Luke Tillman

“Boy, you need to stay away from that Luke Tillman!”

If I heard that once back when I was growing up, I must have heard it a thousand times. From Mommy and Daddy. From Mamaw and Papaw. From Brother Evans, the preacher at our little church.

It seemed nobody over the age of 12 wanted me to be friends with Luke.

None of that phased me one bit. Luke was everything that I was not. He had blonde hair that came down to his shoulders. Papaw cut my hair and he had learned to barber in the Army. There came a time when short hair became cool. I didn’t grow up in that time. Luke had never lost a fistfight or a wrestling match. I could count on my fingers the times that I had won. Girls didn’t intimidate Luke. He could meet a girl and fifteen minutes later, he would be holding her hand. My parents were strict Independent Baptists and they had dozens of rules that I had to follow. Luke had never met his father and his mother was usually too drunk to tell him anything.

We were unlikely friend. It was a friendship based on one fact: I wished that I was just like Luke.

Luke and I met on the playground during my sixth grade year. Luke had just moved here from Michigan with his mother. Some boys were playing a pickup softball game that day at recess. I never played in those games. I enjoyed playing, but I didn’t like the humiliation of being picked last when sides were being chosen. It was the beginning of my career as an eternal spectator.

Luke was batting when I first noticed him. On the first pitch that he got, he hit a fly ball to left. Bobby Owens chased the ball down and caught it. Luke dropped the bat and stomped in my direction, obviously frustrated.

“Hey,” I said, “you do the chicken wing thing with your arm like Joe Morgan does.”

He grinned at me.

“Yeah,” Luke said, “he’s my favorite ballplayer.”

It was the beginning of our friendship and I remember it like it was yesterday. I also remember the end.

I was 16. I had just got my first car, a broken down old Nova. It seemed that I became Luke’s chauffeur after that. He always seemed to be bumming a ride to somewhere. I didn’t mind. Luke was a cool guy to hang out with. One Friday night, he asked if I would give him a ride to the football game. I was in my prime as a spectator and was planning on going anyway.

“Going to the ballgame?” Mommy asked as I headed out the door.

“Yes’m,” I responded.

“By yourself?”

“No. Picking up Luke.”

She sighed and shook her head.

“Can’t you find some nice girl to go to games with?”

I gave her a sad smile.

“Girls just don’t like me. Whatever they like, I ain’t got.”

I had heard that line in an old movie and it fit me pretty well.

“Have you even asked a girl? I’m sure Shirley Updyke at church would like to spend time with you.”

Shirley outweighed me by 50 pounds and was almost as pretty as me. She had a personality that matched her looks. For some odd reason, my parents thought she and I would be the perfect pair.

“You know I get intimidated when I try to talk to girls. Maybe I can learn from Luke. He’s real good with girls!”

“I wish you wouldn’t spend so much time with him. He’s no good just like that drunken mother of his!”

“He’s my buddy!” I said with a little too much volume. I hurried out the door before Daddy came around and told me I was in trouble for raising my voice to my mother.

I picked up Luke at the trailer where he and his mother lived. He swaggered to the car in his usual outfit-Def Leppard T-shirt, ragged jeans and cowboy boots. There was a toothpick clenched between his teeth. He climbed into the front seat and turned on the radio-99.9, WWCM, “We Want Country Music”. Conway Twitty blared out of the speakers. Luke wanted the world to believe that he was a rock and roller, but country music was his thing.

“We gonna win tonight, bud?” he drawled.

I shook my head. Gorman County High School seldom won football games. We were playing Central Madison, a powerhouse in our part of the state.

“Can’t see it happening.”

We drove to the football field. The stands were about half full. This was basketball country and football was an afterthought, especially with the home team’s record. As soon as we walked in, Jilly McElfresh, Luke’s girlfriend, a tall, slender, and very pretty blonde sophomore came and took his hand. Her sister, Mandy, a shorter, heavier, and older version of Jilly was with her. We sat together that night. While Jilly and Luke kissed and whispered, Mandy completely ignored me. That was okay with me. Her boyfriend had graduated last year and was in the Marines. I had no desire to get my tail kicked by a marine.

At halftime, Gorman County was already down 27-3. Luke jerked his thumb toward the concession stand.

“Hey, bud, let’s go get hot dogs.”

I got up and trudged behind him, down the bleachers and toward the concession stand. Before we could get there, Luke grabbed my arm and pulled me under the bleachers.

“What in the world, Luke?” I asked.

“Got something here,” he said. He preached into his back pocket and pulled out a plastic sandwich bag. Inside the baggy, I could see what looked like hand rolled cigarettes.

“’Bout time I introduced you to sweet Mary Jane,” he siad in a voice that reminded me of a cat’s purr.

“No way! I ain’t gonna get involved in that crap!” I said, again with too much volume.

“Man, what’s wrong with you?” he said and he seemed really angry at my reaction.

“I’m not gonna do drugs!” I shot back. That’s how I felt about it and I still do.

“It’s just weed!”

“Look, I’ve gone against my own family to be your friend! They kept warning me about you and I wouldn’t listen! Turns out that they were right all along!”

I turned and walked away. Then, I turned around for one parting shot.

“And you can find your own way home!”

With that, I left the football field, got in my car, and went home. When I arrived, Dad was sitting in the living room, listening to the game on the radio. By that time, my school was down 41-9.

“Didn’t want to see your team get killed, did you?” Daddy said.

“Something like that.” I had no desire to inform him that he had been right about Luke all along.

I went to my room, kicked off my Chuck Taylors, and flopped onto the bed. I just laid there . I drifted off to sleep. I probably slept for a few hours before I was awakened by a knock on the door.

I sat up and said “OK, come on in.”

The door opened and my father walked into my room.

“Son, I just heard on the scanner that there’s a fire at your Papaw’s barn. I decided to go check it out. Want to come along for the ride?”

I really didn’t, but for some reason, I said “Alright.” I put on my shoes and a jacket. A few minutes later, Daddy and I were headed down Highway 17 toward my grandparents’ place.

When we were about a mile away, I could see a red glow from the fire. We arrived at the barn and it was engulfed in flames. There were two fire trucks and about a dozen firemen on the scene. They firemen were spraying away with their hoses, but anyone could see that it was a losing battle.

“Dang!” I said.

“I helped build that barn back when I was about your age,” Daddy told me, Lucky that he only uses it for storage these days. How in the heck did that happen, I wonder.”

I had fond memories of that barn. I remember back in seventh grade, Luke and me had used bales of hay to make a network of tunnels in the loft and, along with a few other guys we knew from school had several evenings of fun climbing through the bales. Luke had confided to me that he had brought girls out here when he needed privacy. The first time he had ever been with a girl had been up in the old hay loft.

“Boy, ain’t that…” Daddy said, his voice trailing off with uncertainty.

At first, I didn’t see what he was talking about, but then I did. And I’ll never forget the sight of Luke Tillman, in the glow of the firelight, staggering across the field toward the highway, long hair blowing in the cool breeze. He stopped and waved. I shook my head and turned my back to him.

I needed to stay away from that Luke Tillman.