I be down at The Log in the parking lot of the J & B liquor store. The Log is like an old Black men's social club. It's a place to go if you want to know where the hot goods are, where the fish are biting, who just died, and any kind of gossip about people in our circle.
Our circle includes the last of the World War II veterans, right on up through the younger fellows who fought or died in rich people’s wars.
The Log is a sacred place, and the living and dead are equally welcome. The living and the dead don’t engage each other. When we witness the dead, we bow our heads, say a prayer, or just be quiet. The dead ignore us.
Some of the dead died right here on The Log.
In 1954, Alonzo Butler shot Honest Howard to death over a financial dispute.
Honest's last words were, “Nigger, please, show a little respect. Don't come at me with that old shit piece of thirty-two pistol. You could at least have a thirty-eight or a forty-five, man. I fought on the Gothic Line, in Italy, in 19 and 44. I deserve—”
I don't know if Honest got what he deserved, but I have seen his ghost lingering around The Log on three occasions over 50 years.
In 1964, Imelda Collins shot her husband, Robert Collins, to death because he was creeping with her sister, Meredith.
Imelda stood over her dying husband with the smoking gun still in her hand and said, “You know, damn well, God don't like ugly.”
I don't know anyone who has seen Collins around here. However, Imelda has been seen on numerous occasions. I saw her twice myself. Looking for another husband to kill, I guess.
In 1974, in the J & B parking lot about 20 feet from The Log, Hezekiah Roberts sat in his car, placed his shotgun under his chin, pulled the trigger, and blew his head off.
His wife, Wilma, had kicked his ass out and hooked up with a man who was twenty years her junior. Wilma said, “I told Hezekiah to straighten up and fly right, or don't ever come back. I guess he made his choice.”
Mickey Malt, Philip Morris, and Chester Fields were sitting on The Log, passing a bottle in a brown paper bag and talking shit.
“Chester, Mickey, Philip, how you old folks be?”
Mickey replied, “Nigger, who you callin’ old? You older than Methuselah.”
Chester added, “Lucky, you older than dirt and do-do.”
Philip laughed, “Leave homie alone. He don’t look a day over 110 rollin’ around in his sagging skin.”
“Ain’t you gonna say hello to me?”
Surprised, I spun to my left, and there was Imelda Collins glaring at me with her hands on her hips.
Now, I had seen Imelda’s ghost twice, but that was from a distance, and I had never exchanged words or looks with her.
“Why you bad-mouthing me, nigger? Why you saying I’m looking to kill another husband?”
I looked at the men on The Log, and they just looked confused.
“Imelda, Ms. Collins, I meant no harm. I was thinking to myself—”
“You said it loud and clear, nigger. How else would I know what you said?”
“Yes, Mam. I apologize. I will do better and meant you no disrespect.”
“You thinking on taking your grandkids fishing tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, Mam.”
“Stop calling me, Mam. You keep those boys away from water tomorrow, you hear me?
“Yes, Ma— Ms. Collins.”
And just like that, she was gone.
I turned to my Log buddies, and they said in unison, “You keep those boys away from water tomorrow, you hear me?”
Chester said, “We didn’t see or hear her until she said that line about the boys.”
Philip said, “Good God Almighty!”
Mickey took a long drink and passed me the bottle.
I took a swallow, then another, and another.
I joined the three on the log.
“I came down here to ask Chester where the fish were biting.”
We sat there for a while, wiping the sweat from our brows and finishing off that pint of bourbon.
I didn’t know what to make of it all.
I definitely didn’t take the boys fishing the next day. I kept them away from swimming pools, lakes, rivers, and bathtubs.
I been avoiding The Log, but I hear the dead are there a lot more every week, and they are talking to folks. Shit! Why? Why are the dead up in our business? Why did Imelda choose me to speak to?
Again, I don’t know what’s going on, man, but I know I need to confront it at The Log now, before it’s too late.
Wish me luck, or better yet, come on down there with me. It could be entertaining, or it could be life-or-death shit. Come on, let’s get in the wind.