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DEMPSEY'S COLD PLASTIC COUCH
by Don Drane
[Editor's Note: Back in the racially segregated deep south, frequenting "tonks" was frowned upon by the older citizenry, white and black alike. Don Drane writes this yarn of times gone by when "boys would be boys" and rhythm 'n blues was worth a trip to jail.]
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1960s! The sounds churning inside the school gym gradually changed from Buddy Holly to Chubby Checker to The Kinks to Sam & Dave.Every high school across the South had its own group of locals-turned-musicians, the popular groups of four or five who rotated among garages to practice on week nights. And on Friday nights they donned matching shirts, combed their hair to emulate the group of the day and cranked up amps and synthesizers.
W.B. Crain's band was beginning to give way to The Reets in '65. The Red Tops that Tom Givens wrote so well about here at USADEEPSOUTH were still hot. The Gants were emerging. The Mississippi Delta, extending from Memphis to Vicksburg and from Rosedale over to just beyond Greenwood had its fair share of boys who had organized into bands, found themselves a name, bought an old van and put their daddies in debt.
But none of the bands seemed to quench the thirst that was developing for Blues music. About midway through my senior year, the music suddenly shifted from Herman's Hermits and The Animals to Wilson Pickett and James Brown.
One long legged classmate (now a dentist who will remain unidentified) could absolutely move his legs and feet as fast and furious as the man himself --James Brown. That classmate couldn't run a straight base line but he sure could move like "The Godfather of Soul."
And the lead singer for The Reets could drop to his knees singing "Please, Please, Please" just like James--if you closed your eyes just right. (And if you had swallowed just the right amount of spirits before the teachers locked you inside the dance.)
A summer job landed me in Kenny Hawkins's daddy's beer delivery truck. Mr. Hawkins was the Falstaff distributor, and he believed in child labor. With Kenny driving, we made the delivery rounds through Rosedale, Benoit, back through Skene and Boyle, then through Cleveland's south side, totin' case after case and stacking them exactly where the owner pointed his finger. These beer joints were an education in themselves. Sprinkled throughout the Southeast, they were tiny, ramshackle little storefront dives beckoning many a 16-year-old boy inside. And what music!
It was great fun to round up enough money for a trip to Memphis plus tickets to hear Wilson Pickett, James Brown, Carla and Rufus Thomas, Percy Sledge, Sam & Dave or Otis Redding. Somehow we felt the music they created was made for us. We claimed it as our own, even though those singers were the same guys who couldn't spend the night at motels in our hometowns a few years earlier.
Well, Kenny and I spent days on end slinging up those roll-up, steel doors on the sides of the beer truck, dragging out case after case, stacking them on the dolly and dragging the dolly backwards up the steps of tonk after tonk. We never were anything other than welcomed. Kenny knew all the owners by name. He handled the ticket book for his dad so he had to have all the names and cash amounts right. Kenny was management. I was labor.
There was something special about those dark, damp, freezing-cold, "colored" tonks. The decorations were about nil. The furniture was usually early American curved plastic booths, probably worn-out rejects from white-only restaurants. The floors were bare, uneven wood except for a patch of curled up linoleum used for a dance floor. The most expensive thing hanging on the wall or sitting on the bar was a brilliantly colored flashing Falstaff sign Mr. Hawkins sent to his best customers.
The owners were always nice to us. Maybe they liked us. Maybe it was because we were hauling the beer they would be selling that night. Maybe it was because they were just good folks. Anyway, for whatever reason, they always welcomed us, and without exception they'd tell us we could come enjoy ourselves anytime. Having been issued open invitations, we didn't wait long before we began to slip into a few of those joints at night. We were hooked.
Inez was a large black woman with a piano-keys smile. Her place, not surprisingly, was called "Inez Place," spelled just like that in neon. She convinced us it was alright for us to load up a group and come back to "that side of town" any night we wanted to.
My buddies--Sam, Kenny, and Boyd--and I had headed off in different directions after high school graduation, but on New Year's Eve 1965 we were all home for the holidays, fully grown-up now, looking for fun.
