Author Archives: Jefferson Davis

Good ol’ Boys

Posted on by
5

Today was like any other day.  It started out well enough.  I got up (That’s always a plus.), had some porridge with a cuppa, and watched the nonsense on the news.   I was headed out to the school to sort out some financial falderal when my grandmother called asking me to charge up her vehicle because it wouldn’t start.  I obliged and was delayed a wee bit. 

When I finally got to the University office, the place was swarming with younglings trying to get their classes and financial mess in order.  It’s panic time at the school.  Everyone is trying to sign up at once.  Luckily, I have already signed up for my classes.  Every year, however, my account gets audited and I have to go up there and sit for hours to get it sorted out.  I’ve surmised that they are just picking on me because of my name.  Jefferson Davis is not exactly a popular nor well liked name in the south.  But, it does go along with my rebellious nature.

I waited for what seemed like an eternity with a crowd of other students.  There were about 50 students ahead of me in the queue, so I decided to come back the following day.  As I was exiting the building, I noticed three young guys with their shorts down to their ankles following me.  When I arrived at my wee truck, they crowded around me.  I knew what was coming.  I’ve been jumped before.

“Hey man, our car is broke down up here at the gas station…”, the leader said whilst pointing in about ten directions.

The strange thing is that there isn’t a petrol station for about a mile and I know those jokers didn’t walk a mile.  In addition, that line about having a broken down car has been around for decades.

“Where’s your car?”  I asked with an enormous smile.

“It’s…it’s at the gas station”, he replies with a furrowed brown.

“Which gas station?”  I asked whilst trying to supress laughter.

“Man forget it, white boy ain’t gonna give us any money”, an obese fella in the group said whilst swaying back and forth.

The guilt trip is another common ploy, if the first doesn’t work.  I’m to feel bad because I’m Caucasian.  Mind you, everyone uses the broken down car bit.  If I really had thought that these fellas were in distress, I’d loaned them some money.  I offered to buy a bum supper one night.  He declined and stated that he needed the money.  I asked if it was for booze.  He said yes.  I gave him a fiver for his honesty!

“Look man”, the other yells while getting in my face.

About this time, a big 4×4 pickup truck comes flying up to our position, almost hitting one of them.  Two guys that look like they drove straight from Alabama hopped out of the truck. 

“What the fuck is your problem?”  The man that got in my face demanded, as he and the other two men stepped back.

The gent that had been driving walked over to where I was standing, crossed his burly arms, and asked, “These guys giving you a hard time?”.

“You’ll have to ask them that”, I stated whilst looking at them

“Man, forget you”, one of them said as they walked back across the parking lot and got into a car.  They left in a car that was not broke down!

Mark, the man that saved my neck, stood there with me while they tore off down the road.  I joked that I could have taken one, but not all three of them.  He happened to see the scene unfold from across the parking lot.  He was there signing up for welding classes that they offer in the Engineering department.  His son, the young fella unmentioned ‘til now, is in the same programme as me.  When we parted ways, he said, “We take care of our own”.

I jokingly asked him if he was related to Rosie O’Donnell since they share the same surname.  He laughed, and said, “God, no”.

Later on this afternoon, I was out walking down a four lane highway.  The rain started pelting against my back as the sun kissed my face.  I noticed a guy in an old Camaro coming down the road.  He stuck his arm out of the drivers side window, clasped his hand, and yelled, “Erin go bragh”.

I threw my hand up and yelled it back to him.  He waived and continued down the busy thoroughfare.  It didn’t done on me until then that I was wearing a rugby shirt that has Ireland emblazed across it.  The rain stopped and was replaced by steam arising from the sizzling pavement.  I continued walking for miles thinking about the days events. 

Curious day…

Camerico

Posted on by
4

The other day I was out cruising around in the Beetle.  I turned onto an old country road and discovered an old super Beetle coming towards me.  I slowed and stopped as the other Beetle approached.  My driver side window was already rolled down due to the heat, so I leaned out as the bloke in the super slowed.  “Nice super, what year is it?”  I asked with glee.

The guy stopped, and answered, “Gracias, it’s a ‘76 or ‘77, I think”.

