I walked into The Pour House Cafe this morning and looked around for Leonard. I have been busy lately and haven’t seen him around. To tell the truth I have been hoping I wouldn’t run into him after our last time together when he showed me his song in progress about indoor toilets.
I strolled over to the round table in the corner and the usual crowd was there. Jelly, my big buddy, smiled and said, “Have a seat, Preacher, sit down and tell us something.”
I looked around the table and said my “how do’s ” to the two other fellows seated there.
“Well, Elvis, ” I said to the short, bald man directly in front of me.
“How’s your wife doing?” His wife had been sick with the flu.
Elvis was named Elvis about the time the other Elvis was in Jr. High. The name was all that they shared. He was short, bald and couldn’t carry a tune if it had handles on it.
“Preacher, she’s really been sick, but she”s better now. I stayed home from church yesterday she was so sick. I was so concerned I took my cell phone to the golf course with me when I went golfing yesterday afternoon. Yessir, I told her not to hesitate to call if she needed anything and soon as I finished the round I’d be right home.”
Jelly laughed and shook his head.
“He’s so sensitive. Ain’t he, Preacher.”
“To a fault,” I said, “to a fault.”
About that time Leonard came through the door with a tall ,thin longhaired man with a beard that Santa Claus would have been proud of. He looked over our way and broke into a grin.
“Hey, Preacher, you’re just the man I wanted to see. This here is Ben Willit. He used to be on the Opry.”
Ben touched Leonard’s arm and shook his head.
“…er worked at the Opry.”
Ben shook his head in agreement.
“Never was on the Opry,” he said, “I was one of the guys who used to pull the curtains ‘fore they was automatic.”
“Well, anyway, he knows the Opry. What I wanted to say, Preacher, is that I won’t be needing you to help me write my song after all. Ben here is gonna help me. You don’t mind do you?”
I looked at Leonard then at Ben and said, “Well, as much as I was looking forward to it I can see where you’d want a man with connections. Don’t think a thing about it, Leonard.”
“Thanks, Preacher. You see, Ben I told you the Preacher wouldn’t get mad. Oh, er, Preacher…you’re not expecting any royalties off it are you?”
“Leonard,” I said, “No, sir. Anything you get you deserve.”
“Preacher, you’re a good man.”
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
My friend, Leonard had cornered me at The Pour House Café and asked for my help in writing a song.
“Ok, Leonard,” I said, “just what kind of song are you writing?”
“A protest song, I want to write a protest song.”
I hesitated, but knew I had to ask. “What are you protesting, Leonard?”
“Indoor toilets, that’s what, indoor toilets!”
Well, as you can imagine, that caught me by surprise. I stared at him for a moment or two and thought I’d better make sure I heard him right.
“Now let me get this straight, Leonard, you want to write a song protesting indoor toilets? Is that right?”
“You got it. One of the worst things this country ever did…putting toilets in the house where you eat and sleep.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, I heard a report on TV the other day how that germs from the bathroom were found all thru the house. On toothbrushes, hairbrushes, kitchen stuff…you name it.”
I looked down at my plate of eggs and ham and suddenly lost my appetite. I shoved the plate away and shook my head.
“Leonard, you have spoiled a perfectly good breakfast. I really don’t think this is something to discuss while people are eating. Let’s talk about this some other place, alright?”
Leonard looked puzzled. He didn’t connect his subject matter with his surroundings and see how inappropriate it was.
“Alright, but look at what I’ve got so far, ok?”
Against my better judgement I took the sheet of paper he handed me and began to read.
TAKE IT OUT
BY
Leonard Tubbs
There’s something in your house that ought not be
And something really oughta be done.
The thing we call the throne
Shouldn’t be found in your home
Everyone should have an outdoor john.
Chorus
So, take it out
Don’t let the liberals run your life.
Take it out
For the health of your children and your wife.
Bill and Hillary have got several
So, that oughta make us careful,
Don’t let the liberals run your life
Take it out.
Leonard looked at me, searching for my reaction.
“Well, what do you think,” he asked?
I thought a moment, then thought some more. What do you say to that?
“Leonard, you have outdone yourself. This is the most unusual song I have ever seen.”
“You liked it?”
“Well, liked is a rather subjective word. Let’s just say you have taken an ordinary subject to extraordinary places.”
“I’m not finished with it yet. It will have more verses and a bridge. I’m gonna get right in it.”
I started to say something and changed my mind. How do you reply to that?
“Leonard, why don’t we continue this next time we meet?”
The waitress came over and asked me if I was through with my breakfast.
