Until I reached the advanced age of 27, I had never spent much time in the company of money. Poor as a churchmouse? Hardly. Your average churchmouse looked like King Farouk, compared to me. From age 17 on, it was a constant battle to keep gas in the tank and the next magazine in the pipeline, but somehow, some way, we always managed. When the Subterranean Circus eventually took off, all the early profits were used to increase inventory, then to buy the Circus property and eventually the building next door, which became Silver City. The latter, previously used to house an oily auto repair business, required extensive renovations. More money. We made it, we spent it, and there was never much left over. Until, one sunny day, there was.
What do you do with a little extra cash in your pocket? Well, after suffering through 27 years of automobiles purchased for amounts in the hundreds, rather than thousands of dollars, you might consider getting a new car. All the nuevo riche did it, and even though I was a notch below that level, I thought it was time. I paraded down to Brasington Cadillac with my roommate Danny Levine and bought a spanking new Oldsmobile Toronado. Against Danny’s wishes, it was silver. “I liked the tan and brown,” he sniffed, imperiously. “You can pick the colors next time,” I promised.
The Toronados had front-wheel drive, a novelty in those days, and were sleek in appearance. There were no little noises emanating from the undercarriage and it didn’t look like anyone had ever spilled guacamole dip on the back seat. There was not a solitary blemish on the surface, not a single scratch in the paint. I parked it far away from everybody else in large parking lots, the better to keep it that way. When a year elapsed, I called Mr. Brasington to order my new one. He appeared at the Circus door one day with his big book of options, looking a lot like Alice, newly arrived in Wonderland. “I’ve never been in a place like this,” he marveled. No kidding.
True to my promise, we got the tan-and-brown. Levine smiled, happily. “Adds a little class to the operation,” he said. We merrily drove the thing all over the place. Until one day, when I was off somewhere, a gaggle of lawyers came over, hooked it up to a tow truck and delivered it to parts unknown. Seems a few years earlier, a University of Florida Publications Director named King White had sued me for an article in the Charlatan testifying that he was censoring material in the campus newspaper, The Florida Alligator. While that might have been successfully argued in court, we added insult to injury by running about a dozen jokes in the magazine in which the name of the subject lampooned had been changed to “King White.” To say these jokes might have been a tad rough on their victim would be sorta like saying the English had been a little snippy with Joan of Arc. White’s wife testified in court that they even caused her grave medical problems, a jolly exaggeration, but not to the sympathetic jury. To make matters worse, I acted as my own lawyer and you know what they say about people who do that. Well, they’re right. King White’s attorneys asked for $40,000. The jury liked me so much they awarded him $80,000. Trial judge James Adkins, who later earned a seat on the Florida Supreme Court, told me I did “a great job” and should go to Law School. God knows what the jury would have given them if I did a lousy job. In addition to the Toronado, White’s lawyers snared my equity in some acreage I had bought out on Newberry Road. The value of which is—oh, I dunnow—about ten kazillion dollars today. Anyway, for third time in two years, it was time for a new car.
I got a used Toronado this time, just in case. Put it in girlfriend Pamme Brewer’s name. Not many miles on it, a spiffy white with a T-Top. Nice idea, the T-Top. Almost like a convertible when you take the glass panels out. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Only one problem. T-Tops leak. This one did, anyway, and I’ve heard from plenty of other T-Top owners that the disease is not uncommon. The leak, which was more annoying than terrible, was at the top front of the driver’s side window. “Oh, that’s nothing,” everybody said. “Just spray on some rubber sealer, it’ll go away.” I sprayed on enough rubber sealer to fill the Stanley Cup. The leak did not go away, nor were any other remedies more successful. I kept a small towel on hand for rainy days and was grateful I didn’t live in Seattle. Otherwise, the car was fine. Would’ve kept it longer but for The Accident.
Bill’s Inheritance.
Oops!
