Chronicles of a Nappi Head

By Michael Paul Fuller

Chronicles of a Nappi Head is a collection of tales that will excite the spirit, it may
reveal times and places that you have never experienced, or it may simply bring back
memories of past occurrences that have been in the back of your mind. Chronicles will take you to
a small town in South Carolina during the early 1920's, where a family man had earned wealth
while others in the town thought that, by right, he should stay needy. Chronicles will move you to
battles in Western France during World War II, with a Negro Army squad in search of treasures;
you will ride alongside a salesman in Chicago for a day; you will follow the adventures of a boy's
journey into manhood, when he tries to hang out in a "grown man's" pool room during the 70s; you
will travel in a mystical train ride in the 60s, and to a hurricane's fury destroying everything in its path, including a lover's relationship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Paul Fuller
• Release date: Jun 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476206820

Michael Paul Fuller

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Michael P. Fuller was born in Evanston, Illinois and received his Bachelor of Arts degree in Political Science and Sociology in 1977 from Southern Illinois University. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife and 2 daughters. Sometime in the mid 90's, I started creatively writing fiction. I guess it was Richard Wright 'Native Son' and believe it or not, Steven King's 'Stand' that may have inspired me to jot down my first untrained ideas. A story would begin without knowing where the characters and plot or lack thereof would end up, which to me was the most exciting part of the creative process. After some time had passed, my first manuscript was complete, which I never read again. Instead, I threw it in a drawer unedited and unread by anyone. I wrote and finished another story and again tossed it into the drawer of no return. I continued my story telling letting the characters, times and places drive my way through the story writing process while piling story on top of story in the drawer of no return. So what was it? Why did I continue to write? I wasn't trying to make a name for myself as an author or try to become wealthy, but for me it was just the time I spend alone in my writer's closet with not a soul to direct my path. I could close my eyes, then bend and twist the story to go and do anything. Now, we've finally come to this. 'Chronicles of a Nappi Head.' It is my first independently published book. ENJOY

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Chronicles of A Nappi Head

❖

Tales from the Back of Your Mind

Michael P. Fuller

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Back Then

Under The Sugarberry Tree

Black Jack’s

A Negro War Tale

Train Ride

Close To The Edge

Pleasing Nate

Can She Have It All

The Storm

The Hunt

Puzzling Rooms

This book is dedicated to my mother, Gertrude ‘Trudy’ Fuller

Acknowledgements

Thank you to all my family and friends, I owe you much love.

To my wife Sheila, you have been the most important part of my life. You’ve given your family, Mishelle, Jessica and I, so much love and support. To all of the descendents of Caroline (Carrie) Fuller from Abbeville County, South Carolina. Big ups to every one of you. To Allen ‘Bo’ Price, who taught me at an early age not to be afraid to win. I can’t thank you enough.

To those who read this before publishing including, my lifelong friend Bruce King, Susie Raynor, Gwen Dubose, Rick ‘Razor’ Marsh and my early mentor Bonnie Kustner—Much Love. Thanks to my editors—Mishelle Rose Fuller and Denise ‘Chicki’ Jones who assisted me through the entire process, boy what a tough job! But we did it.

Never say never!

Back Then

Come on, George whispered. He was kneeling between several feet of tall weeds, his dark face covered in sweat and shining from the reflection of a full moon. Every time I looked his way, I saw Kingfi sh from the Amos ‘an’ Andy Show.

Why you whispering? Nobody can hear us, I said, whispering, too. You know, I heard Wilt scored a hundred points in one game. Did you hear ’bout that?

Naw man, George said quietly. I keep tellin’ you ain’t nobody score a hundred points in one game. I keep tellin’ you that’s a lie. Can’t nobody score one hundred points in a game, he argued. We’d been disagreeing since nursery school.

Wilt the Stilt did it back in 1962 against the New York Knicks, I whispered.

Man, I don’t care ’bout no basketball no way. Shhh . . . Basketball, who cares? If you wanna talk sports to me, talk ’bout how Cassius Clay knocked out Sonny Liston’s ass.

Clay’s a bad dude, I agreed.

Cain’t nobody whip him. He’s the baddest in the world. Ain’t he callin’ hisself Muhammad Ali now?

I don’t know, but James Bond, 007 ’ll whip him, I boosted in jest.

Shoooot, Cassius Clay’ll kill him wit a haymaker right upside the head. George loved boxing.

We sat quietly for a few seconds in the balmy nights air.

You hear Malcolm X got shot a little while ago? I asked.

Who?

Malcolm X . . . you know, the Muslim.

Man, I ain’t hip to no Malcolm X.

