had time to fling out what I termed a halfhearted “apology accepted, and I’m sorry, too, Milton,” before she linked arms with Benny. Hard to blame her after the abominable way I’d treated her for years. And even I had to admit that Benny cut quite the imposing figure that night. Standing a true 6’4”, dressed in his body-hugging seaman’s whites, the wave pattern on his short, esquire-cut hair, he was enough to make a person dizzy. The boy stood out and caught the eye of many of the ladies at the party. But that night he only had eyes for Sheila Knight, and within short order, the two of them disappeared, not to be seen again for several days.
• 6 •
As I turned onto Santa Fe Avenue and approached the parking lot at Country Farms Market, I saw an easily recognizable figure that made me suddenly aware, painfully aware, of the passing of the years for me. If ever I needed a reminder of the multiple decades that had elapsed between today and that homecoming party, the stooped-over figure I spotted in the midst of a circle of local wineheads, hobos, and homeless drifters in the parking lot brought home that fact. Even from half a city block’s distance, Benny Calhoun was easily recognizable.
I suppose the fact that I knew that this parking lot was where he spent most of his waking hours panhandling alongside other rejects, societal dropouts, and other luckless folks in the area made him more readily discernable for me. “No,” I whispered to myself as his facial features became clearer. For more than 45 years our lives had been very closely entwined, conjoined, as we travelled the highway of life.
With each successive step came mounting and conflicting emotions inside me. There was joy, because it was a relief to see that he was alive. A rash of recent storms had taken a particularly heavy toll on street people in our area recently, and no matter what, I was glad he wasn’t one of them. On the other hand, there was anxiety, because one simply never knew exactly which Benny personality they would encounter.
Unconsciously, I slid my hand into my left front pocket (where I always carried my pocket change and small bills), preparing for his inevitable alms-seeking greeting.
“Hey Milt o’boy, whas up wid’it baby boy?” he hailed from some five yards away.
Rather than answer him, I fisted what I hoped was a banknote with a value of $5, or at most $10, and wadded it up inside my pocket. I came to a halt then extended my hand with the bill clasped inside it. This maneuver stopped and held him at bay. The brief and pained expression that flickered across his wrinkled, weather-beaten face as he pulled the money into his hand was quickly replaced with an angry sneer, which caused me to regret my not-so-artful dodge. But what was I to do? Benny reeked of urine, stale tobacco, sweat from his unwashed body, and the odor of alcohol oozed from his pores. His stiffened clothes carried a pervasive stench, not to mention the furnace that was his mouth nowadays.
“So, how goes thangs, Big Ben?” I asked in an attempt to lessen the sting caused by my evasion.
“Not bad for a brotha wit no roof over his head on Christmas Eve,” he replied in a dry monotone. “B-ba-but then a nigga like you ain’t givin’ a fuck ’bout me!” he quickly followed up, switching gears so fast that I stumbled back to avoid the heat from his hostility. He casually, nonchalantly unfolded the bill I’d given him, taking his time either to torment me, or to build up drama so as to feel justified when he launched his next attack.
Much to my surprise, I didn’t get the reaction I’d anticipated. At first his eyes flew open, growing to nearly saucer-sized dimensions. Then he inhaled deeply and I watched a river of wrinkles appear on his dirty, unkempt, now frowning face.
“Fifty bucks, huh? What’re ya tryin’ ta do, sucka, show off?” he spat in anger. “Well, fuck that. You can never make up for killing my woman and fuckin’ up my life. Go to hell, muthafucka!” He hurled the venomous denunciation at me with ferociousness unusual even for him. To top that off, he hocked up a vile, greenish-colored bile that had to have been buried deep inside of his ill—kept innards, and let it fly in my direction. It landed about eight inches to my left with a thud that, contrary to possibility, echoed loudly. Its reverberations were still ringing in my ears, even after he pivoted and walked away, leaving me stuck, spellbound, and stunned.
“Damn,” I swore. Then I exhaled, trying to expel the putridness our chance encounter had generated inside me. I stood riveted to the spot, emotionally skewered, watching as he signaled to his waiting cohorts, waving the bill high in the air, as if to taunt me, I reasoned.
