Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe (20 page)

Toncille Robinson and E. C. Robinson are telling their friends they don't care what the other does.

Missing from Our Alley

8th Avenue just doesn't seem the same. Artis O. Peavey, that well-known fellow around town, has seen fit to exit to the Windy City. He is sorely missed by the female population, of that fact you can be sure.

We hear that Miss Helen Reid had to call the law over a late-night prowler trying to enter her home on Avenue F, and do her bodily harm . . . and when the officers of the law arrived, they apprehended a gentleman hiding under the house with an ice pick in his hand, who claimed that he was the iceman.

Could that gentleman have been Mr. Baby Shephard, who heretofore had been sweet on Miss Reid?

. . . The Esquire Club is preparing for its annual Limb Loosener . . .

Platter News

Ellington's "Black and Tan Fantasy” is a new Decca release of considerable interest and novelty. The pianist in "Creole" gets on a boogie-woogie kick that's odd but effective.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

NOVEMBER 20, 1940

It was raining in Chicago, and Artis O. Peavey was running down the street. He ducked into a doorway, under a sign that read SEA FOOD LUNCH, FRIED FISH 35c.  Across the street, at the RKO Alhambra,
Dealers in Crime
and
Hoodlum Empire
were showing. He felt like a fugitive, himself, up here, away from home, hiding out from a dusky damsel named Electra Greene.

He stood there, smoking a Chesterfield cigarette and contemplating life and its turmoils. His mother had said, whenever she was down, that just the thought of her sweet Jesus could always make her spirits rise.

But it hadn't been such thoughts that made Artis rise. It was the sight of a certain high-hipped, thick-lipped black beauty; and it hadn't been just his spirits that would rise and stay risen, much to the delight of said beauty. His main problem in life, at the moment, was that he loved too well and not too wisely.

He had always played a dangerous game where the lovely ladies' husbands were concerned, for Artis knew no boundaries. Every living female was his particular domain, and because of that lack of respect for territorial rights, he had often been forced to search his own body for stab wounds and broken bones, and on too many occasions had found them. After being caught with the wrong woman at the wrong time, one bronze amazon stuck him with a corkscrew. He was much more careful after that unhappy affair, the result of which was an interesting scar, to say the least, and a natural hesitation to fool with any more women who were bigger than he was. Still he was a heartbreaker. He had told one too many to look for him the next night, and that's just what they wound up doing—looking . . .

This skinny little man, so black he was a deep royal blue, had caused a lot of trouble for the opposite sex. One gal drank a can of floor wax and topped it off with a cup of Clorox, trying to separate herself from the same world he was in. When she survived, claiming that the liquids had ruined her complexion for life, he became continually uneasy after dark, because she had snuck up behind him more than once and cracked him in the head with a purseful of rocks.

But this situation with Electra Greene was more serious than a purseful of rocks. Electra was packing a .38 revolver that she knew how to use and had made uncouth threats pertaining to his manhood, and the extermination of such, after finding out he had not been true. Not once, but eight times, to be exact, with a Miss Delilah Woods, her sworn enemy, who had also left town in a hurry.

As Artis stood there today in the doorway, he was hurting so bad, he thought he would die. He missed Birmingham and he wanted to go back.

Every afternoon, before his hasty exit from Birmingham, he had driven his blue two-toned Chevrolet with the whitewall tires up Red Mountain and had parked to watch the sunset. From up there he could look down and see the iron and steel mills, with their towering smokestacks billowing orange smoke all the way up to Tennessee. There had been nothing more beautiful to him than the city at that hour, when the sky was washed with a red-and-purple glow from the mills and neon lights would start coming on all over town, twinkling and dancing throughout the downtown streets and over to Slagtown.

Birmingham, the town that during the Depression had been named by FDR "the hardest hit city in the U.S." . . . where people had been so poor that Artis had known a man that would let you shoot at him for money and a girl that had soaked her feet in brine and vinegar for three days, trying to win a dance marathon . . . the place that had the lowest income per capita of any American city and yet was known as the best circus town in the South . . .

