Johnny Wraith Stories

I was once a Goat Roper, in high school, at age 17. Goat Ropers wore cowboy boots and hats, drove around in rusty pickup trucks, buttoned on Levis jackets and jeans, and chewed lots of Skoal, fine cut tobacco. The trademark of the Goat Roper was a red bandanna, worn around the neck, as if you could pull it up over your face and rob a bank at any time.

I liked being a Goat Roper because they had raucous parties. They’d build bonfires out in the boonies, in fields found miles down dark and winding gravel roads. Hank Williams Jr. would blare on loud speakers, kegs of beer poured freely, and there were many country girls.  

I was a Goat Roper because I wasn’t allowed to sit with the Jocks or the Preppies in the high school cafeteria.  I’d spent too many years as a skinny Nerd, an introverted outcast.  Only the Goat Ropers offered me a seat. They respected my being the strongest kid in school, a transformation I’d made after spending a year lifting weights five hours a day, and praying to Arnold Schwarzenegger.  

So, there I sat amongst my clan one day, in cowboy boots, red bandanna, and flannel shirt with sleeves sliced off at the shoulders. It was morning, before school, and the busy din of the high school cafeteria was all around.  About a dozen, we all sat at a big round table, in the farthest corner of the cafeteria. A knot of Levis, leather, and red bandannas.

Sheila was sitting on my lap, kicking her little white boots. She had a small hole in her Levis, right in the middle of her left asscheek. The creamy skin showed through. I had a finger in the hole and my hand cupped the callipygian wonder. Her arms circled me, and my earlobe was in her mouth.  

“I like whatcha did ta me last night,” she whispered, while playing the ends of my mullet with her painted fingernails.

“I liked the taste, baby,”

“What ya like the taste of!” Came back Carl, from the other side of the table He grinned big, then spat between his knees into a wax McDonalds cup. Carl was a lip reader. He’d been severely deafened by one of daddy’s beatings at age 3. His forearms were covered with old cigarette burns. Carl wiped his chin and waited for an answer.

The table of Levis and red bandannas giggled and slapped knees, stomped boot heels. I laughed with them.

Sheila slapped me hard, kissed me, then turned to the table. “Ya all jest shet yer traps! What Johnny has fer supper ain’t yer bidness!”

Sheila winked at her best girlfriend and turned back to me.  We took turns passing her gum back and forth, her mouth to mine. My finger was still in her Levis, and I still remember how she smelled. Watermelon-flavored gum mixed with Chanel Nº19, her mother’s favorite.

Tony came running up to the table, the heels of his cowboy boots clicking fast.  “Guys! We got a problem! Leroy Hardin just kicked out Shawn Combs teeth!”

The table answered:

“Fuck!”

“That goddamn nigger!”

“Holy shit! What we gonna do?”

Tony caught his breath and answered. “Us Goats is gonna kick some ass! After school! Goat Hill! All of them ‘gainst all a us!”

The table answered:

“Fuck Yeah!”

“We’ll get 'em!”

“I got a tire iron in me truck!”

“We’ll be there!”

“Fuck yeah!” Answered Tony, then he rushed off, heels clicking.

Carl looked across the table at me, and all the heads turned the same way. “Johnny? You gonna be there, ain’tcha?”

Sheila spat her gum back into my mouth, turned and answered.  “My Johnny’ll be there! C’mon Johnny, make a muscle! Show whatcha got!”

I lifted an arm and flexed.

The table answered:

“Holy Shit, Johnny!”

“God Damn!”

“That’s my baby!” Cooed Sheila.  Then she sucked the gum out of my mouth, using her plying tongue.  

It was the talk of the day.  Blacks versus Goat Ropers.  Fight on Goat Hill, after school.

The time came.  We all met on Goat Hill.  I stood out in front of my clan.  Leroy Hardin stood out in front of his.  It was like the Greeks each sending out a champion, to put on a bloody show, before the lines of two rival city states collided. Insults were thrown around. 

“Fucking Goat Ropers!”

“Fucking Niggers!”

Leroy and I stood face to face.  He only had 5 men.  We had 20.

Leroy showed no fear. He was ready. Waiting. I turned from his eyes back to the Goat Roper line, then looked over the Black line. Leroy was patient.

“I’m with you,” I said to Leroy. Leroy nodded curtly and cracked a half smile.  Over to the Black side I went.

A few busted ribs, a chipped tooth, and a broken hand put me in urgent care for half a day.

When I got bandaged up, I started drinking 40oz malt beer. King Cobras were the best. I switched to Rap music. The Beastie Boys and 2 Live Crew were my favorites. We smoked a lot of good weed. The Black girls tasted great.