Sock Full Of Pennies

By Danny Dean

Rusty Sledge is the smallest and poorest child in his class. He's also the brightest. For these reasons, he is beaten-up and bullied to the brink of suicide. When his dad tells him to stand up for himself or face a beating from him, Rusty makes the only weapon available to him, a sock full of pennies. With it, he levels the playing field and his overgrown nemesis, Barry Buckley. Then with the help of three mentors, a school teacher, an old coal mine operator, and a West Virginia State Trooper, he turns his sock full of pennies into a world-wide coal mining entity that he uses to go after the corporate bullies and crush a ruthless coal cartel and their illegitimate union. This story will grab you and hold you in Rusty's world until you read the last ironic word, and leave you with the lesson that if you meet adversity head-on, it truly does get better. Remember, do unto others as you would have others do unto you. If you don't, they may have a sock full of pennies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danny Dean
• Release date: May 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476433431

Danny Dean

Danny Dean was born and raised in the coal fields of Southern West Virginia. He was graduated from Williamson High School. After serving in the Air Force, he studied Mine Technology and Mine Management at the local college and worked in underground mines in Mingo and Boone Counties in West Virginia and Pike County, Kentucky.He holds a Mine Foreman's certificate and was a member of a mine rescue and first aid team. He is now living a lifelong dream, traveling the country in an RV with his wife, Kat.

Book preview

SOCK FULL OF PENNIES

by

Danny Dean

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Mine Dog Press

On Smashwords

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Sock Full Of Pennies

Copyright 2012 by Danny Dean

ISBN# 9781476433431

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Thank you for downloading this copy of Sock Full Of Pennies. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is greatly appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This book contains some violence and may not be appropriate for younger or more sensitive members of the family.

I would like to say thanks to the following people:

To Joy Mining Machinery for the video.

My wife, Kat, for listening to all my scenarios and ideas, and all of her input. Thanks for helping design the cover, also.

To my sons, Danny, Mike, and Adam, for your honest critiques.

To my good friend, Werner Feil, trusted treasurer of Gulf Coast Elks Lodge #2782, for all his brutal advice.

I hope you enjoy reading this story of Rusty Sledge and his sock full of pennies as much as I enjoyed writing it.

This book is dedicated to the child who sits alone at the corner of the playground, wondering why no one will play with him. It is also dedicated to all underground coal miners, a special breed of people.

The poem The Coal Miner was written by Danny Dean in 1980 on Island Creek Holden #22 Mine Road in Delbarton, WV in honor of the labors of Tim Moore, the best coal miner I ever knew.

Before the story about Rusty and his Sock Full of Pennies, here’s a short video from the leading mining machinery manufacturer, Joy Mining Machinery, with a short history of coal mining technology:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=649dZPCTD30

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SOCK FULL OF PENNIES

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CHAPTER ONE

Hello, Daddy? I had a hard time findin’ you; I didn’t know you was in the hospital. I’m in the Monongalia County Jail again. This time they’re accusin’ me of somethin’ real bad an’ I didn’t do it Dad, I swear. Can you help me one more time Daddy? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong this time; I really ain’t, Barry Buckley pleaded with his dad. The deaths of the two little boys and a crossing guard he had run-over in a stolen car didn’t enter his mind. He felt entirely justified in what he had done; after all, wasn’t Rusty Sledge ripping him off for everything he was supposed to inherit?

You never do nothin’ wrong, Son. You’ll have to face this on your own; I can’t help you no more. There’s nothin’ else I can do for you. Besides, you’re supposed to be in the Weston State Hospital. Why ain’t you there? Graham asked, but his son didn’t answer. The old man hung up the phone. He had been waiting for a call from Rusty, but it didn’t come. Rusty had a hard life in his early years, partly because of Graham and his son, Barry. Graham didn’t blame Rusty for not trusting him, but after the phone call from Maggie, he sincerely wished things could be different.

Rain was pouring on Williamson, West Virginia. Sitting on the north bank of the Mighty Tug River, the citizens of this small mining town braced themselves every time it rained, fearing the shallow, timid little river would rise from its banks and live up to its name, flooding everything in its path, taking homes, crops, and livelihoods, leaving death and destruction in its wake. But it wouldn’t happen on that day, for on that day, the sleepy little county seat of Bloody Mingo County would be spared. The rain kept pouring even as the bright sunlight found its way from behind the nimbus clouds, dappling light all around the little town, raising hopes for a floodless end to this two-day downpour.

