Bobby Langston, "Classic" Movie Buff
My cousin Bobby was the oldest friend I'd ever had and one of the closest. On two or three occasions, Bobby, his wife Sherry, and their two kids, Maggie and Mark stayed with me for a few months at my house in Columbia. Each time, I'd have to kick him out for running up bills—usually telephone bills—and not paying them.
My cousin Bobby was the oldest friend I'd ever had and one of the closest. On two or three occasions, Bobby, his wife Sherry, and their two kids, Maggie and Mark stayed with me for a few months at my house in Columbia. Each time, I'd have to kick him out for running up bills—usually telephone bills—and not paying them.
He was such a movie fanatic that, whenever he'd hear of a recent, hyped movie, he'd want to keep track of its success. Since that was before the days of the Internet, that meant he'd make a lot of long distance calls. Movies would be shown in Los Angeles before they were released nationally, so Bobby would call the theaters and ask how well the latest hyped movie was doing.
I'd never cared how well a movie was doing. No matter how much I liked a movie, I didn't care how popular it was with others. Bobby couldn't understand my lack of enthusiasm. He'd say, “It's a classic, Bo!” as if that were reason enough for me to head for the nearest telephone and call a total stranger in Los Angeles and dote on a movie as if I'd made it myself. (He never called anyone Bo unless he was telling him about the latest instant classic, whether it was a movie or a novel.)
Eccentric though he was, I really miss him. Life was always interesting when he was around.
Hitting the Floor at 404
For most of my time in Columbia, I had a home at 404 South Gregg Street, in the Rosewood area. The street numbers have been changed, and that address is now known as 412 South Gregg Street.
One night, as a lay in bed, my cousin Bobby Langston stood next to me for a little conversation. After a time, he bade me good night and left to watch television in the living room with his wife Sherry and their kids, Maggie and Mark.
Only a few minutes later, I heard a gunshot. At that instant, a high-powered bullet crashed through my window, passed about a yard from me, ricocheted off a hardwood bookcase, and lodged itself in the wall. If Bobby and I had still been talking at that moment, the bullet would have struck him in the side.
My first thought was that somebody was upset at me. Bobby’s first thought was that I had committed suicide, but Sherry told him that I wouldn’t do anything of the kind.
I hit the floor, situating myself below window level, crawled over to the telephone, and called 911 (emergency). I told the police that we were “under fire” and gave him the address.
As the police arrived in the neighborhood, another shot rang out. The police headed for a neighbor’s house: the source of the shots.
As it turned out, our neighbor (I believe his name was Dwayne) had come home quite drunk and started playing with his high-powered rifle. When his longsuffering wife Darlene warned him to be careful, he fired a shot into his wall. That was the shot that had come through my window. After she had scolded him a few minutes, Dwayne—eager to show Darlene who wore the pants and carried the gun in the family—fired another shot into the wall.
Columbia was the 80th largest city in America, but in many ways it was like a small town. Like Andy of Mayberry, the police managed to smooth things over. Dwayne apologized to me, and I forgave him on the condition that he should replace my window.
Darlene became friends with my sister Rhonda. Eventually, she built up the courage to dump her drunken, abusive husband.
A few years after I’d moved to Taiwan, I returned to Columbia for a week or so. On Main Street, I unexpectedly met Darlene, and she looked happy.
