Downtown Freddy Brown

Downtown Freddy Brown(Clifford Taylor) Sometimes he and I would have a few beers and play a little basketball with neighborhood-friends, at one of the recreational parks in our small town of Dayton, Ohio; “Old English 800” was our favorite and most preferred to have; It was cheap but potent. He would take a couple of good chugs from his forty-ounce bottle sitting on the splintery side bleachers. His long and twiggy index finger of frosty knuckles would tell us to hold the game while he indulged: “Eight-ball rollin’,” he would rap the beer’s nickname out loud, after his last gulp and burp; as a queue of being energized and ready to continue the great brawl with the ball on the court.

In spite of his gawkiness from being a little more full of liquor than the rest of us, his hustle on the craggy park-court was quite trenchant. He was a big trash talker, showing his gap-toothed smirk to an opponent attempting to have strong defense on him. His dinged eyes of tan tint in the sclera, mastering mind over firewater’s matter, were intensely focused on the team enemy’s guise; he skillfully detected the omens of the opponent’s next move. Dayton’s boiling humidity aggravated the stench of malted spirits, crying out for escape from pores: It was Niagara Falls of liquored sweat racing from his head to chest. The large dimension of his core seemed to strain his rawboned chassis, while trying to hold it up for dear life. His dome wavered as if making a Bobble-Head impression, along with each dribble he made with the basketball. It was an implausible thing for us to see when he would race through the center of the key, clumsily gallop through and/or over the other players, and successfully make a shot. “Hey! Downtown Freddy Brown,” we would chant about him while seeing this, in comparison to the 70’s N.B.A. legend, Fred Brown. The nickname was also in humorous reference to his life being criticized as going downhill. It didn’t vex him at all. He was very attentive about his ways and a bonafide optimist about his personal business of being a drunkard and a degenerate. He was respectful, considerate, magnanimous, and fun: The heedlessness of his self-management was often overlooked and free from lame judgments, due to the over-powering of his fine social qualities.

His real name was Dennis Wilbourn. He was a very close friend of the family. I knew him in my Middle and High school years, while living with my grandmother; She chose take care of me as my legal guardian, after discovering I was in the foster system, along with my little sister Jo-Jo, and little brother, Rieco. Dennis was very helpful to my Grandmother, Deucee; That was the nickname the elders of the family and her friends called her; It was from something about her being very dominant in winnings, using deuces from a card deck, in card games. It was accustomed for me, and her other grand children, to call her, Mammaw, or else we would be snake bit. Sometimes she contributed a little beer and cigarette money to Dennis for doing odd jobs around the house. Her frail rumpled hands tasting of the darkest chocolates, nobly reached out to him, holding a small bundle of shaggy dollar bills. Dennis would take the money out of great appreciation, then swiftly head for the Germantown St. beer and wine store, to get a pack of Newports and a jug: He called a 64 ounce bottle of malt liquor, a jug. It really looked like one from having a rounded handle on the side of that colossal sized glass bottle. He was a very good cook too, which was very awarding when she also paid Dennis to watch over my sibling, cousins, the house, and me while she went to Bingo games with her old lady-friends. Already knowing where she was off to, we asked her out of fun, “Hey! Where you goin? Mammaw?” She pulled out her bag of Bingo chips and ink, playfully slinging it around like a little lasso in front of her bony hip side: “Gon’a work,” she responded in self mockery of Bingo being like her job. Dennis (Downtown Freddy Brown) chuckled as she headed for the front door with a little festive shimmy in her narrow shoulders; “Uh-ha! Gon’ head, Aunt Duecee!” he shouted to my grandmother out of cheer: His heart chaperoned that little old lady who was profoundly like a close aunt to him.

My dear grandmother, known as Deucee, and respected by family youth as Mammaw, was the highly anticipated, noble queen of the little Haller Avenue. Castle. Family members treated her household as the headquarters of our little Peebles, Brookshire, and Taylor Empire. Her Royal ears shouted out a warm welcome of all heartfelt wants, needs and cries from her dearly beloved agnates and off springs; holding back the sheer and jet-black coiffure inherited from African and Cherokee tribal ancestors. Her high cheekbones vigorously danced as the main attraction on the rugged stage of her onyx face. A quiet storm of perfumed hair conditioner harmonized with metallic straightening comb percussions, whispered to my nostrils, when she hugged me sometimes. She was often complimented about her hair. “Yeah, it’s that Indian in the family,” Deucee humbly boasted in response. Out of all do respect for my dear grandmother, I gently chided her bluster out of my arrogant pride of Libyan roots; “Naw, Mammaw. You got good hair because you got African in your family.” With a limp wrist swing of her hand towards me, she falsely complained in response, “Aw, gon’ somewhere, boy,” while trying to restrain the smile from her face, urging to compliment my dignified awareness of folk origin.

