Marshall Ramsey

Cheaters never win. 

The man in the diner folded his newspaper and muttered, “Bull#$%. Nice guys finish last.”  Since 2008, Bob Hammond’s faith in just about everything had been kicked in the groin.  Wall Street. Big banks. Politicians (well, he knew they lied). Tiger Woods. Now Lance Armstrong.

The former cyclist and cancer survivor had inspired Bob while he fought his own cancer.  Last night’s confession to Oprah had made Bob’s cancer scar burn with disgust.

He took a sip of his coffee and nearly spit it out. The boiling liquid scalded the roof of his mouth. “Good Lord, Maggie! Are you trying to kill me?”

The pain sent knives into his brain.

It was 6 a.m. and Bob was getting ready for his 7 a.m. shift.  The past two years had been rough at the plant.  His pay had been cut in half and his benefits cut. He now worked as a night watchman at the local big-box store to make ends meet. His daughter was about to head to college.  He didn’t want to strangle her dreams with huge student loan debt. She was a smart girl. Pretty like her mother and full of personality.  What kind of world was he leaving to her? She deserved better than this. “What is this world coming to?” he muttered out loud.

He used to listen to the guy on the radio rant about how bad things were and whose fault it was. About six months ago, he turned it off. He knew that all that guy was doing was using his fear to gin up ratings.  It would be really easy to think things were hopeless.  But in his heart, he knew better. This was America. And for all her faults, she still was the land of opportunity. He drank coffee. Not Kool Aid.

“Want me to freshen that up, Bob? So I can kill you some more?” Maggie was the friendliest waitress at the diner and probably the hardest working person Bob knew. Silver strands of wisdom flecked her raven hair. She probably was 40, tall, thin and extremely wise. She, too, had a daughter entering college.  And she also worked a couple of jobs to stretch the paycheck to cover the month.

Maggie grinned and said, “President says we need to create jobs. That’s awesome.  I could use a third.” Both laughed Maggie’s gallows humor.

“Do you ever get depressed, Maggie?” Bob put the paper down and put a fork-full of eggs in his mouth.

“Some days. But I don’t stay that way long. No time for it really.  I have too much to do.”

“Well, I do.” Bob knew his brain was like a garden. It grew amazing crops but also grew some pretty big weeds. “It has been rough since Hannah left.”

Maggie shuffled uncomfortably. She knew that Bob’s wife had left him. She didn’t know the circumstances, but she thought she had overhead the word “breakdown.”

“I’m sorry Bob.” What else could she say?  “Being a single parent is one of the most difficult and rewarding jobs out there. And from the looks of it, you’re doing a fine job.”

“Could always do better,” Bob sighed. Maggie stopped, smiled and nodded. She knew the challenges from her own daughter. Her husband Steve had run away with the church secretary three years ago.  Catching them in her bed was the lowest moment of her life. But she had bounced back.  She always did.

Bob took another sip of his coffee and thought about his work. His boss and gotten a new company car right after he had lost his salary.  “Well, at least it went somewhere it could do some good.” he muttered out loud.  He talked to himself frequently these days.

It was 6:15 and the first rays of the run were peeking over the city’s skyline.  Dark shadows reached toward the dinner and toward Bob’s soul.

Maggie walked over to her customer and put her hand on his. “Bob, it’s going to be OK. The only thing holding you back is you keep looking back.  Stop it. We’re in a moment of great change. Your great great grandparents experienced it during the Industrial Revolution. Imagine how scared they must have been.  And look what your grandparents did during World War 2. Lord knows their world was rocked.  This is our test.  This is our time to change things. There have been too many participation trophies. There have been too many Bernie Madoffs and Lance Armstrongs that have succeeded by cheating.  No longer can we succeed without working hard. Bob, it’s time to show the world that a good man CAN and WILL win. Go today and work hard. Work hard tonight. And tomorrow. Smile and make a difference in other people’s lives. You’ve made a difference in mine. Keep it up. And keep being a positive role model for that beautiful girl of yours.”

Bob straightened his back and smiled, “You’re pretty when you’re wise, Maggie. Thank you.”

Maggie grinned, “Say thank you by leaving me a big tip.”

