the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 494, May 5, 2004
Cola Franzen (1923- )
“American
rulers are discovering that the way to get instant popularity is to go to war. I
think if the Vietnam war had been over in a month or two, Johnson might still
be President—and might still be alive.
—Joseph Heller, "The Joe and Kurt Show," an interview
with Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller, by Carole Mallory, Playboy 39:5, May 1992
Sammy
is always happy to see me. He calls me “Rev!” when I walk in, like Sam Malone
did to Norm on Cheers. Crazy
Horse himself sits at computer #6, playing video pool. The place smells like
meat from the grill. Probably nothing in the whole place is good for you, even
the garden burger. I have never had the courage to ask what the “Atkins
Special” contains.
Thunder
Alley is a family-owned store, a throwback to a time when there were places
like it on every corner. Kirkwood, as a matter of fact, had seven stores
between Pearl and Powell. You can still see where they were. Sarah’s Grocery
was the last of it’s kind on our side of Memorial, with the exception of
Little’s.
The
section of Grant Park called Taco Town has suffered the same change that
Cabbagetown suffered: the infamous gentrification. The houses there are under
construction and rehabilitation, the gangs of ne’er-do-well kids have been
relocated or arrested, the rent has increased, and the coffee has gone gourmet.
I
didn’t know Sarah’s Grocery or Thunder Alley back in the days of deli meats and
fresh produce. I didn’t even grow up in a neighborhood with a local store like
these, but the first few years I lived in C-Town, I bought my Cokes and smokes
from Sarah. We all feel the tremendous void from her closing, and zoning
restrictions will never allow another. Do we blame Publix and Kroger, or some
other—more abstract—entity, like historical context?
Sammy
sweats over that grill all day, frying three chicken wings for $1. How many of
those would he have to sell to become a rich man? Do the math. He knows
everyone’s name and he extends credit to his regulars if they don’t have the
cash that day. In addition to the pistol in his pocket, he displays Charlton
Heston’s autograph on the wall, as well as several awards for “upholding one’s
right to bear arms.” Sammy chews all day to keep from smoking. We talk about
the evils of nicotine, while I down another Newport.
Sammy
attends the Friendship Church on Gaskill because he believes he’s a sinner. He
sometimes works there hanging drywall after a twelve-hour day because “it is
right.” He has a printed quote of John 3:16 over the register—as a tribute to
the Bible, not Stone Cold Steve Austin. The NASCAR theme seems to stop with the
name, Thunder Alley, and the steering wheel joysticks attached to three of the
computers. (I’ve never witnessed them being used, though.)
Sammy
advertised a few times in our newsletter, taking full-page ads out to announce his
presence to us new folk in C-Town. He has made some changes to try and keep up
with us, for the sake of his family business.
Sammy’s
real name is Vincent, I think, but “Sammy” sounds better. Sammy is a living
dinosaur on display just a few blocks away. He is the last of his kind. Sammy
is the most endangered specie I know, and you can buy a great pork sandwich
from him for $2.79 if he remembers to fire up the smoker on Sunday.
You
know the saying “dead as a doornail.” That refers to stiffness. The saying
“dead as a dodo,” however, refers to finality, or extinction. I do what I can
for the environment by seeing Sammy for the cold Cokes and the colorful
atmosphere, the Frito Brito he himself invented, the $3 breakfasts, the free
DSL while you wait, and the lovely sights of Southern Berean. But mostly I go
because everybody knows my name. I go for Sammy.
Rev.
David DeChant writes “The Deacon’s Beacon,” for The Cabbagetown Neighbor, and contributes a monthly
column to the poetrysheet. He believes he’s a sinner and is available at
404-822-4290 (day or night). Enroll now for his May G-Spot Location seminar.
He’s bound to find one someday!
By
Larry Racunas
Aging Mr. Trevor traveling afar,
the door of his soul left ajar:
he'd been fired from his position
of vice president, mergers & acquisitions.
At airport security, he was told to strip,
further was told to watch his lip.
"I'm not a terrorist, you're in error,
though I do admit to having been a terror;
my mother first called me that,
the year I pulled the tail of the cat."
Then, with his belt, he swatted the nose
of the security man, his face red as a rose,
and further to put the man in shock,
he stuffed into his mouth a sock,
hung an articles tray over his head, said,
"Jail me! Hang me! Our values are dead!"
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