Although I had just heard of Malcolm X a day or two before, I peered at George in disbelief, then turned away shaking my head.

What? George questioned, hunching his shoulders and challenging my stare. His mouth was all curled and snarled.

You ain’t heard a’ Malcolm X?

Naw, man, I ain’t heard a’ no Malcolm X.

Damn, man, where you been?

Ha! I been wit you, he said then turned away like he wasn’t going to pay me any more attention.

Man, you know who he is. The dude that talk all that stuff about freedom and what we need to do to be free.

Nope, I ain’t heard of him.

Man, chickens comin’ home to roost . . . whatever is necessary? Ain’t you heard of none of that stuff?

Uh-uh.

I didn’t know why I was upset at him for not knowing about Malcolm

X. I was probably upset at myself for not knowing more about him. I couldn’t make out the odd feeling I had.

It had all begun the night before, when my Uncle Bill and my mother were talking about some things that happened while Uncle Bill was in New York. Evidently, Uncle Bill had some illegal dealings with Malcolm X back when he was still called Malcolm Little. My uncle couldn’t believe ‘Red’ (that’s what they used to call him) had turned into this martyr for black power and civil rights. My uncle was raving, bragging and hating Malcolm X all at the same time, saying that the whole Muslim religious thing was a bunch of who-ew.

Uncle Bill sounded confused about the whole thing, and so was I. I thought once you were a nigga in trouble, you were always a nigga in trouble. It just went hand in hand. So how this nigga named Malcolm Little became this dude named Malcolm X was really a mystery. Uncle Bill just couldn’t understand it.

George then cut into my thoughts: "But I did hear ’bout some police attackin’ Negroes tryin’ to cross some ol’ bridge in Alabama. My Mom said they was kickin’ they asses with tear gas, whips and nightsticks and

shit, man."

Damn! Whips? I muttered.

Yeah, man, like they was unruly slaves refusin’ to pick cotton.

I shook my head in disgust, Damn, ain’t nothin’ change. They still won’t leave us alone. Anyway, the Negroes shoulda just stayed home and danced the twist with Chubby Checker. We laughed quietly, caught up in our own lives.

Yeah, I guess. But they didn’t have to hit ’em with whips, George insisted.

They lucky they didn’t get hung, I mumbled.

We scurried further down the steep hill and rested a few feet from the bottom.

Where’s Dizzy and nem anyway? George asked.

Dizzy, Shine, Pops and Chico were making their way down the railroad track embankment toward the parking lot. They were barely visible; except for Shine’s slicked-back processed hair reflecting the full moon and dim security light hanging from a nearby telephone pole.

Let’s go, George snickered.

We spotted Dizzy sneaking between two semi-trailers into the sparsely lit warehouse. Shine and Pops came up behind him and checked the area, first left and then right. Chico was stationed at his usual spot on top of a small storage house that stood about as high as a basketball rim overlooking the docking area-the same spot that would be the easiest to escape from if things got messy. Chico always fought us for the owl’s perch, as he called it. He claimed that none of us could handle the owls perch but him because just like an owl, he could see in the dark.

Chico swiveled his head, searching for George and me. He spotted us shuffling slowly towards the others. Go on, man, he said just loud enough for us to hear.

We scooted further down the railroad tracks, kicking up loose rocks and dirt off our narrow asses. Prickly weeds and cocka burrs stung our legs and clung to our socks. Cocka burrs always stuck to your ankles.

Hurry, Langston, George whispered, pulling farther away from me.

Dizzy was at the foot of the dock, where he then leaped onto the floor like a panther after prey. He paused, scanning the dock fl oor for security guards. Shine and Pops were right behind him. Pops looked back and spotted us kneeling down at the carriage of the trailer. We called him Pops because he looks like an old man. He waved us forward.

George cut his eyes over at me, Let’s go, Langston.

I’m wit cha, I said.

We sprinted towards the dock, shuffling tiny stones and dust beneath our feet. Then we reached the base of the dock wall, where a crate that Shine had brought earlier was waiting.

Take this shit, man. Hurry, hurry, man. Here, here-get it, get it; take it up to the top of them tracks, Shine decreed, like we had never done this before.

George grabbed the metal crate and hurried along, resting it on his hip and scurrying stiff-legged up the railroad track embankment.

I glanced back to the dock just in time to see Dizzy motioning me toward another crate. I snatched it with all my might and dragged it to the tracks.

My adrenaline was racing and my breathing started to labor, the constant threat of my asthma always a ragweed sniff away. I dropped the crate off about halfway up the tracks and headed back down to the loading dock along with George, who was gasping for air like he had just run a marathon. He just about toppled down the embankment from exhaustion.

