No Shrinking Violet

NO SHRINKING VIOLET

Content Warning: This story has some coarse but context-appropriate language and a few racial slurs.

January 1, 1980. I opened my eyes to an otherworldly glow in the bedroom. The windowpanes, glazed with astonishing ice crystals, cast a spray of light and color on my walls. The room, a willing canvas of lath and plaster, had transformed into a masterpiece reminiscent of Jackson Pollock.

Yet, the splendor before me was overshadowed by a dark cloud. At some point today, I must face the police and explain my involvement in a physical altercation with Big Jake. Behind the charm of this first snowy morning in January, a storm, bigger than my imagination would allow, threatened to overwhelm me.

Last night in the village of Trackrock, on New Year's Eve, I got into a fight with Big Jake Darvell, who happened to be one of the most successful and well-known businessmen in town. I acted in self-defense, but the uncertainty of my fate is dependent on Big Jake's next step.

I rubbed the bruised knuckles on my right hand, they hurt. Will he press charges or not? That step might depend on how badly he was injured.

A punch that bloodied his lip is one thing, a broken jaw is another. I hit him hard, and he went down. While I assumed he wouldn't seek retribution before my news article about the incident hit the front page, I couldn't be certain. The prospect of criminal charges forced me to consider legal counsel, and of greater concern, the likelihood that Jake would take physical revenge against me seemed real. Either outcome, both frightening and costly, had me on a razor's edge.

Sipping a cup of strong Folgers at my kitchen table, I mulled over the past two decades in my life—the '1960s and '1970s. I was a teenager in the sixties, a college student through the first half of the seventies, and now a rookie reporter and photographer for the Koosa Mountain weekly paper as I enter the eighties.

Until this past weekend, my twenty-five years of life had been commonplace, except for three big bumps along the way. First, the loss of vision in my right eye four years ago, though a serious physical challenge, had become an accepted part of my daily life. Then the death of my grandfather by suicide, and shortly after that losing my mother to cancer, were two setbacks that haunt me still today and might explain my lack of confidence.

Outside in the snow-covered landscape, every branch and leaf adorned with a sugary load, I turned the key to start my F-150's cold engine. She groaned and snarled but fired up. As I started to move forward, a light-colored pickup roared down the street and blocked my driveway. A white fog of snow crystals enveloped the truck as it slid to a stop. As the mist cleared, I saw the driver, a man wearing a red baseball cap, staring in my direction. He was holding a handgun up to his open window. I blinked just as he pointed the business end at me. Naturally, my immediate reaction was to duck below the dash.

My senses on high alert, I tucked my body between the steering wheel and the brake pedal. For several seconds there was dead silence, the kind of silence where all you hear is the blood thumping in your brains. Then the explosion. Obviously, it was the report of the gun being fired. I squeezed my eyes tight expecting to hear metal striking metal and feel the sting of hot lead. But neither happened. Did he miss, I wondered? Will he take another shot?

A long minute later I peered over the dashboard; the truck was gone. Not seriously considering chasing after the vehicle on the snowy roads, I mentally connected this threat with my encounter with Big Jake the previous night. Suddenly, two outrageous comments Jake made flooded my memory—his raspy voice still resonating in my bones. First, he said, "I want to see that Kodak before you put it in the paper" referring to a photograph I took of him at the scene. Then a minute or so later, after I punched him in the mouth and he lay prone on the gravel, he mumbled, "I'm gunna kill you punk."

The mysterious gunman was gone but left me feeling in mortal danger. What should I do? In the quiet of my truck, I decided to go to the police station straight away. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that the driver's aggression toward me was linked to Big Jake and the photo I planned to put in the newspaper. And my accompanying article will expose Jake Darvell as a bully and an unapologetic racist.

At the police station, I met Officer Husk, one of three policemen protecting the small town of Koosa Mountain.

Before I could utter a word, the officer blurted, "What's your name and occupation, boy?"

"Graylon Bell, I'm a reporter for the newspaper," I answered crisply, but with respect.

"Graylon, what brings you to my desk?"

"Before I start," I said politely to the officer, "please call me Gray, everyone does."

The officer nodded and made a note on his intake form.

I was torn over which situation to describe first, so I started with my fight in the village of Trackrock.

"Last night, I went out to Trackrock to report on a missing seven-year-old boy. The kid had wandered off before the snowstorm. Half the town was out searching for him."

"Yeah, the chief mentioned that to me. He said Officer Borden took someone to the hospital with a busted up jaw."

I took a deep breath. "Well," I said, exhaling slowly. "A black man, Leroy Washington, was one of the searchers, and after we found the boy, the team gathered around the burn barrels in the family's front yard. The kid's dad was there, but his mom rode in the ambulance with her son." I paused to gather my thoughts so that I got the rest of the story straight.

"Go on," he prodded.

"Okay, there were at least thirty people in the yard. And for no reason that I could tell, Big Jake called Leroy a nigger, and Dr. Beaudoin… you know him, right?" I said.

"Yeah, I know Doctor Beau."

"Well, Dr. Beaudoin confronted Big Jake and told him that his comment was offensive and uncalled for and told him to apologize."

Officer Husk laughed. "I bet that didn't go over well. You know Jake's a member of the Klan."

"No, I didn't," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Big Jake leaned in closer to Leroy again and called him a jungle bunny and a few other things. Then, somehow, Big Jake slipped on the wet gravel and fell into the crowd pulling Leroy down by his coat. At that moment, I took a photograph that showed Jake clutching Leroy's jacket and both men falling to the ground. Jake saw my flash go off, so he knew I took a picture."

Officer Husk shook his head. "Big Jake can be such an asshole."

