Perry's Story: Back to Gaffer's Archives.
Here is a little story which first appeared in my book, "The
Gaffer's Shorts." I hope you enjoy it.
Perry was a ne'er-do-well drifter I once knew. He had been married
and had helped produce children to which he owed an inordinate
amount of money. This according to the Friend of the Court, who
tried desperately to make him pay. There were, of course, two
sides to the alimony story. Aren't there always? I have heard
Perry's side many times, but I have never heard his ex-wife's
side. I make no judgement. As people like Perry would have said.
"My dog ain't in that fight!"
It is another side of Perry I would like to address. He was a
fellow you could not help liking though you knew he was a drunkard
and a bum. It's quite simple. He could play a guitar and sing.
He would stop and have a drink or several any time. He would always
drop what he was doing to help a friend or a stranger. As far
as I could tell he had never hurt a soul and would not. He liked
dogs and children and was good to them with the possible exception
of his own. As I said, to that charge I withhold judgement.
Above all of these things however is the real reason most folks
liked Perry. He was a great storyteller. He was just the type
you could sit and listen to for hours as he wove his words. He
was also the type who would cause my spouse to frown when he showed
up, for when words get wove drinks get drunk and so do men. Here
is one of the stories he told me. It may be true. It may be! But
I like it anyhow.
Perry was residing as a guest of the Oakland County Sheriff
in the Pontiac jail, not for the first time. In fact he was a
frequent visitor. It was through the actions of his ex-wife with
the help of the Friend of the Court, that an almost permanent
warrant for his arrest existed. The charge was always the same,
nonpayment etcetera.
Perry did not mind his stays at the jail. The food was OK and
it was a good enough place to dry out. Since he rarely had a decent
job, he had no job to lose because of absenteeism. In addition,
he got along well with most, not all, the deputies. He was, in
fact, as close to being a trustee as one can get in a county lockup.
He whiled away his days in the staging yard washing and cleaning
the police cars as the deputies brought them in. He probably could
have walked away, but heck, they would just pick him up again
and maybe not so gently.
It was a nice summer day with the sun shining warmly into the
yard when deputy Steve wheeled a car into the wash area and stopped
sharply, with the bumper about 3 inches from Perry's trembling
knees. Steve was one of the "hard-nosed" deputies who
did not like bums like Perry.
Steve stepped out quickly and snapped over his shoulder, "Clean
it up punk!" as he walked away.
Perry said nothing. He picked up a vacuum and opened the passenger
door. There to his surprise was a sheriff's twelve gauge resting
in the door holster.
Closing the door quickly, Perry turned and yelled, "Hey Steve!"
Then he whistled.
The whistle got Steve's attention. He turned and stalked back
toward Perry. His face was a whitened mask of pure rage. He grabbed
Perry by the belt and shirt and slammed him, full body, into the
side of the car. With his nose an inch from Perry's and the odor
of his cheap lunch flowing into Perry's space, he snarled, "You
Goddamn F------ Punk! Don't you ever whistle at me again. Not
ever!"
The "not ever" was enforced with a backhand to the head
followed by a forehand and another backhand. Other officers noticing
the action turned their heads away. They didn't want to see or
know.
Again Steve slammed Perry into the car then turned and stalked
away. Perry slid to the ground to catch his breath. He was terrified
and trembling but he knew what he had to do. He opened the car
door. He took the shotgun out of the holster. He turned toward
the building where Steve had entered.
Then, holding the gun by the barrel over his head like a flag,
he walked into the staging office and hollered as loud as he could.
"Hey Steve, old pal! You forgot your gun!"
There was an enormous silence in the office as Perry carefully placed the gun on the desk.
Perry was very good at story telling and I know some of the stories he told were of the manufactured variety as opposed to a recital of actual events. I suppose I will never know which variety this one was. I do know that, as he told me this story, he suddenly excused himself and strolled quickly into the woods behind my house. It was then I saw a sheriff's cruiser sliding slowly by. He had seen it before me, but I was not watching for it. The driver was a flinty-eyed fellow who gave me a hard look. Or did I imagine that?
A short time after that, Perry's sister told me he had left the area, probably for good. She also said, "Good riddance!" Not very profound, but honest. If the story is true, it was probably a good decision on Perry's part. After all, who would care if a ne'er-do-well bum was found dead in a ditch somewhere?
Maybe I would.
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