Son of Bad Penny

As jargon, 'bad penny' denotes a person who turns up a disproportionate number of times over a long period of one's life. Either talismen or jonahs, they must be no more than nodding acquaintences and appear at odd moments for no reason you yourself motivate. For instance, Heinie Groh was a one man Greek chorus at Fred Snodgrass' muffed Series fly in '12, the Toney-Vaughn double no-hitter in '17, the BlackSox scandal of '19, Washington's only Series win in '24, and Murderers Row's blitzing of the Pirates in '27. Everyone can point to a similar cosmic partner, if on lesser scale, which is what prompted last year's poem about my baseball guy, Steve Demeter. The piece was well received, but introspective ratiocination forced the admission that if Demeter is '1' in my stable, the entry must be completed by including a non-sports '1A', Bob White.

In my high school years, mom and dad built a pre-fab house on a plot of land behind us, and the second tennants were Bob and his new wife. White was a drug rep and former schoolmate of our choral director when both were in High Point. A cheery guy, as befit the sales breed, his reputation for good luck was already established by winning a new Volkswagen from a local radio station shortly after his nuptuals.

But what did I care? I was fighting the Battle the Buzz at parties through senior year and at two colleges. The latter one, Lenoir Community College, was in Kinston, and was attended after deciding my new life's dream was radio stardom. My first full-time gig was in January of '77, and the next year the Eagles re-entered the Carolina League. Those factors, plus the great barbeque indigenous to eastern NC put me close to hog heaven.

The only major fly in the ointment happened one night while petrified as a plank. In attempting to retrieve a food dish in the dark, I put a nasty gash in my middle finger. The slow-healing cut dictated a doctor visit, and who do you think was met in his office? Bob White. Saw him twice in Kinston on the only two visits I made to a general practitioner.

Fast forward to '82. As a newlywed, I did morning-drive in Henderson at WHNC while living in Oxford. Wasn't the swiftest career move, because the station and I just didn't mesh, and the job wasn't the only thing ailing. Near the end of the year my wife miscarried and needed a DNC at Oxford Hospital. Guess who was leaving as we were entering. You win the cupie doll.

Last Friday I drove a friend who'd had rotator cuff surgery to her physical in Reidsville. Must've been drug rep day, because shortly after arrival I saw a babe all decked out in designer threads carrying a sample case, followed shortly by a clean cut guy in his early thirties with his own batch of pills. As he talked to the doll, the perk packs he'd painstakingly set in a chair fell into the floor. Some fat, baldheaded, old geezer in a PURPLE suit, lavender shirt, purple tie, and two-toned purple and lavender shoes came out of the office and the three of them fanned jaws, apparently oblivious to the scattered boxes near their feet.

When the lady entered the inner sanctum, the pappy guy cut dust and as the younger dude picked up his mess, we conversed. Searching for common ground, I mentioned the drug salesman from thirty years ago who turned up unexpectedly at several radio ports of call. Mostly we chuckled at the outrageous onion-head in the purple suit, and when several more drug men entered the building and conversation, the younger fellow brought them up to speed on Professor Plum. They laughed and the young guy ended with, "Ol' Bob sure is a character".

Yeah, that Bob. We'd crossed paths again.


Dan Grey Taylor Jr.