Point After Touchdown
By Chris L. Brown
Bright Lights, A Convict, Sheriff
Dufus, A Phantom Truck, Big City
Where were you all?!! That’s
all I want to know. Whwe were
you non-jammin’, non-young tal
ent seein’, non-Soul Expressin’
muggs?!! That’s right. I’m refer
ring to the Soul Expression con
cert on the night of the 15th, with
the crowd so small, I had to go
invite a few of the squirrels in
(they went nuts ovct the show, by
the way). Yeah, you’re right, there
was a major social function con
flict that night in the Malikah
Shabazz function, but that ended
at nine! You all missed a good
show, but hopefully, Soul Expres
sion will still be rhythmically step-
pin’ in the near future.
But, alas, that is not what this
column is all about I wanted to
warn you all of a grave danger. It
thing horrific your way comes.
They are called. . . gulp. . . the
BOONDOCKS!! AAAAAAA!!
And this past extended week
end, I had quite a Twilight Zone-
ish experience with this facet of
the unknown. Venture to read the
rest of this column if you dare...
(the following is sponsored by the
Time/Life Books Series: Tales
from the Insane, Inexplicable, and
Unfounded. Call 1-800-4-
SUCKAS toordCT.)
Empower me to construct the
scenario; 1 was headed to the Big
Apple, the Head Honcho, the
Brightly Lit Big City, the Town
That Never Sleeps, the Statue’s
Step, the— (Okay! Quit choking
me, Gai & Erika!) — New York
City. The battle plan was to inter-
& Entertainment
lurks closer than you think, and
before you know it, WHOOM! It
has cold clocked you upside the
fo’head. In between the buzzing
mesh of steel, concrete and elec
tricity that we call cities, some-
view with a few advertising agen
cies, see the sights and generally
get a feel for the place that I’c
heard and seen (on TV) so much
about Myself and four other UNC
students (all women, an experi-
ence worth a column in its own
right) drove up together, but I
stayed by myself in a hotel just off
Times Square. Everything was fiin
and intriguing, the interviews went
well and although I didn’t see any
stars (besides the one in the mirror
every morning—heh, heh), I was
generally cool with the impres
sion I received. I could live there.
So Tuesday afternoon, we
packed up, I said goodbye in seven
diffwent languages (until I found
the right one — New York Eng
lish) to the Hotel Doorman and we
headed back to Chapel Hill. 1
lightly pondered what exactly I
had missed at school (I later founc
out that it totaled 50 exams, 700
papers and one drama perform
ance—in fact, this is probably my
last column before they expel me
outta this mug) as we cruised at 74
on the New Jersey Turnpike.
The hours blended together anc
the interesting conversation hac
me preoccupied so much that I
missed (by far!) the turn in Peters
burg, Va., onto 1-85. So we trav
eled so far south on 1-95 that we
were forced to take backroads to
cut across the Rocky Mount area
to Raleigh. It was late, we were
tired, the Hawk was out (not re
ally, but I just wanted to add that),
so we began. Then it happened.
Less and less lighting greeted
the road, the houses became few
and far between and the forestry
)ecame thick. 1 thought 1 heard
somebody whispering, “JasonJa-
sonJasonJason ... “ and I did —
the clowns in the back seat.
“You all shouldn’t mess with
me like that,” 1 told them.
Someone observed, “You
enow, it’s funny how there is ab
solutely nobody out here.”
“Yeah,” I agreed as I Uimed,
‘except for that criminal lookin’
guy right there.” If Scooby-Doo
were with us, he woulda said,
‘Rrikes!!” S ure enough, there was
a white man walking alongside
the road, with dirty skin, gray over
alls with the letters “JAILBIRD”
plastered across the front (psych!),
and long, frazzled reddish-brown
hair and a beard. He looked like a
convict Bobo the clown. When
the headlights shone on him, he
buried his face into his chest and
kept his hands in his pockets.
When we finally uncemented
my foot from pushing the pedal to
the floor, we thought about the
situation.
“Maybe we should stop and
call the police,” someone said.
I reasonably answered, “Do
you have a phone?”
“No.”
“Do you see any within yelling
distance?”
“No.”
BHal
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‘Well, there ain’t no way you’re
gettin’ my soul food-lovin’, bcat-
lx)xin’, Kwanzaa-celebratin’ tail
out in this neck of the woods. Jiuh-
uh, as they say. No way."
We kept driving and nervously
joked, but no sooner had I said that
than did we come across a sheriff s
car parked outside a trailer-store.
At everyone’s insistence, I pulled
in the Klan — I mean, clean —
parking lot. We rolled up beside
him and I lowered my window to
faithfully report as a good citizen
would. The weird thing was the
way he looked at me. It was past
12, I did have my hat on back
wards, there were three white
women and an Asian Indian
woman in the car with me, but
what was the big deal?
“Good evening, sheriff.”
“Huh?” It was then that I knew
1 wouldn’t receive any life-alter
ing philosophical advice from this
gentleman.
“We observed a suspicious-1
looking gentleman (yes, I said gen
tleman) walking along the road
about a mile and a half back, and I
don’t know if there is a prison or
anything around here, but he
looked like he escaped from some
thing.”
“Whut did ‘e look a-like?”
Obviously, one of the honorary!
Barney Fife deputies, this guy was.
“White, with long, wavy red-1
dish hair.”
“Whut color d’y say he wuz?”
“White.”
see “Bright Lights,” p. 10
Special Projects Committee of the Carolina Union Activities Board
and
Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc.
PRESENT A SPRING FASHION EXTRAVAGANZA!
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