FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 72

Sounds of skill saws screeching and the mortar mixer roaring made the brick job sound like a train was coming down the tracks blowing its sharp whistle.

Monday mornings on the job never started off quietly. Going from a nice, quiet weekend – maybe not that quiet, but quieter – to Monday morning on the job was like walking off of Huntington Beach onto Highway 1.

To make matters worse, Doocy came in to work in a frenzy.

I had chosen to go ahead and ride with Pee Wee and the crew that Monday morning since Corrina and I would be bringing the Nova out to the job on Tuesday. Corrina and I had renewed our plans to go see Mama after work on Tuesday. I knew that would give Mama something to look forward to.

Pee Wee drove his truck and picked up Willum, Hook, and Charlie. Willum lost the coin flip and was the one delegated to ride in the back with the wheelbarrows and shovels – and I drove and parked my Nova at Pee Wee and Dixie’s house, and the two of us drove to pick up Doocy.

When we got to Doocy’s he looked more disheveled than ordinary, and his mama, with whom he still lived and really showed no signs of moving out – didn’t get around to washing his work clothes, so he wasn’t the best-smelling creature ever to ride in the cab of a truck.

I was stuck in the middle and didn’t have anywhere to run, and I was afraid to reach over Doocy and roll the passenger window down. So, I lived with it.

When Doocy climbed in the truck, he didn’t say a word, didn’t even acknowledge that Pee Wee and I were even there, just got in and looked straight ahead. Pee Wee and I looked at each other and shrugged, but we didn’t say anything for a couple of blocks until we got back over the railroad tracks and onto Hamilton Road, south of town.

Finally, Pee Wee up and said, “How are you this morning, Doocy?”

“Nuttin’,” Doocy said.

Pee Wee looked over at me, threw his head back a little and gave that big grin, “What’d you mean, ‘nuttin’.”

“Nuttin’, Doocy said, ‘nuttin’, why yuh keep askin’?”

I looked back at Pee Wee, raising my eyebrows, and we drove along the rest of the way not talking – at least, not talking to Doocy. I got to telling Pee Wee about the game at the Y on Sunday, and he was amused at that, probably a little proud, too, because, as we’ve said, he looked at me as the little brother he never had. All he had was a sister, and she had the fortune or misfortune of marrying Red.

“Pup, we need to get together and shoot one evening. Maybe tonight when we get back to the house we’ll play a little one-on-one and see if you’re as good as you say or if you just didn’t play anybody.”

I agreed, although I knew two things would be stacked up against me playing Pee Wee: One, he was six-foot-two and tough, as we know, and two, I likely would not have a great deal left in these sixteen-year-old legs by six p.m., especially after Sunday’s debacles.

But we made plans, and as we talked Doocy just sat over there as if he was in another world. Later that evening, when Pee Wee and I had a chance to talk alone, we figured out that when Doocy said ‘Nuttin’” he was responding to the question Pee Wee should’ve asked, not the one he asked. Pee Wee missed his cue. He should’ve said, “Doocy, what’s wrong with ya this morning?,” to which Doocy would’ve answered, “Nuttin’” and gone on about his business.

Later, I brought it up when we were slinging mud up on the scaffold where Pee Wee was working, and Doocy got defensive about it and said, “Does the Breeze hav’ta do it all for the Pups and Pee Wee? Cain’t yuh e’en ast the ‘propriate ques’ion when a man gits in t’truck all down-’n-out, huh? Whut, I gotta ask the question for ya now, Pee Wee, answer thet?”

One thing in life you better do is learn that there are some arguments you can’t win, especially when the original proposition makes no sense.

Pee Wee figured that out a long time ago and apologized profusely to Doocy, putting his right hand, still holding his trowel in it, over his heart.

“Don’t need no ‘pology, Pee Wee, t’Breeze jus’ need ya to learn how-ta ast a ques’ion, thet’s all, if thet ain’t too much to ast.”

That conversation took place later in the afternoon, after the first hoopla of the day, the key word first.

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.