We streaked back to the dock as quickly as we could and kneeled against the waist-high wall.

Let’s go in, Langston, George pleaded with me.

Naw, man.

He eyeballed me with a challenging stare. You scared.

I ain’t scared.

Then let’s go.

We s’pose to stay here, I warned.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. But George bounced up and crawled onto the dock fl oor.

Before I could think, I jumped up shadowing him, Man, you gonna get us caught, I cried.

I’m tired of them always gettin’ the good stuff. Let’s get some fo’ ou’self this time, George whispered.

He crouched down and duck-walked along the dimly lit walls. The dock flooring was cool and wet where the refrigeration had seeped through the flimsy plastic strips hanging from the entranceway. Here, right here! Langston get the orange juice, George ordered.

Yeah, Yeah, I grumbled, irritated with myself for actually listening to him. I stepped quickly but grudgingly over to the crate and grabbed it with both hands.

Then like a flash, Dizzy, Shine and then Pops frantically sprinted past me. They pounced over bottles and crates, leaped off the loading dock, and headed straight towards the tracks. George must have seen them coming, because he was already halfway up the embankment. Shit, he didn’t even let me know.

A chubby-ass doughboy-looking man came stumbling out of the darkness of the doorway. I saw the glint of an ice pick in his hand and smelled the beer spewing out of him. If I were paying attention, I would have been able to smell him through the brick walls. He was moving as fast as his bloated beer gut could carry his oversized suspenders and jumbo blue jean overall pants. We always knew that this particular night worker was on duty, but all of us, including George fi gured that we could outrun him up the railroad tracks. I just never expected him to ambush me with an ice pick.

He turned around fast enough to see me before I could move. His eyes were squinty and hard. From the top of the track embankment, we never saw the wickedness in his eyes, but up close, I could see that he was a demon in fat man’s clothing.

Gotcha. The fat man smiled a corrupt snaggle-toothed grin. He swung the ice pick and I ducked out of the way as he fell off balance.

I moved to avoid his next swing, while keeping my eyes on his. He still wore a loathsome look that told me he was gonna try to slice me.

All-all right. Ya got me, I was defeated, trembling from my toes to my short, black nappy hair. Where was 007 when you really needed him? The vision of Negroes being whipped in Mississippi raced through my mind.

The fat white man could barely speak for his heavy breathing, and when he rested his weaponless hand on his hip, I took off again. Although he didn’t try to run after me, he swung his ice pick and grazed my left shoulder. I hardly felt the blow as I vaulted off the dock. I seemed to fly weightlessly in the air farther than I’d ever flown before, almost as if I was flying in one of those Apollo spaceships with John Glenn. I hit the ground without missing a step dashed between the two trailers and onto the tracks. On the way up, I snatched a crate full of eight-ounce Melody Dairy Choco chocolate milk and scampered up the tracks to the top of the embankment where George, Dizzy, Chico, Shine and Pops were waiting.

Damnnnnn, Langston! That fat-ass honky came out a bag on yo’ ass, chuckled a buck-toothed Dizzy.

Let’s go back down there and kick his pudgy ass, Chico sneered as he picked up a carton of Choco chocolate milk, our favorite. He pinched the opening, brought it up to his mouth, and consumed the entire carton without it leaving his big dry lips. Damn that was good, he slobbered. To be so skinny, the boy ate like a pig.

So where’s the juice? I asked trembling, so hard I could barely speak. The adrenaline still raced through my body. My voice was hardly audible. The night’s activity and heavy pollen caused my asthmatic lungs to work overtime. I couldn’t believe that I still had interest in the milk and juice.

I peeped behind us to see the jellyroll of a man was still standing where I had left him. He hadn’t even looked up the embankment for us. He might have been thinking, what if he had really shoved that ice pick in that little boy’s gut and he lay there screaming with his bowels laid out on the wet dock floor? His head was bowed almost like he was ashamed that he’d tried to slice some kid for a few cartons of Choco chocolate milk and orange juice.

I yanked a carton of milk from the crate. The coolness to my throat was refreshing.

Why ain’t you pull mah coat tail when that fat ass som’bitch come after us George?

I yelled here comes The Man, George argued.

None of ya’ll said nothin’, I shot back with contempt staring fi rst at Shine, then Dizzy, then Pops and finally at Chico. They couldn’t look me in the eye. That fat sucker almost did me. Look, he nicked me in the arm.

They moved in to get a closer look.

Damnnn! They all yelled out.

You was fast, Chico said laughing.