I handed her my plate and said, “Honey, I’m through with breakfast and maybe dinner too.”
(To be continued)
“Ok, Leonard,” I said, “just what kind of song are you writing?”
“A protest song, I want to write a protest song.”
I hesitated, but knew I had to ask. “What are you protesting, Leonard?”
“Indoor toilets, that’s what, indoor toilets!”
Well, as you can imagine, that caught me by surprise. I stared at him for a moment or two and thought I’d better make sure I heard him right.
“Now let me get this straight, Leonard, you want to write a song protesting indoor toilets? Is that right?”
“You got it. One of the worst things this country ever did…putting toilets in the house where you eat and sleep.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, I heard a report on TV the other day how that germs from the bathroom were found all thru the house. On toothbrushes, hairbrushes, kitchen stuff…you name it.”
I looked down at my plate of eggs and ham and suddenly lost my appetite. I shoved the plate away and shook my head.
“Leonard, you have spoiled a perfectly good breakfast. I really don’t think this is something to discuss while people are eating. Let’s talk about this some other place, alright?”
Leonard looked puzzled. He didn’t connect his subject matter with his surroundings and see how inappropriate it was.
“Alright, but look at what I’ve got so far, ok?”
Against my better judgement I took the sheet of paper he handed me and began to read.
TAKE IT OUT
BY
Leonard Tubbs
There’s something in your house that ought not be
And something really oughta be done.
The thing we call the throne
Shouldn’t be found in your home
Everyone should have an outdoor john.
Chorus
So, take it out
Don’t let the liberals run your life.
Take it out
For the health of your children and your wife.
Bill and Hillary have got several
So, that oughta make us careful,
Don’t let the liberals run your life
Take it out.
Leonard looked at me, searching for my reaction.
“Well, what do you think,” he asked?
I thought a moment, then thought some more. What do you say to that?
“Leonard, you have outdone yourself. This is the most unusual song I have ever seen.”
“You liked it?”
“Well, liked is a rather subjective word. Let’s just say you have taken an ordinary subject to extraordinary places.”
“I’m not finished with it yet. It will have more verses and a bridge. I’m gonna get right in it.”
I started to say something and changed my mind. How do you reply to that?
“Leonard, why don’t we continue this next time we meet?”
The waitress came over and asked me if I was through with my breakfast.
I handed her my plate and said, “Honey, I’m through with breakfast and maybe dinner too.”
(To be continued)
THE POUR HOUSE CAFE
Saturday afternoon was slow at the café. Most people were out working in their yards or shopping. The few people there were at the round table known affectionately as the “Liar’s Table.”
As I walked in the door I was greeted by the faithful locals at the table.
“Hey, Preacher, what’s that following you?”
The man asking the question was my 300 pound friend, Jelly. Alfred Whitmore was his real name but at 300 pounds you can figure out why they called him Jelly. Plus, he didn’t like the name, Alfred.
I turned around just in time to see Leonard coming in the door behind me.
“Well, Jelly,” I said, “This is my bodyguard. He does all my heavy fighting for me.”
“You’re so right, Preacher,” Leonard said, picking up on the joke. “And a better bodyguard you couldn’t have. “
He held up his hands before the group and in a grave and serious voice said, “Yes, sir, a fellow can get whatever he’s looking for. This left one I call Music and this right one I call Mayhem. Music or mayhem, harmony or horror, anything a body wants.”
About that time, Edith our waitress showed up. She looked Leonard up and down and said, “Well, Leonard, in my left hand is a pot, I call it coffee. In my right one is a pitcher, I call it tea. Hot or cold what’ll it be? And make up your mind I’m in a hurry.”
Leonard grinned sheepishly and pointed with Mayhem. “I reckon I’ll have tea, if that’s alright?”
Edith poured the tea and left the table with a “humph.”
“Preacher, I was hoping you was in here,” he said as he poured a good quarter of a cup of sugar in his tea.
Jelly shook his head and grinned, “Leonard, that tea is already sweet.”
“Not enough for me. Listen, Preacher, can me and you go to another table? I need to talk to you.”
“Gonna git married again, Leonard?” one of the other men at the table asked.
“Naw, but I don’t care to have my business spread all over town. And this table is worse than a beauty shop for doing that.”
“Sure, Leonard,” I said, “let’s go to the back of the café where we can have some privacy.”
We took our drinks to the back table and sat down.
I waited until Leonard was comfortable and then asked him, “Ok, what can I do for you?”
“Well, Preacher,” he said as he pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, “I wanta write a song. You’re a songwriter and I need your help.”
