Cross-Eyed
Stanley and the Cushman Eagle
Neil
O. Jones
As
a youngster I was often full of energy and running near empty
on sense. I have thought but for the stars being right, my life
and others around me would have been vastly different today. In
short, I’m glad I didn’t kill myself or another kid
with my unfettered zeal for mischief. When I was twelve, I almost
sold the farm to a friend of mine, Stanley.
Stanley was his proper name and the one I called him when I was
around his mother. When it was just us guys hanging out, we called
him Cross-Eyed Stanley. He was cross-eyed as a boy can be, and
being considerate, caring southern boys that we were, we still
called him ol’ Cross-Eyed Stanley. If the cruel moniker bothered
him, he didn’t let it show. But it was hard to read those
eyes that stayed locked west and east.
Cross-Eyed Stanley was a dang good old boy, which meant he fit
in well with the rest of us. Those days, late 1950’s in South
Oak Cliff, the gang I ran with was always looking for something
to get into, break, lose or complicate. Cross-Eyed, like the rest
of us, had his weak spot. Let’s just say it was quickly decided
that Cross-Eyed would never be the brains of the outfit. Mix that
shortcoming in with a big slap of his gullibility, and you see
how we all enjoyed having the boy around.
There was nothing the gang enjoyed more than riding my five-horsepower
two-speed Cushman-Eagle motor scooter. Going all out down five-mile
hill, she could get up to 55 MPH, if the wind was right and you
hunkered down flat against the gas tank. I could only keep it
running about half the time, but during that good half I felt
as close as a twelve-year-old could to flying.
I
often helped Cross-Eyed Stanley throw his Dallas Times Herald
paper route, a big one that ran north of Ledbetter and between
Glendale Swimming Pool and Marsalis Avenue. I’d drive my
scooter, and he’d throw. As fast as I could get her to go,
he’d keep up, hitting his mark with great accuracy. Right
side with a sidearm toss and left side with an over-the-head high
throw. If I saw a cat or a dog, I’d wheel close as I could
and Cross-Eyed would try to bop him with a paper. This worked
the first few times, but soon Fluffy and Fido knew us and would
hightail it out of the way before we were in firing range. Every
now and then, a new animal came into the neighborhood and had
its rite of passage. We’d finish the route and then mess
around and take turns spinning donuts and stirring up dust clouds
in the gravel with the scooter.
One sweltering Texas summer day, my buddy T-Bone and I were sitting
on my front porch staring half-heartedly at the Eagle because
it had mechanical problems again. Actually, it ran fine, but the
rear brakes, the only ones it had, were gone. It had become so
bad that T-Bone and I could wear out a set of black high-top Keds
just dragging to a stop and never getting out of first gear. It
was hardly worth the effort, and we were bored. Then lo and behold,
who should come pumping his bike down the road but ol’ Cross-Eyed
himself. Opportunity had presented itself and through a knowing
glance, raised eyebrow, smile, and a nod, T-Bone and I knew fun
was to be had.
After a usual greeting of arm punching or head scrubbing or cussing
each other a little just to show how dang bad we were, the talking
turned to the Eagle. Cross-Eyed wanted to ride it, and I had to
explain about the brakes. Well, actually, I bent the truth a mite.
I told him T-Bone and I had just fixed the brakes, but they were
a new kind of brakes. I explained the brakes worked by centrifugal
force. “The faster you go,” I told him, “the better
it stops.” I already mentioned Cross-Eyed was sort of the
last one to get on the bus, so to speak, and I thought this scheme
might not work, but I was wrong. It only took a little more lying,
and T-Bone a backing everything I said, and Cross-Eyed a looking
hard at the scooter before I had him. He was standing up on the
kick starter when I reminded him that speed was really needed
this time.
Arden Road was steep, so Cross-Eyed was still convinced when the
Eagle barely made the uphill grade, as it always struggled. Coming
back down again was another considering altogether. T-Bone and
I were lying in the grass laughing and pointing and proud of ourselves
for our deception. I guess it was about the time we heard him
wind out low gear tight and speed shift into high that we both
stopped laughing and looked at each other and, without saying
anything, knew he was headed straight for crossing busy, high-speed
Lancaster Road.
Oh Lord. We had done it now. Stanley (it was “Stanley”
at that moment) was going to be splattered on Lancaster Road like
a busted horse apple, and T-Bone and I would be convicted of murder
and spend the rest of our lives in the pen, breaking boulders
into gravel.
Stanley was halfway down Arden Road when I saw him push his right
foot down on the brake pedal, once, then twice, then frantic stomping
like a man keeping hard time to a fiddle breakdown. I ran to the
middle of the road and yelled “No brakes, Stanley. No brakes!”
His face was white, and his eyes were bulging and almost straight
as he shot past me. He got to the intersection and did a quick
left and right look, for all the good it did, except I guess he
just wanted to see what it was that was about to puree him on
the asphalt. I covered my eyes with my hands and bent over double.
I heard the blast of a semi’s air horn and tires screeching,
which was enough to kill me outright. Then I heard nothing. No
gnarling, twisted metal, just beautiful nothing. Fate smiled as
Stanley had streaked straight across between a car going one way
and a swerving semi going the other until he coasted to a stop
a ways down.
We never told any adults, and it was only three or four days before
Stanley would talk to us. He even rode the Eagle again, when it
had real brakes.
No doubt about it, Cross-Eyed Stanley was a dang good ol’
boy.
***
Neil
O. Jones has completed a book-length collection of stories
based on the quirky characters he knew and the challenges they
faced in his growing-up years in the 1950s and ’60s in the
South Oak Cliff neighborhood of Dallas. He is published in Perceptions
2005. Neil has taught college English courses for over
thirty years. Read more of Neil at www.asouthernjournal.com/neilojones.
©
Neil O. Jones