Cole Dust Cole Page 26

  Poor man can’t catch a break today,

  What the bank ain’t took the wind blowed away,

  Dust to my eyeballs, Dust to my ears,

  I got a pocket full of nothin’ and a belly full of fears.

  Workingmen unite I’m here to say

  When this ol’ Depression’s over we will lead the way.

  I’m a travelin’ on! I’m a singin’ a song.

  Ain’t no money in my pocket, ain’t no lard in the can.

  Got a blue sky’s a comin’; I’m a free born man.

  Sun been burnin’ the back of my neck.

  Got promises by the bushel and solutions by the peck.

  Had me a job with the great Santa Fe,

  No crops to ship so it ups and blew away.

  Workingmen unite I’m here to say

  When this ol’ Depression’s over we will lead the way.

  I’m a travelin’ on! I’m a singin’ a song.

  Ain’t no money in my pocket, ain’t no lard in the can.

  Got a blue sky’s a comin’; I’m a free born man.

  In a couple of places words were scratched out and written over. In the margin, little arrows connected circles around words and the phrase “bad rhyme”. At the bottom of the page was a short note.

  George – I can see you have the mind of a man who can lead. We can use men of vision to help bring the workers of this great country of ours together. Your gift of gab and good heart could make a difference. Look me up when you get the travelin’ bug worked out.

  Your pal,

  Woody Guthrie

  PS I’m keepin’ the pencil!

  Cole ran his finger across the pencil signature. His mind conjured up images of a smoky, old saloon, and two men spinning tales, and singing songs. The face of Woody Guthrie floated across his thoughts with his big grin and curly hair poking out of a crumpled hat, sitting at a wooden table on a straight back chair right across from Cole’s grandfather. Cole reread the lyrics to the song. It was no “This Land is Your Land”, but it was Woody. Jotted down in a notebook in a saloon, without revision or time to rework, just the way it came to him. How many more songs did he write and just let blow away?

  Cole just sat grinning at the signature. The man who paved the way for the singer songwriters that Cole so admired, Dylan, Springsteen and all the rest, had Woody Guthrie to thank for showing the way. He let his mind travel back and play with different scenarios of his grandfather swapping stories and singing songs with Woody. But it saddened him too, this man he came to know through dozens of notebooks possessed such potential.

  Woody saw it and deep down George knew too. His addiction to alcohol burned away the promise, sidelined the dreams and cut short a life that could have done great things. This was the only reference to his writing two books. Alma destroyed them both. The rage that he suppressed and the disappointment and frustration at losing the work he did must have taken a heavy toll. How many times could someone rip, crumple and burn parts of a man’s soul and he still be able to bounce back? The beating that his muse took would make it doubtful it would ever return again.

  But through this small window Cole could look back seventy years in time and see George Sage and Woody Guthrie sharing a drink, singing a song and solving the problems of the world. Cole grieved at the thought of the path that was not taken.

  October 3, 1936

  A Carnie show has set up in the big empty field next to the feedlots. Me and a couple of the men from the camp have gotten jobs raising the tents and setting up the rides. The pay is nothing to shout about but they feed us real well at noon. Today we had fried chicken, cornbread, beans and lots of buttermilk. Next to what I have been living on lately it was a feast for a king!

  Bill Tackett and I got the job after lunch of putting up signs all over town for “Baxter the Boxing Kangaroo, The Australian Bone Crusher”. The Carnival is offering a prize of one hundred dollars for anyone who can go three rounds with this critter. I am going to give it a try tomorrow night.

  I met a guy from back home named Earl. We have hit it off pretty good and he has me about convinced to swing down Texas way to try and get jobs in the oil fields. He says he has a brother in law that works for a drilling outfit and he is sure we can get jobs.

  October 5, 1936

  I am having a hard time seeing the page as I try to write tonight. Last night I fought Baxter the Boxing Kangaroo. My nose is broke and both eyes are blacked.