“It’s looks great, hardly any rust.”

“Made in Mexico”, he said as he banged on the side of the drivers side door with an enormous smile.

I smiled and slapped my door, and said, “A ‘66, made in Germany”.

“Made in Mexico, better”, he replied, still with a cheeky smirk.

I laughed, and asked, “Yes, but who invented them?”.

“Mexicans?”

With an enormous laugh, I answered, “Whatever, mate…Buenas noches.”

Sometimes you have to laugh the idiocies away.  The Super Beetle was a sad attempt to keep up with the changing times.  You can hardly give the things away now.  Don’t mess with perfection!  Have a grand weekend all.  I’ll be back Sunday evening.

A God among Men

Posted on by
4

I sit down here every night and ponder what to write, or better yet, what can I write without betraying trust.  Fiction is always there, but when life is in the bin, I have trouble writing it.  It’s not that it’s not there, it’s just that I can’t bring myself to write the things I should.  Life effing blows for a lot of us these days.  I try not to write when my own life is in the crapper, but sometimes we have to write what is in our hearts at that particular moment.  The last thing I ever want to do is make someone feel worse than they did before reading a post or story of mine.  That’s why there are occasional gaps in blog posting. 

Hemingway once wrote, “The hardest thing to do is to write straight honest prose on human beings. First you have to know the subject; then you have to know how to write. Both take a lifetime to learn, and anybody is cheating who takes politics as a way out. All the outs are too easy, and the thing itself is too hard to do.”

I always liked Hemingway since reading him in school.  His writing style reminded me of my grandad.  My grandfather was an honest man that spoke straight from the heart.  He was quiet and only scolded me when necessary.  Both of my grandfathers were great men.  I can only hope to be as good a father as either one of them were.  My fathers father raised my dad on his own which was unheard of in the 60’s.  He did it though.  My fathers childhood is a book of its own, but Southerners are not allowed to share family secrets with the public. 

My father is a god among men, or at least the opposite sex thinks so.  He’s everyone’s hero, even mine on occasion.  I’ve spoken at length before about him being a mogul.  He’s also a helicopter pilot, an airplane pilot, and at one time, a drag racer.  He had a VW Beetle as well.  However, his Beetle had a 454 big block Chevy Alcohol motor in the front of it.  His popularity comes from his gift of gab that obviously skipped me.  Everyone loves the man until he gets done using them.  Don’t misunderstand me, he’s not all bad.  We all have our faults.  I jokingly tell people that I had many mothers and fathers growing up.  Growing up in a business environment usually means you don’t spend much time with your Mum or Pop. 

I’m not complaining.  There were grandparents, friends of the family, and employees there to fill the gap.  There was one fella in particular.  He had two boys and joked with people that he had three sons.  The man taught me a great deal about life.  There was also another family that grew up with my pops.  They offered to adopt me on more than one occasion after seeing the shite I had to contend with at home. 

I was always the weird kid, and my dad hated me for it.  My father is a chameleon.  He can talk to one person at a party about art, turn around and talk to the next person about race cars, and discuss philosophy with the next person.   The man is a genius at it.  He should have been a politician.

I never wanted to be the odd kid.  So many kids and young adults today try to break through their normality by being Goth, emo, punk, or a myriad of other social outcast.  I tried hard to be like every other kid, but because of health issues and because of my odd wiring, it never worked.  In school, I was the leader of a group of kids called the Social Rejects.  We were a jumble of nerds, poets, and just odd kids.  I was brazen for a lad of my size.  I called out the bullies for beating on my friends and paid for it.  We got our revenge though.  I know that one of them is living in Belgium.  Another is living in Santa Barbara.  He does something for a porn production company.  He was always a nutter!

Even though I have other income from property and the occasional photo sell, I still need a fulltime job.  I’m embarrassed to say that I am currently unemployed and have been since March.  So, I spend every morning during the week talking to perspective employers and going to job interviews.  I called me pops the other day to say hello and ask if there were any car shows this weekend.  I didn’t call him to ask for money.  I’d have to get down to about 7 stones before I’d do that.  Money is just not discussed with him.  I’d never ask him anyway.  Below you’ll find a rough representation of what was said.

