Chapter 24 From Driver to Manager

On a trip to Dade City, Florida not long afterward, Sonny found himself thrust into an unusual and unanticipated situation. Phillip informed him on the phone that the load he had to pick up would not be ready for another 48 hours.

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Sonny was exasperated. He could have been home with Anne. Why was this happening to him? The more practical side of him decided it was best not to make a fuss and he chose a truck stop to get a room for two days.

After checking in, he stopped at an auto shop for some urgent repairs to the rig. A few moments of persuasive negotiation and the mechanic agreed. Sonny left the keys of the truck with the mechanic without a second thought. Hungers pangs swirled and whirled, making him almost dizzy. He just had to have some food. Afterwards, with a warm meal inside him, satiated and comfortable, Sonny decided to relax at a game of pool. Filled with joie de vivre after his game, he yet felt the need to rest his tired bones. With visions of a bed filling his mind, he made his way back to the rig to get his knapsack of clothes and toiletries. He walked to the parking lot, to the spot where he remembered he had parked the truck. Other trucks were around. His truck was missing. Impossible, he said aloud as he looked around in bewilderment. Horror stories assailed his imagination as he stood indecisively He tried to shrug off his anxiety with the comforting thought that the mechanic must have taken it to the shop. When he walked over to the shop, his truck wasn’t there either. Neither was the mechanic. Even then Sonny would not lose hope. The mechanic took it out for a spin, he thought, to do a drive test. He sought out the dispatcher to inquire the whereabouts of his truck. What she told him shocked Sonny speechless. Two hefty men had come by and introduced themselves as employees of the big rig company. Without standing on ceremony, they had unlocked the rig door, covered the tag, and had driven the truck away. Sonny could hardly believe his ears, but it did not take him long to realize what had happened.

He slapped his forehead in dismay. “Dammit, they repossessed the entire rig.” Sonny immediately called Phillip. “You need to tell me what this is all about,” Sonny’s voice was icy with vexation.

Deep silence at the other end.

After a few moments, Phillip spoke up in a guilty tone. “Sonny, man, I owe you an apology. I knew this would happen sooner or later. I have been behind in my payments.”

Sonny would not buy that excuse. “You fool. With the amount of money I was bringing home, there is no way you could be behind.”

Phillip refused to admit irresponsible behavior. “Sonny, I just was not a good bookkeeper and I had family issues back home that drained my cash flow.”

Sonny’s disillusionment was almost tangible. “But why didn’t you tell me? At least you could have been honest with me.”

Sonny later learned that the bank that carried the note was urgently trying to contact Sonny to persuade him to take over the note to avert the repossession of the rig. A pity indeed for Sonny would have unhesitatingly grabbed the opportunity to be an owner operator. Too bad that Sonny was constantly on the road and could not be reached. With no load, no truck and no knapsack, there was no reason for Sonny to stay. He decided to hitchhike right away.

In the dark starless, humid night, Sonny stood by the wayside, watchful for approaching vehicles. It appeared to be a quiet night and the roads were desolate. A couple of hours later, a big rig pulled up close to him in response to his flagging. The driver Chuck appeared to be a pleasant man but rather brisk as he was running on a very tight schedule. He had to take his load to New York City within 18 hours. He had a 16- hour drive ahead of him which allowed him only two hours to catch some sleep.

“Well, I believe you are in luck. I am experienced in driving rigs. Let me take over and you can slip in the back and get some sleep. I will get you there,” said Sonny.

Chuck was rather hesitant but as he continued talking with Sonny, he realized he was speaking the truth and accepted his offer with a deep sense of relief.

As Sonny took the wheel, the first thing he did was to get a feel of the clutch. The clutch action was incredibly smooth. The pedal effort was minimal. Oh boy, this was going to be child’s play. He drove non-stop and following a smooth as silk drive, they pulled up at Lebaum Street in a record 13 hours. Chuck had 5 hours to get to New York City and he had rested well.

Sonny decided he needed a change of scene and began looking for jobs in completely different areas. Finally, he was rewarded in his unrelenting search for employment. He was called in for an interview at High’s Ice Cream at 12th and Monroe Street NE Washington DC. High’s Ice Cream which was founded by L.W. High in Richmond, Virginia in 1932, had been later bought over by James R. Gregory Jr. and two partners, in 1938. By this time there were 16 High’s Ice Cream stores and an ice cream plant in Richmond. Although High's had hand-dipped ice cream and other dairy products, ice cream was its specialty and trademark product, especially the lime sherbet. It was much sought after on a hot summer day. High’s also served fresh home-made soups, deli sandwiches and grilled items. High’s had become a favorite place for young people to hang out after school. On summer afternoons, young people gathered there to socialize, smoking in the parking lot or playing pinball inside the store. By the late 1980s there were some 350 High's Dairy Stores and restaurants in Virginia and Maryland, but by 1987, many of them were sold to the owners of Seven Eleven.

