Help Yourself There's Plenty(Michael D. Warner) HELP YOURSELF, THERE’S PLENTY by Michael D. Warner

Copyright 2005 by Michael D. Warner All rights reserved.


After repeal of “Prohibition”, booze and religion remained unholy partners in Southern politics up through mid-twentieth-century America.

In 1960 Alabama was virtually a dry state, never having completely thrown off the yoke of prohibition. State owned liquor stores were operated only in her major cities: Birmingham, Montgomery and Mobile. Such liquor, beer, or wine that found its way to other parts of the state either originated from one of those cities or was hauled in illegally from a neighboring state, or was distilled in Alabama as moonshine. Driving the highways, so long as one remained on a state route, one legally could carry liquor. But once off onto a side road, one was no more than a common bootlegger!

Politicians won office upon solemn vows to curb the ugly devil drink. Pressure from Bible-waving preachers commanding pulpits across the state, teamed with healthy political contributions by moonshiners, served to keep the state dry. In Alabama winning the temperance vote was tantamount to winning the election.

Mine was a “dry” county. No alcohol allowed. The small airport I managed in mid-Alabama was home to nine airplanes. Every day, I fueled aircraft, worked on aircraft, washed aircraft, tied down aircraft, propped off aircraft, rented out aircraft, lived, talked and flew aircraft.

Twenty-five year old Elvis Presley was going strong as King of Rock-and-Roll during the summer of 1960. Hank Williams, singer, song-writer and musician, born in Alabama, had been dead seven years. Refugees escaping the communist regime of Fidel Castro’s Cuba flooded into Miami. The Democrats had nominated for the first time a Catholic, John F. Kennedy, to run against incumbent Vice-President Richard M. Nixon in the upcoming Fall election for the presidency. A breath of fresh air seemed to be blowing across the nation.

June had been a hot month in Alabama and I welcomed the cool of the evening, sipping slowly on a frosty, five-cent bottle of Coca-Cola. Juke box music wafted from loud speakers in the nearby parking lot of the airport restaurant and drive-in, lulling me to drowsiness. Tilting my chair against the wall, I finished my drink and saw that my visitor had disappeared. This suited me just fine. We had run out of things to say soon after our first meeting some three hours earlier.

My eyelids grew heavy. I remembered the early afternoon arrival of the fancy airplane. As usual, the oncoming drone of an aircraft had pulled me outside to squint toward the sound. The ship was easy to spot and I watched the twin grow larger as she approached from the northeast. She crossed the field, banked left to enter a downwind-leg for runway three-five. I heard the pilot throttle back, then watched him make a graceful, descending turn to final. The dark silhouette thickened as wing-flaps extended. Flaring over the end of the runway, the airplane’s nose pitched up and I heard the distinctive “eek” of rubber scuffing pavement as she settled gently on her main tires. By the time the blue and white Queen Air rolled past my building, her nose was level and the pilot was applying brakes.

The ship made a tight U-turn, then taxied briskly back toward me and the building. As I guided her into a parking place, the throaty rumble of super-charged Lycoming engines elevated my pulse. The pilot idled back, then coasted to a stop in the grass.

The airplane resembled a small airliner: Low wing, twin-engine, stubby nose, square double-paned passenger windows. The name of a well-known trucking firm was emblazoned in gold script across her fuselage, interrupting a thick horizontal blue stripe which continued unbroken through the cabin door to the tail. Another sign, much smaller, located beside the cabin door informed anyone who was interested that the Queen-Air was: RADAR EQUIPPED! The vertical tail fin was emblazoned by a three-by-four foot Confederate flag .

I was impressed.

As the three-bladed props jerked to a halt, the air-stair cabin door swung down. The man in the doorway bounded down its steps to plant his feet on the grass. Not moving from where he alighted, he struck a pose with his head turned for a profile view. He snapped his fingers at me.

“Is this Bussellville?” he demanded.

Cocking my head, I looked him over: Late twenties, sandy, crew-cut hair, dark blue blazer, black tie, dark pants, polished black oxfords. A frown wrinkled his lightly tanned face. His hands appeared soft. A large gold college ring weighted the little finger on his right hand.

I gave him a blank stare, the one I reserved for those carelessly arriving from the heavens who had admitted substantial uncertainty as to their precise location on our planet.

Stooping to grab a set of chocks, I ambled toward the nose. “Well,” I called over my shoulder, “it all depends.” I watched him pale.