“Hello”, says he.

“what’s happening?”  I ask.

“Workin’, do you have a job yet?”

“I’ve had several promising interviews this week”, says I, proudly.

“I didn’t ask if you had interviews, I asked if you had a job yet”, he exclaims whilst laughing.

“Nope”, I say with a slight smirk overtaking my countenance.

“Boy, you’re about useless.  You can’t have taken from the Davis’.  You must’ve taken from your mothers side”, says he whilst still laughing.

“Yep”, says I, as the smile fades away.

“I’ve got to get back to work”, says he.

“Alright then, have a good one”, says I.

If you hear shite like that enough, you begin to believe it.  I’ve been listening to his wisecracks since I can remember.  But, as I’ve stated numerous times, he’s not all bad.  I’m a big boy now and have to face up to the fact that I am who I am.  The Bible says that we are supposed to honour our Mothers and Fathers, it doesn’t say that we have to understand them!

Pretentious Behaviour

Posted on by
2

If there is one thing that I despise with a passion, it’s pretentiousness.  There are millions of people throughout the world that are without jobs, money, homes, and food.  Yet, some eejits still think it is necessary to be pompous asses.  I learned at an early age that pompousness was not becoming  nor wise in the grand scheme of things.  I vividly remember getting a motorcycle for my birthday one year.  The doctors said it would be good for my balance.  I learned some tricks on it, so I decided to show my friends.

One afternoon after school, we all gathered around and they watched me do donuts and wheelies on it.  While in the midst of doing a donut, a hand came out of nowhere and jerked me off the bike.  It was my dad.  He hurriedly dragged me by my ear away from the crowd of kids.  His blood red countenance was all I had to see to fear for my life.  He sat me down and told me that those boys were poor and they had no motorcycle to show off and that they’d probably not get much for Christmas.  He also stated that I should’ve been more humble and grateful for what I received.  I was not allowed back on the bike for a month.  In that time, it was stolen and I learned first hand what it felt like to have something I treasured to be taken away.

Eventually, we got the cycle back from some kids that had seen me riding on it that day.  Both of my parents came from humble middle class families.  My father used to tell me about getting a basket of fruit for Christmas and being thrilled about it.  I was born into outright poverty.  The first house I lived in as a baby was a two bedroom shack.  My parents went from nothing to being wealthy moguls in a 20 year period.  Sister #1 was born into an upper middle class family.  Our views on the world are totally different.  I’m as humble as an old hound dog most of the time.  She is a conundrum wrapped in a golden riddle.

I was reminded of the cycle story recently when a friend was touting his $400 sunglasses.  He’s a good lad that has a lot to learn as we all do.  He grew up in a family business as I did.

“Don’t be so pretentious”, I exclaimed, as if scolding a child.

“Don’t be so jealous, yuz want me to buy you a pair?”  He laughingly enquired.

“”My $25 sunglasses work grand”, I replied.

“There you go using words we don’t use and twisting yer accent to try and impress people.”

“First of all, “”Grand”” is not a fancy word.  It’s more of a habit like we use “Y’all” in the south.  And, I was not aware I twisted my accent”, I hollered whilst pacing back and forth.

‘Small man, bug words”, he whispered with a smile.

“Perhaps it’s the man spouting such nonsense that is the small one”, I snarled.

“It’s just that you use fancy words a lot.”

“If I occasionally say a word that is “”fancy”” or unknown to you, it is merely to remind myself that they still exist and that I can still speak them”.”

“The only reason I berated you about being pompous was because I don’t want you to be that kind of person.  You are better than that.  We all are.  We both grew up in a family business.  When I was young, I didn’t learn every aspect of the business and one day everything that I depended on was gone.  I never would have guessed that my parents would divorce.  It was like everything was going fine one day and the next it was all gone.  I, like you, grew up with a very competitive father.  They both started on the bottom and went through the stratosphere.  It’s bloody, there I go again, hard to compete with that.  All I’m saying is learn all that you can, because you never know when it could all fall away.  And for the love of God, stop being so damn ostentatious.”