The devil’s beating his old lady, said Patrick Phelps, junior partner in the law firm of Phelps, Sloan, Markham and Phelps, as he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out his office window. He was pacing a bit, nervously jingling a mixture of coins and keys. It was his first day working for his father, one of the most prominent attorneys in the area.

What did you say? asked Allie, his paralegal assistant and part-time girlfriend. She had met Patrick singing karaoke at a little bar on 26th street just off the Marshall University campus in Huntington, West Virginia. They had had a good relationship since they first met, no strings attached. Patrick had arranged her job with his father right after she got out of school. She was a five-foot-nine bottle blonde with a tad too much make up. She had a round face, a small pouty mouth with big lips and large hazel eyes. Pleasantly pretty, being a few degrees shy of beautiful but her bubbly personality and her spontaneous, effervescent smile made her attractive.

When I was a kid and it would rain while the sun was shining, my granddad would say the devil was beating his old lady, Patrick replied.

You know you’re meeting with Graham Buckley in his hospital room at 8:30, right? Allie asked, looking at the clock.

Yeah, speak of the devil, Patrick said. Then he turned to Allie with a grin and said, Sorry for the cliché, but I’ve heard a lot about Mr. Buckley and none of it was nice. My father moved down here from Huntington to be his corporate attorney when he and Ben MacGregor started Buckley Mining Company. In all these years I’ve never met the man, but you wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve heard about him and his son Barry. Guys like Barry gave this county the name ‘Bloody Mingo’, from what I’ve heard.

Patrick Phelps was a rather dapper young man, always wearing the most expensive suits and shoes. His naturally wavy brown hair was always kept neatly cut above his ears, and the pencil-thin mustache that traced the outline of his lips from the corners of his mouth all the way to his nostrils was always kept trimmed equally well. He was a small-framed man of average height, average weight, and average looks.

I don’t know about all that, Allie said. I always heard it came from the union disputes up in Matewan and also the number of killings here on the streets of Williamson around that time. There were two families that were fighting a feud during that same era, too. I guess people around here must’ve been pretty mean back then.

They still are, Patrick said frankly.

You’re gonna know what the definition of mean really is if you don’t get your butt up to the hospital on time. Markham can’t make it by 8:30 and Sloan and I have to be in court this morning. Buckley’s a stickler on punctuality and he can be a real pain. So get his file and get your rear end out of here, Jack Phelps yelled as he stormed into the office.

Jack was an older version of his son Patrick except for the large bald spot on his head and some graying at the temples. When he was at the office, he was all business.

Yes sir, I’m heading up there right now, the younger Phelps said, sounding more like an errand boy than the newest addition to the law firm’s shingle. Talk about being a real pain, Patrick thought as he grabbed the Buckley file and hurried from the office.

Although this was his first day working as an attorney, the young barrister knew what to expect as he entered Graham Buckley’s hospital room.

What the devil are you doin’ here? Why does Phelps always send me some greenhorn? I need a real lawyer that knows what he’s doin’, not some kid right outta high school. Where’s Markham? Mr. Buckley shouted with every word becoming louder. Patrick Phelps hadn’t even had a chance to open his mouth.

Did you bring my old will? Buckley was obviously becoming overwrought, with his face blood-red and his hands shaking the bed railing like he was trying to escape. The phone call from Barry had upset him.

Yes sir, the young attorney said, as he pulled the document from a file folder and handed it to the old man. I’m Patrick Phelps sir, and I thought you might want to look at it before we do anything. Patrick was stalling, hoping Markham would be there soon. Before Patrick could do or say anything, Graham Buckley snatched the papers from Patrick’s hand and shredded them into a thousand pieces and threw them into the air like confetti at a wedding. Pieces of the document were still in the air, making their way to the hospital room floor when Andrew Markham walked in, followed by Doctor Sean McLeary, head of cardiology at McHenry Hospital.