What is it in human nature that requires one man to vanquish another’s arrogance? Is it the subliminal desire for justice? I enjoyed the stranger’s discomfiture but did not make him sweat very long.

“You’re dead on it, “ I finally drawled. “You’re at Bussell Field. Do you-all need servicing?”

The man in the blue blazer exhaled loudly. I watched his color return. Then he shouted at the weathered face peering from the pilot’s side window: “This is it, Jerry!”

He turned back to me and crooned: “Is the Governor here, yet?”

It was my turn to blanch. My mouth dropped open. “The Governor?” I echoed, “Of Alabama?”

His answer was eclipsed by the sound of tires crunching on gravel which spun me around. Staring, I saw a shiny black station wagon pull into our parking lot. The dust had not settled and the car was still rocking when out popped a uniformed chauffeur who ran around to open the rear passenger door, then to stand at attention. I watched a big man pull himself from the car. He grimaced at the rigid driver, then strolled toward the airplane.

Standing near the plane, I gaped at the state’s top executive who mopped his thickly jowled, florid face with a large red bandana. He crossed the grass in surprisingly long strides. Reaching the plane, he stopped, scowled up at the sky, nodded to me and to the man in the blue blazer, then cast a baleful eye at the sparkling Queen-Air. Towering beside me with a crooked finger holding his white suit coat draped over his shoulder, I could hear heavy breathing. By God, he did wear suspenders!

“Have you got a bar in there?” he grunted to the aide.

“Yassa, Mist’ Jim!” the fellow gushed. “All stocked and ready… plenty of ice too, Mist’ Jim,” he fawned.

The governor went: “Harumph!” then mounted the air-stair door and disappeared inside. The ship’s tail settled alarmingly then rose slightly as Big Jim and the man in the blue blazer made their way forward.

The door was pulled closed and it suddenly occurred to me the Queen-Air was about to depart. Coming to my senses, I remembered the chocks. By the time I had scrambled around the wing, the pilot had begun starting his left engine. I waved my arms to get his attention. He cupped a hand to his ear, and I made the ‘chocks installed’ signal. I saw him turn away for a moment and imagined the acid comment he must have made to his co-pilot who had obviously forgotten to check the wheels.

Turning back to me, he gestured the ‘remove chocks’ signal. Ducking under the nose, I pulled the wooden blocks then backed away and held them high in the air.

With a relieved look on his face, the pilot shot me a ‘thumbs up’ sign which I returned. Then he cranked the second engine while I trotted clear of the airplane.

I had never flown anything so big nor so grand as that 1960 Model A-65 Beech Queen-Air, but then again I had never tried to taxi over a set of chocks with the governor of the state of Alabama on board. Few mistakes could prove more embarrassing to a professional pilot.

Returning to the office, I found the black-uniformed chauffeur standing idly at the front window. The short-billed black beanie was perched dead center on top of his head. He seemed unaware of my presence as I joined him at the window.

I offered: “He’s gonna use one-seven. It’s downhill a little, and there’s not enough wind to make any difference.”

The man appraised me with a careless look. I stared back. Two inches taller than I, thin blond hair shone beneath the edges of the beanie. His oblong face terminated in a receding chin. He did not answer me and at that moment I felt we would never become friends.

I relented. Perhaps my guest merely had his guard up? After all, the governor’s personal driver is an important member of the executive staff, certainly one who would often have the ear of the state’s main man. Maybe, fending off curiosity seekers had hardened him against friendly intrusions. Anyway, I withdrew without further comment.

I stepped outside to watch the blue and white airplane scream down the runway, lift off to establish a shallow climb, then depart straight out, neglecting the standard left turn after take off. This breach of airport traffic-pattern etiquette galled me. As I watched his gear retract, I thought to myself: “Who does he think he’s carrying, the governor?”

I had conveniently overlooked the fact that even on the busiest of days, traffic at my field rarely warranted the safety turn, anyway.

The afternoon passed. I snubbed my visitor, answering questions in gruff monosyllables: “There,” pointing down the hall when he had asked directions to the men’s room, and later: “Over there,” waving toward the airport restaurant, when he had inquired about food.