  It seemed like a pretty easy thing the way the promoter explained it. In a cage behind the tent was this kangaroo. It was a big, soft, furry thing with big haunches and little skinny arms. It looked friendly enough. It kind of bounced around on its hind legs like a big bunny rabbit. That was where the similarity ended.

  I stripped to the waist and they put boxing gloves on me. I went into the ring and this fella told the crowd, all of which had paid fifty cents to watch, my name and weight and how I was the bravest man in Fort Smith because I was the first to fight Baxter. Then they brought the kangaroo into the ring.

  To my surprise the damn thing was nearly six feet tall! It had on a pair of boxing gloves too. Around its neck it wore a black collar studded with little spikes. Attached to the collar was a chain. The handler padlocked the chain to a ring that was fashioned to one of the corner posts. They had a muzzle on the kangaroo’s snout just like you’d put on a mean dog.

  The announcer told the crowd about Australia and how the kangaroos run wild and how Baxter was by nature a natural boxer. His record was eighty-nine wins, thirteen knockouts and nineteen losses. He went on to explain there would be three three-minute rounds with a one-minute rest period between. All I had to do was stay in the ring until the third bell rang to win a hundred bucks.

  I figured the kangaroo would have a tough time reaching me with those little skinny arms of his so long as I kept out of his way. The trainer started slapping Baxter upside the head. He made an angry growling noise and the trainer would smack him again. The animal made pawing swipes at the trainer with its gloved paws.

  The whole thing seemed simple enough to me at least until the bell rang. Then the craziest thing happened. The second the bell rang and Baxter came charging across the ring at me. I took a swing at him and hit him on the right side of the head. I figured I had the hundred bucks sewed up. What I didn’t figure on was when he would lean back on his huge tail and kick me with his hind legs.

  As a kid I got kicked by a donkey when I was stupid enough to pull its tail, but the kick from this monster was ten times worse. Baxter rolled back on his tail like it was a giant spring and then kicked me in the chest with both feet. I not only saw stars, I saw the sun, moon and planets too! It knocked the wind out of me and I was flat on my back looking up at the promoter.

  “You dead?” he asked.

  I would have been smart to have said yes. I didn’t. I got to my feet and tried to avoid Baxter. I dodged and jumped and ran around the ring until finally the bell rang. The crowd was laughing and booing but I was still alive. I wanted the hundred bucks. I was determined to get it. A guy in the corner poured a bucket of water over my head. It must have had soap in it because it burned my eyes until I could hardly see.

  The bell rang for round two and all I could see was a brown blur across the ring. I tried in vain to stay away from the kangaroo. Baxter reared back and kicked but I managed to get out of the way. He then came at me and was jabbing and poking with the gloves. I had teared enough and I wiped my eyes enough to where they were starting to clear. I pulled back and hit the animal with a sound right hand to the side of his head. I dodged a kick and was feeling like the tide was turning. I hit Baxter again with a left to the chin and another right to the temple. He was stunned. I spun about to avoid another kick, and my foot hit a wet spot on the canvas. I lost my balance just long enough for Baxter to kick me in the middle of the back with both feet. The last thing I remember is flying across the ring.

  I woke up in a pile of straw outside the tent. Apparently my f
ace hit the post in the corner of the ring. It broke my nose and knocked me cold. It is hard to breath; I think one of those kicks just might have broken a rib. That old kangaroo was tougher than I figured.

  October 12, 1936

  I have been run out of Fort Smith. The sheriff and his boys loaded a bunch of us in the back of a truck and took us across the line into Oklahoma and dropped us off. I teamed up with Earl and we spent all we earned at the Carny on a three day buster. We drank and danced with the ladies and woke up in the alley and went back for more. It seems we busted up a place pretty good in a fight with some field hands who had come into town for some fun.

