They Tore Out My Heart and Stomped That Sucker Flat by Lewis Grizzard

Author:Lewis Grizzard [Grizzard, Lewis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Humor, Usenet, journalism, Lewis Grizzard, heart, death, aging, heart attack, love, surgery, hospitals, memoir, valve replacement, C429, Kat, Exratorrents
ISBN: 9781603060615
Publisher: NewSouth Inc.
Published: 2010-01-18T13:00:00+00:00

5

Where Are You, Now That

I Need You, Lucille?

I didn’t know if it was okay to drink beer the night before you check into the hospital to have heart surgery, so I started calling doctors to find out. There were at least a half dozen involved in my case in one fashion or another.

The first doctor I reached said I probably shouldn’t drink any beer the night before checking into the hospital.

“You don’t want to show up with a hangover,” he said.

I certainly don’t think it would have been appropriate for any of my doctors to show up at the hospital that day of my surgery with a hangover, but I didn’t see why it would be a problem for me to appear in that condition, so I continued calling doctors.

The third one I reached said, “Sure, you can have a beer.”

A beer.

“Nobody drinks just one beer,” I explained. “That’s why they come in six-packs.”

“Okay,” said the doctor, “two beers.”

“Draught okay?” I forged onward.

“Draught is fine,” he said.

There is a store near my house that sells draught beer in gallon containers. I stuck to my doctor’s orders and bought only two containers.

Beer has gotten me through a lot of tough spots in my life, and I will always be indebted to Ronnie Jenkins—you will recall him as the hero of Chapter I who taught me about women. He also taught me to drink beer.

My first lessons began at Lucille’s beer joint in Grantville, Georgia. We were both fifteen. Old enough to buy it, old enough to drink it was Lucille’s motto. Only we never actually bought any beer at Lucille’s because we always made certain we drank with Mr. Hugh Frank Logan, a local farmer.

Mr. Hugh Frank was a large man, who toiled in his fields and enjoyed topping off the day with a few cool cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which is all Lucille served, except for Carling Black Label and nobody would drink that, not even Ronnie and I.

The problem with Mr. Hugh Frank was he was hard of hearing, so he talked in a very loud voice:

“LUCILLE,” Mr. Hugh Frank would begin. “GIMME ONE UH THEM BLUE RIBBONS.”

Because he was hard of hearing and talked in a loud voice, nobody wanted to stand around with Mr. Hugh Frank and drink beer. Except Ronnie.

“Watch this,” he said to me one night after Mr. Hugh Frank had ordered his beer.

“HIYOUDOIN’, MR. HUGH FRANK!” screamed Ronnie.

“NOT TODAY, BUT WE MIGHT GET A SHOWER TOMORROW,” Mr. Hugh Frank replied.

“MRS. LOGAN DOING OKAY THESE DAYS, MR. HUGH FRANK?” Ronnie pressed on, a decibel or two louder.

“GOT ABOUT TWO MORE ACRES TO GO AND THEN I GOT TO HELP HARLEY BOTTS MOW HIS,” Mr. Hugh Frank answered.

The fact he had misunderstood what Ronnie had asked had nothing to do with anything. The fact somebody—anybody—would attempt to talk to him brought out all sorts of generosity in Mr. Hugh Frank.

“LUCILLE,” I can still hear him boom across the crowded room, over Ernest Tubb or Kitty Wells on the juke box, “GIMME ’NOTHER BLUE RIBBON.

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