Birmingham, which at one time had the highest illiteracy rate, more venereal disease than any other city in America, and at the same time proudly held the record for having the highest number of Sunday School students of any city in the U.S. . . . where Imperial Laundry trucks had once driven around town with WE WASH FOR WHITE PEOPLE ONLY written on the side, and where darker citizens still sat behind wooden boards on streetcars that said colored and rode freight elevators in department stores.

Birmingham, Murder Capital of the South, where 131 people had been killed in 1931 alone . . .

All this, and yet Artis loved his Birmingham with an insatiable passion, from the south side to the north side, in the freezing-cold rainy winter, when the red clay would slide down the sides of hills and run into the streets, and in the lush green summers, when the green kudzu vine covered the sides of the mountains and grew up trees and telephone poles and the air was moist and heavy with the smell of gardenias and barbecue. He had traveled all over the country, from Chicago to Detroit, from Savannah to Charleston and on up to New York, but there was never a time when he wasn't happy to get back to Birmingham. If there is such a thing as complete happiness, it is knowing that you are in the right place, and Artis had been completely happy from the moment he hit Birmingham.

So today he made up his mind to head on home, because he knew he would rather be dead than be away any longer. He missed Birmingham like most men miss their wives.

And that's just what Miss Electra Greene intended to become . . . if she let him live, that is.

As he walked by the Fife and Drum Bar, somebody played a song on the jukebox:

Way down South, in Birmingham. I mean South, in Alabam’

An old place where people go to dance the night away,

That Southern style, slow jive, that makes you want

To dance ‘til break of day.

At each junction where the town folks meet

At each function, in their tux they greet you.

Come on down, forget your care. Come on down

You'll find me there. So long town!

I'm headin' for Tuxedo Junction now. 

BY MR. MILTON JAMES

NOVEMBER 25, 1950

Popular Birmingham Bachelor Marries

Miss Electra Greene, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. R. C. Greene, became the charming bride of Mr. Artis O. Peavey, son of Mr. and Mrs. George Peavey, of Whistle Stop, Alabama.

Officiating at the colorful wedding rites was Dr. John W, Nixon, pastor of the First Congressional Church, while nuptial music was provided by the accomplished Mr. Lewis Jones.

Radiant Bride

The lovely bride was fetching in a forest-green ensemble, with amber accessories, mink trimmed off the face. She wore a brown felt hat, gloves and shoes to match, with a corsage of valley lillies.

Miss Naughty Bird Peavey, sister of the groom, was arresting in a grape-colored woolen crepe with draped front, multicolored beaded necklace, and cerise gloves and shoes.

Colorful Reception

Immediately following the nuptials, a colorful wedding reception took place at the home of Mrs. Lulu Butterfork, who is prominent in the city's leading beauticians' circles, being both a beautician and a hairpiece specialist.

Several well-known Birminghamians who at-tended the colorful reception were served punch, ice cream, and individual cakes, and were busy registering awe at the brilliant display of countless bridal gifts.

Monday night, October 5, at 11 o'clock, the bridal party was honored at a spicy after-supper dance, with Mrs. Toncille Robinson as hostess.

Glamour marked the occasion, which saw the Little Savoy Cafe, scene of the select occasion, given a festive appearance by brilliantly embellished yule-tide effects and a long, heavily laden table of choice foods and viands. A hot seven-course chicken supper was served, featuring wine as an appetizer and topped off with hot coffee and dessert.

The couple will reside in the bride’s home on Fountain Avenue.

BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA

MAY 19, 1986

It had been nine long, hard days since Evelyn Couch had been on her diet, and today she woke up with a feeling of euphoria. She seemed in complete control of her life, tall and thin, and when she moved, she felt willowy and graceful. Those nine days had been like climbing a mountain, and now she knew she had reached the top. Somehow, today, she knew in her heart that she would never eat anything as long as she lived unless it was crisp and fresh; just like she was at this very moment.