Sonny managed High's Ice Cream store at Monroe Street from 1966 to 1971, and by all accounts, he was a model manager. He was a hard worker, and a caring person who enjoyed interacting with other human beings. The store was located in a quiet residential area, where kids played outside and young mothers stepped in to get milk for their babies. Soon, all the local kids loved him and often called him “Pops.” Sonny’s charisma and dedication did not go unnoticed by the management, especially by his boss Mr. Hundley.

A few months later, Mr. Hundley called Sonny into his office. “I need your help at another store, Sonny,” he said.

The trouble spot was the High’s Ice Cream store on Wheeler Road, stricken with a spate of robberies and a manager who, among other things, was reckless with finances and prone to fits of rage. He was known to grab rowdy kids by their hair and yank them out of the store.

Sonny felt awkward. “Mr Hundley, I sure appreciate the offer, but I don’t want to go to no Wheeler Road. I enjoy working on Monroe St.”

Mr. Hundley brushed his words aside. “Well, Sonny we know you do and I’ve heard nothing but great things about you. That’s why I’m nominating you for this job.”

Sonny had to ask, “Does it come with a raise?”

Mr. Hundley refused to take the bait. “Well, why don’t you take this new store and see how you can turn it around first? Then we’ll definitely talk about a raise.”

Sonny realized he had little choice but to accept the offer. He took the position at the Wheeler Road store and tried to apply the same people skills that he used in the previous store. However, the customers in the area viewed him with caution and suspicion. Sonny realized he had to amend his strategy. He set about his plan with zeal. He started making notes about each customer so he would know what made them tick. He would ask Robin whether she got an A in her last exam, and Johnny whether he scored a touchdown in the last game. He sympathized with Auntie Lillie about her painful arthritis. He would offer treats to the kids or an extra loaf of bread or jelly to the old lady who was just making it on welfare - out of Sonny’s own pocket, of course. Within a few weeks, he had won over all the local kids. The people in the area changed their opinion because he treated them with respect and understanding.

However, Sonny did feel a tinge of resentment that he did not get the same fringe benefits as his white counterparts who were paid better and got more time off. But he decided to make the best of it. He started making friends with the locals. One thing he noticed was that the playing cards was an enjoyable pastime on weekends. One day, Sonny asked if he could join them.

“Sure thing,” a neighbor replied. “We’d love to have you. But when you come, you best call your wife ahead of time and warn her that you might not be coming home till real late. We like to burn the midnight oil playing poker.”

Sonny smiled. “No problem. I love to play poker or Blackjack. If it’s going to be that late, best not go home at all. I have bedding in the back of the store and I gotta open up early the next day anyways.”

So Sonny started spending much of the weekend playing cards with the locals and away from home. Meanwhile, Anne was slaving away taking care of the house and she spent many nights alone wondering what Sonny was really doing.

Meanwhile, Sonny’s new friends began to nag him about hosting a party. They knew Sonny owned a large house with several rooms and a large back yard. They knew he was a gourmet chef and would be a gracious host. They knew his expertise in a game of poker. Each time they tried to force the issue, Sonny resisted. He knew Anne’s objections and her voice kept echoing in his mind. “No wild parties in our house. If you do, I’ll leave you.” The friends, however, would not call it quits. They kept on pestering Sonny and teasing him about who wore the pants in his house. After some time, the teasing irritated him. He could not allow people to think he was under his wife’s thumb.

Despite misgivings and Anne’s undisguised opposition, Sonny planned a big party. They could afford it, after all, unlike during the first days of their marriage when they had to count every penny spent. He would host a non-stop card party from Friday afternoon until Sunday night.

Sonny used all his leisure time for over a month to plan the party. He even mailed out formal invitations. As the big day drew near, Sonny paid a visit to Buckingham Meats, the local meat market down Nichols Avenue and bought a whole truckload of food. He got fifty pounds of fresh pork chops, loin roasts, hock hams, ground beef, chicken, bratwurst and several kinds of fish.

