I'll never forget when John strolled into town without so much of a bag on his back. I knew right away he had been drifting the roads, although he didn't have a drop of sweat on him. It was the fifth day of a heat wave; you'd think he would. His eyebrows and mouth were straight lines, but despite his stoic demeanor, people couldn't help to stop and stare. They didn't dare talk to him or even come close to approaching him. For a minute, I prayed he'd sit anywhere…anywhere except next to me.
Not once was I ever called lucky.
John approached me, and his eyes darted to the empty stool as if to say, "Taken?"
I shook my head and noticed how he towered over me. He had to be well over six feet and about as close to two hundred fifty pounds as you could get without going over. I was intrigued, to say the least, by his mysterious aura. Scared out of my mind, I offered to buy him a drink.
"Thanks," he said, his voice gruff. I could tell his throat was parched. That was one of only a few words he said the whole time he was there – which wasn't long.
The beer came quickly, and John lifted it to his cracked lips even more so. When he did, I noticed his raw knuckles. Then I noticed his forearms were the size of bricks. Whoever he fought was recent and didn't fare too well.
"Restroom?" He said, looking at the barkeep.
"To your left. Straight back all the way."
The newcomer nodded and left. He didn't look too worried someone was going to take his seat. This was a fellow you didn't give lip to and certainly didn't take his seat at the bar.
"You know who that is, right?" the barkeep asked.
As soon as I shook my head, he plopped a newspaper before me and double-tapped a headline.
One Dead in Cajun Bar Fight
"Over a woman," the barkeep said in a hushed voice.
"Must have been some woman."
"I don't think he liked how she was being treated." He looked to his right. "Here he comes. Don't let him see it." The barkeep snatched it away and hid it behind the counter.
As he sat, an inebriated jerk called out, "Maybe the oak tree can buy us a round."
I saw John look at his knuckles before gulping down the rest of his beer. I could understand why a mindless knucklehead would mock someone's size if they were short. It was beyond me why someone would poke fun at a man who was, in fact, the size of a tree and whose biceps could have been used as bowling balls.
I didn't know the giant beside me, but I couldn't believe he kept his cool. Maybe it was because the guys he was sitting with it shut him up before he said anything that would light the fuse. Perhaps he didn't want to be another headline.
That was the first time I met John. Although, I didn't learn his name until later. The last time I saw John was even more memorable. Not in a good way.
A week or so after we met, John got a job at the mines. For the next two years, he and I worked together. For what I lacked in strength, he made up for doing the work of three men. Every day.
It took a little while, but John eventually got comfortable around the men, and they got to know him pretty well. While he never said much, his words were always encouraging, and he'd always refer to the mines as a man-made hell. John never shared where he was from, but I inferred it was New Orleans from how he described the food and the music-filled streets.
We were all in the mines one day, and the timber structure started cracking and falling. The men were frantic. Our only exit was quickly being covered. Through all the dust, I could hear the men shouting prayers as if it were their last. As I stood, frozen and rocks pounding my helmet, I saw John. He appeared through the cloud of dust, bent down and hoisted a large section of timber over his head as if it were a toothpick.
Most of the twenty men yelled, "There's a light up above!"
"Go!" John shouted in his loudest voice as the rocks continued crumbling, the ground shaking, and the men, every single one of them, escaped an early grave.
As we stood outside the entrance, covered head to foot in dust, it took us only a moment to realize what was happening. John had saved us. All of us. But no one was down there to save him. Grabbing every tool we could find and mustering the strength only John had, we descended into the rubble.
Then the rumble came. It sounded like the entire earth belched out smoke and gas. We had no choice but to scurry back up above. None of us said anything, but we were all thinking the same thing. This was the end of John.
The mine was closed after that. We all went our separate ways. A year later, I returned to the mine and kneeled where we had put a marble stone marking John's death.
I read the words carved into the stone; nothing could've been more true.
At the bottom of this mine, lies one hell of a man,
Big Bad John
Photo From courier-journal.com
*****
I wonder if this sounded familiar as you read it. Or maybe not until the last line. I usually preface my writing with an explanation, but I purposely didn't do that this time, hoping the last two lines would be a surprise.
In my first Memoir Bullets, I explained that I made a list of memories that foretold me becoming a writer. I look back at experiences that started extracting the storyteller within me. I spent a lot of time in the car with my dad going to practices, games, church and on errands. It seemed like every time we were in the car together, two things were on the radio: Paul Harvey and Johnny Cash's Big Bad John.
I loved the story Cash sang. I listened as if it were my first time, yet hoping the ending would be different. The story about Big John saving everyone's life before dying, taught me beginning, middle and end. It taught me not every story is 'happily ever after.' And it showed me how caring for the character is essential to writing stories. Had I not cared about John, I wouldn't have listened. More importantly, the empathy within my heart wouldn't have been revealed. The song made me sad every time. Stories, good stories, evoke emotions in the reader, creating a powerful connection with the story and making us return again and again. I can only hope my stories are well-creased.
Below are the lyrics. The song was written by Jimmy Dean, but the only version I ever heard growing up was by The Man in Black.
Big Bad John
He stood 6 foot 6, weighed 245
Kind of broad at the shoulders, narrow at the hip
And everybody knew you didn't give no lip to big John
Big John, big John
Big, bad John
Big John
Nobody seemed to know where John called home
He just drifted into town and stayed all alone
He didn't say much, kind of quiet and shy
And if you spoke at all, you'd just said hi to big John
Somebody said he came from New Orleans
Where he got into a fight over a Cajun Queen
And a crash and a blow from a huge right hand
Sent a Louisiana fella to the promise land
Big John, big John
Big, bad John
Big John
Then came the day at the bottom of the mine
When a timber cracked and men started crying
Minors were praying, and hearts beat fast
And everybody thought they had breathed their last 'cept John
Through the dust and the smoke of this man made hell
Walked a giant of a man that the minors knew well
Grabbed a sagging timber and gave out with a groan
And like a giant oak tree he just stood there alone, big John
Big John, big John
Big, bad John
Big John
And with all of his strength, he gave a mighty shove
Then a minor yelled out, "There's a light up above!"
And 20 men scrambled from a would be grave
Now there's only one left down there to save, big John
With jacks and timbers, they started back down
Then came that rumble way down in the ground
And as smoke and gas smelched out of that mine
Everybody knew it was the end of the line for big John
Big John, big John
Big, bad John
Big John
Now they never reopened that worthless pit
They just placed a marble stand in front of it
These few words are written on that stand
'At the bottom of this mine, lies one hell of a man, big John'
Big John, big John
Big, bad John
Big John
-rg
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