Markham gave Patrick a head-and-eye gesture that sent him to the couch in the corner of the hospital room with his briefcase in his hand. Patrick wanted to at least appear to be as useful as he could so he opened the attaché and pulled out his notebook and pen, then he stood and eased back over to the others, keeping his distance from Mr. Buckley. He was hoping not to further upset him.

Doctor McLeary was a very large soft-spoken Irishman who commanded respect as soon as he entered a room. His calm, quiet demeanor and his reputation for saving lives created a presence that was felt by everyone that knew him. He had a very disarming smile that served to defer even the worst fears of his gravest of patients.

When he looked down at his patient that morning, he saw a desperation he’d seen in patients many times in the past. This time it was on the face of an old man who knew in his soul he had only minutes left of a very rich life which had been lived without regrets, but was filled with disappointment, complicated by his many transgressions. He was a man whose successes in the coal fields of Southern West Virginia and Eastern Kentucky had afforded jobs for hundreds of men and women who had thousands of mouths to feed. In the process, he created commerce for a town which otherwise may have been a depressed and desolate region and personally became rich beyond belief.

While some knew Graham Buckley as a ruthless land-grabbing mine operator who would remove the tops of the beautiful Appalachian Mountains to fill his pockets, Doctor McLeary knew him as a selfless man whose heart was as big as his bank account and whose generosity had built a world-class cardiology center onto the hospital.

Wait Mr. Buckley, you shouldn’t be doing this right now. You’re not well, the doctor said, but his admonitions were mostly unheard by his patient. The old man was determined to continue what he knew he had to do on that day to keep a promise he had made 35 years prior and protect the reputation of a lady.

Markham, I want you to write down and execute every word I say and I mean . . . Markham’s gaze had drifted from Mr. Buckley’s eyes for a split second as he glanced at the document lying all over the floor which had just been so violently destroyed. LISTEN TO ME! the old man shouted.

Ok Mr. Buckley, I’m listening, Markham said, cowering a bit.

Buckley settled some, then began. My car collection goes to Jay Leno. He’ll laugh when he hears that, he said with a chuckle, as a small momentary smile crossed his wrinkled lips. Mr. Buckley had been on The Tonight Show two years earlier touting his book about philanthropy while Mr. Leno joked about his philandering.

The two men had shared an interest in antique cars and each had a collection that was unique to the other’s, but Buckley’s had boasted more cars from the earliest years of automobile manufacturing.

How about the last one alive gets all the cars, Leno had joked and Buckley had said, You got a deal. Graham Buckley was a man of his word.

The lake-house and boats go to my youngest son. He needs a place for his design studio. He needs a car so I’ll leave him the Lexus as well. Buckley continued, I want the main house, the riding stables and the horses to go to my only daughter. She’s always been the equestrian of the family and she’ll probably never let a man give her these things.

Just then, Graham Buckley’s body tensed from the severe pain that had crossed his chest and traveled down his left arm. Doctor McLeary pulled the emergency chain and shouted, Get a crash team to room 312 STAT, code blue! Then he put his stethoscope to his ears and listened to the old man’s heart. Mr. Buckley waved him away with a gesture of his left hand as he struggled to regain his composure. One minute later, the crash team entered the room.

Now listen, this is the most important part, Buckley said as the doctor gave his crash team an unknowing look and slowly shook his head. I want to leave all my money, my 62% of Buckley Mining Company, all my real estate and mineral rights including my commercial properties and everything else I might not’ve mentioned to my first-born son. You got that? My first-born son.

I got it Mr. Buckley, but what about their names, don’t you want their names . . . Mr. Buckley . . . Mr. Buckley . . . , Markham was yelling now as Patrick Phelps picked up the phone and started dialing. Graham Buckley was dying.

As Doctor McLeary and the crash team pushed the lawyer aside and began to work, the old man quaked from one end of his strickened body to the other and then back again. Every fiber in him quivered and then stopped. He took one final breath, closed his eyes, exhaled and was gone. As the smell of human excrement filled the hospital room and the heart monitor went from its steady beep, beep, beep, to the continuous, monotonous sound of death, a look of peace came over his face. His recent advance directive stated he was not to be resuscitated, so the medical team that had been working on Graham Buckley so fervently had to stop, back-off and let him slip away.

