Blind Horse

Czech president Vaclav Havel and other dissidents began to ask, ‘How can we live the truth in a culture based on a fundamental lie, especially since the lie is in our heads? How can we begin to live into the truth? We desire so much more than just things. We want something to hope in, a reason to believe.

So in his country as in other iron-curtain countries, people began to set up what he called ‘parallel cultures.’ It was not a counterculture because, he said, it was impossible for us to live totally outside the system.

You cannot live outside a culture. But you can create within it zones and spaces, where you can become who you really are. It is in such places that one can speak the truth, where one can gather with others who share that truth.

This went on for years, not without difficulties, but for years. Over time, the truth became stronger and stronger, and at a certain point people began to walk in the streets and to say to the system, ‘We don’t believe you anymore.’ And the system fell.

It fell, not because of the power of Western nuclear equipment, but because the people said within the system, ‘We don’t believe you anymore.’ It was a vision that had been nourished within those parallel cultures.

As a college student I had my fair share of jobs. One of the most , shall I say, curious was laboring on a construction crew, in what was then rural Davie several miles to the west of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.

The project consisted of 180 two-story townhouses with eight units to each building. I began this career digging footers, laying steel rods, and placing concrete.

I began in February working form 1:00 until 5:00. (My Bible college classes all ended by 12:00. The pay was $3.00 per hour. Believe it or not that was big money back then and probably ages me with those who tell stories of walking to school miles uphill both ways. A few fellows I knew from college were already working there and helped me get the job.

During that winter and into the spring there was 8 – 12 of us at a time from the Bible college working at this construction site. “White ears” was one of the names used for us that I can repeat. We were called that due to our college dress code required that a fellow’s haircut show skin behind and above the ears.

Now construction jobs are not known for the gentility and civility of the crew. One might think it would be a difficult place for Bible college students to work. That is probably so, but what made this particular job, as I said – curious – was that besides those of us from the Bible college most everyone else was part of a motorcycle …er...uh…social club. Their colors bore the insignia Sons of Dixie. All that is except for the mob hit-man who was laying low, but that’s another story, oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell that, so keep it between us, OK?

By the time our semester ended in early May only two of us “Bible Boys” remained. During the four months, I guess, two dozen or more guys came and went from the college. Most left in a huff; offended by the bikers’ language, attitude, taunts or boyish pranks some of which involved pistols. Their self-righteous pontifications could be heard in the dorm halls in the evening out of ear-shot and arm-reach of their tattooed rapscallions.

One fellow, a nervous kid from Atlanta, quit after shots were fired into the top of the pot-a-pot he was evidently sitting in. I guess he had justification to leave, but my fellow “we-are-going-to-win-the-world-for-Jesus” buddies simply exhibited a self-righteous “better-then-thou” relationship with the bikers which only prompted “good-humored” abuse. Some of the pranks, questions, responses, and expletives I must admit were funny.

Anyway, to move this tale along…. I was able to fly under the radar and not rile up the bikers and was a hard worker. My work ethic earned me respect from several of the club members. One of the problems some of the preacher boys had was leaning on their shovel as they expounded on the word of God rather than digging the dirt.

I remember one fellow who quit after being told to “get up off your __ ___ ___ fat ass and get to work.” I’ve wondered if he was more offended by the profanity or for being called out for being fat and lazy. Guess I’ll never know but I have an opinion.

The construction company, Dixie Drywall, lacked efficiency. The ability to complete tasks and projects was evident in that we were about 75 completed buildings behind schedule. They were the poster child for the adage: “drugs and alcohol are the road to construction”. Though there never seemed to be any urgency, buildings that had not even been begun were supposed to have been occupied by clients who had already paid for them.

Skipping ahead to get to the beer – I hadn’t forgot. One night in late June the foreman and three others were murdered by a rival club, the Outlaws. The foreman was the national vice-president of the Sons of Dixie gang …er… I mean social club.

I went to the funeral – seemed to be the right thing to do. This was the only biker funeral I have ever attended. The roar of what seemed to be 500 Harleys which made up the procession was startling. I stood out a little, I might have been the only male not in colors. My attendance did make an impression on my fellow workers. After that I was not isolated as the Bible guy.

