Let me regale you, Friends, with a true tale of woe (and humor if you know where to look) that forever created the pacifist in me. Brothers, it is not that I haven't considered raising my fists in defense...I just seem to have had the wits and perhaps luck to avoid that particular indignity.

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It was my sister on the other end of the phone. She was 12 and I was 16 and at my job as a grocery store sack-boy. She asked when I would be coming home for my parents were out with friends, and I could sense that something was wrong. With a small amount of prodding her layer of false calmness evaporated...a strange man was trying to get into the house. "HIDE - I'll be right there." Stupid advice but as I told you, I was 16.

I ran out of the store yelling to the manager that something was wrong at home. The 5-minute drive seemed to take hours. When I pulled into the driveway there was a duffel bag in front of the wide open front door. Brothers, I tell you that sight brought FOCUS...the strange man was IN.

I kicked off my shoes thinking silence was going to be paramount. I ran to the bag and gave it a quick search...I wanted to find a weapon for that meant the weapon was in the bag and not in his hand. There was no weapon but there was an empty bottle of booze.

I ran to the front door and listened...heard shuffling to the left. My sister would hide downstairs under the stairway...her favorite hide-and-go-seek place, so the shuffling had to be him. But he was between me and her. I took several swift steps into the house. I was invisible...silent...an Indian scout. Cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen...just a few more steps down the hall and then to the right. Brothers, do I need to explain to you how one feels in the moment just before you must confront an enemy of unknown strength because your sister is threatened...standing there a skinny, short 16 year old, wearing a grocery store apron, a "Hello, my name is Dave" name tag, white shirt and tie, BAREFOOTED? I thought not. I suddenly cursed the decision to remove my shoes, but go on I must.

I stepped silently to the kitchen portal and slowly glanced around the corner...a short man (good), older (good), very drunk (?), hands empty (good), searching through the cabinets (more booze?). I stepped around the corner with a peaceful posture but ready to lunge...my target would be his throat if need be.

There I stood...he hadn't noticed me at all. I had resolve, but my throat would not release my voice. Betrayed by my voice in the moment of maximum need I could not speak. Perfect. Just perfect. Finally, "Hi...can I help you find something?" squeaked from my constricted throat. Now brothers, when he turned and looked at me, just imagine...he was rummaging through a strange house...drunk...looking for more booze and who should appear but a grocery clerk.

He didn't look surprised. "Wherz the goddamn booze?” he said as he resumed his search. I knew at once that I had this situation under control. I led him to the bar, opened it and his eyes grew wide...it was his Christmas day and I was Santa. He grabbed a bottle, opened it and took a long pull. Then he looked at me and the still functioning brain cells had a couple of questions...so did I, but this was a rescue mission. I guided him to dad's chair and he sat heavily, protecting HIS new buddy...a bottle of expensive scotch.

I left him...he was harmless enough, and found my sister, huddled under the stairs as expected. She seemed unfazed. I had her leave through the basement door with instructions to go to the neighbors, and call our parents.

Then I ventured back up and there he sat...a little foggier than before. I sat next to him wanting to ask questions, but he started before I. He stated he was a fraternity brother of my father at Kansas State. His name was J.B. Beck. He knew many details and mentioned several people of whom I had heard various stories. He was down on his luck, brethren, and came to his old buddy, my father, for some cash. The rest of his soliloquy marked the path of a fellow human as he tumbled into incoherent drunkenness. I could not follow. Soon he fell into unconsciousness, accompanied by snoring...but this was not a healthy man and his pipes were not clear...I watched him and wondered. I checked his wallet. He was J.B. Beck, and J.B. had no money, no credit cards.


Suddenly, the unneeded reinforcements arrived...my father burst through the door with pistol in hand. At least as comical as I must have appeared when I entered, however, my father preferred the image of Clint Eastwood to my Sam Drucker. I waved him over and explained what I knew, however, the WWII submariner was unsatisfied. He could remember no J.B.Beck and he began shaking this J.B.Beck who eventually was able to open his very drunken establishment for business, in the form of looking at us through blank, blood shot eyes and a slightly drooling mouth.

My father began yelling, as if this would rouse J.B. Beck into the ability to communicate...and the more J.B. Beck could not answer, the more furious my father became, until at one point he had the barrel of the pistol stuck in J.B.Beck's nose. A part of me wanted to laugh for the hapless Clint and the completely inebriated J.B. Beck were making a fine comedy team, but Brothers, I tell you, there was no need for this. I was mentally preparing to be cleaning blood and brain matter off of the ceiling and floor when the local Gendarme arrived, notified by the manager of the grocery store.

The situation was brought under immediate control, as Clint Eastwood wilted quickly under the supervision of real policemen. J.B.Beck was eventually awakened to a higher level of consciousness and the next to the last time I saw him, he sat in the back seat of a police cruiser with his feet propped up happily smoking a cigar, supplied by a now relieved Clint Eastwood.

Brothers, this would be the normal ending point for such a tale, however, it is not. The following Monday, for this had been a Saturday, my father received a call from the local constable, a family friend, asking permission to release one J.B. Beck. Permission granted. A few minutes later J.B. (for I now take the liberty to speak of him in the familiar) called to apologize and to request a bit of pocket change for a rainy day...and if this wasn't a rainy day I don't know what is. This request was met with a certain lack of enthusiasm and summarily dismissed.

Later that day I saw one J.B.Beck at the outskirts of town, thumbing for a ride. He had been accompanied to the city limits by said constable.

Again, this would be a normal ending point for such a tale, however, once again it is not. Some years later whilst pretending to be in college for reasons of scholarship I met a lovely girl...her name...Pam Beck. I told her this tale, for it is indeed entertaining and could, by my limited estimation, contribute to me appearing to be an interesting person, and ultimately result in carnal activities, my sole purpose of existence at the time, yet one I seemed very ill-suited to achieve...but let us save that story for another day. As I began with my story her face started in shock...as I continued her face began new contortions. At the end of the story she simply cried. Her father, it seems was J.B.Beck. His drunkenness had forced his departure from family life, and he had died in a brawl some time ago. She carried a picture and showed me...her father, J.B.Beck was MY J.B.Beck.

Now brothers, I know there will be skeptics regarding the likelihood of this story. I hope I shall never have to swear to all of the facts, for time and practice have certainly sharpened some of the more boring aspects, however, I am prepared to be stricken by lightening if this did not happen. And seeing violence used when violence was absolutely not necessary was forever been etched into my fragile aura...I do not believe any amount of Spic and Span and elbow grease could have cleaned that ceiling.

Edited by: Damnit Jim at: 1/8/03 12:38:47 pm

The only way to never fail is to never try.