When you have a horse farm twenty-five miles from your residence, you have two choices: drive out there twice a day to feed the animals or find someone else to do it for you. Danny Levine, who promised he “always wanted to live in the country,” was the first farmhand. He took up residence in a small trailer on the property, happy as a clam, growing pot in a large sinkhole, tending to an expansive organic garden and peering at the night stars with his little telescope. If he ever seemed dissatisfied, it was only with the fact that I would not build him a multi-million dollar “Sunset Tower” high above the property, from which he could celebrate the end of day. Otherwise, he basked in the serenity of the land, his communion with the flora and the fauna. For a while. Danny was dismayed to discover the local fauna had no regard for organic gardening, especially the rabbits and raccoons, who chewed his produce to bits, the insects disposing of the leavings. He also became increasingly paranoid about the marijuana plants as harvesting season approached. And, truth be told, the neighbors left a lot to be desired. You could not pay a visit to Bubba and Bunny’s house and talk about Art History, after all. Danny moved back to Gainesville and I had to install a tawdry succession of caretakers, including a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses and an alcoholic Indian. After the Indian left, I decided to take more time to select a replacement, hoping for someone who could last more than a year. In the meantime, I would feed the horses myself early in the morning, then go to work at the Circus, leaving around five for the afternoon meal. This went on for six months or so. The days were long and occasionally I’d find myself nodding out along the way. One rainy afternoon, I woke up to find myself in the median, sideswiping reflector signs. I jumped the Toronado back onto the asphalt, which was slippery. The car headed for an embankment and I had a decision to make: hit the brakes and perhaps turn the car over or run smack into the banking. I squashed the brakes and rolled the car a couple of times, winding up with the vehicle standing on its left side. I had earlier rolled the window down to stay awake and there was enough space to crawl out, covered in glass from the fractured T-top, some deep cuts in my mouth from bashing into the steering wheel. If there were seat belts, I didn’t use them. An ambulance appeared almost immediately, but I waved the crew off.
“I’m alright,” I told them, well aware of the fees ambulances levy on their poor overwrought passengers. The driver was having none of it. “Well, what’s your phone number, then?” he reasonably asked.
“I’m thinking of two numbers,” I told him. “Take your pick.”
And while I thought it was somewhat admirable to remember both my and Siobhan’s numbers under such trying circumstances—even if I couldn’t quite make out which was which—I could also see the EMT’s point. I went in for X-rays, which were negative, and also some mouth-swabbing liquid, which burned like the hammers of Hell. I asked Siobhan about the car when she arrived but I already knew the answer. Totaled. The worst part, though, is that 26 years later she still reminds me of the accident, my only one, during our many driving “discussions.” She never mentions her own dustup, of course, proclaiming herself faultless after being rear-ended by a boisterous carload of African-Americans out celebrating the opening of Boiled Peanut Season. In any case, another car-buying opportunity. I could hardly wait to see what was next.
Gilbert Shelton and Joe E. Brown (left photo) pickin’ and singin’ aback the mighty hearse in Austin. (Right) Bill and Lieuen Adkins calculate the proper route. We hope.
Bo Diddley Bought Me A Diamond Ring
About a week before the wreck, I had noticed a wonderful automobile perched on a small pedestal above the rest of the car lot on South Main street in Gainesville. It was a dark green on light green Cadillac Seville in mint condition. The lot salesman said it used to belong to Bo Diddley. Oh bosh!, you might think, but it was easy enough to verify. Bo’s wife and kids used to come in the store all the time to buy Whippets, also known as Nitrous Oxide canisters, and when they took too long, he came in himself to roust them out. I asked him about the car and he told me it was magnificent but no longer practical for the family. I marched right down and bought it, keeping it for several years. Eventually, it contracted the Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie-Woogie Flu and refused to move. I left it in the back yard, determined to one day return it to its former glory, but, alas, never did. The car became the festive home of invading plants and insects and was eventually hauled off. By this time, I had inherited another Caddy, this one from Siobhan’s stepfather, Tom Floyd, who had passed on to that great car lot in the sky, and, after that, a perky Lincoln, which succumbed to excessive road ponding by virtue of a poorly-designed intake manifold. Then, finally, the current ride, the last in a long line of faithful companions, partners-in-crime and occasional loveboats. What’s next? Who knows? You’re on the prowl for one thing, sometimes you find another. It could be anything. Well, almost anything. “No, my good man, you don’t need to show me anything Kia makes….let’s skip that PT Cruiser over there….oh, and for GOD’S sake don’t bring up the Hummer!”
