Pigeon Toe Pool- A story from Leon's life

One day, by some way, somehow, sumpthin’ or ‘nother, my mama’s car broke down and these two guys helped her get her car goin’. That's how we met. I was 'bout nine. An’ these two guys loved my mother. Anyway she would let them take me places. One was big n’ ‘bout 450 lbs, the other as big around as that table leg there; They were Mr. Green and Mr. Blue, but soon just “Fatty”and “Rifle” to me. They drove around in this raggedy old Cadillac.

Anyway they begged her to let them take me along and she knew they wouldn’ let nothin’ bad happen to me… So I started ridin’ with them, to all the clubs and pool halls. The first time I went with them, they came into this place wearing checkered pants, cuffs up high on their legs, looked like bumpkins. One big ol’ guy and a little bitty skinny one, standin’ together, looked to me like a number 10! When they walked in, the sharks started smilin’ to themselves, an' lickin’ their chops!

And they would hoorah one another, one be tryin’ to shoot, the other sayin’ “MAIN, what you doin’, you don’ know what you doin’! You cain’t shoot pool!” Instead of hoorahin’ the other guys, they would hoorah each other, and it had an effect on the guys playin’ against ‘em. Built up their confidence. They jus’ knew they had a couple of suckuhs. They would act like they were nervous an’ frustrated, jaw back an’ forth, all the while playing a bad game on purpose, an’ the others grinnin’ real big. They would make small bets at first, lose a little money- then build up to big money. When they had ‘em all believin’ they were a couple of country rubes, they would accidently win one… and Rifle say, “You lucky dog, you could never make that shot again!” Then Fatty would act the fool, challenge him, an' everybody to put their money up. All a sudden there would be a PILE of cash on the bar.

Fatty would set it up, and then suddenly Rifle would make a lucky shot too… they would play doubles and an’ rake it all in… Everybody shakin’ their heads… They would go all over an' do this over an’ over again. They would blow in like some comedy act, everybody smiling,’ an’ leave like bill collectors with everybody sad…

One time they came into a place with a whole suitcase full of money. By then I was sort of like their caddy… I carried the money. Must have been somethin’ like $20,000 in there. They would come into a place like that, lay the suitcase down and make the bet. All or nothin’. They seemed to know the crowd they were dealing with. I don’t know how they did it, but this time they got everybody to match them, an’ they found a couple of sharks ready to take them to the cleaners.  I was holdin’ that suitcase, and there was twenty more thousand dollars, piles of money on the table. By now I had learned to play along… act scared, like they were gonna lose my money. I think people trusted ‘em more cause they had a little kid along.

Then something unbelievable happened. The other team had the first shot, and the first guy hit those balls like they were a tree stump, and we all watched as the balls kind of spread in slow motion… just making room for the 8 ball to meander out of the bunch and then the white ball came rollin’ back for second lick an’ very gently tapped the 8 ball and they both plop-plopped into the side pocket. The whole crowd was speechless. Everybody just stared in disbelief.  The game was over, and Rifle started gathering the money. We had nothing to carry it in… he showed me how to stuff it into my socks, into my pants, anyplace you could stuff a wad of cash, an’ we got outta there in a hurry!

They taught me how to play Pigeon Toe. You have to have two things to play Pigeon Toe. A hard stick and a soft flo.  The floor has to have some give… or else you can put a wad of cardboard under one leg of the pool table.  Makes the corner spongey… It takes some practice, but after you shoot, you can tip that table just enough to make the balls come to you…. And down in the pocket. One time I tipped it too much and the white ball almost went in too… I was just prayin’ that it would stop, ‘cause I couldn’t tip it back up when they were all watching my corner.  So I learned how to win before I learned how to play.

Fatty and Rifle decided it was time to buy a new car. They went to the dealership, and told the salesman they wanted a good car, right then. When the salesman seemed a little doubtful, Rifle let him know right quick, there was no question whether they could buy a car, but how much would they pay for the trade-in? The salesman, never fearing that the deal would ever go through, agreed to their terms. Then they took a test drive in a black and white, almost new Cadillac, and then told the guy they were going to buy it right then.

