Shut Up and Dribble

 An Evening at the 38 Club

An evening at the 38 Club
Rodney D. Coates*

I know, I have a really strange family, something of everything –preacher, teacher, cops, thugs, dealers and pimps –and then there was Momma Dot. Daughter of a preacher man, light –damn near white, could have passed but decided to fight against the madness and remain black. Momma Dot, on any given Sunday morning, was right up their near the front –“amening” with the best of them. But Friday and Saturday’s, and most any other night were quite different. You see –Momma Dot, along with Uncle Otis (even lighter, if you can imagine) ran the 38 Club just down the street from the Armor/Swift Packing Houses (actually this was the slaughter house) –up on the hill-in National City . The 38 Club was among a string of taverns and hangouts that lined the road leading from the Packing Houses. Each of the clubs offered varying degrees of pleasures and treats in their attempts to strip the workers of their meager paychecks before they could get home to the misses and kiddies. The 38 Club, offering gambling in the back room, drinks and a dance in the remainder of the first floor, and several ‘private’ rooms for guests on the second floor. Momma Dot ran the second floor, hence her name. Mamma Dot had it going on, and I along with other cousins and kin frequently were allowed to hang out.

I had a whole assortment of aunts and a slew of uncles. My pre-teen years were peppered with an the most colorful of ‘relatives’ and the most strange of memories. I remember many of these evenings, when the weekends were spent, for me, playing tonk with my ‘aunts and uncles’. In the middle of one game, just as Aunt Jessie was about to slam down her cards, a guest approached, leaned down real close and loudly whispered “How much for a ride in your wagon”.

She, eying me, looked demurely up from her cards, recalling that this was a pay Friday, declared

“Twenty Five would get you a first class ticket”.

“Twenty Five”, he exclaimed “Damn high for a nickel hoe”.

He was about to say more, but before he could, and without me knowing she had produced a razor and just like that had slid it across his face leaving the tiniest line which immediately turned red as the blood trickled through the wound.

Looking with surprised, he drew his gun shouting “You bitch, I’m gonna . . .”

Before he could finish his thought, three guns were nudging his temple –Uncle Otis holding on, and two of my other uncles the others. Uncle Otis without a smile “Either use it or lose it, your call, and make it quick.”

Obediently, the guest dropped his, and waited for the tension to ease from the room.

Uncle Otis “Looks like you owes this lady an apology, then get your stuff.”
Murmuring something only the floor heard, the guest preceded to pick up his gun at which Uncle Otis declared ‘You gotta ask Ms. Jessie if you can have that it now belongs to her.”
Ms Jessie, now slowly licking the blood from her razor “Why sure suggah, you can have your lil’ piece, if’n you trade wit me. Just put them family jewels on the table, they looks about right, do ya wanna trade. Oh, no, well then the gun’s mine.”

“Momma Dot you reckon he can stay”

“Nope, we only allows gentlemen in this establishment. Hank, show him the door”

Walking sluggishly to the door, the rest of the patrons resumed their drinking and such.
Uncle Hank, holding the door open said “Now, don’t come back here again, ya hear.”

“Yes Sir.”

Door closes with a bang.

Looking at me as if nothing had happened, well this had only taken about 3-5 minutes, Aunt Jessie spread her hand, like a little girl on her first Christmas day –shouted –"Tunk, I win".

Me, I began counting my cards, darn I had three kings, a couple of queens, and a 9. Oh. Well, at least I was learning to count.