“There you go again with those effing words”, he laughingly responded.

“Effing?  Ha!  You’re picking up some of it, aren’t ya?”

We laughed and had a drink and then another.

Dramatic Rant

Posted on by
6

I do my best to only write things that might help others or me in the future on this blog, but sometimes I just have to write something.  Besides, I’m way behind K8 the Gr8. 

In the past week a lot of things have happened, but it is more about the things that have not happed that really bothers me.  I kept my nephew all week.  He’s a good lad, but far more hard headed and distant than I was at 12.  Simple things like asking him not to slam the car door got really old after yelling it for the twelfth time.  I don’t think there is any resistance between his two ears.  I love the boy like he was my own, but the fact is that he’s my nephew.  I should be able to spoil him for a few hours and send him home.

That’s not how things work out though.  I took him to school and picked him up everyday ‘til the school year was over.  When he got in trouble at school, I was the one that had to go and talk to the principal and be stared at like I was some sort of bad parent when in fact, I’m not a damn parent.  His dad keeps him for two and a half days once every two weeks.   He’s going to have to start taking a greater role, but I’m sure he has a damn good excuse as always. 

Thankfully, my grandmother keeps my niece.  She’s a very well behaved baby, which is odd knowing her mother and father like I do.  My neighbours and I watch her whenever we are asked to.  She’s not mobile yet, so she’s pretty easy to keep an eye on.  And, she’s a really good baby.

I am blessed to still have two grandmothers.  I love them both very much.  I do the shopping for one, sometimes both of them, once or twice a week.  One of them had to have surgery Friday on her wrist.  She fell and broke her wrist while taking out the trash.  I didn’t mind staying with her all day in the hospital, but I had all of this other mess going on.  What really irritates me is the fact that she has three kids and 12 grandkids, but I’m always the only one that answers the phone.  One son, not my dad, does help out, but he’s the only other one. 

Grandmother is in her 80’s.  Any buffer she might have had to stop her from saying everything she thinks, left before I started knowing her.  She’s a lovely lady and has always been kind to me.  However, she has a way of mentally wearing down the sanest of people.  She’s not one to be crossed.  That is for certain.  Smile

I sat with her in a waiting area while they were prepping her for surgery.  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the glimpse of a nurse that looked identical to my ex.  The ex that I go on about far too often.  Part of me knew it couldn’t be her, but before I could stop myself, I yelled her name and went galloping over to the desk she was standing behind.  My blood pressure must have been through the roof, because I was as red as a boiled lobster and about to hyperventilate.  She asked if I was alright.  I, of course, said I was fine and hobbled back over to where I had been sitting. 

By the time I got home Friday night, I was very close to a mental melt down.  Saturday morning I felt better, so I decided to go for a ride in the beetle and do some hiking up in the mountains.  As soon as I got up there, I received a message that my other grandmother was headed to the hospital with heart palpitations.  So, I had to turn around and head home.  Thankfully, she was fine.  This has happened six or seven times in the past ten years, but they can’t never seem to figure it out.  They give her medicine and send her home.  Needless to say, I was wrecked after all the drama of not knowing if she was alright. 

Today has been a fairly calm Sunday, but who knows what tomorrow will hold.  I think I’m going turn my mobile off and go hiking in the morning.  I’m not a self centred person, but I’m sick and tired of pulling people out of the fire, so to speak.  Ever since I was a wee lad, I’ve tried to be the voice of sanity in an insane world.  I’ve tried to stop fights.  I’ve done my best to get people to do the right things and not the wrong.  I’ve tried to be the voice of reason to those that would listen.  I was the only sober voice to family members drunken idiocies. 

I’m far from perfect and certain not without sin, but I’m sick of mending wounds that I didn’t make.  I’m exhausted.  I have nothing to effing show for it except my own scars and heartache.  I can’t do it anymore.  I can’t.  Christ, I could fill a library with the screwed up tales of just one side of me family.  However, they are like the mafia.  What happens within the family, stays in the family. 

Many apologies for the unorganised gibberish.  Anyone know where I can disappear to for about a month, so they’ll have to deal with their own drama?  Smile