Road Apples by Tim Sanders
April 2, 2012
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Just a Slower Walk I don’t often make house calls, because I am a journalist, not a cable guy. However last week I visited a gentleman at his home just outside of Ringgold, Georgia. He wanted to keep his identity a secret, and asked that I refer to him as Charley Endfinger. When he called to extend the invitation, he mentioned that he had a whole lot of very interesting material that no other journalist had ever seen before. He said he didn’t want to discuss the nature of the material over the phone, because he thought that his line was bugged. “They might be listening,” he said. He didn’t want to say who “they” were, but it made no difference. After all, who can resist the chance to report an exclusive story? Not me. Charley said his home was easy to find because of the two dozen pink flamingos in the yard and the aluminum foil over the windows. He was right. When I arrived, he opened the door a crack and asked for some identification, which I provided. There was what sounded like an enormous, rabid dog barking in another room, but Charley assured me it was only a recording that was set to play every time the door opened. He hit a switch on the wall, and the dog stopped mid-bark. “The flamingos disorients ‘em, and if they jostle the door just a bit, Killer commences his barking. There was other alarm tapes, including ‘Bear on the Prowl,’ ‘Bobcat in Heat,’ and ‘Coyote catches Rabbit,’ but I only ordered the deluxe ‘Pit Bull catches Mailman’ which, if you was to hear the whole thing, includes some very realistic screams.” He then explained how the aluminum foil over the windows and electrical outlets was to keep “them” from using electronic devices to monitor his progress and steal his ideas. “That’s why I got that old rotary phone,” Charley said. “Them push button ones can be monitored, but not the old fashioned rotary phones, which is why you don’t hardly see ‘em no more. They’ll collect ‘em all one day, but they’ll have to prize mine from my cold, dead hands.” Again, he was unclear as to just who “they” were. As it turned out, Charley Endfinger was an artist who worked in several mediums. In his own words, “Rembrandt used oils, Shakespeare used words, and that one feller, I forget his name right now, sculpted nekked people out of marble. I am a man from all senses, as they say.” Many of his crayon drawings hung on his living room wall, and he said they were part of his “American Sons” series. “That one there, he said, is Jimmy Carter, and the next four, the ones with footballs, are Vince Dooleys. I reckon you know the last one,” he said, pointing to the portrait of a man clutching an axe handle. I guessed it was Paul Bunyan. “Nossir, that there is Lester Maddox. I might ort to of wrote his name under it so you’d of knowed right off. Lester’s teeth ain’t near as prominent as Jimmy’s.” In the hallway was a large figure crafted from Popsicle sticks, which resembled a small oil derrick. Charley said it was first titled “Moses parting the Red Sea,” but the staff kept breaking off, so he re-titled it “Jesus Casting his Bread Upon the Waters.” Then he pointed to a homemade coat rack with a small ball of foil duct-taped to the top. “That there sculpture is called ‘Zacchaeus in his Tree,’” Charley said proudly. He also showed me his oil painting, “After the Last Supper,” which only featured the Lord and eleven disciples, because, as he explained it, “I run out of paint, so when people ask I can tell them Nicodemus is in the kitchen doing dishes.” I was tempted to ask about the disciple with the sideburns and the guitar, but thought better of it. Charley was convinced of his own genius, and very protective of his work. “They all want to see my creations,” he said. “Some want to steal my ideas, and some want to take photos. They come sneaking around late at night, and I have to hit that toggle switch and turn my pit bull up full volume. Nobody is gonna see my work until I say so. Which is why I told you not to bring no camera.” Then Charley smiled. “Here’s something I wrote this morning which you’re welcome to carry home with you,” he said. “You can sing it to the tune of ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee.’” He reached into his pocket and handed me a crumpled sheet of paper, containing the following: Just a Slower Walk Eyes are weak that once were strong, When I started this here song. So if I get the words all wrong, It’s my age done caught up with me. Someone fetch my walker please, Having trouble with my knees. When I walk I cough and wheeze, Dear Lord, where did I put my keys? In this vale of toil and sin, My head grows bald, but not my chin. The cup I keep my dentures in. I don’t see, dear Lord, I don’t see. [REPEAT VERSE 1] Metamucil is my friend, I’ll keep it with me ‘til the end. Who cares how much time I spend, On the throne, dear Lord, on the throne? He had several other works on exhibit there, including a huge mural on his bedroom wall to which he had glued several red and black plastic spoons. It was called “Vince Dooley Ascends into Heaven above the Hedges.” When I pointed out that Vince was still alive, he said, and I quote: “Nobody worries about details like that when it comes to art.” Charley saw me to the door, and told me to feel free to mention his work and praise his talent, but reminded me not to use his real name. “I want the public to know just enough to make ‘em curious, so when I have my first show just hundreds of art critics will come.” He also asked that I not reveal his address, and I told him I certainly wouldn’t. When I shut the door it activated Killer again, full volume, and I tripped over a pink flamingo. |