So many fond memories with my college friends, pledge sisters, and social club at Down at Joe’s. Joe cared about everyone and would give you the shirt off his back. On Homecoming Weekends, he let us “rule the roost” and partied right along with us, especially those rousing sing-a-longs with Tammy Wynette belting out “Stand By Your Man.” He was one hell of a man and I know he’s having a great time visiting with friends we lost along the way.
— Loralei Tallant McGee-Tupelo, MS-August 23, 2020
He looked strangely out of place behind a desk in an office. He was friendly enough when asking, “What can I do for you?” On the wall behind him were framed diplomas but something didn’t add up. He was dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie. His hair was bushy and he had a scraggly beard. I was delivering the lawyer’s legal documents, and he was obviously the secretary or an imposter.
More than once, I hoped his story would unfold. There was something about this guy. I asked around and was told, “Oh, that’s Joe Cool.” Later I told him what I had heard. He laughed, cocked his head, darted around the office, putting papers here and there; grabbing the ever-ringing phone, he was never still. I waited.
“That was my flamboyant days,” he said. “Flamboyant?” I could see Joe Cool had been flamboyant and flittered on the edge of flamboyancy even now. “I’ve thought about writing a book,” he said, “About those days.” I told him, “Do it.”
One day he handed me a handwritten paper with words and lists. “I wrote this after we talked. Just this,” he said. I read the paper, “It’s good Joe. Can I have a copy?” He laughed, flitted around the office and reached for the paper. The list read: Southernaire, Snow White, Granny’s, Silver Spur, Straight Eight Jr., Cotton Bowl, Welding Works, High Hat, Sonny’s Drive Inn, West Port Landing, Shaeffer’s Chapel.
“Why Shaeffer’s Chapel?” I asked. “Well, I sorta consider it my drive-in church. I go out there and think…maybe pray.” He changed the subject back to the book he might write. “I’d have to think hard about these stories. I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble. I could use their nicknames like ‘Bird’, ‘Eagle’, and ‘Eagle Two;’ Maybe I could make a website and other people could send their stories.”
Joe would later confide he wasn’t from Columbus like folks thought. He grew up in the Delta where his parents were sharecroppers. His parents left for Columbus; after finishing high school he joined them. “We were poor,” he said.
I told him I heard he was pretty small but some kind of tough in the day. He looked embarrassed and a bit proud at the same time. “You don’t have to be strong. Like this.” He grabbed my hand and bent my little finger. I flinched and my knees buckled. “You need to remember that.” I promised I would. Joe knew I’d write this when he was gone. That paper he wrote talked about a young Joe walking down by the river, the sun was setting, and the sounds from the island honkytonks permeated the air. It was a night like that when Joe Cool was born. The rest of the story Joe took with him.
Shannon Bardwell is a writer living quietly in the Prairie. Email reaches her at [email protected].
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