The rising sun’s warming rays flooded the small diner and chased all the shadows away.  Bob left a $20 next to his plate and smiled at the raven-haired angel behind the counter.

“See you tomorrow, Bob.”

“If I’m lucky,” Bob cheerfully said as he walked into a new day full of opportunity.

The day before the storm:

The local TV voiceover guy opened the weather segment with a booming, “This is Eyewitness weather with meteorologist Sandy Storm sponsored by Oger Supermarkets. Oger, for the best bread and milk.”

“Good evening Southlanders. Hold on to your seat. I have big news for you. It’s a four letter word that starts with S…”

The producer whispered to the cameraman, “$#*^?” The cameraman jiggled the HD camera as he laughed.

Sandy continued with her big sleet-eatin’ grin on her face, “Yes, you guessed it — it’s going to SNOW!!!!!”

And at that moment, the whole Channel 5 viewing area exploded into panic.

Bread and milk were the first to go.  Beer and toilet paper weren’t far behind.  Crazed shoppers ran up and down the aisles of the local Oger grocery store in fear.  Kids dreamed of a snow day. Parents shook their fists at the sky.

People absolutely freaked out.

18 Hours before the storm:

Thelma Lou Franchesco pushed Wendy Winehouse trying to get a can of tuna. She hit a display of canned corn, sending it and her flying into the diaper aisle.  Tom Drysdale tripped Frank Watson so he could get to the last loaf of white bread first. Fights began to break out at the local grocery store.  “How will my baby eat?” cried one shopper as she fell to her knees crying.

“How are you coping with the chance of snow? asked Buck Strong to anyone who would pay him any attention. Buck was the longtime anchor/reporter legend at Channel 5 news who was famous for once mixing it up with a governor he caught in the same strip-club he was in.  Strong’s defense was “You can’t just find news sitting in your house. Sometimes you have to go to a strip club to find it.” Management didn’t fire him, but refused to expense the numerous lap dances.

Shoppers hustled past the legendary reporter and into the store, trying to scoop up the last jars of peanut butter and  cans of sardines. “Oh the humanity!” one portly man cried.

12 Hours before the storm:

“Do you think we’ll be snowed in for weeks?” viewers tweeted Sandy Storm.  Sandy kept her 1,000 twitter followers on top of the latest forecast and explained the latest forecast models. “Dress warm!” she replied.

Panic had hit 11 out of 1o.

10 Hours before the storm:

Bubba Franklin, the local auto mechanic, readied his four-wheel drive and chain. He’d pull the people out of the ditch.  Sure, all the Yankees could drive on snow. But not when there was an inch of ice under it.  “I’m providin’ a public service,” he told Buck Strong. “For $50.”

Sandy Storm broke in during the SEC basketball game and said, “Just to let you know, we’re under a winter storm watch.  I’ll break in to tell you the latest.” At this point, the basketball fans had already called the management at the station to complain. Sandy didn’t mind. She loved to break into prime-time programing.

Road crews busily readied trucks with salt.  Bartenders busily readied margaritas with salt, too.

The city had nearly shut down in preparation to Winter Blitz 2013 (what Eyewitness News 5 had now dubbed the storm.) Now the Mayor was ready to enact his emergency plan. (He loved to plan).

8 Hours before the storm:

The city was ready. The population was ready. Kids dreamed dreams of snow men, snow angels, snow balls, snow forts and snow whatever else you can make out of snow.  Schools had been preemptively cancelled. “We can’t risk running the buses during Winter Blitz 2013,” said the local superintendent in charge of making such lofty snow-related decisions. The grocery store manager was busy rolling around in a room full of money as he looked out as his store’s bare shelves.

Sandy Storm was on the air wall-to-wall tracking the snow as it came in on radar.

As the sun went down, people huddled in their homes ready for whatever Mother Nature could throw at them.  It was all over but the snowing. “Bring it on!” cried Sandy Storm.  Buck Strong had hunkered down at the local strip club.

And just as predicted, the first flakes fell. They were big, fluffy flakes. They quickly covered elevated surfaces and then dusted the grass. Roads got slushy and the surrounding countryside began to look like a Thomas Kincade painting. It was truly a Southern winter wonderland.