The salesman tried to be diplomatic, thinking that they had no idea how complicated it might be for two poor Negroes to get financing for that car. Then they popped open their trunk and showed him the money. There was around forty thousand dollars in paper bags and the suitcase lyin’ in there. He seemed stunned. We were in their new car in less than thirty minutes. We took off with that salesman standing at the curb with a stupid look on his face, like it was a joke or Candid Camera or somethin’.  We drove around the block laughin’ and came back around waving, and Rifle got out and told him that the Lord had smiled on him today, as he stuffed a dollar in his shirt pocket. The guy just stood dumbfounded. “Oh here’s another one!” Rifle laughed, like he was cleaning out his pocket, as he found another dollar and stuffed it into his pocket with the other one. Then we drove away, leaving him standing at the curb. He just stood there, like he had seen a ghost.

But that car was the cause of all kinds of trouble. I’ll never forget that next Sunday, we drove over to a new club downtown. It actually wasn’t a new club, just an old club with a new paint job. The owner had painted the front blue and named it the Blue Front Lounge. Everything was the same on the inside, but she did put up a new sign on a tree in the front of the place… a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood, she painted white with a blue whale on it. Everybody came from around the neighborhood to gawk at this new sign. It was a big deal… There wadn' much art in the ghetto. They just sat around and looked at it, like it was the Statue of Liberty. They couldn't have been more excited if it was a drive-in theater.

Anyway, we went in and there was an ol’ woman runnin’ the joint, big juicy woman called Ellie Mae. And at the bar was the most beautiful light-skinned woman I had ever seen.   She was young and beautiful…  a nice shape, and legs like butter. When she spun around on that barstool it drove me crazy.  I was just ten, but I knew she was fine. The old woman axed me how old I was. “I’m 42, how old are you?” I said, real tough. She just walked off. I was trying to impress the girl. So she got tough with me… “You got the pot money, big man?”

“Sho do!” I barked and I strutted to the back to put it into the pot. She didn’ scare me. Everybody had to put up two hundred dollahs to play. Non-refundable. If you acted the fool, caused any trouble, they would throw you out, but you didn’ get your money back. This cut down on fights… at least during the games. I put it in. I never took my eyes off of the girl with those fine legs.

Then here comes her husband- young stallion, sharp-dressed player, a golden boy in a black suit, bow tie, thinks he’s a professional pool ace.  He’s got a preacher with him, I guess he’s come along to give him the edge… Divine support… and there’s this little short guy, kind of a little trouble-making leprechaun, bounces in and starts heckling the golden boy with the yella wife. He knows that the guy’s got a tempuh. And one false move and he’s outta there. If he won’t leave, they carry him out. Starts to tease at 'im. The fine lookin' woman swaggers over to the front door, which has been left open. She must have been through this before. All you can see is that stunning figure silhouetted in the doorway. She’s ready to go. He starts sweatin’ and pullin’ at his bow tie.

The midget says “C’mon main, you might as well pull that damn thing off, niggah, you know you nevah gonna make it through the afternoon- you already sweatin’!” Leprechaun laughed like a little demon. Everybody wanted to smack him.

The preacher slugged down his Schlitz tall boy, and I just started prayin’. Golden boy was visibly irritated. The leprechaun would not stop. “An’ I wish you would get outta the way, so I can still see that fine lookin’ woman with the buttery legs in the doah!”

Golden boy tugged at his bowtie, his jaw muscles flexed like steel bands, an’ he looked like he was gonna kill the midget, but later. The little guy had no idea the woman was his wife, but he began to realize that he had bow tie in a tight spot, so he put down his beer and came over to him, kinda like a bully, or a circus clown, lookin’ for a fight… “I tell you what, did you see that car? Did you see the car they are drivin’ in?  You know who she’s goin' home with don’cha? Look at her, she lookin’ at that big black and white Cadillac! An’ she wants to go for a ride!” Golden boy was about to explode. I ducked under the woman, an' I had the keys, I jingled ‘em an’ said, “You wanna see the car?”

She looked back at bow tie, but he was way too distracted. “Can I get in it?”

“Sure you can. I’ll turn the air-conditioning on for you.” I said, smiling like I was about to take her on a date. “Get in the back seat and feel how that soft leather feels on your legs.” I was almost beside myself. She slid in.