Came the Friday of the party and Sonny was ready to play host. As the late evening sun turned shadows longer, men and women in party attire descended in groups. Colored lights on the trees winked and sparkled and tuneful jazz and rhythm and blues of BB King, Jimmy Brown and Duke Ellington wafted from the Sonora record player. As the party got underway, the liquor flowed - two kegs of beer and a case of ice in the bathtub, cheap wine in huge bottles called knotty head, and plenty of Seagrams gin.

When the mood picked up, the men got down to playing poker and blackjack in earnest, while the women played a card game called Pitty Pat. Some folks made money, some lost, most just did it for fun.

The games continued through the night into Saturday and then into Saturday night. After nearly 40 hours of non-stop partying, it was Sunday morning. Some folks were still playing unfazed, most were lying on couches or on the floor, fast asleep after a boozing binge. Congealed food was yet plentiful upon dishes on the table. The early morning sun was peeping through the partially drawn drapes.

Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. The knocker on the front door sounded urgent. Sonny asleep on the carpet got up startled and hurried to the door. He opened the door and was disconcerted to see his mother standing outside with a rather grim look on her face.

Sonny tried to feign a sense of joviality he was far from feeling. “Hi, Mom. What brings you here? Would you like to join us?”

Sarah ignored his questions with a brisk, “Good Morning, son,” and brushing him aside, stepped into the house, walked through the living room and knocked on a bedroom door.

As she opened the door, her eyes fell on several men in a drunken stupor on the floor. Several others were seated on chairs and on milk crates. One man was dealing cards. It looked like they were playing 3-card poker.

Sarah stepped up to them and spoke in a gentle but firm voice. “Gentlemen, it’s been over 40 hours. You’ve been here long enough. It’s time to go home,” she said.

The men gazed at her, surprised. Then, as her words sank in, they all got up without a word, stacked the deck and settled their earnings.

Sarah walked over to the backroom. She knocked and opened the door. Several women were playing Pitty Pat. A few children were fast asleep beside them.

Sarah cleared her throat. “Ahem, ladies, you’ve been here all weekend. It’s time to go.” Just like the men, they all got up silently. “Yes Ma’am,” they answered as they picked up their belongings and started heading out the door.

As they reached the front door, Sonny stood by sheepishly. They chorused, “Great party, Sonny. You’re an outstanding manager and the most excellent host.”

Sonny hugged and thanked each of them as they left. “See you at the store tomorrow.”

Most went home, some were even considering going to church. Not for Sonny, though. He had plenty of cleaning up to do, and he was certain Anne would take no part in it.

“Thanks for the food, you’re quite a chef,” the last couple said as they complimented Sonny on their way out.

“We need to do this again. But next weekend we’ll meet in the Projects. This place is nice, but at least there, we won’t get kicked out.”

“Definitely,” Sonny replied.

The year was 1967. Perhaps Sonny knew or maybe he didn’t, but there would be no more parties on 500 Lebaum Street. They partied this weekend. Next year, the world surrounding this community would never be the same.

Chapter 16 Imaginations of Better Times

"I imagine the loud R&B music wafted from an old Sonora record player - the lyrics of BB King, Chuck Brown, Little Richard, and the Allman Brother's, brought a tantalizing mix of disco, Gogo, Motown and classic soul to a place now consumed with darkness."

Note: After turning back in time from Chapters 7 --15 to profile some of Sonny's life, we now come back to the present after I made the offer on the house and start our work renovating it.

As I stood outside 500 Lebaum Street, my eyes rested reflectively on the modest little house I had got myself involved with.

The layout of the house was indelibly etched in my memory, photographed if you will, as I went over the place meticulously to gauge what I had to do. The two quaint bedrooms upstairs and the nice-size attic with standing room mostly needed cosmetic work; a tedious job of pulling down layers upon layers of wallpaper, then, patching, skimming and painting. It would be done painstakingly, with an eye for aesthetic appeal in blending of color.

Earlier, my heart sank as I surveyed the dirty, stained wall-to-wall carpet in the living room. It looked so woefully neglected, so piteous under the layers of thick dust that clung to it tenuously. I dreaded what I would find when I exposed the flooring. I was in for a delightful surprise. I stripped off the worn out carpeting amidst billowing clouds of years of settled dust. My heart leapt joyfully to see the oak hardwood floor underneath all the dirt and grime. My eyes scrutinized earnestly. Oh, just beautiful …no cracks, no damage - may be just slightly worn – after all, the years would take their toll on all things material. The wood was just as sinewy and strong as when it was first laid there. When it was cut and polished, it would shine with deep burnished golden-brown overtones to reveal the value of the wood through its look of gracious dignity.