Kids woke up to the beauty  of the freshly fallen snow and quickly put on their winter clothes. Winter Blitz 2013 had hit. Sandy Storm broke into the morning show to update her viewers one more time.

And then it happened.

The sun peeked over the oaks and the pines and began illuminate the fresh blanket of snow.

Within 10 minutes it was slush. By 9 a.m. all the snow was completely gone.

Winter Blitz 2013 had ended nearly as quickly as it had begun. It was yet another exciting Southern snowstorm. And all the people had to show for it were kids at home and a whole bunch of milk and bread.

The smell of bacon wafted through the kitchen. Thankfully, Varner Lee’s trailer still had electricity. Most of the Delta was now in the dark thanks a healthy coat of ice on the power lines and trees. There really wasn’t much good to say about an ice storm. Varner hated them. He  held his cup of coffee close to his nose allowing its steam to tickle his nostrils. If he could have injected it directly into his veins, he would have. But the smell of fresh brewed coffee and freshly fried bacon created a olfactory symphony that was hard to beat.

Varner was 45 years old, recently divorced and living with a fine obese cat named Bells Ferry. Asked about the cat’s odd name, Varner laughed and said it was the name of his elementary school. Bells Ferry didn’t seem to mind his name– a good cat didn’t come when called anyway.  Varner looked out the window toward the Delta. He lived on the bluff that ran from Vicksburg and it afforded him an amazing view. He had a $10 trailer, but a $1,000,000 view.  Ice glazed all the trees, making the world look like a giant donut.

Donut. Now Varner was really hungry.  He scrambled an egg and dropped a piece of bacon on the floor for Bells Ferry. “Enjoy that old boy. It may be the last cooked food we have in a while.”

Ice coated perilously coated the power lines. “Won’t be long,” he thought. He remembered the ice storm of 1994 that crippled North Mississippi. And the one he had experienced as a child in the Atlanta area, too.  One of his fleeting memories of childhood was of his poor dad sliding down the street in the family wagon on a skating rink of five inches of ice.

Being a grownup sucked.

The kids in the Delta schools and academies were out.  Education was pretty much segregated in the Delta.  But right now, white and black both had the day off. Just not Varner. Like his father, he would have to slide into work soon, too.

Varner shrugged his shoulders. You couldn’t even go out and make an ice man or an ice angel in this crap. And throwing ice balls would definitely hurt.

The trailer’s lights flickered for a moment and came back on. Varner let out a sigh at the close call.  “I hope you can stay warm,” he said to his cat. Bells Ferry was 20 pounds. The portly cat had enough blubber to survive the next ice age.

The problem with Bells Ferry was that although he was an excellent listener, he really didn’t talk much. The trailer was deathly quiet.  In fact, the only noise Varner could hear was the cracking of oak and pine trees in the distance.

“This #$%# is getting serious.” Varner cursed.  He knew his mama would not have approved of his sailor talk, but there really was no other way to put it. He had watched his beloved Delta suffer so many different ways.  Mother Nature usually found  the most cruel and unusual ways to hurt you.

Last year it was the flood. This year the heat and now the ice.  Varner started humming James Taylor’s Fire and Rain. “Just yesterday morning, the let me know you were gone. Suzanne the plans they made put an end to you. I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain…”

His Suzanne was now in Atlanta with the kids.  They had argued about so many different things that they couldn’t even agree where halfway was. He said Tuscaloosa. She said outside of Birmingham.  Of course, the divorce lawyers fed off of their hatred like mosquitoes in a blood bank.  Varner missed his boys.  Sitting in the empty trailer was his purgatory.  He’d pay for his sins the rest of his life.  Not hearing his children’s laughter was the biggest price of all.

His heart was as frozen as the surrounding Delta.

“Well, fat cat, I need to run.  Stay warm today and try not to eat all your food at once.” Bells Ferry swished his tail in disgust.

