Poor Ray Hall
by Wanda Morrow Clevenger
Ray Hall was a drunk. A bad thing, Mom said, enough times so as to leave a lasting impression. Not that I even remotely comprehended “slamming back brewskies.” Naiveté at its peak, I accepted everything on blind faith: reading, writing, and arithmetic were essential; Jesus loved me; the omnipresent parental declaration: Because I said so. Earth was round, minding was non-negotiable, and drinking was bad. Mom lauded sobriety, Dad partook–in part why he didn't live with us–and that was that. End of story.
Mr. Hall lived in the next double-set of project apartments to our left–famed forbidden zone. My felonious older sisters snuck us over there at Halloween, though. All bets were off when free candy was at stake. Mom never caught on by the overflowing trick-or-treat bags, I don't think. But candy corn and cavities aside, Ray Hall was a ne'er-do'well and better left alone. We mostly did as told.
Not personally acquainted with the sod, I became informed by way of playground grapevine that he enjoyed libation uptown at Johnny's Tavern. A den of debauchery where my dad was alleged to also imbibe. Dad lived above Walker's Five and Dime Store, a short teeter home from Johnny's. Ray's walk home was more arduous: down a long length of North Broad, hanging a left at Tri-City grocery, then west across the railroad tracks for another two blocks. Street lights dropped their spots few and far between.
Technically, for an adult this wasn't much of a marathon. Unless one carried a snoot-full. But regardless the fullness of his snoot, Ray repeatedly found his way home. Apparently, never passing out on the train tracks or getting flattened by another rummy's car. And if he had been thrown in the pokey for public intoxication, such eluded tattletale. He trudged all the way to the housing and half-way across the playground to the sewer grate. Then due to the effort expended, fell to his hands and knees and barfed. And not just once; hardy heaves navigated the night, the devil's influence obviously the dickens to expel. Ray's affliction provided high entertainment, a fact he couldn't have known. A crackerjack at consistency too, worthy of jump rope singsong: Sin on Saturday. Sorry on Sunday.
Our bedtimes early, I suspect we slept through most of Ray's ralphing. But sometimes we got lucky. On one night I don't expect to forget, we sisters crawled from our beds to ogle from second story windows. Having tossed the evening's intake, Ray abruptly and purposefully began a string of curses the likes of which we genteel girls heretofore had remained ignorant. We immediately scrambled back into our beds. Word on the merry-go-round the next day reported Ray had up-chucked his dentures into the sewer. The deep, dark, smelly place, where should any object fall, was forever lost.
Jack Billbruck was another neighbor of interest. He mowed the housing's small yards for a smaller fee, and although not particularly bright, he was friendly and generally liked. A wave to Jack was returned in kind. He bounced about his business all summer, dirty sweat beads stuck in the creases of his neck like a broken strand of black pearls.
Jack's other skill: once a year he climbed to the roofs and retrieved toys–some product of playtime misfortune, some mean pranks. Boys will be boys. Frisbees glided to outstretched hands; Christmas in July. Then assorted rubber balls, comically shriveled in their long wait for rescue, rained upon our heads. History, plus a lick of logic, taught there was a fair chance of recovering something still good enough to play with from the roofs. Equally, every kid, big and small, knew there was zero chance of getting anything back from the sewer. It might as well have been the Gate of Hell.
Poor Ray Hall surely gleaned this truth the night we girls peered at his slumped silhouette, our little brains pondering his lewd language. Somewhere in his woozy consciousness he knew his choppers were gone for good. Four young girls, nonetheless, were wholly amused and my mom gained the satisfaction of knowing she'd been proven righter than right. Drinking was bad.
Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, Illinois. Thirty-one pieces of her work embracing the human condition are spread across a wide variety of print and online zines. When not experimenting with flash fiction, she continues to expand her memoir. Contact Wanda.
