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  1. #1
    notthewordsofonewhokneels Thread's Avatar
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    NBA Team
    Los Angeles Lakers
    Brookpark, Ohio. 1970. Another time.
    Saturday afternoon.

    I was watching TV in my bedroom. I saw rapid movement in the hallway outside my door. The old man had flashed by and into my parent’s bedroom. The old man never moved fast. Ever.

    “Uh, oh.”

    The night before I’d gotten the old man’s shotgun out of their bedroom, loaded it, stuck it out the side door, and blasted it into the night toward the backyard. My parents had gone out for the evening. My older brother was at his girlfriend’s house.

    Not satisfied, I kicked out the empty s , reloaded, and fired forth a mirror image of that charter blast. Sated I jockeyed up the street and dumped both s casings into the storm drain, then went back to the house. The neighborhood was as quiet as before I blasted it.

    He came out of their bedroom with his snout pressed against the barrel of that shotgun.

    I almost made it past him, but, alas he caught me going by as he handed the shotgun off to mother. Held me tight while he whistled the loops on his drab olive-colored work pants. He’d just returned home from Midland-Ross and a cherished time-and-a-half Saturday. Doubled that leather belt and went to work. It was a miracle he didn’t use the buckle end.

    Somehow, someway I broke away and made it out the front screen door. He was over 50, but, that old man would not give up the chase that afternoon. We lived at the end of the block, so I headed the other way. Everybody knew me. I was their paper-boy, Cully-boy Castleberry.

    “Stay off the lawn, boy.”

    “Quit cutting over my grass, boy.”
    “Hi, Cully-boy. And here’s an extra dollar, sweetheart.”

    I could not lose that old man. Five pm, everybody was getting home from their time-and-a-half Saturday at the Ford plant.

    Now? You’d see a man chasing a child with a leather belt and you’d step in. Not fifty-years-ago. They stood on their front porch stoops and watched the spectacle.
    I finally gave up and took station on the sidewalk side of a ‘65 Ford Falcon, that light blue color I detested. He chased me round and round that Falcon, but, now I had the advantage.

    “Get home.” Over the top of the Ford.

    “I won’t hit you anymore, boy.”
    “You promise?”
    “I promise.”
    He lied.

    I ran home as fast as I could. I figured mother was there and she’d finally step in.
    I was wrong.

    He trapped me in the living room and beat me freestyle for quite a spell before I escaped thru the kitchen and out of the side screen door. My brother was standing there in the driveway, thank Christ, or, the old man would still be beating me.

    “That’s enough, pa.”
    “Well, goddamn it!”

    Turns out the neighbor next door, George O., ratted me out.

    I’d peppered the house behind our house pretty good, less than six inches below the window line by actual measurement. My father and brother pulled them out, spackled in, and repainted the back of the house early Sunday morning. I wasn’t permitted to help. I had to stay out of arm’s reach of the old man for a bit.

    Tuesday came and I had to collect my route.
    “If they ask you, tell them the truth, boy.” The old man.

    They all knew-word traveled fast on South Gallatin Blvd, right on over to North Gallatin Blvd our sister street:

    “Cully, what happened, sweetheart?”
    “Cully, who was that man chasing you? Do you know him?”
    “Cully, here’s an extra dollar, honey.”
    “What, are you nuts, kid? Here’s a dollar, you crazy kid, you. Don’t do that no more.”
    “Stay off my grass, you.” Then his wife: “Here you go, baby.” A fifty-cent piece! And a box of Cracker Jack!

    Long story short: I cleared $39 in tips that Tuesday evening. I stayed out there till I hit every house. I got a glass of milk and a piece of cake as well at the Satallo kitchen table. Just scrumptious.
    Mrs. Satallo: “Don’t ever do that again, sweetheart, okay? Jack, you wanted to say something to the paperboy?”
    “Are you nuts, kid?” Over the Indians game on his living room TV.
    “Don’t pay attention to him, sweetheart. Here are fifty cents.”

    When I got back the old man was sitting up with a piece of cornbread mother had made him.
    Across the kitchen table laid another piece. He’d waited for me.
    “Sorry, pa.”
    “Indians won, boy.”

    -The End-

    Out of Russellville, Alabama...
    Mother Castleberry’s Cornbread:

    2 c. White Corn Meal
    2 tsp. Baking Powder
    1 tsp. Salt
    1/4 tsp. Baking Soda
    2 Eggs
    2 c. Buttermilk
    2 tbsp. Melted Bacon Grease
    Sift dry ingredients. Add eggs. Add buttermilk. Add grease. Put 2tbsp. grease in frying pan and place in 400-degree oven to get hot for a few minutes. Pour batter into frying pan and bake in 400-degree oven for 20-25 minutes. If not brown on top, put under broiler for a few minutes. Thump out onto plate.

  2. #2
    Against Home Schooling Ef-man's Avatar
    Post Count
    NBA Team
    San Antonio Spurs
    He’s out, and he’s staying out! Where is the part where Giuseppe says:

    “Again, I held his sphincter gently between my teeth. Again, I bit down ever so carefully. Again, ever so gently.

    He was cognizant enough to grab hold of the blanket edge and put it into his mouth as his release instantly overwhelmed him.

    "Let it all out, Kobe-boi. Cully is here. He'll watch over you now. I'm here, angel."
    Last edited by Ef-man; 01-19-2022 at 11:10 AM.

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