There was at least half an inch of ice on his truck’s windshield.  He managed to break it off and eased his old Chevy into four-wheel drive.  Four-wheel drive was more for snow than ice.  But it beat trying to get around on the back wheels.  His truck crunched down the drive as Varner hummed “Walking in a winter wonderland.” He really didn’t know why the plant was open today, but a job was a job. And he would be there on time.

As he got to the main road and tried to turn right, a Pontiac G6 slid sideways past him.  Before Varner could brink, the car left the road and slammed broadside into a pine.  The sickening crash was rapidly followed by near silence.  Varner ran over to the crash site and heard the radiator hissing menacingly. Then he smelled it. The gas tank had been ruptured.  Inside, surrounded by fired airbags was a lady. Her head was bleeding profusely but she seemed to be conscious.  Then Varner saw something in back seat that made his blood colder than the ice on the road: An infant car seat.

“Just hold on ma’am.” Varner yanked unsuccessfully on the door.  He paused and looked around for a rock.  “Hold on!”  The glass shattered, allowing Varner to unlock the door.

The baby was unhurt.  “Thank the Lord!”  Unbuckled her and slung him over his shoulder. He then helped free the mom from her seatbelt. “C’mon ma’am. You need to move.”  Seconds seemed like hours but Varner knew he didn’t have time to spare.  The three carefully navigated the icy road toward his trailer.

“911? I need an ambulance. I know it is icy.  We’ve had a bad wreck on the main highway.”

He looked down at the woman’s beautiful (if not battered face.) The ice surrounding him began to melt.

That day changed Varner’s life. If you asked him before the wreck if ice storms were bad, Varner would have said yes.  And he would have given you some pretty good reasons why. But after the wreck, he would tell you it was the day Marie and Jenny slid into his life.  Without a little ice, his new wife and adopted daughter would have zoomed on past his heart.  

The cat Bells Ferry was happy about it, too.  He knew that more people meant more bacon.  And yes, even an ice storm goes better with bacon. 

Say it isn’t so, Lance. Say it isn’t so.

I was up at 3:15 this morning, fumbling around and trying to get ready to workout without waking the world. I needed to shave, so I opened my bathroom cabinet drawer to look for my razor.  I groped around for the blade (with its cap on so I wouldn’t slice off a finger.).  I found a toothbrush. A tube of lip balm, a penny, a tube of muscle rub and some floss.  And then I felt something I haven’t worn in a long time. It’s rubber and a bracelet.  The low light revealed that it was yellow. And on it was the word LIVESTRONG.

I suppose it should say LIESTRONG since Lance Armstrong has apparently confessed to doping to Oprah. (Forgive me Oprah, for I have sinned.)

I stood there in the near dark clutching something that used to mean so much to me. It had been given to me by a member of the Livestrong organization three years after I had survived cancer.  It stood for victory: Victory over a disease that could have very easily killed me. Victory over fear. Victory because I now had hope of survival.

Of course, the person who inspired that hope was Armstrong. His story was a story of legend. Not only did he have a foot in the grave with testicular cancer, he was up to his neck in the grave. And we all know the rest of the story: He went on to win one of the toughest athletic challenges in the world — the Tour de France — seven times.

He became a legend in the sports world. And to us cancer survivors, well, he stood for something even bigger.

He didn’t just survive cancer. He thrived.

We all know now that it was based on a lie. He doped. He intimidated people who tried to blow the whistle on him. He acted generally like an ass.  Not only did he cheat death, he cheated life. It’s hell when you find out your heroes have feet of clay.

I’ve met Armstrong once.  He was brusk and in a hurry.  Not a lovable, gregarious sort of person by any means. But I thanked him for the hope he gave me.  I meant it. And I’d say the same thing today.

Because even though his legend he created was based on a lie, that hope I felt was very real. And it is still with me.

I put the bracelet back in the drawer and rubbed the scar on my side.  And then I thought about Lance’s interview with Oprah (which I will watch). I hope the Livestrong Foundation survives Lance’s lying. Their mission is bigger than one person’s idiocy and ethical shortcomings.

As for Lance, he made his bed. He’ll now have to sleep in it. But as a cancer survivor, I am appreciative of the message, even though the messenger turned out to be so tragically flawed.

I’ll continue to live strong.  I’ll just find my inspiration somewhere else.