CHAPTER TWO

School had been in session for three days and the bloodshed between him and Barry Buckley had already started. Rusty was trying to pay attention, but his mind kept going back to grade school and all the trouble he had with Barry in the fifth grade, all the bullying, and the blood that was spilled on the playground unnecessarily. He was also still hurting from the gash over his eye and the potato-size knot on the back of his head from the assault that was done on him on his way home three days earlier, on the first day of school, but it was the pain in his ribs that made walking and breathing difficult. Barry Buckley was in the seventh grade now and he had a friend.

Rusty Sledge looked at the clock and class would be over in about 15 minutes, time to leave. He already had the makings of a sock full of pennies with him. His hand went up as his teacher turned from writing on the chalk board.

I’m not quite done yet Rusty, but I can see something can’t wait, so what is it? the teacher asked.

I can’t wait for the bell. I gotta go to the bathroom right now.

So go, I’m almost done here anyway. Read ‘On The Beach’, by Nevil Shute.

Thank you. I’ve already read it, the little boy said as he crossed the front of the classroom followed by sneers from some of his classmates.

If you’re so smart why are you so ugly? said one brainless wonder obviously referring to the acne which had made its home on Rusty’s face, a constant source of ammunition for the bullies who needed to belittle others so they could feel better about their own pathetic lives. Zit-face and Raggedy-Rusty were some of the other names they called him as he stood to leave. He was crossing the front row of desks and he almost made it to the door, when someone stuck his foot out. He tripped and dropped his books, and notebook paper with a book report written on it flew everywhere as laughter filled the classroom.

"I just wish everyone would stop laughing at me and leave me alone," Rusty thought as he picked his books and paper up off the floor, ran down the hallway and out the door. Why doesn’t anybody like me? I haven’t done anything to them.

The school bell was sounding its final ring for the afternoon. As its clamorous noise saturated every room and hallway in McHenry High School, as well as the surrounding neighborhood within a five-block radius, it sent hundreds of students into the hallways simultaneously. School was out for the day.

The sounds of lockers being banged open, books being thrown in and the metal doors being slammed shut again brought joy to all that heard it as they made their way out to the buses that waited to take them home, all except for Rusty Sledge. For the first time ever, he had left school early. He was hiding at the upper end of the big bridge, and one bus wasn’t waiting at the school.

Rusty was the brightest of his class, and the poorest. He was very small for his age and his tattered hand-me-down clothes were always one or two sizes too big, so were his rummage-sale tennis shoes that had to have the strings tied around his ankles to keep them from falling off. To complete the ensemble his homemade haircut made him look like he was off to see the wizard, sticking out over his ears in the Beaver Cleaver years before the Beatles, when little boys kept their hair cut short.

With his impoverished appearance, the other boys thought they were better than he was and because of his scholastic achievements, they resented the little boy, so they made fun of him and bullied him mercilessly.

Rusty Sledge was born being the second son of Steve and Maggie Sledge. The firstborn son had Steve’s appearance with his dark skin, light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He was by far his daddy’s favorite. Rusty looked more like his mother with his kinky red hair, light complexion and more freckles than were socially acceptable. Unlike his mother’s, his eyes were the brightest of light green, the first thing you saw when you looked at him. He was small for his age and seemed to be frail. His dad paid very little attention to him unless he got into mischief like boys do, then he would whup the little boy, hard.

The third and fourth children born to Steve and Maggie were girls. Bonnie was the oldest and looked like Maggie; Ruth was the youngest, looking like Steve. They were both angels in their father’s eye and could do no wrong.

Steve Sledge was a truck driver delivering supplies to the local coal mines for a nickel over minimum wage. He was slightly over six foot with a medium build. When Maggie met him, he was very muscular, but after ten years of bar-hopping after work, the muscles had disappeared and a beer-belly had taken their place. When he couldn’t quench his frustrations at the bar, he would take them out on Maggie and Rusty. The other three children somehow seemed to escape their father’s wrathful eye.

Maggie was a pretty five-foot redhead. Although she was considered to be bony by her friends, she still had curves they all envied. The many freckles on her fair skin and her copper-red hair with her dark green eyes betrayed her Irish heritage and inflamed every man who saw her, despite the hump in her nose and the scars over both of her eyes, caused one morning when she asked Steve one too many questions about where he’d been all night.

