I know for sure neither Slick nor I had a driver’s license, and am pretty sure Billy didn’t have one either; maybe because he was too old to drive, or just too messed up from World War II to do so.

But two years ago, he put together enough money to buy a brand new pickup — driver’s license or not.

Most of the time his younger brother drove the blue ’55 Chevy half-ton, other times Billy did so, but mostly at night. Billy could have made a lot of money playing pool, but nobody would play him but Lester, who was about as broke-acting as Billy. I have reconstructed this story from memory, adding details that came to me.

One Saturday evening after watermelons got ripe, Billy drove his pickup down to the soda shop. It had a camper cover on the back.

“What you doing driving, Billy?” Slick asked.

“Going to Chesterfield,” Billy answered,” to load this truck with watermelons.”

He looked away for a second. “Y’all want to go?”

Slick looked over at me.

“Nothing to do here, but hang around this phone booth, waiting for a wrong number,” I said.

“Ain’t all the watermelons in Pageland, Billy?” Slick asked.

“They got a lot of them,” Billy answered. “But we’re still going to Chesterfield.”

“Why?”

“Less likely to be pulled by the law,” Billy smiled.

So I got in beside Billy, and Slick rode shotgun.

After a while Billy asked me how old I was.

“Fifteen.”

“You’ll do,” he said. “When we get to town I may get you to drive.”

“I don’t have a license.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’m not old enough,” I said.

“How old did you say you were?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?”

I nodded.

“You look like you been rode hard,” Billy observed. “And put up wet. “

“What’s that mean?” I whispered to Slick.

“Billy thinks you look like a wore-out horse,” Slick replied.

Billy looked at Slick. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You got a license?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I ain’t got no wheels,” Slick said.

“Ain’t your daddy got a car?”

“He won’t let me drive it.”

“Well you are kinda’ shifty looking,” Billy said. “I don’t think I’ll let you drive either.”

He paused.

“I might as well of left y’all home,” Billy continued. “But you can load watermelons, I reckon.”

“What’s in it for us?” Slick asked.

“You get to ride to Chesterfield.”

“Let me out,” Slick said.

“Hold your horses, boy,” Billy said. “I wouldn’t hire you and then not pay you. I’ll give both of you a watermelon when we get back. I’ll have a truck load then.”

“A’ight,” Slick answered.

It was almost dark when we turned onto 742, to head south into the country.

“This highway is spooky,” I said.

“Why you say that?” Billy asked.

“Daddy and me saw the Ku Klux Klan on this road one night, dressed up in sheets, carrying torches and yelling as they walked around a little house.”

“Ku Klux Klan?” Slick said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It scared me.”

“I don’t want nothing to do with that crowd,” Billy said. “They’re crazy.”

But the Klan wasn’t out that night, so after we got into Chesterfield safely, Billy dodged the police station, then found a watermelon shed, backed up to it, and got out. He took some bills money out of his pants pocket to pay the man who was standing there.

“Y’all can load them in, now,” Billy said to us. “Make a tight stack against the back of the pickup, and keep it that way all the way to the tailgate.”

I was shorter than Slick, so I climbed in the back of the truck, crouched down to keep from hitting my head, and called “pitch” for him to toss the watermelons to me. Then I caught them and twisted around to lay them in a stack. When Billy put us to work, he went to talk with the watermelon man.

“Don’t you be dropping my watermelons,” Billy called, after I dropped one.

“It didn’t bust,” I said, wanting to tell him if he was so particular why didn’t he get in here and pack them himself. But I knew why; Billy had been in the war and probably got shot in the leg and had such a limp he probably couldn’t get in here and load if he tried.

It took the better part of an hour to load, because I had to stop to get the crick out of my back after about 10 catches and twists. After we put the tailgate up, I handed melons for Slick to load. By the time we got done, it had begun to rain. We got in the Chevy and Billy headed north in pitch darkness.

Not long after we got back on 742, Slick shouted, ”There’s a cat, on the left, up ahead, Billy — it’s black.”

Billy swerved right, onto the dirt, “Hope he don’t cross in front of me,” he said under his breath.

But just as we eased up even with him, a 10-pound, black cat darted in front of us. Billy slammed on the brakes, then drew an “X” on the windshield with his finger.

“We’re… all… right,” he stammered. “We’re all right… I ‘ X-ed’ him out. “

The cat disappeared into the night on our right. Then Billy dropped the clutch and we headed toward home.

“Why’d you ‘X’ him out, Billy?” I said, after a while.

“To break the spell,” he said quietly. “Black cats bring bad luck.”

“About like walking under a ladder?” Slick asked, grinning. “Or breaking a looking glass?”

“Same thing,” Billy said, missing Slick’s sarcasm. “Except a black cat is the worst. It’s in the stars. You read your astrology, boy. It’ll tell you,” he said. He sighed again. “But we’re safe now.”

“See,” he said half-an-hour later, when he pulled up to the phone booth. “We’re safe now.”

It was still raining, so we asked Billy to take us home.

“I’ll do that,” he said.

Slick was riding shotgun, so Billy let him off first, then dropped me off at my front porch. Watching Billy’s tail lights grow smaller, I remembered our watermelons.

The next time I saw Slick, he said he got his, and continued, “That skeester is scared to death of black cats.”

He paused.

“That cat couldn’t hurt Billy,” he said, ”It was on the road, and Billy was in his truck. That ‘X-ing out’ is crazy.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“It’s all in his head.”

“His fear of cops is real,” I said.

“Maybe so, but his fear of black cats is all in his head.”

Sixty years later, I’m coming to realize that Slick was almost right, for the emotional stress of crossing under ladders, breaking mirrors, and black cats crossing in front us — is inside us. But not so much in our heads, as in our hearts. The unexamined idea must be what frightens us.

So, the way to deal with the fearful emotions is with our heads. There is a very old passage that shows a reasoned and time-tested approach to doing so. I found it in 2nd Corinthians 10:3-5.

I wish old Billy could have done so, too.

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Leon Smith is a contributing columnist to The Anson Record. Write to him P.O. Box 124, Marshville, NC 28103.