(Part Thirteen - concerning: Don and Mercy, 1965-1967)
Donkeyland had its drunks, I mean, chronic drunks, during these days of unpainted houses and over used roads in the neighborhood, Don Gulf, and Mercy Patterson, were the two biggest drunks (in just a short time there would be more to add to this ever-growing list, but in 1961, thru 1967, they were the most notorious).
Don spent his time drinking mostly in the bars or at his mother's house on Acker Street, and Mercy, on his porch steps on Sycamore Street, all part of Donkeyland's interconnecting maze. It would seem had you looked at them they spent their time talking and thinking of God or the devil or on the philosophies of life, but they were really in a stupor, a daze, half cocked, in a cage they couldn't fine the door out of. They even proclaimed themselves to be alcoholics, and was so absorbed in destroying themselves, if not the God given idea of life itself, manifesting themselves into little abnormal children, making noises as they waved to Evens and all the other boys of the neighborhood, and especially Evens as he rode by in his 1959 black Plymouth, in 1965. Only a parent could see what wasn't always there, especially when they were children, for it appeared they were born with a bottle of whiskey, or wine bottle or some sort of alcohol bottle in their mouths.
It did occur-believe it or not-to Chick Evens, as he'd pass these two drunks, they'd never be successful in life; the one they were living was dull and seemingly endless passing hours and hours and hours, into seasons and years, that led into more drinking, harder then ever drinking, as each hour, and each day, and each year passed. If they succeeded in doing something it was not in giving a name to a rich and healthy life, or living such. And as I said, Evens saw this, but he was in the makings himself- of being a chronic drunk. Perhaps he was too close to the forest to make a comparison.
One evening, when Evens and Don were at the corner bar, Brams, was its name, Don had been in a long process of debauch-no stranger to it, and he came reeling along the pool table, pushing a few chairs tot he side to get closer to the pool table to get closer to Evens, in a child like manner, mumbling some words, slurring them-his body shook, and when he tried to address Evens, standing behind the table, his voice trembled. It was misty and dim lit in the bar, as bars are normally, except for over the pool table, and now he was a short distance to Evens, and he had seemed he was holding in a prolonged blast, and like a whistle of a train, he barked-yelled, babbled it out, and made accusations concerning Evens, saying: "You've been screwing my wife!"
Evens became silent and seemed overcome by such a statement, even saddened, he like Don, "I assure you, Don" said Evens in a soft voice, "it wasn't me."
Then in a hoarsely voice, sharp and even earnest, he said "Then who else?" And he started to chase Evens around the pool table, and Evens repeated, "Who said it was me?" Don was married to JoAnn St. John, the eldest of the St. John girls. Evens was going to stop and throw a side kick into his chest, but thought first: on such an evening like this, when he was so drunk and full of anger, and in a child's behavior state, see if you can reason with him if not, then do what you have to do. Although Evens could fight, he never provoked, and if possible walked away from them.
Don's shoulders shook violently, he tried to smoke his cigarette, with trembling fingers, as he tried to catch Evens, ever so moving around that pool table.
"John L, said it was you?" said Don.
"Did you ask your wife who it was?" asked Evens.
"No," said Don.
Then said Evens "You ought to know better, it most likely was John then." ((And the following day, when John would be confronted by Evens, John would tell him, in so many words: it was me, I told Don it was you, and I didn't want to face him, sorry ole chap.)(Well, sometimes honesty comes out too late, but it comes out usually one way or the other, and too often sideways...))
And he leaped towards Evens; Evens figured he was just not listening, and he glanced at the bar folk, and they were pert-near laughing, not sure if it was because of Don's actions, or Evens' running, then Evens said softly, and at this point halted and stood in a karate stance, "I've made up my mind, I can't talk to you, so I'm going to have to kick the shit out of you, sometimes its the only way men learn to listen: and he put up his fists, ready to throw a blow and a kick, and Don stopped as if pride was washed away like old dirt on a car, it didn't mean anything anymore, or maybe not, maybe he honestly, and truly, rose above his anger, his hard stance, instead of fighting, he now dropped his hands, and his knees stopped shaking, and raised his head, above his drunken lips, and he no longer was strong and courageous, he was hurt.
I don't know exactly how he was feeling, I suppose no one can put a finger on another person's emotions in such a time, unless he has walked in his shoes, but he was-Don, touched and tired and wanted to be comforted, I don't think he wanted revenge, he was just a child swept so bitterly into a stone wall. Most everyone in the neighborhood, wives, and girlfriends, so forth and on, to include husbands, all cheated on their spouses, and boyfriends and girlfriends at one time or another. I imagine I could pick out just about anyone from that neighborhood who would fill that bill. But I don't want history to say I was a Truman Capote, who told tales on all his friends-although all the tales he told were true, as mine are to a most high extent. And so beyond this, I shall leave the untold tails untold, unless I outlive everyone. But back to Don, so with childish abandonment, he gave himself over to new grief, shaking his head trying to look everyone in the bar in the eyes; he wasn't' a coward, just a drunkard who had lost not only the respect of his wife, and perhaps of those in the bar, but for himself.
As for Mercy, believe it or not, he stopped drinking for a spell, taking into his arms, caressing it like a lost love, sobriety. I don't know if he went back to it-for sure, but I did seem him many a days on that porch sober, waving his hands at me.
Don, he died a few years after that happening, and perhaps best for him, I heard his liver was darker than the abyss the demons come out of, and his body was bloated, swollen from head to toe, and he died in his early forties.
It would be the same case for Betty Hino, who had married Jerry Hino, and whom Evens drank many a winter night with, even traveled with Jerry to Milwaukee and Omaha, Nebraska with back in 1967. In his case, he'd sober up in the '80s and died under a car, while working on its transmission-it collapsed on his chest. Betty died some years after that, the same way Don did, unfortunately.
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