Maggie didn’t ask for a lot, and she never got a lot. Anything extra Maggie had ever gotten, she had to work extra hard to earn it. It had been that way all her life, it seemed. Even as a child she would clean house for neighbors and do their laundry and ironing so she could get nice clothes like the other girls had, not used clothes from rummage sales and thrift stores.

Now with four kids to take care of, Maggie was doing other people’s ironing, which they would drop off and pick up at her house on their way to and from work or other duties. One day Maggie was ironing shirts for an attorney in Williamson when a memory from a decade previous came to her. She had been married to Steve for just a little over a year and Steve Junior was an infant. The young Irishman had just returned from his honeymoon. He told Maggie of places and things she had dreamed of all her life and gave her the attention she already yearned for, so soon after her marriage to her husband.

The sweet reverie of that day, which had consumed her body and soul, leaving her weak and shaking was suddenly shattered when she heard her husband explode with vulgarities and profanities. As he thundered through the screen door to the front porch of the little shack he shouted, Thur he comes, he’s roundin’ the layst ridge. Wait ‘til I git my hands own him, I’m ‘onna beat his lil’ ayss ragged. I got farred today an’ he’s the reason fur it, he said as he jerked his belt off to use on Rusty.

No, Steve, you’re too mad, and you’ve been drinkin’. You’ll hurt him. Besides, when that boy pushed him down from behind the other day you told him not to let it happen again or you’d whup him. Don’t you remember?

I’m his daddy an’ I’ll whup ’em anytime I take a notion, Steve said as he laid his belt down and pulled out the makings and rolled a cigarette. He was livid. Maggie gave him a look that would stop a clock. It would be her actions on that day that would change the lives of every member of her family.

By the beginning of the eighth grade the bullies had been picking on Rusty for four years off and on, with a short hiatus in the middle caused by a sock full of pennies.

On Friday, November 22, 1963, at about the time the news of President Kennedy’s assassination came over television, the little boy was out on the playground of his tiny grade school in McHenry, hidden deep in the mountains of southern West Virginia, in mortal hand-to-hand combat with Barry Buckley. Although the two boys were within a month of being the same age, they weren’t even close to being the same size.

Barry was the largest boy in his fifth grade class, but not the smartest. His stocky frame had a large muffin top around his beltline and even though he was a little tall for his age he was much heavier than his classmates. Because of it, he carried a chip on his shoulder, but even with his extra weight, his dark complexion and light blue eyes, along with his thick black hair made him what everyone considered to be a beautiful child who looked like his daddy, that is, everyone except Rusty. He was a good inch shorter than the rest of the kids and at least three inches shorter than Barry Buckley. When he took his shirt off, the few friends he had would tease him about the bones that protruded from his shoulders, spine, and rib cage. His arms and legs looked like a pile of sticks held together by balls of chewing gum.

Barry Buckley had a dislike for Rusty Sledge from the first time he saw him. Even Barry didn’t know why he hated him, but he did, and the fact that Rusty had won the school spelling bee had just made things worse. Barry had been eliminated during the first round and when his dad heard about it, he wouldn’t let him live it down, either. Being the richest man in the county from the many coal mines he owned, he expected Barry to be much more than Barry would ever be capable of, and he knew it.

Graham Buckley had raised his three children for the previous five years without the help of their mother. She had caught Buckley spreading his seed one too many times and she packed her bags and left without even looking back. Some say she had a nervous breakdown, others say she went back to her old boyfriend, Graham’s brother Seth, but no one really knew for sure. Everyone except her husband knew she had secrets of her own.

Barry, the oldest, began acting out. He seemed to want revenge for the abrupt absence of his mother and became the neighborhood bully, but he didn’t bully anyone like he bullied Rusty. Pushing him down from behind didn’t seem quite enough, so Barry yelled, Tomorrow, your face is gonna’ be bleedin’.

The next day, the fight started as soon as Barry was close enough to strike the little boy, knocking him into a moving playground swing, throwing a little girl on the ground. Blood was streaming down Rusty’s face from a gash above his hairline caused when the swing hit him in the head. He looked around for a teacher to help him but he had just seen them running back into the school just before