  The police threw us in the tank. During the night this older man started making moaning sounds and it woke me. Turns out he was in great pain. I was pretty drunk still but I managed to get to my feet and holler at the guard. The guard came and banged on the bars with his nightstick and told me to quiet down. I tried to tell him the old man was in bad shape. The guard said that he was a regular. “All drunks rot from the inside,” he said.. “He is just feeling the fruits of his degenerate life. Your time’s comin’.” He rapped my knuckles with the stick and told me to get back away from the bars and keep still. The old man moaned and cried for hours. I fell asleep with my hands over my ears.

  When I woke up the cell was still. The old man was lying on the floor, his arms spread wide. His head was leaning way back, like he was trying to see behind him. I went over to him to see how he was doing. His eyes were open but he was as dead and lifeless as a fish floating on its belly. I screamed and yelled for the guard but nobody came. Men in other cells shouted for me to shut up, they were trying to sleep. I cried, “This man is dead in here!” Their answer was short and simple. “You’re gonna be if you don’t shut the hell up!”

  It was about two hours later that the guards came to load us up in the truck. I told the guard the old man was dead. He nudged the man’s leg with his boot. “Poor old Tug” was all he said. He ordered me out of the cell. I followed three or four other men out to the truck and here I am.

  The deputy said he better not see us back in Fort Smith or we would regret it. I could tell from his tone and the way the other men took off that it was a warning to be heeded.

  TWENTY

  Never volunteer. It’s an old and simple adage. Cole knew it well, but he owed Ernie Kappas a lot. So he found himself, bright and early, seated in the front of Ernie’s truck, speeding his way to Tulsa. Ernie’s image of Cole as a big city newspaperman included the strange idea that he had some special gift for knowing about anything that was outside the realm of Orvin experience, in this case meat slicers and bread ovens.

  It was almost four hours drive each way to Tulsa according to Ernie. Cole planned to take a long nap and in his backpack were three notebooks to help pass the time. In the seat between them was an ice chest containing six huge sandwiches and a six-pack of Diet Coke.

  Ernie, who was not the least bit shy about seeking compliments, decided that Cole was the perfect guinea pig for trying his sandwiches. So, in the ice chest were the last three varieties that were not taste tested. It was just past six o’clock when they turned onto Highway 412.

  Cole pulled his 49er cap down over his face and closed his eyes. The radio was blasting a talk show and the overly happy hosts were making snide, sexually charged, remarks about the contestants on the previous night’s episode of “Hen House,” a game show where strippers lived in a house with four nerdy college students. The radio blasted fake laughs, the tires droned against the black top and Cole drifted to sleep with his head vibrating against the window.

  A little after seven, he felt the pickup come to a stop.

  “Time to meet the day,” Ernie said in a cheerful voice, flicking off the radio.

  Cole opened his eyes to find they were in the drive-thru of a Starbucks.

  “Figured you had gone without your foo foo coffee ‘bout long enough. Now, let’s see here,” Ernie gazed out at the menu. “Mocha, that’s your stuff, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Welcome to Starbucks, just order when you’re ready.” A young female voice chirped from the speaker.

  “Mocha. Biggest one you got,” Ernie shouted in response.

  “One Mocha Venti. Anything else this morning?”

  “Venti?” Ernie repeated. “The hell you say!”

  Cole chuckled to himself and Ernie pulled forward. A cute little blonde at the window smiled sweetly and took Ernie’s money. A few moments later she passed a tall cup through the window.

  “Careful, it’s real hot.”

  Ernie passed the cup to Cole but pulled forward before he spoke.

  “I gotta get me one of those,” Ernie said, more to himself than Cole. “Girl like that would be perfect for working the counter. I’m not a real people person. Know what I mean?”

