Delta Kappa Epsilon - University of Alabama

4 Delta Kappa Epsilon ALUMNI NEWS Duke, Bad Potatoes, and Soap Opera Weddings T he journey, DKEs say, can be arduous. It can be surprising. In the summer of 1980, I watched a soap opera wedding, while eating soul food, in a low rent apartment, with two out-of-work, gay, black men. My father was efficient as he reviewed my evasions, reassurances, and sophistry from my freshman spring. He correctly called all that "lying." "The privilege of college ruins some people. Not everybody needs to go." He explained. "It's time for you make your own way." "How long can I stay home?" I asked. "Until tomorrow." He answered. I knew our conversation was over. My father didn't negotiate with his children, especially if he perceived arrogance, or deceit. Mama said I could take clothes and sheets. No car. She quietly gave me a hundred dollars with the advice: "I'd make it last. That's it." I had to move fast. By the next day I had a ride to Tuscaloosa, a "maybe" job as a waiter, and permission to live in an old, empty, hot DKE house. I washed dishes and waited tables at Nick's Filet House, the downtown location. I walked the mile and a half to Greensboro Avenue. I was low man. Work hours were unpredictable. The pay wasn't enough to feed and water a 19 year old. Summers in Tuscaloosa could be fun, but not if one was broke. I filched customer leftovers and bought a meal ticket for Posey's Cafeteria when I could. Sometimes I wore my clothes in the shower and, using Dial soap, washed them for the next day. There was no air-conditioning. When I got too hot I slept on a vinyl couch in the basement. I was lonely, hot, broke, and resentful. I waited on a couple one night. They were regular customers who ordered the same thing each time. The wife was demanding, never pleased, and left tiny tips. Her complaints were so common I wondered why they returned each week. I delivered their salad. The woman rolled her eyes, demanding more dressing. I delivered their steak and potato. As I turned to go to the next table she snapped her finger: "This potato has a black spot!" I removed it and brought her a new potato. She opened the replacement and said, loudly, "For God's sake, why do you keep bringing me bad potatoes? I'm not going to eat a bad potato, son!" I knew there would be no tip. My pride, and maybe a bad attitude, overcame me. I picked the rotten tuber up. It burned my hand. I didn't care. I slapped the potato, shook my finger at it, and said, "Bad potato! Bad potato!" I put it back on her plate. "If that potato gives you any more trouble, you let me know." Her husband laughed. The woman called the manager. He apologized and assigned another server to the couple. He told me to go home. I asked if I was fired. He said he didn't know, but not to come in for two days. The next day was hot, and depressing. I walked to Grants store at 10th Street and 14th Avenue. They sold fried chicken in the back. I had enough money for a leg, a thigh, and a pack of cigarettes. As I checked out I heard a familiar voice: "John, whut chu durrin' up in Tuxaloosa?" It was Duke, the man who cleaned and served meals at the DKE house. Benjamin "Duke" Steele was dressed in short shorts and a midriff tank top. He was accented with blond highlights in his hair, a little gold hoop in one ear, and loud mascara. He had on pink flip flops. He'd never appeared like that at the DKE house. I walked toward the DKE house, down 14th Avenue, with Duke. We spoke about the heat, and needing to work. Duke waved off to a one story, white brick strip of little apartments. "Well, this where I stay. You be careful." He said. I walked a little further and heard Duke's voice, again. "John, come over here. Tootsie been cookin'. Come git a plate." I felt a little intimidated. "No, I'm ok, Duke, thanks, though." "No you ain't," Duke said. "You aint got nothing but a chicken leg. I seen you countin' change. Nah come over an git a plate a vegibuh. Ain't nuttin gone happen to you." "Tootsie," Duke's partner, was dressed with the same summer chic. He wore a brown do-rag, fashioned from old panty hose. Tootsie was cursing at a soap opera wedding. A woman named Phoebe was marrying a man named Langley on "All My Children." Duke gave me a paper plate with turnip greens, mashed potatoes, and corn bread. He gave me cup of cold Kool-Aid. "You caint jes eat chicken, baby." He said. "She a damn fool!" Tootsie hollered at the T.V. "He a con man. He gone take eveh dime she got. Phoebe gone haf to move in wit me an' you, Duke." The more distraught Tootsie got about Phoebe's marriage to Langley, the harder Duke and I laughed. The food was good. I thanked Duke. He told me to holler if I needed something. The door to the hot apartment remained open. I could hear Duke and Tootsie talking and laughing as I walked away. I kept my job for the summer. Just before the fall semester began, I got word that if I could get to Evergreen, my Dad would speak with me about my future. I did return to school with a clear understanding of what was expected, and the certainty that there would be no more reprieves. I returned to the happy, comfortable existence of college. I had a better sense of obligation, and as much humility as my 19 years would allow. The world has never favored men with Duke's circumstances. He returned to his existence of work, spare living, and a narrow separation from cruelties. Duke never gave a second thought to the idea of feeding me. I have never forgotten it. The only explanation I have for Duke's gesture, that day, was his easy recognition of difficulty, and goodness inside of him. My exile was designed to teach me a lesson. A little privation helped. That meal, a little laughter, and a faint look into Dukes world were an important stop on the journey. ITB, John A. Nielsen '83 johnnielsen@hotmail.com

• Cover