Meanwhile the leprechaun finally tripped the trigger inside the Blue Front and Golden Boy jerked off his bowtie and began to strangle that little guy until he finally quit laughing. When he was through, the leprechaun was out cold and they was out of the game. Fatty and Rifle gathered up their winnings while the preacher held his friend at bay. They ran out of that place like it was about to explode and jumped in and fired up the Cadillac. We were two blocks away before they realized one thing. Butter legs was still in the car.

We hated to go back, but we circled around and pulled up to the Blue Front, and she hopped out, grinning and embarrassed... an' probably scared. We watched as she walked towards him. She was either stupid or downright fearless. Rifle tried to think of what to say… “It wasn’t her fault man, we don’t want any trouble, we don’t even know that little debul inside! An we didn’ know she was in da cah…” Bow tie was standin’ there, looked right through us all, and he had a shotgun held next to his leg, leanin’ on the blue whale. He was ready to kill somebody. An' everybody had come outside an' was laughin’ at him.  He had thought she left with us just like the midget said. When she came up to him, he grabbed her by the throat and began to push her down to the ground. He caught her so fast she never made a sound.  With his back to us, everything happened so fast, I kicked our sawed-off shotgun under the seat so Rifle could snatch it up, and quick as a cat, he ran over and took him out.

Just like that.

He whacked him on the back of the head, real neat- like with the barrel of the shotgun. Nice clean hit. Bow tie dropped like an anchor. The preacher said  ”Oh my God!” and even Rifle said “Lawd, lawd…”

An' bow tie never moved again.

Of course, you know what happened next, somebody had already called the police about the midget incident. They came shortly and Ellie Mae gave the whole run down, who did what, and when.

The cops were walking around, inspecting the living and the dead, listening, trying to see it in their minds… one of ‘em finally said, “You mean, this dead guy laying here, he assaulted that little unconscious fellow in there, and then this gal here ran off with these guys in the Cadillac, afraid, and then this dead guy went and got his shotgun, and threatened to do them harm, and then she came back... why I don't know... and then he was holding and whoopin’ this same woman and these guys in the Cadillac came back up to the deceased, who was armed with this shotgun, and took him out?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Ellie Mae uttered unconvincingly.

 “And no shots were fired?” None of it made any sense at all.

 “That’s right. It’s a wonder mo folks wadn’ hurt… An’ dis preacher here will vouch for the same thing. He came wit da main.”

 The cops looked at me, all big-eyed and sad, and Fatty and Rifle, who looked more like a Vaudeville act than dangerous killers. “You men better get that kid outta here…” was all they said.

 No charges were ever filed.

Rifle and Fatty were good ol’ men… taught me how to hustle, an’ how to stay outta jail. My best friends until they died. One died one day and then the other died the next.  I sure missed ‘em.  Sometime I’ll tell you ‘bout when they drove me to Texas to stay with my grandmother for the summer.  They were supposed to take me to the bus station… but just passed it up and kept drivin’…  Big Mama put ‘em to work when they got to Brazoria… Said  that was the worst mistake they ever made…    

B-roke.... It's time to come out of my cave...

Thanks for pulling up this article, but it has been relocated to a blog devoted exclusively to my art and essays on art. Please click on the link below to find "B-roke.... It's time to come out of my cave":


http://russellcushmanart.blogspot.com/p/baroque-b-roke-other-eassys.html  


 

 

 

 

The art of ancient men was often preoccupied with the supernatural, and was thought to have innate powers... and an artist or craftsman was held in high esteem, a special member of the community with creative genius, even spiritual prowess.

You can call this "Russell's rant on Art History: A crash Course on Man and Art, based on one man's opinion."

 

My fifteen minutes of fame… shared with… LEON!

With all of the previous rant being said, and completely out of my system, these are exciting times… “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” and this week I have enjoyed the haunting and unique honor… or random celebrity, of receiving two books, in which the authors wrote a little about me and my art… with illustrations! One is an autobiography by one of my major art patrons, who celebrates a major sculpture commission I did for her (and the City of Bryan) as a milestone in her life, and a step in her recovery from the lifelong abuse from “the man that I was married to,” as she calls him. In Muggs - Finding Myself, Muggs Gardner, in true Baroquean one-upmanship, shares private thoughts and actions that will keep Bryan social circles swooning and shaking it off for years. Her story is so brutal yet glib, it would surely be a great screenplay. I am grateful that my sculpture in Bryan’s Heritage Park brought her closure and fulfillment, but sickened at what she had to go through, including the humiliation of her deceased “man that she was married to,” to get there. But nothing less would entertain the readers of today… Off with his head!

