was standing to our side and, I’m sure, took a deep breath and held it. My brother, on the other side, probably looked as if he might faint any second. I prepared to follow instructions. Brenda smiled. She was the only one who looked happy. Everyone else waited. For me, there was no turning back. The die was cast.

I had spent a year and a half of my new civilian life studying urban planning and, after I started earning a bit of money, seeking the ladies, all sorts of them. I had felt as thought a bright new world had opened for me and I was ready for a life of working, gaining respect, and chasing women. But, the latter was over now, no more looking for women.

I had found me one.

We went through the words flawlessly, I placed the ring on her finger and the preacher announced us “man and wife.” Whew. Time to flee the scene. Then Brenda reached up and kissed me full in the mouth, in front of that whole church full of people. I declare.

Have I mentioned that I had never been to a church wedding before? The Navy certainly never taught you about them. The service was your beloved spouse. Anyway, we kissed and it was over.

Then Brenda folded her wings, took my arm, and walked me down the aisle and out of the church. I think maybe the congregation applauded. I’m not sure. Maybe they were just laughing at my shoes. I didn’t care. The ceremony was over and I was living a dream.

Trust me. I was stepping lightly.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37

The time came for me to get dressed, drive to Lonoke, and marry the woman who had sashayed by and grabbed my heart not 200 feet from where I stood, long ago in a bachelorhood now nearing its useful end. I set my mind and managed everything, ready in plenty of time. All was set. There was no backing out now.

I folded my suit coat over the passenger seat of the Green Angel, checked once more to make sure I had the rings, and set off. There wasn’t a great deal of traffic in those days. With plenty of time, I drove carefully, taking old Highway 70, where we, Brenda and I, had taken so many late-afternoon drives back when we were courting. I wondered to myself if I had ever thought it would come to this. Was I a lucky man or what?

Or what?

Folks had already started gathering at the Methodist church just south of the main business corner of Downtown Lonoke. I went around and parked across the street, heading north for a fast getaway. I locked the doors and walked across the street. Once inside the church, I was happy do see my brother, Ricky, who was to be my best man. Others stayed stashed away somewhere. They directed us to a room just off the front of the church. I could see the crowd beginning to gather. Then I saw Leland Bassett sitting alone on one side of the church. The ushers, one my brother’s friends and a couple of Brenda’s neighbors from her childhood, were busy. They were placing everyone away from Leland, on the other side of the aisle. What was that all about?

Have I mentioned that I had never been to a church wedding before?

Several hundred years later, the church was full and the ushers escorted Hazel and Sainted Mother down the aisle. By this time, there were a few family and friends on my side and the ushers had begun to guide the overflow toward them. I panicked at a wandering thought. What if I needed to attend the men’s room before things got started?

Then the piano hit a chord and a voice of wondrous beauty filled the air. I have no memory of the song, except that it was quite beautiful and expertly delivered. When the singer finished it was so quiet that I could hear my blood flowing. Someone told my brother and me to walk out and stand, side by side, facing the audience.

Oh my goodness. I looked out at all those faces and just wanted to take off running. We could still elope later. The piano started again, with a familiar tune. At the far end of the church, She walked in with her daddy, and I forgot all about running.