Buddy Dunker

By Donald Most

Join Donald as he returns to his hometown of Bryan, Texas and reflects on the memories of his childhood. From riding bikes and racing barefoot on the streets to the sound of his mother’s sweet voice calling him in for dinner, the memories flood back as he sets foot in his childhood home. But one memory stands out above the rest: the trash-talking clown named Buddy Dunker. Follow Donald as he recounts the wild and unforgettable journey of how a homeless hobo became a legend and how it all began with a chance encounter at a local dog pound.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781649798718

Donald Most

Donald Most is an accomplished writer of four novels already. He is a person of many talents which has led him to produce novels in different genres of the literature world. He has survived thus far as a local truck driver and continues to be a spark in the field of business and invention. He lives in Dallas, Texas.

Book preview

About the Author

Donald Most is an accomplished writer of four novels already. He is a person of many talents which has led him to produce novels in different genres of the literature world. He has survived thus far as a local truck driver and continues to be a spark in the field of business and invention. He lives in Dallas, Texas.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the dunkin’ booth clowns across America, past and present. I also dedicate this book to the city of Bryan, the whole Westside and especially16th Street where my childhood memories were born.

Copyright Information ©

Donald Most 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Most, Donald

Buddy Dunker

ISBN 9781649798701 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781649798718 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023901239

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street,33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

Austin Macauley Publishers

Preface

I didn’t think the 162-mile drive from the airport in Dallas down to Bryan Texas would bring me so many memories, but the closer I got to my old hometown the more memories I came to suffer. It wasn’t like I had forgotten everything I had done in the town that I was now driving into. My days of running the streets in Bryan as a kid was an adventure, a journey that made my childhood memories; unforgettable. Yeah, I could remember those days clearly as I turned onto my mom’s street. How could I forget the games we played, riding wheelies on our bikes and racing barefoot on the street’s pavement. And then there was the sound of my mother’s sweet voice yelling for me to come in and eat just before the night began to grow.

I blew my horn once I turned into my mom’s driveway and killed the engine. It had been years since I last visited my old block and boy was my visit long overdue. The front door opened and there my mom stood behind the screen door.

Son, you finally made it, she said as she came out onto the porch and then down the steps with her arms stretched out to give me a hug.

Hey, Momma, I put my bags down and said and then leaned down to let her put her arms around my neck. My mother’s name is Thelma. After 22 years of standing on her feet as a hair stylist, she had finally decided to go ahead and retire, after she had developed a light case of nerve damage to her spine. She was 62 years young, but still as feisty as she could be.

Well come on in, Son, she said as she attempted to pick up one of my bags to carry it in.

Momma, no! These bags are too heavy. I got ’em, I said. It felt good to be home. I had missed my mother’s house so much that I began to picture things like, the old furniture she once had in the living room, the old washer as it shook the floor once it went into the spin cycle in the den and the place in the hallway where I kept my bike.

I walked into my bedroom and sat my bags down on the floor. Almost nothing had changed in it except for the bed, the curtains and the dresser. The pictures I had drawn of Clint Eastwood, Mike Tyson and The Incredible Hulk still hung from the walls and my football and basketball were both still in the corner where I had always kept them. I stood there with both of my hands to my waist, and as I continued to gaze around in the room, I stumbled across my fondest memory of them all; my toy Buddy Dunker.

Aw, Momma, you kept Buddy after all, I said to myself as I smiled and went to pick up the toy clown. My mother hated Buddy. No, she didn’t hate the toy itself. She hated the actual guy Buddy.

Reuniting with your old friends already, I see, my mother said as she came and stood in the doorway of my old bedroom. I continued to smile as I sat down on my bed and stared at the toy clown. Boy was there so much to remember about the trash talking clown that sat in a dunkin’ booth at a nearby carnival and agitated people from all around through his PA system. That was just the beginning of how Buddy Dunker came to be so famous.

In the days before Buddy was nothing more than a homeless hobo. He wandered from town to town seeking refuge at shelters, city missions and hobo camps. He didn’t seem to be educated at all. His thinking power only ran about as deep as a bottle of wine and he smelled like a bear. He didn’t have any family and his funky sense of humor had made him hard to be accepted by almost anyone. Even some of the other hobos didn’t seem to care too much for Buddy, but all of that had begun to change when he bumped into a young boy at a local dog pound.

My name is Donald Ray Johnson. I was that young boy and it was I along with a world of people that had witnessed an event so spectacular, it would make your heart stop. I’ll tell you how it all happened.

Chapter One

Dunkin’ Booth Donnie

Don, get ready. We’re going to see Donnie tonight! my mother yelled from behind her bedroom door.

Okay, Mama, I said back as I went into my own room to change out of my football uniform.

I was only fourteen years old at the time. I had been attending Stephen F. Austin Junior High School and was playing on the football team. I was a running back for the Broncos and my mother had picked me up from practice just after she’d finished a hairstyling class, she was taking at the university out in College Station. Normally, I would walk home from practice, me and some of my friends, but it was the end of the week and the town’s local carnival came to life on Thursday nights. Today was Thursday and there was nothing that could stop my mom from going to see Donnie.

Donnie was a local dunkin’ booth clown who worked at the carnival just up the street from where my mom and I lived. He was a good man most would say. He had worked two jobs for most of his life, one being a fireman for the local fire department during the day and the other, a dunkin’ booth clown in the evenings. He was the kind of fellow that everyone loved, especially the grown-ups. He knew how to ease the pain and take the stress away whenever someone was having a bad day. That was the gift Donnie possessed. He knew so many people by their names and faces that it was almost impossible to avoid having to pay the $1 cover charge it cost to take a throw at old Donnie.

Come on and have a bite to eat before we leave, and hurry. I don’t want to get to the carnival too late, my mother said as she took some left over fried chicken she had cooked the day before out of the fridge and placed it in the microwave. I myself wanted to go and see Donnie fall into the pool of water in his booth. He didn’t hesitate to give the people a show and me thinking of the act he would play out, once he swam back to the surface made me smile and nearly choke as I shoved the chicken in my mouth. He was hilarious.

My mother and I would always walk together up to the carnival. Well, it would be me, my sister, Tameshia, my mom and a few other children from up the block whose parents didn’t see that going to a carnival on a nightly basis was fit for their household. That was mainly because of the theory my mom used about not wanting to waste any gas on a trip that didn’t deserve to be driven. Whenever we came out and began to head up the street toward the carnival the other kids