The heavy honking of a horn behind me broke the spell. It may have been 10 minutes or 10 seconds that I stood there. I will never be sure. I just remember standing, watching as he led his little band of misfits across Santa Fe, stopping traffic in the middle of the block.
Honk, honk!
The insistent blare of a loud horn brought an end to my physical stagnation, if not to my mental anguish. When I stepped out of the vehicle’s path, I got another jolting shock to my system as a big, silver truck sped past. Emblazoned on the truck’s side was the word BUDWEISER.
I turned right and headed for the 3lst Street intersection. When you lose the use of one of your legs, even partially, the simple act of crossing a busy thoroughfare requires a degree of forethought. Unfortunately, part of that planning forced me back to the signal light at the end of the block, which meant that I had to walk past the beer truck again. Coming directly on the heels of my heated exchange with Benny, this triggered another emotional blast from the past.
•
“Man, dem some big, strong-assed horses,” exclaimed Benny, excitement evident on his inebriated face.
“What horses you talking about?” asked Bradley in response. His question seemed innocent, absent of malice, which I thought was evidenced by him turning away from Benny toward Kevin, and passing him a joint.
As had become our custom during that particular summer, after playing sports all day, we would rustle up something to eat and just hang out together, usually in Kevin’s garage. There we’d smoke weed, listen to music, watch television, and clown around before going our separate ways. It was a commercial that featured two or three teams of the big Clydesdale horses pulling a wagon loaded with Budweiser beer barrels that had initiated Benny’s comment, him being impressed by all things powerful. Unpredictable as he often was, Benny became irritated by Bradley’s offhanded comment.
“You know, them huge horses that the Budweiser Beer Company be breeding, that’s why they call ’em Budweisers. Come on now Brad-skee. Everybody knows that,” countered Benny, now being careful with his diction, but there was a slight edge to his tone.
My inner radar went off, as did Kev’s. Our eyes locked; comprehension and mutual concern that things could easily get out of hand were silently communicated between us.
With a sigh and an obvious attempt to be patient and to tread carefully — he’d obviously realized that by merely asking the question, he’d stepped into the slippery landmine that was Benny Calhoun’s mind — Bradley responded, “Oh, you mean the Clydes? The Clydesdale horses that the Budweiser brewery uses as their marketing symbol, right? Yeeaahh man, they’re strong as hell.”
“Naw man, I meant what I said. Shit. Budweiser horses! You tryin’ ta be funny or something, dude?” Benny shot back, his voice rising, his eyes taking on that wild and dangerous slant that we all knew so well.
The startled expression that appeared on Brad’s face spoke for itself and I was certain that he would retreat, avoid the head-on collision we were all heading toward. The four of us were frozen in one of those precarious life moments when two options are available, and everybody is holding their breath, waiting in suspense for…for that next inevitable tick of the clock.
“Oh shit!” I hissed under my breath.
Bradley chose that basically irrelevant gaffe by Benny to assert himself, and that simply could not turn out well for any of us.
“Benny, there’s no such thing as a Budweiser horse, that’s just the symbol the beer company is known for, their trademark. T
hey’re called Clydesdales,” said Bradley, speaking in slow, concise words. “But you ain’t the only person who has made that mistake,” he added in conciliation.
But as expected, Benny was having none of that. He refused to be placated. “Hey honky, gittin’ sick a yo shit; always actin’ like you so damned smart and better’n everybody else. Well I’m gonna put my foot in yo white ass!” bellowed Benny, advancing toward Bradley menacingly.
Both Kevin and I scrambled to intercede.
• 7 •
“Oohh, hey Pops, come on in, and Merry Christmas,” said Frieda, then she hugged me, kissing both cheeks, as was her way.
I returned her hug, albeit rather limply. I was still unnerved by my stroll down memory lane. After we separated, she stared at me in such a manner that it was clear that to her I was wearing what she called my “Hey, where am I?” expression. My oldest daughter’s concern for me had been a constant in recent years, and it was on obvious display when she stepped aside and held her front door open for me to enter her house. Although she didn’t ask, I found myself replying to her silent question.
“Merry Christmas to you guys, too. And no, nothing’s wrong, not particularly,” I said, immediately regretting those last two words.
Her raised eyebrows,