FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 103

Doocy fumbled around with his thoughts for the longest, wrinkling his brow until he had settled things in his mind satisfactorily. Then he commenced telling the story he had wanted to tell all along, just needed us to want him to tell it.

The night before, Doocy had gone out to the beer joint around the corner from where he and his mama lived. I’d been by it a hundred times, taking Doocy home after work and a number of other times, including in the middle of the night a couple of weeks prior.

“Cheyenne,” I said, interrupting Doocy’s narrative momentarily, “that was a story I failed to tell you. I guess you can’t tell all the stories of a legend.”

“That makes sense, Popman,” he said, “they say legends never die. I guess that’s why.”

I smiled. Out of the mouths of babes, indeed.

Before getting back to the Cool Breeze’s narrative, I had to give Cheyenne a Reader’s Digest version of that scary incident back in the middle of July. I suppose it was appropriate to tell a story within a story, because that’s typical of the summer of ’73.

Doocy had called me in the middle of the night, “must’ve been one or two in the mornin’,” I explained. Fortunately, Mama didn’t hear the phone ring at midnight that night nor hear me slip out to go to the rough part of town, or she would’ve had a conniption. Some things you don’t tell mamas. It may have been the scariest thing I’d done since walking up to Doocy on June 4th – “if you don’t include walkin’ up to the dark-haired girl over by the sandpile that first day,” I added with a laugh.

I drove through historic downtown LaGrange without a soul out that late at night, drove by the beautiful multi-colored fountain that flowed elegantly in the shadow of Mr. Lafeyette’s statute, and, in a flash, was in a part of town that you would be skiddish to frequent in broad daylight but were nothing less than plumb crazy to do it in the dark eeriness of the midnight hours.

I pulled up behind the beer joint where Doocy had managed to tell me he’d be since he had been. I kept the red Nova running, just in case, and parked it in front of a big Oak tree that hovered over the joint. I locked my doors because, for the first time I got skiddish despite telling myself that I was tough enough if anything did happen, which I and anybody else who knew me knew was as far from the truth as a downtown Georgia used-car salesman.

About the time I had talked some courage into myself – still not so courageous that I took the car out of “Drive” or my foot on the brake – a shadow came out of nowhere and pounced on the top of my car right by my driver’s-side window. Without thinking, I hit the gas pedal with all the might I had and banged dead-on into that Oak tree, spinning my wheels for a good five seconds before I had the presence of mind to hit the brakes.

“Was that Doocy attacking you, Popman,” Cheyenne said with a laugh, but only laughing because I was still sitting there so he knew I had survived.

“Oh yeah,” I said, “that was the Cool Breeze himself, in all his midnight glory, his missin’ teeth shinin’ for the world to see from the light shinin’ down from the light pole. I jumped out of the car and think I could’ve whipped him right that moment I was so mad; but when I jumped out, the Cool Breeze grabbed me ‘round the neck with that big arm and webbed hand and started talkin’ to me sweeter than I had talked to Corrina on any given night on her front porch by those Silver Falls’ plants of her Mama’s.”

I paused and shook my hand as I went back in time to that scene. Finally, I concluded the story with a sigh and a, “It was the most pitiful think I’ve ever seen in all my life.”

“August 17, 1973” continues next week.

Coach Steven Ray Bowen served as a teacher and basketball coach at Red Oak High from 1998-2012 and recently spent two years teaching and coaching at Ferris. He and his wife Marilyn (the “amazin’ blonde”) served many years with the Church of Christ of Red Oak at Uhl/Ovilla Roads, but now spend time evangelizing in several states in addition to Coach’s work as a writer and author, including the writing of the ongoing novel/memoir here in the Press. Call or text (972) 824-5197, or email coachbowen1984@gmail.com, or see frontporchgospel.com.