“What kind of song are you writing, Leonard?”
“A protest song, Preacher, a protest song!”
I have to say of all the things I was expecting that would have been the last on the list. I was surprised he even knew I tried to write songs. I ‘m not exactly on BMI’s A list.
(To be continued)
->
As I walked in the door I was greeted by the faithful locals at the table.
“Hey, Preacher, what’s that following you?”
The man asking the question was my 300 pound friend, Jelly. Alfred Whitmore was his real name but at 300 pounds you can figure out why they called him Jelly. Plus, he didn’t like the name, Alfred.
I turned around just in time to see Leonard coming in the door behind me.
“Well, Jelly,” I said, “This is my bodyguard. He does all my heavy fighting for me.”
“You’re so right, Preacher,” Leonard said, picking up on the joke. “And a better bodyguard you couldn’t have. “
He held up his hands before the group and in a grave and serious voice said, “Yes, sir, a fellow can get whatever he’s looking for. This left one I call Music and this right one I call Mayhem. Music or mayhem, harmony or horror, anything a body wants.”
About that time, Edith our waitress showed up. She looked Leonard up and down and said, “Well, Leonard, in my left hand is a pot, I call it coffee. In my right one is a pitcher, I call it tea. Hot or cold what’ll it be? And make up your mind I’m in a hurry.”
Leonard grinned sheepishly and pointed with Mayhem. “I reckon I’ll have tea, if that’s alright?”
Edith poured the tea and left the table with a “humph.”
“Preacher, I was hoping you was in here,” he said as he poured a good quarter of a cup of sugar in his tea.
Jelly shook his head and grinned, “Leonard, that tea is already sweet.”
“Not enough for me. Listen, Preacher, can me and you go to another table? I need to talk to you.”
“Gonna git married again, Leonard?” one of the other men at the table asked.
“Naw, but I don’t care to have my business spread all over town. And this table is worse than a beauty shop for doing that.”
“Sure, Leonard,” I said, “let’s go to the back of the café where we can have some privacy.”
We took our drinks to the back table and sat down.
I waited until Leonard was comfortable and then asked him, “Ok, what can I do for you?”
“Well, Preacher,” he said as he pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, “I wanta write a song. You’re a songwriter and I need your help.”
“What kind of song are you writing, Leonard?”
“A protest song, Preacher, a protest song!”
I have to say of all the things I was expecting that would have been the last on the list. I was surprised he even knew I tried to write songs. I ‘m not exactly on BMI’s A list.
(To be continued)
->
THE POUR HOUSE CAFE
The Pour House Café is your typical small town café you find in most every little town in the U.S. The once white frame building sits on the corner of highway 41A and Slipknot Road. It is the place where problems are solved, gossip is started and grease is consumed.
Square foot for square foot more characters eat here than most any place south of Mayberry.
Things were busy at the Cafe Sunday.
I was sitting with my wife when Leonard and his new wife walked in. Leonard has been married about seven times if you count the times he married the same woman more than once. He is about 130 pounds of rotating conspiracy theory. He never met one he didn’t like.
“How you doin’, Preacher,” he asked. “You mind if me and my ol lady sit with you all?”
“Why, no, Leonard,” I replied. “I don’t mind if this young lady you have with you sits with us either.”
He ignored my remark, but I noticed his wife smiled and shook her head.
“Preacher, you’re a smart fella. Been to school and all.”
Now my wife smiled.
“You think the world is gonna end soon?” he continued.
“Well, first of all, I’m glad to see you taking an interest in eschatology. But, what exactly are you asking?”
“No, Preacher, I’m not asking about beauticians. Do you think the world is coming to an end soon?”
My wife’s allergies must have acted up at this point . She muffled a fit of coughing in her napkin.
“If you’re asking if the world will be destroyed soon, no, not soon. If you mean the rapture taking place, then yes, I think it will be soon. But , what are you getting at, Leonard?”
“Signs, Preacher, signs! The world is going to hell in a wheelbarrow.”
At this point Leonards wife spoke up. “He saw a boy outside with his pants hanging way down.”
“Way down, nothing! He was running across the parking lot and they fell down to his ankles.”
He slapped his hand on the table as he continued, “Ain’t that a sign things are getting bad, Preacher?”
“Well, yea, Leonard, getting strange at the very least. But, I don’t think that’s one of the specific signs Jesus told us to watch for.”
Well, I’ll tell you one thing for sure, Preacher.”
“What’s that?”
“If I’d tried to wear my pants like that when I was a kid my daddy woulda made my world come to an end.”
“Amen, Leonard, amen!”
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