Man, all us woulda done what you did. That fat piece of cheese is so slow he ain’t gonna catch nobody, Shine chimed in just to take the heat off their asses for not alerting me. He was always placing the blame on somebody else.

Gim’me that crate, I demanded. I’m taking these home to my moms. I grabbed the crate and slung it across my leg. Ya’ll can go get the ones down there. I pointed down the embankment towards the fat man, who was now smoking a square staring up at us. Y’all shouldn’t have no problems, seeing he’s so slow and all.

Gimme that milk, Pops rose up like he was about to pound me into the ground. And at almost six feet, two inches tall and weighing around two hundred pounds, he could have too. But he was very passive; playing the dozens was the only thing that would make him fi ght.

To hell with you, nigga, I said, and walked away.

Damn Langston. That’s all ours, Dizzy pleaded.

But Dizzy, my mentor, couldn’t stop me from taking this milk. There’s plenny mo’ down the embankment near the fat man, I shot back. Since he ain’t gonna catch nuna y’all.

Dizzy, Shine, Pops, and Chico peered down at the crates laying on the side of the tracks just a fifty-yard away dash from the fat man. That obese swine fastened his eyes on us.

He ain’t gonna move Dizzy, huffed Chico.

Ah huh, Shine whizzed in.

I headed down the tracks towards home, then I turned around and yelled, Come on George. He trotted over to me. Here, man. Take one. I handed George a carton of Melody Fresh Choco chocolate milk. There was some OJ at the bottom of the crate, too.

Thanks, George said. Sorry I didn’t warn you.

No problem, you know you my main man. I turned around to watch Chico bolt down the side of the tracks toward the milk crates, pissed off and complaining, I want that chocolate milk from that fat som’ bitch and he ain’t gonna stop me. Dizzy, Pops and Shine followed close behind. Chico had just about reached the crate when the fat snowman came to life. He must have been playing possum before because as soon as Chico reached the crate he hopped up from the dock.

Here he comes, y’all! Run! Run! Pops yelled. The others glanced in time to see the little swollen man chugging along as fast as he could towards them.

Come here, you little nigga boys! he shouted.

He’s still got that ice pick! Dizzy yelled.

Quick! Get the chocolate one, Chico! Shine shouted, climbing up the railroad embankment. Chico tugged on the crate and began to drag it up through the dirt and weeds.

Chico had slender shoulders and light in the ass. Although his mind said one thing, his body was telling him a completely different story. This time it was telling him that much more strength was needed to bring that crate of chocolate milk up the embankment.

Shine, Dizzy and Pops were already up the hill, straining to see through the blackness and down the side of the track where Chico was pulling, slipping, and kicking the Midwestern dirt as he tried to gather his balance and to move quickly uphill.

Come on, Chico! Dizzy shouted, Hurry.

The ice pick-welding dock keeper was scuffling up the hill as well, and after losing his balance and rolling backwards a couple of feet, he righted himself and continued in his pursuit of Chico. Pint after pint of the coveted chocolate milk began falling out of the crate. Chico tried to grab a carton here and there but lost his footing and fell into of ditch. The crate flew into the air and crashed into a tree, and chocolate milk splattered all over the fat man, who was wheezing and sweating like a tired work mule.

I ran back to get a good look.

Get up, Chico! Come on, get up! Dizzy, Pops and Shine yelled, encouraging him up the embankment and laughing at the same time.

Damn, yelled a weary frustrated Chico. He gathered himself and tussled with the loose dirt and tall weeds as he scrambled up the tracks.

Sitting nearby, the chocolate milk-covered man smirked and raised his ice pick in the air.

Damn, we ain’t get shit, snapped Chico.

Here man. I handed him the crate. You deserve this.

We laughed about how the chocolate covered cow who was now taking a seat on the side of the tracks sipping on a carton of milk that had tumbled out of Chico’s crate. We took a seat on the railroad tracks just yards away from him and joined him in sipping on OJ and some of the sweetest chocolate milk under the moon.

Stealing from Borden’s Milk Dairy on a balmy summer night was routine. We knew we’d see the fat man again next Friday night, and we knew he’d be waiting.

And back then, those were my friends.

Under The Sugarberry Tree

Thank ya, Jonas. I don’t know what woulda happen if you ain’t come along an’ help me, John Polk said. Polk, as everybody called him, stood all of five-foot-four. He reached over Jonas Stillman’s pine wood fence that he and his boys constructed last winter and handed him fi fty-fi ve dollars.

Jonas saw the money in his mocha colored hand and smiled. He counted it and said, Hol’ up, Polk. Jonas counted the money again, only this time out loud. "Ten, twenta, thirty, fo’ty, fi’ty, one,