When she went into the supermarket, she sprinted past the cookies and cakes and white breads and aisle three, canned goods, where she had spent most of her shopping life, and went straight to the meat department, where she ordered chicken breasts without the skin. Then she headed over to the produce section, a place she had only visited on occasions to buy potatoes for mashing, and bought fresh broccoli and lemons and limes to cut up in her Perrier water. She stopped briefly at the magazine section to buy a Town and Country magazine, featuring an article on Palm Beach, and then went to the express checkout counter, where the checkout girl greeted her.

"Hey, Miz Couch, how are you doing today?"

"Just great, Mozell, how are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Is this gonna be all for you today, hon?"

"That's it."

Mozell punched up the amount.

"You look awful pretty today, Miz Couch."

"Well, thank you, I feel good."

"Well, bye-bye, now. You have a nice day."

"Thank you. You too."

As Evelyn was going out, a beady-eyed, mean-mouthed boy in greasy pants and a T-shirt slammed through the EXIT ONLY door and knocked Evelyn back. He brushed past and, Evelyn still in a good mood, mumbled to herself, "Well, there's a nice gentleman."

The boy turned and with a surly look said, "Fuck you, bitch!" and went on.

Evelyn was stunned. The hatred in his eyes took her breath away. She felt herself getting all shaky and started to cry. It was as if someone had hit her. She closed her eyes and told herself not to lose control. He was just a stranger. It didn't matter. Don't let it upset you.

But the more she thought about it, she knew she had to make it all right. She would go on outside and wait for him and tell him that she had just been trying to make light of the situation and had not meant to hurt his feelings and that she was sure he had come in the wrong door by mistake and hadn't realized that he had run into her.

She was sure, as soon as she explained it to him, he would probably feel bad and the whole thing would be over and she could go home feeling better.

The boy burst out of the door carrying his six-pack and walked past her. She walked faster and caught up with him.

"Excuse me. I just wanted you to know that there was no reason for you to be so mad at me in there. I was only trying to . . .”

He shot a disgusted look at her. "Get the hell away from me, you stupid cow!"

Evelyn was breathless.

"Excuse me. What did you call me?"

He continued on, ignoring her. Now she was running after him, in tears.

"What did you call me? Why are you being so mean to me? What did I ever do to you? You don't even know me!"

He opened the door to his truck, and Evelyn, hysterical, grabbed his arm.

"Why? Why are you being so mean to me?"

He slammed her arm away from him and stuck his fist in her face, his eyes and face twisted with rage. "Don't fool with me, bitch, or I'll knock your fucking head off—you fat, stupid cunt!"

And with that, he pushed her in the chest and knocked her down.

Evelyn couldn't believe what was happening. Her groceries spilled everywhere.

The stringy-haired girl with the elastic halter top who had been waiting for the boy looked down at Evelyn and laughed. He got in the truck, threw it in reverse, and squealed out of the parking lot, yelling names back at Evelyn.

She sat there on the ground, her elbow bleeding, old and fat and worthless all over again.

DECEMBER 12, 1941

War Starts

Grady Kilgore is in charge of the Whistle Stop draft board, and he says for all you boys to come on in and sign up and get it over with.

It seems like lately there's nothing but troop trains and tanks passing through. It makes you wonder where they are all from and where they are going.

Wilbur says the war won't last more than six months. I hope he's right for once.

The Jolly Belles Ladies' Barber Shop Quartet has been invited to attend the National Convention of Ladies' Barber Shop Quartets in Memphis, Tennessee, this spring, to perform their most popular rendition of "Dip Your Brush in Sunshine and Keep On Painting Away."

Reverend Scroggins asks, would the individual or individuals who are giving out his address and phone number to people looking for whiskey please stop, as his wife, Arna, is in the middle of a nervous condition and has broken out several times this week. Bobby Lee Scroggins joined the navy. By the way, that service star in the window over at the cafe is for Willie Boy Peavey, Onzell's and Big George's boy, who is the first colored soldier in Troutville to join up.