FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 75

I stood alone for a while, watching the boy drive off until he made it to the main road and disappeared behind the trees. I took a deep breath and walked over to the sandpile, which still sat 30-feet from the mixer because of Doocy’s bad night the night before.

I was about to plop down in the sand when Doocy ran up to me.

“No sir-e, no sir-e,” he said, “don’t set in thet sand – Heah, Willum, grab me thet stool ovah there.” 

Willum ran and grabbed a stool the carpenters used, and Doocy snatched it, and, in one motion, plopped it down in the sand and set me down in the stool.

I was too tired to resist or argue.

“Pee Wee,” Doocy yelled out, “grab thet kit in thet truck, this’n boy heah gots blood all ovah ‘im.”

Pee Wee obeyed, all of them acting as if Doocy’s wish was their command. From there Doocy made over me like nothing anybody had ever seen. He wiped my face, ran over to the mixer and got some grease off of the tongue of it and wiped down the scratches up on my forehead, and the whole time carried on.

“Pup, t’Breeze has seen a heep in his days but n’er nuttin’ like this’n, yuh jus’ took thet country boy ‘n turned ‘im ever’ way but loose, thet yuh did – Willum, quit standin’ ovah gawkin’, hand me thet water bot’le – take a sip of water there, Pup, not too mech now, cain’t let it bog you down, jus’ in case thet blue truck turn eround and come back for ‘mo. Jus’ take a sip, let t’Breeze wipe thet blood off of yore face, give me ya arm, Pup, loosen ‘em up …”

And on and on.

It was worse than anything you ever saw. Even Red didn’t protest, just stood back and let the crew have their one moment in the sun, probably thinking of all the money he was going to lose now with everybody rehearsing this scene 75 times a day for the rest of the summer and its being completely out of his hands to get a handle on it. But for now, he just let it happen.

After I had taken all I could, I pushed Doocy back and said, “Enough, Doocy,” and Doocy jumped back and said, “Aw, please don’t hit me, Puppie, didn’t mean to get ya mad at t’Breeze …” and he carried that on for a while.

I walked back up toward my Nova to grab a clean shirt. I put it on, then went back to the sandpile and plopped down on that stool.

It all was starting to hit me.

In all the excitement, I had almost forgotten about Mr. and Mrs. McClain standing there with a front-row seat, and Corrina.

But as soon as I plopped down and was alone, Corrina ran over to their Studebaker, grabbed a rag in the car, and then ran to where I was sitting.

I still had sweat in my eyes, and sand and blood, but I don’t think she ever looked better.

She dipped that rag into the water drum, sat beside me in the sandpile, and made over me better than Doocy ever could, though try he did.

I had to say “ouch” a few times. For the first time, those blows that had skimmed the side of my face, and those sharp brick that scraped me all over, were hurting.

I couldn’t even imagine how I would’ve felt if the boy had actually connected.

Finally, Corrina spoke.

“I’m sorry, Billy Ray,” she said, tears welling up, “I had no idea. I don’t know why he …”

I held my hand up to stop her.

“If it’s okay, Corrina, I’d jus’ as soon not even talk ‘bout him, ever – who he is or thinks he is. I admire him. I mean, he has good taste,” I said, smiling, but then I realized my lip was cut and said “Ouch.”

It made it worth it. Corrina ran and wet the rag again and doctored my scraped lip. I couldn’t help but think how bad the boy was going to feel when he got home after all the blows he took. Plus, he didn’t have the dark-haired girl tending to him, nor would he.

I could tell my approach with the fella relieved Corrina, which made me glad. We could’ve had many conversations about the fella in the blue truck with the black and blue eyes, one of them shut closed; but, as far as I was concerned, it was over, the way the fight was over when he found himself face first in that mud tub.

As I told this part of the story to Cheyenne, he had to ask, “Popman, do you think the boy affected how everything played out that summer?”

“Maybe a little, I don’t know,” I said. “Mainly, I think he must’ve jus’ been part of what Corrina was havin’ to work out in her own mind.

“We can’t forget that she was barely sixteen; she had a long way to go to figure life out. Of course, that ‘Thrilla in Manila’ she walked up on must’ve hastened her growth. I know it did mine.”

“Or threw it into tee-total confusion,” Cheyenne said, laughing.

“But,” I added, “trust me on this. The boy was part of her history, nothin’ more. I think he knew it, too. As he drove slowly down that red dirt driveway, it was over.”

I rolled my mind back to that moment, and I wondered if that five minutes may not have been one of the most important minutes of the Summer of ’73.

If the whole point of the summer was to become a man, we took a big step in that direction during that five-minute debacle. If it was to help Corrina and me to define exactly where we were, then it did that, too, even if it did introduce the first real challenge.

Oh, I could tell Corrina Belle that we didn’t ever have to talk about whatever happened that day, but sometimes, when Corrina let her guard down, I could catch her looking off into the distance, and I wondered if the blue truck had anything to do with that. Every relationship has a snag or two, and this one would not do any less.

“But, Cheyenne,” I said, “in a way, that scene was just a blimp on the radar, nothin’ more. The things Corrina and I were goin’ to have to face went far deeper than that, they went as deep as the ocean.

“When he drove up, the boy in the blue truck had no idea what kind of drama he was ridin’ into. But he probably needed a little humbling and needed to define himself. I don’t know what it would take if that five minutes didn't define him.

“But, truth is, I think Corrina knew that day that the boy would never be a threat. You can’t defeat chemistry, and Corrina and I had as much of it as … as the trio from the day before – the fishing guide, the doctor, and the Pup. I didn’t have to go to a job site, make a fool of myself, and try to win her back. It’s way too late when it comes to that.”

“What was your and Corrina’s biggest challenge, Popman?” Cheyenne asked. I could tell he was worried.

I smiled. My mind reviewed that long summer again.

“Jus’ makin’ it through that summer of ‘73,” I said, after a moment, “I think we were like the old man in the sea. We knew we would be destroyed over and over. We had to make sure we weren’t defeated.”

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.