Donald E. Thomas

The Trophy Case

 

 

Moving day. Moving furniture. Moving memories. The truck rumbled to a stop in front of my small house in the Martindale section of Indianapolis. Time to move to a sunnier place, these bones of my need warming.

 

“Hey Sondaddy, they’re here.”

 

“Show them in, Donnie.” Donnie’s my grandson.

 

“You’re Mr. Watson, I’m Vince, I’ll be supervising your move.”

 

I showed Vince and his crew around. In the parlor I pointed to the case I keep my trophies in. “Vince, I’ll take care of this, you handle the rest.”

 

The case is some six feet tall, mahogany and glass, packed with trophies, race cars atop them. Vince moved in for a closer look. “You’ve had an amazing life on the track, Mr. Watson.” Vince pressed his nose against the glass. “My God! Tell me this signature and thousand-dollar bill are real, as the name itself.”

 

“Real and real,” I said.

 

Vince stood back, looked me in the eye, “We’re not moving one stick of furniture until you tell me the story here.” I think he meant it.

 

Donnie piped up, “You better make yourselves comfortable, Sondaddy loves to talk racing.”

 

“Donnie, why is it you call your grandpa Sondaddy?”

 

“It’s cuz he was the youngest of his brothers and sisters, so they all called him Sonny. Then when my daddy and his brothers heard their aunts and uncles calling him Sonny, they put it all together to make Sondaddy.”

 

So much for family history. To tell you about these trophies, I got to go back a bit. It all started the last week of May 1934 at the Brickyard. Qualification trials for the 500-mile classic on Memorial Day. I was 12 that year, a paperboy, with five others, hustling the special racing edition. We spent most of the day at the rail watching the cars, sucking exhaust. Late in the day seemed like the calls came all at once, “Paperboy.” We broke from the rail and scattered to the four winds, up the stairs, through the aisles, under the bleachers, into the infield, even to the men’s room because reading while handling your business is okay too. We kept moving ‘til they stopped calling.

 

Afterwards, I went looking for my Uncle Clay. He worked as a janitor at the track during the day, but as a mechanic in the evening and at night, secretly, because Negroes weren’t allowed to be mechanics at the Speedway. But Uncle Clay had created a fuel pump for racing cars in his own garage and convinced the owner of number 83, a Mr. D, to test it on his cars.

To everyone he was Mr. D, nobody said more.

 

I finally located Uncle Clay in the infield, playing cards, He told me, “catch the trolley home, I’ll be working all night.”

 

I wanted to stay, but he wouldn’t hear it. He should’ve known better than to tell me to take a trolley, when the 6:30 Monon freight train was free. In those days the city was crisscrossed with railroads and kids rode the rails all over town. So I headed for the tracks and an open boxcar. The Monon was on time. I hopped up, pulled myself into the boxcar, then saw a figure in a white outfit in the back corner. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw he was a thin old man holding a baseball. He smiled. I smiled back, then noticed the lettering on his shirt: Indiana State Mental Hospital. Stories I’d heard about the people out there. I struggled to show I wasn’t afraid but scared my shaking legs might betray me.

 

“Hi kid, you going to Perry Stadium to see the game?”

 

I wasn’t, didn’t have the money, but replied “yes” without hesitation because “no” could be the wrong answer.

 

The stranger said, “Stadium coming up, be ready to jump.”

 

Only thought that crossed my mind—jump, then run like hell. He called out jump, we did and hit the ground with fast feet until we hit our natural stride. Suddenly, “Kid, the game’s my treat,” and pulled out a wad of bills. The thought of running away faded away.

 

At the gate everyone was smiling and calling out, “Milt’s here. Good night for a game, huh Milt?” I was dying to know who Milt was. While he’s shaking hand with everyone I made eye contact with one of the workers and pointed to the lettering on Milt’s shirt. He laughed, “Ol’ Milt is a rich eccentric man that committed himself to the insane asylum to escape his greedy family. He thinks they might try to kill him for the money. Not a thing wrong with him, maybe a scooch paranoia, but he’s sittin’easy. They give him the run of the place.”

 

We went to our seats, right down on the third base line behind our team’s dugout. Never been so close. All the vendors came by, and Milt bought me hot dogs, peanuts, ice cream, ‘til my stomach was screaming. Milt knew every player and stat in baseball, including the Negro League. We saw a great game and our Indians won in the 12th with a soaring home run off the scoreboard in right field, nearly cleared it. By the time the game ended it was midnight. Good thing Uncle Clay was working later, he wouldn’t know I was past my bedtime by hours and hours.

 

Outside the stadium, Milt said, “It’s much past the safe time to catch a freighter, let’s take a cab.”

 

Taxis were at the curb, I jumped in, told the driver where I lived. He shouted, “Get out. I don’t go anywhere near there.”

 

Milt opened the other door and in a calm voice, soothed by a twenty in his hand, “Oh, but yes you do.”

 

“Yes, I certainly do.”