The other book, Navasota - Images of America, just recently published, in fact to be released officially at the Horlock History Center soon, is a project of the Texas Center for Regional Studies, headed by Dr. Robin Montgomery and tailed by his equally talented daughter, Joy. In this book full of historic photos (many of which I provided), sandwiched between a tribute to the eminent artist Kathleen Blackshear and the prolific Brooklyn pitcher Virgil Garvin, are back to back, full page tributes to me… and Leon Collins. If I doubted that I was history… literally, here the Montgomerys have erased any doubt. It is interesting… humbling… humorous that Leon and I will share the same page … at least in this volume… for posterity.

I’m sure there are those that will find some kind of justice in this. I am working on it.

Like two sides of a coin, the yen and the yang, the two opposite poles of art, neighbors on mainstreet where, like we used to say about Little League, “anything can happen and probably will.” The one good thing about this B-roke age of hyper-communication, besides all the geniuses at every street corner, and the hilarious You Tube videos, is the guarantee that every day will bring a surprise, if not a revelation.

Leon Collins

There is just no way, even after twenty years of knowing and dealing with Leon, to begin explaining him. But since he is the most successful artist in the Brazos Valley, I guess I should try. Leom and I have been good friends for many years, and long before he took his art seriously. For nearly three decades, I have known him as an extremely creative person, one heck of storyteller, and one of the best antique pickers I have ever known...

He came to my art studio after he came to Navasota almost thirty years ago, and explained he was an artist and wanted to pursue an art career, and I took an interest in him and encouraged him. At the time another black artist, David Woods was setting the brush on fire with his black genre art, and I knew there was room for more. Then later one day I met him walking down the street, (he never drives, never had a car, ever) and he was carrying some antique fire buckets he wanted to sell. He was not painting, but had found he could make out better as an antique "picker." I purchased quite a bit from him over the years, always talking about his talent, and him pretty much ignoring my advice.

Now it is the other way around.

Then around twenty years ago another artist, Junior Tenneyson came up with an idea that inspired Leon and soon he was exhibiting in Bryan and even Dallas. You may wonder what inspires him, and it is simple: making money. His plack and white ink drawings sold pretty well... better than me for sure. Then he got bored with it and set aside painting for several years and went back to picking. When his daughter Molly, whom I have known since she was a little monkey that would climb me like a tree and take off my glasses, began to paint several years ago, he picked it up again. Especially when he saw how well people recieved her work. Leon has always loved the action of trading. And he responds to friendly competition too.

In the past few years, no kidding, he and Molly have painted and SOLD hundreds and hundreds, maybe a thousand paintings. She has pretty much moved on, but Leon has become a local, even a statewide phenomenon. TV interviews, magazine covers, articles... and more money and attention than he ever dreamed of.

He and Molly began by setting up outside of Tejas Antiques, and selling to tourists passing through. They painted on boards, doors, even over other artworks. Dwayne Garner gave him a home inside the place eventually, and since then Leon has eclipsed the rest of the shop. People love his paintings and buy them by the carload. He goes to art shows all over Texas and sells out. Important collectors make their way to Navasota and look wantingly up and down the street for him. They hardly ever leave empty-handed.

Leon has taught us a lot. He did all of this without advertising, or a website, even a business card. He never looked to the chamber of commerce or the art club or anybody for help. Yet he has created the single most successful marketing campaign Navasota or any town has ever seen. He smiles, talks about his life, and paints like crazy. He is always courteous and friendly. His countenance is infectious. He may be the most prolific artist Texas has ever produced. In the process, his art has become a true economic stimulator for Navasota, Texas.

Leon has proved that "word of mouth" is the very best form of advertising; That people buy when you get their attention, and are worthy of it. That sometimes the art is just what people take home as a souvenir from a cherished acquaintance.

Leon has also re-enacted an old quotation of Picasso's...