Instant Classic
“The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day….”—Ernest Thayer
Nor for the beleaguered Florida Gators, either. Trailing the pumped up Tennessee Volunteers, 27-13, in the darking moments of the fourth quarter and with 10,000 creamsicle-orange voices inflicting Rocky Top on their ears, Florida’s young football team was definitely on the ropes. Perhaps a thousand of the 90,000 fans in attendance had exited early and with under five minutes left in the game, thousands more were striking the pose. But Will Grier, UF’s freshman quarterback, was not finished, driving the Gators down the field and inside the Tennessee 20. On fourth down, he connected with little man Jalen Tabor for a first-down inside the five, Florida’s fourth successful fourth-down attempt of the day from as many chances. Tabor got up a little wobbly, but when the teams lined up for the next play, there he was again. Grier knew a good thing when he saw one and threw to Tabor one more time, the latter this time making a diving catch in the endzone. 27-21, but time was fast running out. One Vol first down and it was over. But, alas, for Tennessee fans, there were to be no first downs. Florida’s abused defense held and the ball went back to the Gators for one last chance.
“There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face….”
Young Will Grier assessed the situation. This would be it then, fourth down, fourteen yards to go, little more than a minute and a half left, the ball on the Gator 37. Florida had won this game via one kind of miracle or another for ten straight years. If this contest was to be claimed, it would require the greatest miracle of them all. Grier dropped back, avoided the Vol rush and double-pumped, then tossed a bullet to freshman Antonio Callaway near the sideline. Callaway was hemmed in by three Vol defenders but he caught the ball with enough yardage for the first down. We’re still alive, thought Florida fans, without realizing just how alive they were. Callaway caught the ball, spun left and headed down the sideline. Meanwhile, Brandon Powell, always around in a pinch, found himself in the middle of Callaway’s pursuers, diving through the air to take out one of them and grossly inconveniencing the others. Callaway raced into the endzone, inches inside the sideline marker. Florida 28, Tennessee 27, a victory for the ages! The grandstands went….well….what’s the word for “overly berserk?” People jumped up and down, some to abnormal heights, falling into the bleachers. Goggle-eyed fans high-fived everyone in sight. Celebrants hugged their neighbors like they were their long-lost Aunt Fannys. The noise rose up and swallowed half the town, the rumbling stadium threatening to register on the Richter Scale. How could this happen? “We win AGAIN!”
Not so fast, my friends. There was still 1:26 left in the game, more than enough for Tennessee to move the ball into field-goal territory, boot the three and take home the prize, 30-28. Nervous Gator fans remembered Tennessee’s last victory in the series—achieved ten years ago with a game-ending fifty-yard field goal. Could Big Orange lightning strike twice? The Volunteers, with desperation as their ally, quickly drove down the field, calling time out with three meager seconds left to set up a FG attempt from fifty-five yards. The stadium exploded when the kick sheared off to the right early….but wait….what’s this? The Florida coaches apparently had called time out just before the kick, thinking they might have twelve men on the field. Tennessee would get another try. Fifty-five yards. Tough, but by no means impossible. The kicker had the benefit of learning from his first try. For everyone who prefers being home in front of their televisions, there is no explaining the difference in being swaddled in the collective emotion of the crowd in the drama of such a moment. It is a rare thing, an opportunity seldom provided, a joy little known, if not for the weak of blood-pressure. The second kick rose up majestically, much better than the first. Players and coaches from both benches edged onto the field for a better look. It was good, I could see, stunned, immobilized, my eyes frozen on the despicable sight, unwilling to believe. Then, the only ones who really knew, the fans in back of the goalpost, all clad in blue, rose to their feet with a colossal roar, a city-deafening howl, a sound that could fell skyscrapers, a noise which would carry to the outer reaches of the cosmos and echo forever. The kick was NO GOOD! The officials arms went out, signifying failure, the unhappy football sliding inches to the right of the upright. Bedlam entailed. Overwrought fans crossed the barrier from delirious to insane. People bussed their neighbors. Nobody was willing to leave, rooted to the spot where the miracle had occurred, perhaps expecting holy visions to appear, as if they had not already.
Where there are winners, however, there are likewise losers. The Tennessee crowd, which ten minutes earlier had been robustly chanting “It’s great to beat the Florida Gators,” trudged unbelieving from their seats to the parking lot below. How could this happen again? And again? Who was at fault here—there must be someone we can properly malign? Is it fate? Tell us our sin that we may correct it. Please….no more!
“There is no joy in Knoxville. Mighty Casey has struck out.”
That’s all, folks….
