Lizard Tales (9 page)

W
hen I went away to college, I was pretty broke. In fact, many days I didn’t have enough money to burn a wet mule. So when I came home for summer break, I got it in my head I was gonna work harder than a four-armed tobacco picker and save every dime so I could head back to college and enjoy the next few semesters.

My brother, Jason, owned a roofing company at the time, and even though it was his senior year of high school, he had always worked hard and had great ambition. So, having worked in that industry for many years, I asked him to sign me on.

Jason looked right at me and said I was just a mouse trying to be a rat. Now, me and Jason got along in the workforce like a tornado in a trailer park. When we hit heads, something was gonna get tore all to pieces. Being a good brother, I’ve always tried to see things from his point of view; I just never could get my head that far up my tail. But after many hours of debates and begging and having to sign my life away in blood, he agreed to let me run a crew.

At first I was as happy as a pig at an all-you-can-eat slop trough, but then lunchtime came on the first day and Jason started in on me because I didn’t caulk the flashing around the chimney. With four other guys on the roof, he laid into me: “I know you’re not as stupid as you look. No one can be that stupid.”

Now, I got three speeds: On, Off, and You Oughtta Know Better. And Jason shoulda oughtta known better! We started arguing, and just before it came to blows, Jason said, “You can shut up or step down. Remember, you came to me looking for work.”

I had to bite my tongue then because I really needed the work, so I just turned around and went to walk off. About that time something hit me in the back of the head harder than a cowpoke’s prick in a calf’s tail. I fell off the roof and hit the ground like a human beanbag. I looked up and saw Jason standing there with a boom, which is used to lift shingles to the roof, in his hand, and fire shot through every inch of my body. I got hotter than a June bride in a feather bed. Then Jason yelled down, “If you’re gonna work for me, you’re gonna learn to keep your mouth closed and your tail catching!”

Now, I knew I needed the money, so I swallowed my pride (along with a few teeth), went back up that ladder, and headed back to work. The rest of the summer, me and Jason were up and down like a hooker on Saturday night, but I didn’t ever let it boil over, ’cause I didn’t feel like getting boomed off another house—or out of a job.

As the summer neared an end, I tried to get in all the hours I could before I headed back to school. One Thursday afternoon we were roofing a two-story house, working the very top section together. Naturally, Jason was nailing shingles and I was his laborer, bringing him heavy stacks of shingles when he needed them. I’d have to go to the ground, toss two bundles of shingles over my shoulder, climb the first ladder, walk across the first level, climb the second ladder, then walk the shingles over to where Jason was nailing. Now, it was hotter that day than a two-dollar
pistol at an all-night shootout, so I had nothing on but shorts; I’d left my shoes, socks, and shirt on the ground. I could see one of them ol’ summer storms blowing in and I was actually hoping it would rain for a few minutes and cool everything off.

When I came across the roof to drop some shingles, Jason started in on me about not having a shirt and shoes on. I said, “Bo, we’re roofers, not politicians—and nobody’s home anyway!” Then, before I knew it, he was up and all over me like a fat tick on a dead dog. I had finally had enough. I told him where he could stick his job and I headed to the ladder to get to the ground and leave. The last thing I remember was Jason yelling at me to go to hell, and I yelled back that I couldn’t ’cause they had a restraining order on me there.

I had just started down the ladder when the lights went out. When I came to, my vision was real blurry and all I could see were bright lights and this beautiful face over me. I was just about to reach out to touch it and ask the lady if I was in heaven, when my eyesight started coming back. This lady was so ugly that if her face were her fortune she’d get a tax rebate. So I just figured I must be in hell. Then I heard the sirens and the lady was saying, “Mr. Shirley? Can you hear me?”

I answered, “Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle?” I realized I was in an ambulance—my brother must have hit me again with something and knocked me off that roof. I tried to get up but couldn’t move my leg, so I knew I was worse off than a blind rat in an outhouse maze. I asked her what my brother hit me with, and where he was. But about that time I smelled something burning like grease in the bottom of an oven.

“What’s on fire?”

The lady replied, “Mr. Shirley, that’s you. I need you to stay calm. You’ve been struck by lightning.”

Seems when I stepped on that ladder, it wasn’t Jason that hit me, but a right hook from God Himself. The jolt had blown all the ladders off the house and knocked me all the way to the ground; in the process, it had blown off all my fingernails and toenails and burned off my eyebrows, my mustache, and all the hair in my armpits! The lady in the ambulance also told me that when I hit the ground, I jumped up and started running around in circles like a top spinning for a wrecked doughnut train. She said I kept yelling, “I’m on fire! I’m on fire!” Then I ran over to the pool and jumped in. Well, apparently I hit my head and went unconscious, and then Jason dove off the top of the house into the pool to save me. He pulled me out, did CPR to revive me, and got the ambulance there.