  Before he could answer, Ernie began telling Cole how he had been weighing meat, measuring out mayonnaise, mustard, cheese and various other ingredients in an effort to come up with the exact cost of making a sandwich. Ernie went into great detail about how if McDonalds was to put one extra pickle on each hamburger for just one day they would go broke. Cole did not question his source, just nodded and sipped his coffee. Mile after mile Cole was subjected to the Ernie Kappas theory of consumer lunch habits: the way a napkin should come out of a dispenser, how men don’t like to drink with straws and giving them one is a waste, and a myriad of other things that Ernie obviously thought about day and night, since deciding to open the shop.

  Around eight o’clock Ernie seemed to run out of steam. “It’s gonna be great,” he said, vigorously shaking his head. “It’s gonna be great.”

  Cole nodded in agreement and opened his backpack and took out a notebook, checked the date on the cover, then switched it for another.

  “What ya got there?”

  “One of the last notebooks in the bunch my grandfather wrote.”

  “The hell you say. How many you got left?”

  “Not many. Six or eight maybe.”

  Ernie just grunted and fell silent. The gap in dates disappointed Cole. The last entry he read was late November 1936. The opening date in the notebook in his hand was more than three years later. Unlike the last notebook, this one was clean and the pages were crisp and bright. This journal had something else that set it apart from all the rest. It had an introduction.

  To begin again:

  I do not recall when last I put pencil to paper. I begin now in an effort to bring my life back into focus. As I write this I sit on a bench under a beautiful tree. I am in the pajamas and robe of the Sisters of Eternal Hope Sanitarium. Though not of the Catholic faith, I found myself in The Chapel of St. Joseph’s in Waterloo, Iowa. I was sick and dying all because of drinking.

  Father O’Malley took me in and gave me a bed and sat with me through the night. In the morning he put me in the back of a car belonging to a farmer friend of his and drove me here. I am not exactly sure where “here” is but that was the first week of January some three months ago. Though I am very weak, I believe I am on the mend. There is a lot I cannot remember. All I have is a knapsack with a notebook and a little address book inside. The Sisters say that I would not let go of the knapsack even in the worst of my DTs.

  I have written Alma and the kids. Paula wrote back. She sent greetings from everyone except Alma. I have asked forgiveness and told them I would like to come home to see them. Paula said she would like that to happen. The Sisters say I should be in no hurry to leave. It seems there is something wrong with my liver and I have spells of dizziness.

  I have always wanted to be a writer, so as I start this new chapter of my life I hope that I will keep true to my dream.

  Cole flipped through several pages of descriptions and drawings of the garden. Most of the pages were filled with short paragraphs painting a picture of the daily life in the sanitarium. Then he found the first dated entry.

  April 11, 1940

  I have been here just shy of
six months. I feel good and have been working in the kitchen and garden to help earn my keep. Tomorrow I will leave for Colorado. The Sisters took up a collection to buy me a train ticket. I am sober as a judge but I still feel a gnawing at my gut for a drink whenever I am alone for too long. I wrote a long letter thanking Father O’Malley and another to the Mother Superior. I keep thinking what my father would say if he knew I was in the clutches of the Church of Rome.

  I walk out of here in the morning in an almost new suit and a fresh start. I hope to make the best of it.

  April 14, 1940

  The house is quiet. I am a stranger here. Alma was polite but I sensed the rage within her. She has every right to hate me. She did before and with good reason. Now her hatred is tempered with resentment. I tried to keep my conversations to getting to know the children.

  Paula is nineteen and engaged. I haven’t met the young man but she seems very much in love. Josie will be seventeen next month and stands guard around her mother like a lioness ready to leap on any threat. She is a plain girl and favors her mother’s coloring and features. Connie is fifteen and welcomed me like a returning hero. She took out pictures and a painting she had done at school. She is quite the little artist. I feel deep regret when I look at Georgie. He is now nine and is a strong healthy boy. I think he looks a lot like me. His hangs his though. I fear that he’s taken great abuse from his mother, being the only male in the house.

  Paula works at a restaurant, and Josie at a dry goods store. Alma has been working as a maid in the hotel and has kept the family together and in the same house, though I don’t know how she affords the rent.