My childhood friend Raymond was – and may still be – a walking tragic-comedy. The one lingering memory I have of Ray was me walking down the hallways at S.D. Lee looking in open doors as I passed classrooms. No matter the class, there would be Ray, head down on his desk, pile of books as a pillow. Totally unconscious
I am lucky to have survived being his best friend when we were 15 to 16 years old. When I say “lucky to have survived,” it’s not a trivial throw away line trying to be cool on social media. I really mean it. Really, really mean it.
My dad was in the U.S.A.F. at the time and Ray’s dad and family had just arrived from Germany to Columbus Air Force Base where we lived.
Ray bought his Hofner violin bass there, which he carried with him pretty much wherever he went like a holy sword. I had been playing bass in my very first band with my friend Frank Coe, our drummer, but that was soon to change.
A friend who claimed he could sing was our “singer.” He could croak out a version of Louie Louie and a couple of ragged simple rock songs.
After a few weeks and dismal reviews, he threw in the towel and went to look for a new hobby.
In those days there was somewhat of a singer shortage, especially in the tiny fishbowl we lived in. Ray showed up and was a much better bass player, not to mention he had a real Beatle bass! So I said, “I’ll be the singer!”
In 1965, the qualifications to be a singer in a rock band were only two:
1. You had to have the b***s to stand in front of the band and howl… naked and afraid (mentally).
2. Access to a microphone.
We hung out and were best buds for a couple of years. Ray was, despite his downsides, a really talented bass player and our little band managed to get freebie gigs: pool parties, Officers Club performances, extemporaneous set up in the driveway concerts, etc.
Ray was a good natured guy who meant well, but he was a beacon drawing every demon of bad karma and disaster directly to his location.
Also, his lack of common sense was monumental. If they had a Nobel Prize for that, he would have wiped out the competition every year.
Bad things will happen if you hang around with Ray long enough. Long enough in this case would be like 5 minutes. I don’t know how many times he talked me into doing major stupid things that could have had me spending my teenage years waking up in Parchman Farm or breaking rocks in Federal prison.
Ray, even at his young age, was a sick totally-addicted gambler, and gamblers will always find somewhere to bet. In those days, there was an informal (read: illegal) betting system in the state that centered around pinball machines. Every little store, gas station or bar had the machines. As you ran up points, the business owner would pay you 5 cents a point… in cash.
He was very skillful and would quickly run it up to $10-$20 (a lot of money at the time), but instead of getting the cash he would keep playing until he lost it all, a typical gambler’s behavior. This would be his way of life for decades and cost him his money, his wife and family, two businesses and everything he owned.
One night Ray talked me into riding from CAFB into downtown Columbus with one of his very sketchy acquaintances. We drove all over trying to find yet another of his shaky friends old enough to buy some beer.
No luck was had, and we headed back to the air base.
Just outside the main gate, there was a line of small businesses and a couple of sleazy bars on each side of the road. We were within a hundred yards of the gate when we saw movement in a dark alleyway next to a bar.
“Pull over! Pull over!” shouted Ray, always up for excitement.
Apparently some other of Ray’s derelict friends were celebrating the birthday of one of their group turning 18. He had gone in the bar and bought enough beer to fill a cooler he brought. Beer for everyone!
We pulled in and got out of the car with Ray literally running for the cooler.
He never made it.
The alleyway lit up with the headlights of a very large sedan, driving over empty beer cans and other trash, smashing them with a crushing, crinkling sound.
Many of you of a certain age who lived out that way back then remember the Legends of Constable McDaniel. They were true.
That’s who stepped out of the sedan, along with two other large men who were part time deputies who McDaniel paid out of his own pocket.
In those days, the constable was paid based on the fines of those they arrested. You ain’t getting no warning ticket.
The car was filled with three large po-lice and six bozo teenagers. Squished in and piled on top of each other. Like one of those circus clown cars. Heading for downtown Columbus slowly. The overweight bottom scraping and bouncing off the asphalt.
After three hours in the big open and nasty jail cell, the teen director at CAFB came to free us and take us home. Thank Gawd my Dad was out of the country on temporary duty. Thank you, Ray.
Having not seen Ray for decades, I did an internet search for his name. It’s sometimes hard to be sure it’s the person you’re looking for. The one entry under his full name was regarding getting a DUI in Sarasota, Florida.
Yep… that’s Ray.
Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.
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