Well a new foreman was promoted, Barry an ex-marine, His brown shoulder length hair bleached blond by the sun, framed his piercing steel-blue eyes. A friendly smile and a laid back demeanor hid a very determined taskmaster Barry commanded respect or fear you knew instinctively not to get on his wrong side. The efficiency on the job site quickly improved. Progress began to be made as work was directed in an efficient and organized manner. Whether out of fear or respect everyone began to put in a full day’s work (more or less).

On a Tuesday, after lunch break about two weeks after the funeral, Barry returned from lunch in a cloud of dust and grinding gears as his el-Camino roared across the job site fishtailed sideways to a stop in front of the shell where I was at work on the second story slab with a few preacher boys and self-medicated non bikers.

In a voice that revealed Barry had enjoyed a very liquid lunch and was both angry and threatening commanded me to down off the slab and into his car. I did, and we pealed off into a cloud of construction yard duct. Later the kids from Bible college told me that they thought I was going to be killed and had begun to pray for my soul.

In silence, Barry drove. Basically he stayed on the road; never did more than two wheels leave the asphalt on either side of the road. He took me to a bar. Well, they sold beer and you could sit so I guess it was a bar. But how may bars have you been in that were in a 15’ x 40’ unpainted concrete structure with an exposed tar paper roof for a drink on a Tuesday afternoon. (If you have had fundamentalist Bible College experiences you will relate even more with the dilemma I faced.)

Barry ordered a beer. I took a chance and ordered a Pepsi. Only after finishing his first and starting his second as I sat in silence sipping my Pepsi did he speak. Barry told me the story of the murders. His best friend had been one of the victims. He had been to see the police and somehow even had photos of the crime scene. I didn’t ask him how he came upon them. Then he asked me to pray. So I did.

We met a couple of more times after work; he taught me to read simple blueprints and gave me the job title and position of labor foreman and a $.50 raise. That was a big deal in 1974; I was now making &3.50 an hour! His reasoning was that since I was the best “___ ___ ___ worker there”, I deserved it. And who was I to argue with Barry, I had seen the result of that with others. I like my face just the way it is.

Oh, and since I was the best laborer he gave me a leather nail apron and told me I was no longer to do any work; but to follow him around and carry his beer. That’s what the nail apron was for, to carry his beer.

Ok, I know you have questions, I even know what they are but I never asked him to explain, it was just one of those things, you had to be there. Also I do not enjoy pain and even more so dislike seeing my own blood flowing from wounds to my face or the discomfort of breathing with cracked ribs.

Barry seemed to take great satisfaction going into the offices of the sales force and property owners with me in tow and then asking them if they knew who I was. They always said, “No”. He proceeded to tell them that I was the best ___ ___ ___ worker there and he had just given me a 50-cent raise and guess what my job was now? “He carries my beer!” I just smiled and opened and handed him another.
I guess he made his point, whatever it might have been, because after a few days of carrying the beer I was back tying steel, sweating in the South Florida sun and directing the other laborers.

Another perk of my new position was to collect a few dollars from Barry and go to the local 7-11 to buy beer and ice for the day each morning. Other than chastisement from my fellow Bible boys – who considered it sin to buy beer and a mortal sin to contribute to someone else’s vice I enjoyed the time out of the sun. I believe that this may have been the moment I began to stray from the fortress of fundamentalism.

Now this story would be sweet if Barry got saved and is now a missionary to bikers worldwide, but as far as I know he’s not and isn’t. But we did talk about Jesus some and he said he had a different opinion about Christians. Sometimes he or another “club” member would ask me to pray. Barry told me one time that if I ever was to preach a sermon he would come to a church to hear me. Even though it has been many years, I often thought of Barry when I had the opportunity to fill a pulpit.

I hope I see Barry again someday, maybe in heaven, ….and I’ll carry the beer.

Blind Horse

Sunday

Thoughts on Changing Culture

Thursday

Sunday

Four things never to do

Saturday

Something to get your shorts tangled up

Wednesday

But I Got to Carry the Beer

Hope and Despair

Thursday

On Being Invisible

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