Walter Foster once publicly confronted Pablo Picasso about the claims by others that he was the greatest artist in the world. Foster wanted to know, did he consider himself such? Picasso humbly negated such talk, and I paraphrase: "When I consider myself and the great artists of the world, such as Titian, Giotto, and Rembrandt, I do not consider myself great in that sense, but I am merely and entertainer, who has, to my best ability, exploited the frivolity and cupidity of my contemporaries. Although mine is a bitter confession, (to some admirers who might hear this) it never-the-less has the merit of being sincere."

Leon has had a ball. He has never gotten all wrapped up in art talk or concern about materials or framing or anything. His may be the most pure, unpretentious art I have seen made. He gets a thought, and within hours it is drying in the sun. His works are composed without much research or visual resources, and he depends a great deal on his imagination and his personal experience. If he finds an old closet door, or a canvas screen, he paints on it. One day he is painting bluesmen, the next cowboys and indians. One day missions, the next day slaves in bondage. He does whatever appeals to him, unrestrained by the academic structure of design, drawing, or proportion. Or "good taste." If his colors seem garish and his subjects edgy, then too bad. That's what he did that day, no apologies. The off-the-wallness of his work seems to be part of the charm. He makes no pretense about what he makes or what it might be worth.

He often walks into my art gallery, sincerely wanting to help me, and suggests if I really wanted to make some money, I should buy some of his and double the prices...

And he is right!

Navasota High School, 1914

It seems on days too numerous to mention, things have had amazing serendipity at Blues Alley. The "coincidences" surrounding my multi-faceted contact with Tary Owens are a good example. And then, while writing the previous blog about Kathleen Blackshear, even more of the same...

It all started when I got frustrated with Wikipedia. They erased my erasures, and put back very undesirable things in an article gone bad, due to relentless hacking, which I have more than a casual interest in. So I decided to get into the whole Wikipedia thing, to better understand it. I spent a whole day writing and rewriting a new article, just for Wikipedia. I chose to write about Kathleen Blackshear, as she has been neglected and is not found in this, the most popular of Internet encyclopedias. I had found a bunch about her on the Internet and in a book that I had... but I needed more... something deeper.

About 3:00 that Sunday afternoon, as I furiously pecked away with my two forefingers, Leon Collins walked in with something to sell... very rare and amazingly appropriate: a 1914 Navasota High School Annual, in those days called the Sachem.

I acted uninterested, as Bert began to look at it and read aloud. "Illustrated by KATHLEEN BLACKSHEAR! Art Editor..." She did the cover, the illustrations inside... there were quotes inside by her classmates about her. The price was going up. Leon knew it was something special. I was marginally aware of him, told him I was busy, to come back when I was through with the article.

He came back about thirty minutes later, hoping I was ready to deal. I was finishing the additions to my article, which I had just conveniently gotten from the old tattered annual. It was time to deal. Our eyes had just made contact when a woman bounded into the store, "My husband is looking for anything done by Kathleen Blackshear." Our eyes made contact again.

"Now Leon, you need to either..." Leon stopped me and reassured me the annual was mine. "This is your store..." He smiled and shrugged as we then turned our attention to the couple, looking passionately for a Blackshear piece, staring at the annual, wanting an original painting and hoping we knew of one for sale. We talked about the artist, the scarcity of her work, and gave a phone number of her living relatives.

This kind of thing happens about two or three times a year. But this time I was not only writing an article about her, but Leon had found our first actual Kathleen Blackshear artifact for our museum, just in time for my article, and brought it in minutes before these folks arrived. They looked upon the old annual with true interest. Hey, at least it was something tangible. I was more convinced than ever that the old book needed to be here on display at Blues Alley from now on, so others can come bounding in and see bits of our special heritage, and keep the legends of Navasota alive. And at least on February 20, 2011, Kathleen Blackshear was not forgotten, but as much the topic of conversation as if she were still about town.

Sadly, as then, most people in Navasota today have no idea who she was.

And the Wikipedia article? It was rejected and deleted swiftly, that very day, by a volunteer "deletionist" who gave little hope of it ever being used. That story is not over.

Caught up in the moment, with people breathing down my neck as I tried to negotiate with Leon, I'm sure I paid a little too much for "The Sachem." But, Hey, these pictures and this story were worth something...

The two Navasota beauties? Marie Danford and Melba Camp.