 

When we arrived at the house, I thanked Milt, he thanked me, he seen me to the door, we shook hands and said goodbye.  I never saw him after that night, but read about his death, from natural causes, some years later. Paper said he left his money to the staff at the hospital. Milt - 1, Family - 0.

 

Later that morning, noises in Uncle’s garage woke me up. Sounds of shouting and tools being thrown around. Immediately brought to mind Rose, Uncle Clay’s girlfriend. She had a talent for giving Uncle the blues, but none of these voices were hers. I went down, stayed quiet and hidden, and kept listening and peeking through the slats in the garage. I recognized Mr. D from his pictures in the paper, sharp dresser, thin mustache, diamond stickpin, shone even inside.

 

“Nico, tell Clay the story you told me.”

 

“We delivered the Packard here for a tune up two days ago. Had 100K hidden in the trunk, under the spare. But when I picked it up yesterday morning and took it back to our place, the money was gone. Came back here and found $8000 tucked in behind the bench here.”

 

Nico pulled a gun, two other men grabbed Uncle Clay, ready to pound him. Mr. D turned red and shouted, “Talk Clay, where’s my money?”

 

I was scared for me and for Uncle Clay, so I ran into the garage and told Mr. D what I knew. I’d been hiding it cuz I was afraid of getting in trouble with Uncle Clay, but now he was in more trouble than I’d ever get in. “I came home after midnight, early morning if fact, I’d been at the ball game. . .” Uncle Clay’s mouth gaped open, he started to say something, but I streaked on. “When I got here, I saw a dark colored Packard pulling away.”

 

Mr. D glared at Nico. “You didn’t say anything about coming here in the middle of the night.”

 

“I was trying to catch him in the act of counting the money,” Nico said. “And anyway, why are you trusting this negro? Sooner or later, he’ll steal from you.”

 

Mr. D stuck his arm out like a cop stopping traffic. “Boys, get in the car. We’re going downtown.” He turned to us. “And don’t you two think about going anywhere.”

 

Uncle Clay and I looked at each other, tears in our eyes. He said, a bit sadly, “Go find a broom and we’ll clean up this mess.” And a bit more brightly, “Then you’ll tell me about your night at the ballgame.”

 

Next day, I headed out about three o’clock to sell papers at the Brickyard and met Uncle Clay coming in the door. “Why are you here and not there?”

 

“The number 83 crashed during qualifying. A freak accident. A swarm of bees crossed the track, hit the driver’s goggles, and blinded him He ended up driving right into the wall at turn 3. Car was totaled. And with that I quit the janitor job, no point with that if I can’t work on 83.” He put his arm around my shoulder, “Besides, you have to be here too, remember what Mr. D said.”

 

“Not sure I’m ready for that.”

 

“Think positive, James.” He kneeled down ‘til our eyes were level. “Nephew, accept my apology for not telling you the whole story about Mr. D. I think now is the time for that talk.” His face wrinkled up, but before he could continue, we heard the rumble of a car. The doors slammed, and the men were laughing.

 

Mr. D came in, shook Uncle Clay’s hand, then reached down and shook mine. “All is well.” He had a shy kind of smile. Today, his voice was low and smooth. “After a session of Truth or Consequence, Nico confessed to stealing the money and setting you up for the fall. I’m sorry I ever suspected you, Clay.” Mr. D put his arm around Uncle Clay’s shoulder. “Seems Nico fell for this dame who had a real fondness for jewels and dresses and Nico played bank for her. She overdrew, then he overdrew.”

 

Mr. D looked down at me. “Young fellow, you saved the day.”

 

“Lucky I ran into Milt that evening.”

 

“Who’s this Milt?” Uncle Clay asked.

 

“Some man who lives out at the State Hospital, met him in the boxcar, he took me to the ball game, bought me hot dogs, brought me home in a cab, swell guy.”

 

“You ought to be careful who you run around with,” Uncle Clay said, with a wink.

 

We’d nearly forgotten about Mr. D when he broke into our Milt story. “Listen up. Here’s what I’m going to do. Clay, I’m giving you $7000 to open your own track so everyone, I mean everyone, can build and race their machines. By the way, I’d suggest you don’t put the money in a bank.”

 

While Uncle Clay’s mouth was dentist-chair open, he turned to me. “Young fellow, this Cleveland is yours. But first, let me sign it so your buddies know we’re friends.”

 

Uncle Clay opened his track the following spring and from that day on driving was in my blood. More circuits opened up for us to race on. Kept busy and did well, we did.”

 

“Amazing story, Mr. Watson,” Vince said. “My grandmother told us stories about your friend. According to her, he was the Robin Hood of the Depression. A man among men, and women loved him too. The bad things you may have heard about him didn’t total half the good things you never heard.”

 

 

 

Donald E. Thomas grew up in Indianapolis. Enjoyed a great childhood hanging out at the Motor Speedway. Left home for the Marines and Vietnam. After military service he moved to Los Angeles where he had a good life until he made some bad choices and ended up in San Quentin. Telling stories has aided his rehabilitation. Bienvenue au Danse, Donald.