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  THE DYSFUNCTIONAL YEARS
    by Jerry W. Davis
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    "Eat them beans, wear them jeans, I'm a little welfare boy," 
  Chuckie Johnson boastfully proclaimed; sticking his middle-finger 
  toward the heavens. We scampered down the alley of homelessness, 
  while the smell of poverty and despair assailed our senses. We cut 
  our way through the grey curtain of pollution from the steel mills 
  of the southern suburbs of Chicago and neighboring Indiana.
      
    Two friends we were, both the age of ten, living in poverty in 
  the land of the dollar bill. The best of friends in the worst of 
  times. We were children, to our parents we were expected to provide 
  as adults. Chuckie and I had much in common: welfare and poverty. 
      
    Chuckie was a stocky, freckled-faced, red-headed hick from 
  Kentucky. His teeth bigger than last year's Kentucky Derby winner. 
  He sure could do major damage to corn on the cob. 
      
    It was a day liken to the others; the smell of mildew and 
  urine creeped up our noses, like sewer rats we rummaged trash bins 
  for a piece of the American pie; apple pie I hoped. We were glad to 
  be outside, for a thunderstorm threatened to ravage our city, 
  dampening our hopes for Saturday, our day off from school. Saturday
  not a day of viewing cartoons, but a day of escape from the heated 
  torture chamber of apartment dwelling. A day of no fighting with 
  rodents over food, or fending off overgrown roaches wanting your 
  socks. 
      
    Slowing our pace a bit we searched the alley for coins; looking 
  odd as we stooped, like two hunch-backs, as our stomachs produced 
  sounds heard for city blocks. We knew the alley behind the barf 
  burger joint would contain loose change. The greasy spoons produced 
  or induced indigestion, as the patrons, many attempting to eat their 
  way to sobriety, would exit via the alley to upchuck their meals. 
  After eating food not fit for human consumption, stomachs and bowels 
  are emptied in the alley, as well as pockets of loose change. 
  Chuckie and I shared views and French fries bought with the found 
  coins.
      
    As the day would narrow, as well as our throats from thirst, 
  we would venture to Chuckie's apartment; his family owned a 
  television. I still remember the first impression of Chuckie's 
  parents; an atypical displaced family from Kentucky who lived off 
  the taxpayers and were said to be kin to Jed Clampette. I believe 
  the family shared the same brain to conserve on thinking. Chuckie's 
  mom was the first I met, Thelma Johnson; she appeared to be a taste 
  tester for a pizza chain. She was a woman of much stature, huge in 
  diameter; seldom moved unless necessary, it was seldom necessary. 
  You could tell what she had for lunch by examining her attire; 
  chili dogs I guessed, for chili and mustard stains occupied the 
  black stretch pants three sizes too small. Chuckie thought the size 
  of his mother was comical; he joked his mom once cut a whole in a 
  sheet and wore it as a blouse. 
      
    As I entered the shabby, rundown abode called an apartment with 
  Chuckie, Thelma lay basking on what used to be a couch, picked from 
  the alley, having only three legs. A wooden block held up one end 
  of the couch as Thelma held down the other. Thelma's hair was dyed 
  yellow, the smell of bleach lingered. Although in her late thirties 
  she looked older, her hair thinning and falling out. No longer a 
  picture of beauty, she appeared to have given up on life; she took 
  little care of herself; sneaking up on a mirror to see who was once
  the fairest. Looking back, years of hard mountain living and city 
  poverty took toll. Carrying much ugly baggage around, you look for 
  a place to lay it down.
      
    Chuckie introduces me to his mother; she nods unable to speak 
  for she is indulging in what appears to be a fifty-pound bag of 
  potato chips. And as the crumbs tumble to the lint infested black 
  couch, a roach jumps from Thelma's shoulder to retrieve the 
  morsels. Thelma Wipes grease from her fingers on her stained 
  blouse; missing a button due to extremely large udders. My mouth 
  waters with anticipation, figuring she'd offer a handfull of the 
  nasty chips; she never offers. 
      
    Thelma motions for Chuckie to fetch another six-pack of Tab 
  cola; a revolutionary new soda with only two calories per bottle 
  and without the taste. She opens the first bottle inhaling sixteen 
  ounces nonstop. Suddenly it sounds as though the thunderstorm had 
  returned as Thelma expels air from the top end and gas from the 
  bottom; the roar shook the dwelling. She held the bottle in the air 
  marveling she could eat all she wanted and lose weight drinking 
  this miracle brew; believing diet Tab her cure all. 
  
    The roar was a bit too much, awakening Chuckie's dad; he jumps
  out of bed having slept the day; wondering if God had returned 
  rapturing the church. 
      
    Delbert was a man in his forties; of small stature; long 
  sideburns and hair a shoe-dyed jet black; slicked back with some 
  form of lard; he resembled Elvis, an ugly Elvis. Delbert walked 
  with a cane, Chuckie informed me he only used the cane when he 
  reports to the welfare office; claims he has a bad back.
      
    I would spend Saturday afternoons with Chuckie and his family, 
  as all would gather round the used black and white television; the 
  picture would roll as Delbert would move the coat hanger covered 
  with foil to get better reception. The Johnsons' were into 
  professional wrestling; on one occasion I remember Thelma becoming 
  upset as the bad wrestlers were whipping up on the good wrestlers. 
  She began yelling profanities, clenching her fists, and shaking 
  them at the television. Suddenly she jumps from the couch, the 
  atomic bomb thud rattles the environment as she makes way to the 
  television, driving a metal popcorn bowl through the picture 
  screen. All took cover as the explosion shattered glass and debris 
  throughout the living room.    
  
