FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) – part 4

When I first met Doocy, it was a little like two ships passing in the night, but, then it – wasn’t. It would be more like a ship encountering a rowboat in the night and rolling right over the little boat sending it sprawling in the waves.

That was how meeting Doocy felt, and I do not need to tell you that I was the rowboat that went sprawling in the waves.

Storm clouds had been gathering all during the night before, and had there been a church meeting, you would have expected them to break out into enthusiastic singing at any moment. But the only singing the clouds were doing that Monday morning was an occasional roaring of the thunder, making me jump out of my seat as I sat in my red Chevy Nova waiting for the other workers to arrive.

Thinking back on it, I guess I should have seen the signs as a forewarning that this new job might be more turbulent than you asked for and done the smart thing and climbed back into my Nova and headed back across the Georgia line to my quiet house on Juniper Street.

I say “done the smart thing,” but, at seventeen, I am not too sure I was exactly in that business. You understand.

Besides, if I had done that, I could not be telling you the story of Doocy right now, and it is a story you need to hear if for no other reason than as a warning of what you should do or not do should you ever bump into the fella some time or the other.

Billy Ray had called me on Saturday night at my home and told me that his brother-in-law Red had agreed to take me on with his bricklaying company; and he gave me directions to the house we were starting to brick on Monday thirty miles over in Roanoke. The job was out in the country at a house on top of a hill looking out over the world from a brilliant vantage point. You could see for miles sitting up on that hill.

Up on that hill is where I and my red Nova sat early that dark Monday morning. I arrived early to make a good impression on my first day of the job. I pulled my car around facing the road, which was to the east, where I knew Billy Ray and Red and whomever else would be coming.

I watched a number of headlights go down the road before a red truck pulled into the dirt driveway and started roaring up the hill. It was not exactly a red truck anymore, either, as it was so faded that you only knew it was red because a little red showed up here and there. The truck rumbled up the long red dirt driveway that started out about half a mile from the house, and as it steadily challenged that hill you could hear the truck rattling as if it could all fall apart before it reached the top.

Behind it, it left a trail of dust half a mile high with all its rumbling, further explaining why it was red at one time but no longer. It looked more like it was hurrying to a fire than to a job; and, I would soon learn, that metaphor pretty much describes the truck and all of its contents – Red, Billy Ray, and the rest of the crew. The whole summer was like we were heading to a fire, and, if you wanted to be a part of the crew you would do well to act as if you were headed to a fire, too, even if you didn’t know where you were supposed to be or what you were supposed to be doing half the time. I learned early on that looking busy was always important on a job; and if you couldn’t look busy you had better find a spot where nobody could see you, which was hard to do.

I jumped out of my red Nova as the old truck topped the last hill and skidded into the dirt in front of the house. I smiled as I caught Billy Ray’s eye as he rode shotgun, and I stretched to help me wake up a little more before work started.

I guess it was fitting, too, that about the time the truck came to a halt a white bolt of lightning struck across the sky and shined over the top of the tall pines that decorated the countryside for miles around.

Even before the dust settled and the truck came to a complete stop, the men started jumping out of the back of the truck. I could see that in the cab there were two other men besides Billy Ray Riding shotgun was a heavy-set man with a beer belly – I knew that had to be my boss, Red – and riding in the middle was a rough-looking black gentleman. I kind of chuckled when I saw the three in the cab of the truck and thought that they looked a little like sardines crammed into a small can, which was a proper comparison because, I didn’t know then, at least one of the men would have a can of sardines for lunch every day of that summer, and proud of it, too.

Riding in the back of the truck were two other black gentlemen, making it a crew of five, not counting me, although I did not count all that much. I thought it curious that the one gentleman – and I use that word “gentleman” in the loosest way possible – merited a ride in the cab of the truck while the other two laborers had to ride in the back that long trip. I was not the only one who noted that, either, because the two who had ridden in the back of the truck were in a more “sourish” humor after that thirty-mile trip than the men in the cab.

The truck stopped, and, unbeknownst to me, the lightning show was really about to begin.

Coach Steven Bowen, a long-time Red Oak teacher and coach, now enjoys his time as a full-time writer and preacher of the gospel. In addition to his evangelistic travels, he works and writes for the Church of Christ of Red Oak at Uhl Road and Ovilla. Their worship times are 10 a.m. Sundays and 7:30 pm. Wednesdays. Email coachbowen1984@gmail.com or call or text (972) 824-5197.