We loaded up in Kenny's car and headed straight for "Inez Place" soon as the sun went down. Soon as we unloaded from the car and headed up the steps to enjoy the nightlife, we heard Mr. Hill, Cleveland constable, "paging" us, if you will. More nearly, he was hollering at us to get the h*** away from that door and get over to his car, NOW! Because our little town was the hub of kick-ass discipline during that day, we knew better than to even think about smart-mouthin' or questioning the local constabulary.
We were sternly admonished and instructed to pile right back in the car and follow him straight to the Police Station on Cotton Row. These were the days before anybody had any rights, and certainly before anybody had a right to ask something as stupid as, "What are the charges, officer?"
The Chief's office had cinderblock walls, an old wooden desk, and a green plastic couch with chrome legs that wrapped around the end of the couch and became arms. The plastic and chrome were the kind that stayed cold no matter what the temperature was. The walls were lined with old pictures of groups of policeman, framed uniform patches and badges.
Dempsey wasn't a mean man. He was sort of a nondescript guy who usually wore a policeman's cap. Truth be known, probably the reason he always fidgeted with a hand in his pocket was 'cause that's where his bullet was.
Chief Dempsey recognized some of us, me for sure. He took all our names, shook his head mournfully and pointed to that plastic couch. I took that to be his command to sit. Then came the ultimatum. We had a choice. Spend the night in jail or call our parents, right then.
The big clock on the wall said the hour was a few minutes after 12:00 midnight. New Year's Eve! I couldn't speak for the rest of the guys, but I for one had no urge to call my daddy and wake him up and tell him where I was. But, one at a time, we called our parents and sat at the City Jail, half scared to death, waiting for them to come walking through the door.
After what seemed like 3 hours, probably 15 minutes, the parents arrived, individually, and shook Chief Dempsey's large hand. Boyd's momma walked in first, then Sam's daddy. Kenny's daddy was in a tux. My daddy was in a huff. A huff, as in really, really pissed to the point of total embarrassment. They listened as the Chief explained the misdeed of the criminals who sat before them.
I remember that all my daddy said on the way home was something about my humiliating him and wondering if he would have to request a transfer out of town. The very nerve of us boys! Going to that part of town, and to a "colored" place besides. Our parents could never hold their heads up again! Maybe we should have robbed a bank instead.
Ben E. King (Stand By Me) and Otis Redding (Dock of The Bay) never had a clue that these four white boys had been hauled in by the cops for wanting to sit and listen to rhythm and blues on a freezing New Year's Eve in the Mississippi Delta. If they had, we'd probably have had free tickets to all their concerts for years to come.
Thinking back, it doesn't seem like that big a deal. We sure didn't deserve having to sit on Chief Dempsey's cold plastic couch for that 15-minute eternity just 'cause we loved rhythm and blues, old time rock 'n roll, and a good ol' bottle of Falstaff.
Write Don Drane at Msudrd@aol.com
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Want to leave COMMENTS on this article? Click here. Please mention in your note that you are commenting on the "Chief Dempsey" story. Thanks!
From: Harvey Gardner of Cross Plains, TN, USA
Message: This is funny, and well-written . . .
From: Boyd Cole
Message: I read the article and obviously enjoyed it since I was one of the major players. As I read it, things started coming back. Like Kenny screaming, "Inez told us to come!!!" "Inez told us to come!!!" And Sam, in his most professional voice, saying, "Officer, I'll see that these boys get safely home." And finally me, in a name-dropping display which didn't work, saying, "My mother's the city clerk."
I can remember a lot of humorous instances but I don't have the memory for detail that you do.
For instance: You [Don] and Kenny Hawkins decided ahead of time to go out to the High School football field and fight. (It must have been the type of movies we went to see.) When IT was done, you both came to my house to have my mother doctor your cuts and bruises.
One of my favorites is the time at football camp at the Boy Scout camp when we raided the watermelon field. We all got the runs, and I remember someone (possibly you) becoming tired of having to run to the outhouse every few minutes, so he took his sleeping bag and put it on the ground outside of the outhouse. It seems that later, when we played the team from that area, some farmer showed up and demanded payment for his watermelons.
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