Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Mr. Whitehead



After retiring from the Air Force, I finally found a job with the Fla.


Dept. of Environmental Regulation. The only opening was for an


Administrative Assistant. That was OK, it was a job and an entry into the


field I was interested in. I shared an office with the Solid Waste Specialist,


who among other things, worked with Forestry and issued burning permits.


One day, after I had been there for several weeks, a secretary came


rushing in looking for my “roomie”, who was out of town. She said that a


caller had just complained that Mr. Whitehead was burning in his pit again. I


said that I would handle it and the secretary told me where the burning site


was—about ½ mile away.


I zipped over there in a state marked car and when I drove up was met


by what turned out to be an old acquaintance, Howard Whitehead. We


immediately recognized each other and shook hands. Howard, had a large


construction company and before clean air regulations came into play, burned


some debris behind his office. This time it had been a mistake and he said he


immediately had it put out. We then began to talk about the “good old days”.


Howard was a crusty old Florida Cracker, and when I was in high


school, used to talk to him about football, when I was visiting his house. He


had a pretty daughter, that was a cheer leader. I never dated her because I


had seen her “deck” one of our tackles, with a single right cross, but we did


sometimes hang out in the same groups.


Back at the office, my boss Phil, had returned. He was an tough ex-


marine and the best boss I ever had. When the secretary told him where I


had gone—he went ballistic. Told her to call the police and tell them to get


to Howard's place immediately. Then he dashed out the door.


During my twenty odd years absence from Fort Myers, I hadn't kept up


with Mr. Whitehead, but Phil had. Seems he had shot a man, (not prosecuted,


a matter of honor); beat up a man and was fined $200, said that was a fair


price and beat him up again leaving the courthouse; had a beef with the city


not paying a bill, so he dumped a full load of cement down a manhole in the


middle of town. There apparently were some other tales that made Mr


Whitehead something of a legend. You might say he had a little temper.


(That was another reason I didn't date his daughter)


Anyway, Phil came roaring up to Mr. Whiteheads office, screeching


tires while braking, and followed closely by, not one, but two police cars,


with flashing lights and screaming sirens, only to find Howard and I sitting


on the front steps, telling jokes. I was in no danger. Later, Phil said he would


never worry about me again. He didn't. and we got along famously.

No comments:

Post a Comment