Chuck Wright
Chuck Wright. So many idiosyncrasies. So many moments. For example, nonchalantly, oblivious to everything around him, he waltzes into an eatery and fresh-squeezes a dozen crisp, yellow lemons that he boldly ordered up out of the kitchen. The guests are dumbfounded when they behold a mound of maize citrus delivered to the table. The Great One dives in with glee and commences to mash bitter, golden peelings that drip tart drops of extract into a glass of ice and cold water. After a ritual that has been practiced hundreds of times - voila! - we behold an extra large, sparkling carafe of fresh lemonade next to a pile of spent rinds that have been rung out of every last drop they hold right on the premises of any restaurant known to man - gourmet or otherwise. And he does this with that ever-present smirk on his mug without batting an eye that anything about this is in the least unusual, thus skirting the menu beverage items where the words "Lemonade, $1.50" are printed clearly. Not only does he savor a refreshing beverage along with the entire supply of sugar on the table and a long spoon to clink briskly on the glass so as to announce to all the restaurant staff that he is about to throw back his head and gargle it all down and slake his ravenous thirst, but after doing so, he smacks his lemon-coated lips and lets slide a satisfying "Ahhhhhh" after which he decorates the experience by looking all in the eye with that Chesire cat smile of his, pressing his lips together, nodding his head, and stating plainly in one word what amounts to "It doesn't get any better than this." his favorite word - "FREE." I am amazed that he is able to carry on this sacrament to this day. However, the last time he cajoled the waitress to invade the fresh stock of lemons and pick out the plumpest, choicest yellow dots in the restaurant's larder to bring to him, the management got wise to his scam and charged him a nominal fee for an orchard of lemons. Apparently, the Great One has inspired many other disciples. But there is more. It is a sight to behold him carefully guarding and nurturing like a Pit Bull the three hairs that roost on top of his head like they were eggs about to hatch into a flock of black geese that would cover the blinding beam of light on his crown. You can talk common sense long into the night and reason with him like Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle, but, no, he holds to the axiom that those hairs alone are enough to convince anyone with sight that he still maintains a full mane of thick, course, Samson-like locks that rival the great Aslan. No amount of logic will dissuade him from the doctrine that if those three hairs vanish, he will look like he is bald. I am always amazed at how Chuck can look in his mirror and imagine that those three hairs look like an entire forest tangled together like a dense jungle of black roots. His inability to drive down to Walmart and purchase a set of $15 Wahl shears and apply it to the three hairs because he thinks he will be shorn of his youth, while at the same time spending hundreds of dollars to try to resurrect the three hairs into something like a Florida Floratam lawn that will sprout and send out shooters that will reestablish into a dense blanket is a wonder to ponder. But that is only one of the deceits that guides him. The delusion he still lives under like a protective cliff is that if he hustles down to the gym every other day, he will again take on that virile 1965 form that hangs in the kitchen by the refrigerator when he in days of yore manfully hoisted a seventy-five pound accordion over his lithe body like Louis Palermo and wildly waved it around in 2/4 time as if he were conducting a revival and leading a Chicagoland YFC Rally in a rousing chorus of "Deep and Wide", all the time madly fingering out a melodic harmony with the the Hairs of Salvation gospel team in accompaniment. Such imagination is a model inspiration to all those who have lost hope.I shall never forget the evening service at Deliverance Temple in Chicago in 1967 when Chuck and I went to the black circus on the South side. As the organist was moved by the screaming of the pulpit and the ever-building chorus of chatter and affirmation that poured in from the floor, he started to get into the zone and dance on the keys by accenting the pulpit-pounder's high points and zingers. The whole scene slowly built toward a climax, and soon the natives broke out with abandon. The ceiling lights began to flash, the Ubangees jacked to their feet and began to get down, and Chuck was reminded of Chubby Checker and the immortal words, "Let's twist again like we did last summer." With the organ going to town and confusion and hysteria reigning around him, he writhed and contorted with closed fists and pursed lips. Nor shall I dismiss from my memory that bellowing, hyenic cackle that can be heard for miles when he gets it going. It absolutely floors me every time I hear it. It is especially good at any movie theater.Lastly, I recall with a chuckle the day Chuck trekked down to the Bally's in St. Petersburg with resolve to become a new man starting that very moment. Beholding a stomach reducing rack, He saddled it and lay prone on a crunch machine. Heaving his weighty feet high, he locked them in a moving foot mechanism. In sync, he huffed and puffed and started to jack his arms and fold his knees into his belly all at the same time in tight formation. I was nearby watching this phenomenon as I was pressing into the atmosphere a barbell loaded with plates into the zenith position. Chuck was going like a madman, jacking himself into this small ball by drawing in his arms and knees and pressing tightly on his gas-inflated stomach. Suddenly, after looking about to see if any females might be nearby, he whispers, "I feel like I have to expel some methane." The effect of that statement, as my wobbly arms suspended the mighty weights above my head, was about the same as one taking a drink of coffee right at the punch line of a very funny joke. I teetered beneath the load of plates trying not to think of what he had just said and thus bring the whole load down on my head. But having been on that rack and knowing exactly what he was talking about, I could not suppress the humor of what he was about to do, and I soon buckled and brought the whole load down and collapsed upon it like a flour bag howling in painful mirth.Chuck Wright. An enigma within a conundrum. He is easy to make fun of, but he has been a good and close comrade for many years, and I thank him for his friendship. Happy 60th birthday, Great One!