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“August 17, 1973”
BY STEVEN RAY BOWEN
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I walked her to the door. We were not in a hurry, and Corrina held on tight for a long time. She didn’t say anything, she just held on as if for dear life. We said goodnight, and I told her I’d see her soon. She opened the door to go inside, but I put my hand on her arm.
“Oh,” I said, “I almost forgot, we missed a big Georgia song.”
“What?” she asked, closing the door back and standing with her back against it.
“‘Midnight Train to Georgia.’”
“I’ve never heard of it, Pup.”
“That’s because it just came out last week, sung by Gladys Knight and the Pips – you know, that group that’s kin to Doocy and the Pips.”
Corrina smiled.
“But it’s a good one,” I added, “and has already climbed the charts big time. Listen for it, and think of me when you hear it.”
“Pup, I’m pretty sure I’ll be thinking of you anyway,” she said, offering me her smile and blowing her trademark kiss before disappearing inside the door. I walked that herringbone walkway the loneliest direction one more time.
My last day on the brick job was on Friday, the 17th day of August. I would leave the next morning to head west. In case something we couldn’t avoid came up, Corrina and I made plans to meet at Cooley’s Store at 7 a.m. that morning, no matter what. But I told her to be sure to come out to the job on Friday, and we would spend one more Friday evening together.
The work was slower than usual that Friday. We were working on the brick steps and porch, so it was naturally more tedious work. Those were the last parts of the job, although plans were for Pee Wee to go back in the fall and lay a herringbone walkway like the one at the McClain’s old house, only this one would be curved. I would walk Pee Wee’s iconic curved walkway in time to come.
That day crawled slowly, too. Everybody knew this was the end – the final day of our summer of ’73 and the final part of a chapter we had written together. We had all seen fist-fights better than Frazier-Ali and a love story for the ages, even better than “Love Story” and “The Way We Were” combined, even though “The Way We Were” wouldn’t come out for another two months – October 1973.
It was a summer for the ages, too: Hiring a young Pup whom Doocy takes under his wing and torments every day like a cat with a lizard, seeing a dark-haired girl abruptly come out on the job with the glory of Cinderella showing up at the ball, and, then, consequently, Red being cursed with the daily reminder that “money don’t jump out at cha, Pup.”
That was the summer never to be duplicated. Or as Doocy would say of his self, “Pups, t’Breeze, ‘r’member, may be im-a-tated buts nevah dup-la-cated.”
We gathered around for lunch on that Friday, sitting once more on those storytelling buckets. I noticed that Doocy had been a bit skittish that morning, but that wasn’t unusual. The usual was unusual for Doocy, so the only pattern was that there was no pattern. Contradiction, incongruity, unpredictability, and moodibility filled his resume. I had chalked up the slight shift to his knowing today was his Pup’s last day.
Doocy didn’t like change, period, and not having his Pup there was going to be a big change. He wouldn’t have anybody to protect, blame, chew out one side and down t’other, or to look at sideways, saying, “Pup, whut’s this yuh done done? Hm? Whut’s this?”
No, life would never be the same for Doocy.
About the time Paul Harvey finished his noontime news and had left us with his final summer “Good day!”
I thought I might stir the pot a bit and say to Doocy, “How are ya Doocy?”
The last time we had posed that question he had answered “Nuttin’,” which confused Pee Wee and me to no end.
This time Doocy just said, “Hm.”
“No, Doocy, somethin’ is up, and I’m not goin’ to Texas ‘til I learn what it is.”
“Well,” said Doocy, opening his can of sardines, “it may be thet ain’t nuttin’ hap’ened at all, ‘n it may be there is sump’m.”
Red jumped in gruffly, “Doocy, will yuh go ‘head spit it out, the longer you play coy the later we’ll be gettin’ back to work afta lunch.”
“Play whut? I don’t play thet, Red, um um, no sir,” Doocy said.
“Coy,” Pee Wee chimed in, “don’t worry Doocy, that’s not anything bad, just means kind of playing hard to get.”
“Aw, no sir, likes the Breeze sez, he don’t play thet – but thet li’l dark-haired girl thet’ll be slidin’ in heah any time now,” he said with a big laugh, “thet’s what she play, ast the Pup heah, he’ll tell yuh.”
Then he motioned to me with the fork that was in his webbed hand, and said, “Tell ‘em Pup.”
“Doocy, they already know that,” I said, “but why is it you’re …” I searched for the right word, “…abby-normal this mornin’, you know what I mean.”
Doocy must’ve seen “Young Frankinstein” because he reacted immediately.
“The Cool Breeze ain’t abby-nuttin’ this mornin’, this is how he be ever’ day, mornin, noon, er night, all you gots t’do is call,” he half said and half sung, mixing up the song in Doocy fashion. We saw it was futile to get the story out of Doocy, so Pee Wee turned and asked me when I was going to head out.
But Doocy answered, “Don’t be changin’ no subjec’ Pee Wee, we ain’t done with the firse one.”
Pee Wee threw his head back and laughed his vintage laugh for the thousandth time that summer, looking at me with that “Don’t he beat all” look. I returned the same.
It felt warm inside at that moment to be back to normal.
“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.