    Another adventure worth mentioning was the time Chuckie invited 
  me to go to church with his family. There was an empty storefront 
  below Chuckie's apartment which was used as a church; the church 
  folks were called "Holy Rollers." Chuckie thought the reason for 
  the visit was to get a free food basket, maybe money. We watched 
  from the upstairs window as the church members brought several 
  black boxes resembling cages into the storefront church. 
      
    We began making way downstairs to the church as Thelma throws a 
  book at Chuckie's little snot-nosed sister; standing in the hallway 
  picking her nose and wiping on the sleeve of her hand-me-down yellow 
  smoked stain dress; two sizes too small. Telling her to get the lead 
  out of her unleaded behind. 
      
    Clomping behind was Delbert with his cane; I hoped he was sober 
  and would not fall onto us. At the bottom of the stairs all wait as 
  Delbert was the first to enter the church. We are greeted at the 
  door by the pastor; as with most sinners we take our place in the 
  back row of the church. 
      
    The service opens as the lanky, aged, holly-roller pastor 
  announces to the church there are visitors tonight and souls need 
  be saved. Several musicians began playing guitars, a drum, and a 
  tambourine. As the songs continue the volume becomes louder, the 
  crowd reacts, waving their arms and speaking in foreign languages. 
  Soon several are in the isle, dancing in a jerking motion; much 
  like voodoo. As their bodies twitched, the anorexic preacher began 
  hollering things about Jesus. The Chuck Berry style gospel music 
  increases to the level of creating deafness. 
  
    The preaching continues and several older ladies make their way 
  to the front and are slapped upside their heads by the pastor. 
  Suddenly they wither to the floor; blankets are placed over them so 
  as to cover their nakedness. Who'd want a beaver-shot of these gals, 
  most over sixty? I thought the preacher was crazy and the rest were 
  fools. Chuckie and I giggled as the pastor scampers to the pulpit 
  proclaiming the Lord was there. Looking around the church, I didn't 
  see a person fitting the description. 
  
    The pastor stomps his feet, telling the members there were 
  sinners in their midst. He looks toward the back of the church 
  straight at Delbert and Thelma, wondering if they were prepared 
  to meet Jesus?  Delbert became squirmish, knowing the way to heaven 
  was in the building; he wanted the hell outta there. The service 
  went too long for Delbert; he didn't want religion, he wanted a 
  handout.
  
    All had moved to another isle, except Delbert who stood his 
  ground. Hoping the service would end and he would go his merry way 
  with a picnic basket. The end came sooner than thought as the pastor 
  informs Delbert no food would be given until they prayed with him. 
  He asked the other members to go to the rear of the church to help 
  Delbert make a decision about Christ. 
  
    The members surrounded Delbert in the rear seat as he attempted 
  his escape; left to fend for himself. Delbert eventually gives in, 
  allowing the members to drag him to the front of the church before 
  the alter. Delbert's cane slides across the floor as he wipes specks 
  of blood from his elbow; a rug-burn from the carpet in front of the 
  pulpit. 
    
    The pastor then says; "The Lord saved whores and he will save 
  you brother Delbert. Accept the power of the Holy Ghost; take up 
  a serpent; fear nothing poison."
    
    Delbert closed his eyes waiting for the circus to end. The 
  pastor asks the members to lay their hands on Delbert and pray for 
  his back to be healed. He instructed others to fetch the boxes from 
  beneath the rear of the alter as the musicians began playing faster 
  and louder. The crowd became even more agitated and frenzied.
  
    Delbert was unaware of events as many laid hands upon him and 
  the music was pre-Hendrix. The pastor opened the black boxes or 
  cages dumping the contents on the floor behind Delbert. The pastor 
  began handing them out to his flock. As Delbert wheeled around, he 
  almost fainted as he saw an assorted collection of copperheads and 
  other rattlesnakes. Either it was the fear of the Lord or survival 
  of the unfittest, Delbert began stomping the floor with his narrow 
  pointed boots, which he used to kill cockroaches in corners, 
  smashing the heads of the snakes. He reached for his cane and began 
  chopping the snakes as he would use a hoe on a garden, nonstop 
  until all were slain.  
  
    As Delbert was about to turn on the preacher and his flock with 
  the cane, the police had arrived and arrested Delbert for disturbing 
  the peace and attempted assault.
    
    Growing up during the early sixties in the Chicagoland area 
  and having friends like Chuckie made for an interesting childhood. 
  Growing up -- life changes, unfortunately, history is made and all 
  good and bad things must come to an end. Delbert was killed by a 
  jealous husband and Thelma moved the family back to Kentucky. Thirty 
  years later I moved back to West Virginia. I had not seen nor heard 
  from Chuckie during the years. I was working as a reporter for a 
  one-horse town newspaper along the border across the river from 
  Kentucky. I was assigned to cover the Senatorial election of 
  Eastern Kentucky, the coal fields; an area of importance to all 
  concerned.    
    
    As I made my way to the campaign headquarters I noticed the 
  sign outside, the candidate's name was Chuckie Johnson. I didn't 
  think nothing of the name until I met the candidate.
    
    "Eat them beans, wear them jeans, I'm gonna be a little Senator 
  boy," proclaimed Chuckie Johnson, as he high-fived me.
  
                                 (DREAM)
                                 
  Copyright 1995 Jerry W. Davis, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  --------------------------------------------------------------------
  Jerry's a novice writer of fiction and humor looking for continuing
  publication. He writes about life experiences with a sociological 
  slant, he has a BA in Sociology. He finds much humor in rural life
  and enjoys writing about his WV roots and about deviant groups. 
  Surprisingly, you can even email Jerry: davis42@marshall.edu
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