Because Alabama governors were prevented by law from succeeding themselves, Big Jim was either the current governor, or he was the ex-and-next governor. Having been in and out of office for so long, only elder citizens remembered days when the governor’s mansion had been seriously occupied by another official. The public seemed to thrive upon stories of Big Jim’s alcoholic excesses, colorfully reported by local news hounds. Many citizens secretly admired Big Jim’s audacity in not disavowing stories of him being seen guzzling booze straight from the bottle while seated in his rocking chair on the porch of the rambling governor’s mansion in Montgomery. With loosened tie, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and swatting mosquitoes like a common man, he bantered with reporters on sweltering summer nights. Reportedly, when a fifth had been emptied, the bottle simply was tossed over the railing into the darkness.

Along the campaign trail Big Jim was known to be more than fashionably late keeping speaking engagements. At political rallies held around the state, crowds waited patiently. They loved the big, suspender-snapping, southern-drawling, florid-faced governor. At times of late arrival, Big Jim usually began his speech with:

“Ah’m rill, rill, sorry to be a’comin’ yere so late, mah frens, but we had to come all the way ‘round by (such-and-such) town to get yere to see y’all tonight. As soon as ah’m reelected guv’nah of this great state, ah’m a’gonna build a bridge ‘cross (such-and-such) river at (such-and-such) point, (always a place dear to the hearts of the local audience.) an’ the next time ah gets to come up yere to visit my good fren’s and supporters, ah’ll be right on skedyule!”

The audience loved it! More that that, they believed it, which was Big Jim’s strategy to begin with. Big Jim would mop his face, then sit down amid screaming cheers, raucous Rebel yells, piercing whistles, and thundering applause.

“One-man, one-vote” politics had not yet been realized in Alabama nor anywhere else in the South, and at every annual session of the state legislature the question of reapportionment had been voted down by those who knew upon which side their bread was buttered. Consequently, the rural vote always decided who would plunder the state’s coffers, and all serious campaigning was done in small towns where votes really counted.

I watched with amusement while rabble-rousing politicians criss-crossed the state stumping from one small town to another, and because mine was a small town I got to see and meet many running for state-wide office who had landed at my airport.

I discounted rumors that successful campaigners passed out free whiskey at the evening rallies. Ignoring the talk as dark gossip, I attributed it to natural exaggeration, naively secure in the knowledge that freedom and democracy prevailed in a South I was trying very hard to love, and that our system was the finest in the world. After all, like most others in my generation, hadn’t I been taught that at school? I was an honorably discharged veteran of four long years in the United States Air Force and I believed fervently in our country and in our system.

My eyes opened. Someone was tugging at my shoulder. The room was dim. The soft glow of dusk lit the windows. I scowled at my tormentor. The chauffeur’s face was pale.

“Hurry,” he urged in a high voice. “I done went and locked up the keys in Big Jim’s car. You gotta help me!”

Rubbing my eyes, I rose to my feet. “Huh?”

“The car!” he exclaimed. “I locked up the keys inside!”

I came awake enough to manufacture a sympathetic expression. “No kidding,” I said. “Did you really?”

The chauffeur stepped back. “I drove it onto the grass so Big Jim wouldn’t have so far to walk,” he blurted, wringing his hands, “then I forgot and locked the door before I remembered the keys was still in the ignition.” He wrung his hands some more. “Oh lordy, what am I gonna do? You got to help me, they’ll be here any minute!”

Unhurriedly, I reached for a coat hanger lying on the shelf under the counter. I handed it to him. “Here,” I said to the driver. “You can open it with this.”

He stared at the coat hanger as if it were a foreign object. “I’ve never done it,” he confessed. “How do you do it?”

I took the hanger and strode toward the door. The chauffeur bounded by me to open it, standing back to let me pass. I stifled a smile.

By the time we reached the car mosquitoes were singing in my ears. I slapped and brushed while working the wire between the door seals. I became aware of the drone of engines beating out of synchronization in the distance. The chauffeur tensed. The sound grew louder.

“Oooh, hurry!” he pressed, bouncing on his toes. “That has to be them. Here they come!”

Working methodically, I managed to snag the door button then gingerly snaked the wire hook around its nub. Yanking sharply on the coat hanger, I pulled until the knob clicked up. In the distance we saw the Queen-Air’s landing lights flash on. The chauffeur blanched. I twisted the handle. The driver’s door opened easily.

The chauffeur reached inside and grabbed the keys, then steered me to the rear of the wagon. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” he repeated profusely.

Lowering the tail gate, he gestured and I bent down to look. Cardboard boxes were crammed along both sides of the flat deck. Each contained half-pint bottles of bonded, store-bought whiskey. I looked up at him.

“For the rally in Dadetown tonight,” he confided. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he said again. “Help yourself …There’s plenty!”

THE END

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