The bathroom and the kitchen would not give me an easy time, I was certain of that. Those are the first places in a house that show wear and degeneration, and there appeared to be more than enough of it, as I could see. The bathroom fittings were cracked and stained with permanently embedded dirt marks. The grouting was discolored and mildewed and the floor would have to be completely redone. The kitchen was in as bad a state, or worse. The sink area was mildewed, stained and chipped, the kitchen cupboards would have to be completely replaced and the chipped tile floor needed to be done over too.

What really appealed to my imagination was the dank and dusty basement—which was, in my view, the crown jewel of the house because of the sheer enormity of the potential it offered. It also needed the most amount of work, I thought wryly. I walked around the area trying to get a feel of the place to assess intuitively the extent of repairs. The concrete walls of the basement were cracked and leaking, with tiny rivulets running at regular intervals. When it rained, the basement would fill up with several inches of water that seeped through the floor and the deep cracks in the walls. Water seepage from the foundation had damaged everything. The piercing and pervasive stench of rot and mildew assailed my nostrils and penetrated my lungs in lightening seconds.

With every step I gingerly took, with every gaze at nooks and crannies, I felt an overwhelming infiltration of mold – behind the walls, under the floor tiles - it seemed to be growing into some monstrous, invading presence, waiting for the right moment to spring forth. As my eyes slowly combed the area overhead, struck anew by possibilities of structural defects, I wondered for the umpteenth time whether I had made the biggest mistake of my life in involving myself with the restoration of this horribly unkempt house. I quelled the thoughts even as they arose. After all, I was now committed to this cause, for better or for worse.

The easiest escape route from this hellish environment was to transport myself into the long vanished past. Billy had already told me enough to stimulate my imagination. My mind conjured up images of Sonny’s Disco parties in the basement on warm summer nights in the 60’s. I was transported into another time dimension where the entire basement was a maze of twirling, swirling, psychedelic light with strobe lights, and a twirling disco ball. Red, black and silver balloons created arches here and there, adding a festive flavor.

A smoke machine rendered the atmosphere hot and steamy. I imagine the loud R&B music wafted from an old Sonora record player - the lyrics of BB King, Chuck Brown, Little Richard, and the Allman Brother's, brought a tantalizing mix of disco, Gogo, Motown and classic soul to a place now consumed with darkness. The mood could not get any better.

There was something soothing, almost hypnotic about the unwavering motion of a record playing. Never mind that it appeared archaic and cumbersome. The music filtered out onto the still air of a starless humid night on Lebaum Street. Almost everybody who lived down the block was at Sonny’s house that night. Many of the young couples were finding reasons to celebrate on the street. Everyone was dressed casually in the flared-bottomed denims, the fad of the times. There were young guys in jumpsuits and 5-Gallon hats and young women in skin fitting, skimpy blouses and short tight skirts. As the music whipped up the party mood, the dancing became exuberant. The swing dance that was the rage of the era was a dizzying spectacle to behold.

The grace of the energetic, undulating movement and the rhythmic click of heels were infectious and soon everyone was on the dance floor, oblivious to all but the lure of the beat. Sonny, the connoisseur bartender was being the consummate host, effortlessly mixing martini and scotch on the rocks. On these occasions, Anne outshone her own culinary capabilities. The night air was redolent with the appetizing aroma of Caribbean grilled chicken, sizzling sausages, hamburgers, corn on the cob, mashed potato and plenty of salads and sauces. Amidst this frivolity, though Sonny and Anne stayed clean, some guests would get a pill or a joint from someone, steal out to the backyard and enjoy a quick buzz. Sonny even invited a couple of airmen from the Air Force base to these parties occasionally and they all agreed it was high fun, clean fun.

However, as the years rolled on and the 60s ended, so the partying came to an abrupt halt. When the 70s turned, a subtle sinister change gradually came over the community and decent people avoided all social gatherings after dark. Clubs lost clientele and cronies of gangs took over the bars. It was as if the entire community had come under siege. Nobody had the freedom anymore to loosen a collar, shake off the tension of a workweek and chill out with neighbors. Sonny would shake his head ruefully and sigh, “Them days of wine n’ roses, they’re gone …that’s for damn sure, they’re gone.”