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 27 Crack Days

Updated: Aug 9, 2010

He had no compassion for crackheads, no feelings for dope fiends, but through life on the bitter harsh network of streets on Galveston, Forrester and Wheeler, he knew them suckers well, knew them well because he was once part of the gang. 

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By age 20, Jeff was buying and selling crack on the dark and dungy streets of Atlantic and Third, on the back alleys of South Capitol and Martin Luther King, in the stairwell of Frederick Douglas on Alabama -- some of the worst housing projects this nation has ever seen.

And he smoked it too. Smoked it constantly as if every single toke was going to be his very last. Every waking minute he thought about the intensity of the high.  The excitement and euphoria and how it made him feel on top of the world and the depression and irritability afterwards which was easily wiped away by inhaling more vapor, more crack.

Fortunately, he was clean now.  The sleepiness, the paranoia was long gone.  The all night crack binge where you would smoke until all your resources were gone, then you would find a way to appropriate more resources that could be bartered for more crack.  Whether you would break into people's cars and steal the loose change from the glove compartment or steal copper wiring and plumbing to buy another bag – all this and more was now a distant and forlorn memory of the past, just like the memories of Anacostia was fading away and dissipating.

For Jeff today could claim victory—no crack, no booze, no crime-- proud to claim that he is now a recovering addict going on for 8 years plus and counting.  Never to look back again at the dark and dungy streets of crack cocaine.

But the sad truth of crack/cocaine was the bitter toll of what 15 years of continual drug use had taken on his mind and body.  Jeff had used PCP so much, that it destroyed his brain cells.  From time to time, he couldn’t remember things, events, that his daughters would mention.  Even his parents, both in their 70’s now, seemed to have a better memory than Jeff.

But there was one thing that Jeff was extremely sharp and proficient --and that was in the business of home improvement, particularly plumbing and piping.

Then there was the incarceration at Hagerstown for five years.  He shaped up in prison and was eligible for early parole in three years, but his early freedom was taken away and he served another two because he was caught right in the middle of a nasty prison riot—or more like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

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Hagerstown Correctional Facility, MD

In the early 80s, Jeff for the most part used and sold PCP, was just a boozer and smoked weed after work.  But he did not use crack until a girlfriend got him started one long night in her house. 

But even when he was in High School in Maryland, Jeff knew that he would be smoking crack one day.  People all around him did it.  It was the natural thing to do as if he was ordained to smoke.  So when an opportunity roared its ugly head in the form of a curvy, full-figured women, he got totally onboard for a very long cruise.

Patricia Davis was smoking crack, chasing the dragon and flying high like a kite over the Washington Monument and above tall buildings in Manhattan.

Jeff, only 18 and making money hand over fist selling PCP wasn’t interested in trying out a new drug.  Tonight he just wanted to be with his girl and hopefully he might even get lucky.  

He tried to kiss her.  She refused at first.  Then she succumed putting down her pipe and giving him a huge lip lock, blowing a lungful of smoke down his throat. 

Jeff dropped to the floor.  He coughed so loud then his mind starting spinning. He had inhaled the vapor so quickly, that he began to choke uncontrollably.

“No, not like that,” she said. “Like this,” she showed him as she took a long toke of the glass pipe with the rock placed at the end.  She inhaled the smoke deeply and methodically.  It flowed in gently and smoothly like textured silk.

Then Jeff tried it and within a mere seconds the crack entered his bloodstream and rushed up into his brain, making him feel like he was on top of the world.  “This is fantastic,” Jeff said. The rest was history.

He was strong, zestful and was just 18.  He had money at his disposal because he bought and sold.  But PCP was not as addictive, was not as powerful and came nowhere near the damage that crack cocaine would do.

He started using it right away, and before he even realized it, had become his Lord.  He got addicted right away and it got progressively worse and worse.

 When Jeff started using, he worked at the local Pizza Hut on Oxon Hill Drive.   The job was decent—not backbreaking--but the pay did not make ends meet, and he usually blew his entire week’s earnings within a few days, not on food, clothing or other necessities.  But to satisfy his habit – his new habit.  That left him the whole entire week flat broke and without pay.

But as an enterprising businessman, Jeff found a way to buy drugs on credit.  He would buy crack with a promise to pay. 

But he couldn’t last until payday.  He would already be suffering from withdrawal, and then would blow all his money in a matter of days.

It was then, that the collectors started looking for him.  Came out with a vengence on payday.  The dealers would visit the Pizza Hut store, not looking for a meal but for a pay up, interest included.  “Not here,” his coworker would say. He left work an hour ago.”  Meanwhile, Jeff would still be at work, but in the back breakroom hiding, closely listening to footsteps or to signs from his coworkers that it was all clear.

The dealers would patrol the streets of MLK and look up and down the back alleys.  Sometimes, they would drive through the alleys, with the high beams turned on looking for any signs of Jeff, interrogating even the winos on the corner of MLK and Mellon if there were any signs of him passing.

But Jeff was good at hiding.  Perhaps it was his sneakiness.  Cunning like a fox. Bent to the ancient of business of survivial.  He had the stamina and the instinct to keep on keeping on.

“Look, I know my checkered past makes you very uncomfortable, but don’t worry about it you hear.” “You don’t have to worry about a thing Man.  I gotcha covered.”

For all things, Jeff was an entrepreneur.

Jeff also found a way to make pizzas and deliver them for crack.  He would make about 5 or 6 pizzas and sell them for $10-$20 worth of crack.

But crack wasn’t the only thing, Jeff was after. Some times, he would even sell pizza for a lapdance from a showgirl working in Clancy’s on Alabama and Good Hope or for something more in a back alley by South Capitol or Savannah Street.

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These were the things he enjoyed, the things he lusted for.  But nothing was ever close to the satisfaction he got and the desire for more crack.

Before crack hit the town with a vengeance, there was PCP – a sedative -- which the users colloquially called dope.

Dope was a downer.  Only big time druggies used it and it was controlled.  Unlike crack, an addict knew when to stop.  Usually $20 was enough to get a guy high.  Any more and you would start to hallucinate and have seizures and could find yourself in an emergency room due to overdose.

Cocaine was also a powerful stimulant that was sold and used in that neighborhood.  The buzz created a sense of well being and users felt strong and invisible and wiped out any fear they had of the cops.  Now all things seem possible, even things that are superhuman.  But the high lasts as little as 10 minutes.  Crack users find themselves chasing this high by repeating again and again until it ravages out of control.  It is a vicious cycle that just eats you away.

Here is a video posted by Alexis on her channel: Trashwire from the corner of 7th and E Streets, NW, Washington DC.