I don’t know what made Jason take that jump. He must’ve been suffering from halitosis of the intellect, but he saved my life. I had to go into surgery to fix my knee, which was more twisted than a box of fishhooks.

As I was lying in the hospital bed that night, my door opened and in came Jason, wheeling himself in a wheelchair. He had poured ketchup on his head and rubbed grease all over his face. Ol’ Jason looked worse than a one-legged cat at the dog pound. I was lying in that bed, feeling worse than death with a hangover, and I chuckled, “What are you doing?”

Jason said, “I just wanted to make you laugh—and didn’t want to leave you here by yourself.”

We laughed and talked and he got me a mirror so I could see all the burns and stitches in my face. I have to admit: I looked like my face had caught fire and someone had beat it out with a bag of bent nickels.

We had a good talk that night. And when Jason got ready to leave, I knew I had to thank him and tell him I loved him—but we just never talked to each other like that. As he was heading out the door, I started trying to thank him, but my tongue kept tripping over my eyeteeth.

Jason just smiled and said, “I know, brother. I’d fight a tiger in the dark with a switch for you, too, but you ain’t gotta say it. In fact, save your breath. You might need it to blow up your next date, looking like that.”

And with that he closed the door.

[Easy]

F
rom the time I was eighteen until I was thirty-one, my best friend was a mountain of a man named Johnny. At the time of his death, Johnny stood six-foot-six, weighed 385 pounds, and had twenty-six-inch biceps. He held the “Fourth Strongest Man in the World” title, which he won at the Met-Rx World’s Strongest Man Championship in 2002. Johnny and I lifted weights every day. He also helped me lead my wife, Amy, to a World Powerlifting Championship in 2002—and she still holds more than twenty state, national, and world records.

Me and Johnny were more beefed up than Brahma bulls on a twenty-four-hour IV feed of Pump-n-Grow. But there was one thing we were not, and that was cocky. In fact, we were the humblest big guys you’d ever meet. See, when we were in our early twenties, we thought we were tougher than two-dollar steaks, and prettier than any cow chewing her first cud. We liked to frequent the bars down on Hillsborough Street by North Carolina State on the weekends, because the bars there would always have penny drafts and girls who were hotter than a mess of collards on the back burner of a four-dollar stove.

Normally we pretty much just walked to the front of the line and got in free, ’cause around these parts, we were pretty well known. One night we rolled into a normal hotspot and started gettin’ wilder than a peach orchard hog.

Now, everywhere we went we were always the biggest and the baddest and did about what we wanted. That night, John Boy got locked on a girl who was finer than mosquito hair split three ways—but a girl that hot comes with a price … and usually a lot of problems. I tried to tell Johnny that we oughtta move on to greener pastures, ’cause I was sure a filly that tight was bound to have a herd of horses with her. But Johnny was more stubborn than a harnessed mule and had to have whatever he set his sights on.

Well, it didn’t take long; ol’ Johnny talked smoother than a baby’s behind after a waxing and about had this girl ready to head out with us. But just then I noticed the bar got kinda quiet. Then I got this real hot burning sensation on my neck, so I spun around figuring I was gonna have to set some fellow in his place. That’s when I came face-to-face with the Tasmanian Devil’s brother. This dude was breathing fire! He was a right stocky ol’ boy too, and I could tell I was about to have my hands full. Just off to his left was a fellow about my height but about 340 pounds—didn’t look like he’d ever missed his momma’s dinner bell. Well, I dug in, ’cause Pops always told me the first punch usually wins the fight. I was about to go through that boy like a Sherman tank through downtown Atlanta.

Then I heard a bellow. Johnny had caught wind of what was about to go down and he stepped up. Now, when I say Johnny was big, I mean he was so big I’d seen his shadow win a fight before. John Boy looked down at this miniature Spartan in front of me and slapped him right in the chest.

“You ever been beat down so bad you were eye-to-eye with the ankle bracelet of a flat-footed pygmy?” he asked. Everybody in the bar busted out laughing.

It was about this time that Raleigh’s finest rolled inside and got between us. I knew something was wrong when the
cops put their backs to us and started talking to the other guys—almost like they were protecting me and Johnny. I heard one of them say, “Now, Bear, you know if you get in one more fight they’ll suspend you from the team.”

Then the cops turned to us and said, “How ’bout you fellas start going ahead and leaving? We’ll keep these boys inside.”

Of course, this made me and Johnny hotter than a deep-fried habanero in hell! We were bigger than these guys and tough enough to tear up a train track with a rubber mallet. But we knew better than to argue with the police. So we decided to head on outta there. On our way out, Johnny grabbed ol’ boy’s girl and stuck his tongue so far down her throat he must’ve tickled her belly button. She didn’t resist none either. Then Johnny looked back at the feller I was nose-to-nose with and he winked.