Dennis and I kept our drinking-buddy relationship secret from my grandmother, being I was under-age; She knew. She also felt I was very bright as a student, and smart as a kid: She didn’t sweat me too much about my little shenanigans on the streets. Dennis may have impishly contributed alcohol to me as a minor behind Mammaw’s back, but he also ridiculed me about my senseless behavior as a juvenile delinquent. He pointed out how unmindful it was for me to be so disobedient to an old lady who decided to take me in at the age where she should be free of, and done with, raising children. Sometimes he showed me certain handy-man skills he knew from working odd jobs in construction, building maintenance, and landscaping. He advised me to do what’s needed to be done around the house without having to be told, in order to earn the respect I demanded all the time. I may have sometimes been inattentive to some of his scolding, but there were certain lectures of social morals and values he gave me that were quite inspiring. “I ain’t got my own pot to piss in but everywhere I go is my home,” he informed me; “I don’t burn bridges f**in over people.” That’s why I’m welcome everywhere I go.” He never had his own place to stay but he never had to worry about food, shelter, and contributions to his habits. He later on in time became addicted to crack-cocaine. Unlikely about a crack-head, He was still trusted, loved and respected by others. Usually, a crack addict would steal from and betray family and friends to support the unbearable epidemic of a drug habit. He never let his insuppressible urges for a fix get between his friends and family with his lust-driven perfidy. He was never in denial about his ways and condition. He was respected for his honesty even while slightly looked down on about his unhealthy means. His honesty was also honored and admired when he gave his un-biased opinions about a debate between others in the family. One of Dennis’ favorite expressions was, “Right is right and wrong is wrong; “Ahuh! Why’a foolin’!” “Downtown Freddy Brown ain’t go sugar-coat sh*;” often said about Dennis in acknowledgement of and respect for his inordinately-trenchant surmise about anything, regardless of how anyone felt about it, and no matter who the disgruntled person was to him.

Dennis (Downtown Freddy Brown) Wilbourne’s non-blood relationship to the family ceased to exist to our family over time, but the reaper of excessive followers of spirits just had to invade our circle to take Freddy Brown away from us. Sclerosis of the liver took my close friend, and uncle-like elder. His heavy drinking finally took a toll on him. As strange as this may sound, his former life inspired and influenced me as a musician, and a Recording Arts student of The Los Angeles Film School today: I mean, the only thing musical I can say about him in reminiscence, is knowing that one of his favorite songs was, “All Around The World,” by Lisa Stansfield. Sometimes he sung, “Been around the world and I, I, I… I can’t find my babayyyy,” to his forty-once bottle of beer, after having so much trouble coming up with the money to buy it; mocking a dance with the bottle as if it was his dancing partner.

It’s the fly right, honest, and diverting habitude he possessed that influences me to be the type of music professional I pursue to be today. His hard work as a survivalist influences me to be able to endure and overcome obstacles. His contribution to anything needed in family matters rubbed off on me, making it to where I’m loved to have around anywhere I go: I now, don’t have my own home. I’m living with long-time friends as the music producer of their small record label. Keeping my word bond, in music professionalism, enables me to be highly trusted and recommended to work and deal with. This business can be very challenging at times but my spirits remain high and lively; People really enjoy working with me in the studio; Dennis always brightened the room up with humor at moments of tension in the atmosphere. Most importantly, there’s one special thing he showed me without intention, pertaining to life and death: I have sort of a problem with alcohol myself. I believe, without knowing and having him as a best friend, I could be a whole lot worse than I am now, and never have a chance be successful as a recording artist, and possibly, close to my death bed by now. His mere death behind excessive drinking influences me to practice yielding to the temptation, of the gluttonous consumption, of that murderous elixir concealed in that bottle. I’m pretty sure he often looks over me, from his new home telling me, “Hey! Keep it together. Don’t go Downtown too soon like ya’ boy Freddy Brown!”