"Well, then Jake jumped up and rushed toward me. 'I want to see that Kodak before you put it in the newspaper,' he yelled."

"So, Jake knew you were with the newspaper?"

"Yeah, I was in his search party."

"Continue," Officer Husk said, tapping his pencil.

"I saw Jake, arms flailing, charging like a bull. When he got close, he reached for my camera and took a swing at my head. I ducked and backed away. He raised his fist for another try, and I punched him. He went down, blood gushing from his mouth."

Officer Husk laid his pencil on the desk. "How tall are you boy?" he said, cocking his head and giving me the hairy eyeball.

I wasn't sure where he was going with the question, but I answered. "I'm 6'2", why?"

Officer Husk snapped. "Big Jake is a helluva big human, I reckon 6'5" and one butter biscuit shy of 300 pounds, and you put him on the ground."

I paused, looking down at the table. "I used to box for the Police Athletic League,” I said thinking he'd see I wasn't just a pencil-neck reporter. Then I added, " I also played baseball in college."

Officer Husk nodded. "What position?"

"Pitcher. Till I got hurt."

"Hurt," he said.

"Yeah, I was hit in the head by a line drive; I lost sight in this eye," I pointed to my right eye.

"I'll be damned. You don’t look blind to me."

I went on with the story. "While Jake was on the ground, he looked up and said, 'I'm going to kill you, punk.' Some other police officer, I guess Officer Borden, was there and got between me and Big Jake. He helped Jake off the ground and took him to the hospital...you already know that."

"Yeah, that was Borden, he was on duty last night."

"Before he left, Officer Borden took my name and told me this situation could involve a lawsuit. He told me to stop by the police station today and fill out an incident report, then go find an attorney."

Officer Husk took a few more notes and leaned back on his chair. "Is there anything else?"

I cleared my throat, "Yes, there is." I told him what happened an hour ago in my driveway.

Officer Husk, with raised eyebrows and a skeptical twist on his face, said, "So, you think Big Jake set up that incident in your driveway?"

"What do you think?" I paused but the officer didn't answer. A few seconds later I added, "Jake did say he'd kill me."

Officer Husk rubbed his hands together and took a breath. "I wasn't there, but I know Big Jake, and he's a blowhard but a good man. I wouldn't pay much attention to that comment."

"So, what should I think about the asshole who fired a gun at me?" I growled, feeling my face flush and my voice quiver. Speaking to an adult, a policeman, like that was foreign territory for me.

"Do you think it was Big Jake in the truck?"

I regained my sensibilities and said, "No, it wasn't him. The guy was younger, and I don't think he was as big."

"What kind of gun was it?"

"I don't know much about guns, but it looked like the kind cowboys use."

"Probably a six-shot revolver."

"Gray, you said he was driving a light-colored pickup. Anything else about it?"

"I think it was a small Chevy and had a strip of rust on the bottom of the driver's door."

"I'll release a three-county alert for all the cops to keep an eye out, no pun intended, for a vehicle matching that description."

*        *         *

In the days that followed, the town of Koosa Mountain buzzed with rumors and speculations about the mysterious figure who had threatened Gray. The newspaper’s editor, despite his initial intention to run a story focusing on the altercation with Big Jake, took a different angle, reporting on a potential threat to one of his own. Could that have been Big Jake's intention to divert publicity away from himself?

As the snow-covered landscape persisted, so did the tension in Koosa Mountain. The local police worked tirelessly to locate the individual wearing the red baseball cap but without success. The town's residents were on high alert, and whispers of the incident reached every corner of the county.

In the turmoil, the newspaper affirmed the significance of the situation by connecting the racial incident in the village of Trackrock to the unknown gunman in the area. Blurring the role that Big Jake had played, and all but dropping him from the story. The front page would feature the threat against Gray and the ongoing investigation with headlines that screamed with urgency to find the shooter.

As the ink dried, Gray became the symbol of a larger struggle. It wasn't just about his personal danger, but of a larger struggle against racial injustice that was an enduring stain on the South.

In the weeks that followed, the citizens of Koosa Mountain rallied behind Gray, transforming his involvement in the Trackrock debacle into a collective call for accountability. The whispers in the town's churches, restaurants, and around kitchen tables turned into a resounding chorus, demanding answers and justice. Officers Borden and Husk, facing challenges in finding the mysterious figure, shared the burden of the community's critical eyes on their investigation.

It became clear that Graylon Bell and Leroy Washington, by standing up to Big Jake were credited with exposing a pattern of racial incidents in the cultural landscape. The newspaper, once a chronicler of the mundane, now stood as a beacon of hope for the voiceless and a mirror reflecting the South's struggle with bigotry and injustice.

A quiet revolution simmered beneath the surface. The once silent majority found their voice, and the town's unity against racism became its strength.

Gray had hoped to become a professional baseball player, but his eye injury obliterated that dream. He now hoped to become a world-class journalist covering big stories and illuminating the facts for all to see. He knows that achieving that goal takes guts, talent, and fearless pursuit of the truth. He knows now that he has those qualities in him.

The next chapter in Gray's life story will not be written with fear but with confidence. As the winter winds carried the desires of a small town's collective spirit, Gray realized that, sometimes, adversity has a way of uncovering the true character of a community. Koosa Mountain, once a backdrop to his commonplace life, had become a stage for a larger story—a story of courage, unity, and the pursuit of justice. As the final words of this chapter echoed through the snowy North Georgia mountains, Gray couldn't help but believe that the events of Koosa Mountain would leave an indelible mark on his career as a journalist.

He remembered a quote from his hero Dizzy Dean, who was both a baseball player and a journalist—"I got to where I got because I wasn't no shrinking violet."