The Laughing Dog

The Laughing Dog

(A Case of Mistaken Identity)

It is a warm afternoon in mid June or early July in the summer of 1975-76 as I sit on my mothers’ front porch in an aluminum folding chair drinking an Iron City beer. It is one of those chairs that has the green nylon webbing on the back and bottom that digs into your skin if you sit too long. It’s the kind of webbing that makes your bum and thighs look like a giant checkerboard when you finally stand up in your cut off shorts.

The sun is warm and the traffic on our street is light except for the cars that go by heading down the hill to a 25 cent car wash that is located on the flats below. On any given summer Saturday or Sunday (weather permitting) the car wash is full of activity. The car wash is a magnet for young men of all colors who love their vehicles of all makes, models, colors and styles. Cars to these young men are a statement of who they are and what they do. The amount of pride in ownership of these vehicles can be measured in the sweat glistening on their brows and their un-shirted backs,. The sweat from the washing and polishing of their machines is relative to the serious effort that they spend making their machines almost perfect. I can hear the music playing and hear the "dozens" (a game of one up-manship good natured insults being traded back and forth) being played between the young black men. It is a typical summer day on the Pittsburgh’s’ Brighton Heights section.
The car wash was an attraction for young black men from the lower North Side neighborhoods. Geographically it was the closest on to their residences. It was a gathering place on those warm summer days to take their pride and joy for a quick spiff before heading out to cruise wherever they cruised. These young black men took tremendous pride in their rides.

I remember one summer as a young man working on an asphalt paving crew. One of the older gentlemen I had the pleasure of working with was an older black man named “Sweet Charles”. "Sweet Charles was almost as black as the asphalt that he labored over during the hot summer days. He was a taller man with a large chest and large well toned muscular arms, his abs were ripped, "Sweet Charles" would stand there in the blazing sun holding his shovel as he shimmered from the heat rising off of the fresh asphalt glistening like a recently cast bronze statue, sweat pouring off of his body.

“Sweet Charles” lived in the heart of the ghetto on the lower North Side in a place known as Brighton Place. It was a couple of streets of row houses that were probably built in the 1880’s or 1890’s. I am sure that they were once a great place to live and grow up. The years had taken their toll and that coupled with the urban flight of the 1950’s and 1960’s had turned them into cheap, rundown, unkempt rental properties. Brighton Heights bordered this neighborhood but it was light years apart in appearance. Brighton Heights was a middle class neighborhood with large homes, parks, green lawns and pride.

I was antiquated with a lot of these young men from playing baseball and other sports during my youth. I had been to some of their homes and was always amazed at the difference between the homes in which they lived and the fine machinery that sat outside next to the curb. Young black men back then aspired to own Buicks, Oldsmobile’s, Lincolns and of course Cadillacs. It was a sign of perceived power, prestige and success for them. Wide whitewalls better known as “gangster whites”, curb feelers and fender skirts were de riguiere .

“Sweet Charles” drove a new Cadillac Eldorado coupe. It was Emerald Green Metallic with a white vinyl roof and a Ermine White leather interior. Not the typical color combination one would expect for a man who played with asphalt and tar all day to be driving but it was flawless, not a spot on the interior at all. "Sweet Charles meticulously changed his clothes and shoes before getting into the Eldorado, he even wore glove lest he stain the white leather covered steering wheel. The Eldorado sat in the hot summer’s sun gleaming like a jewel. As I sat with “Sweet Charles” eating lunch that hot summer day my curiosity got the better of me and I mustered up enough courage to pose a question to “Sweet Charles” “Hey Sweet” can I ask you a question? “Sure man whatcha want to know”? "Sweet Charles" was always engaging.
I had to preface my question with a caveat so that I did not offend “Sweet Charles”. “With no offense intended “Sweet Charles”, but why is it that black folks live in such shit houses but drive such magnificent cars” I asked? Without missing a beat or even appearing to hesitate for a second “Sweet Charles” replied “Thas easy man. “Ya can always live outcha car but ya can’t be drivin’ yo’ house”. “Sweet Charles” was a philosopher to say the very least and his reply made perfect sense to me. As a young man a car meant freedom, it meant pride; it meant attention from the opposite sex at my young age. I understood completely, what girl in her right mind wanted to see your house?

A couple of weeks earlier my brother had told me about a guy that he worked with that was looking to get rid of a couple of goats that he owned. It seems that the township in which he had resided for many years had recently passed an ordinance that no longer permitted the keeping of livestock within it’s borders The population growth of suburbia was beginning to change a lot of things and this was just one of many. People who build new homes with manicured lawns usually don’t want pig farms, goats or chicken ranches next door. My brother had contacted an uncle of ours who lived in Greene County, PA. Uncle Ray had about 185 acres of farmland with a working dairy herd. Uncle Rays was always a dumping ground for unwanted pets and strays. Uncle Ray also raised pigs, chickens and rabbits on his farm. Greene County Pennsylvania is a coal mining region and is located in the lowest point of Western Pennsylvania and abuts up against Northern West Virginia north of Morgantown. Greene County is one of the poorest counties in all of Pennsylvania. It lies about 50 miles south of Pittsburgh and is still quite rural and undeveloped today.

Uncle Ray said that he would take one of the goats, but no more. My brother agreed to bring one down in a couple of weeks in his pickup truck. He made arrangement with the owner of the goats to pick one up late that Saturday morning and drop it off. He had asked me to tag along and I agreed to do so. It would get me out of the city for a few hours and help me get the stink blowed off me.

As I sat on the porch waiting for my older brother to pick me up I noticed a dark blue Buick Electra 225 convertible roll down the street headed to the car wash. The top was down and some Motown soul music was coming out of the car as it rolled by. Inside sat three young black men, two in the front, one in the back. The Deuce and a Quarter (the street name for a Buick Electra 225) was super clean. It was a dark blue metallic with a tan interior. The car appeared spotless. My best guess is that it was a 1966 or 1967 with the four barrel carb, 401 V-8 and 455 lb ft of torque. The name 225 was designated to signify that it was 225” long from front to back. The young men smiled as they rode by singing along with the soul song coming from the radio.
My brother pulled up in front of the house about thirty minutes later. He eased the truck up onto the sidewalk and close to the porch so that we could talk. The height of my chair and his seating position in the truck placed us eye to eye. “Are you ready to go” he asked? In a couple of minutes” I replied. “I just opened this beer and want to finish it before we go”. “Take your time” he said “No hurry”. I looked in the back of the pickup from my chair and saw the goat. It was light colored and tall with long hair and slanted eyes. “Nice goat” I said. “Yeah my brother replied, about as nice a fucking goat as you can get” We both laughed and chatted a bit more. I finished the can of beer and rose up and folded the aluminum chair and leaned it up against the outside wall of the house. As I started down the steps the dark blue Buick Electra 225 came up the street and stopped next to my brothers pick up. The driver suddenly yelled “Check it out man, the dude has one of them Afgamimastam dogs in the back”!!!
The front passenger yelled back at him “You dummy, that ain’t no Afgammimastam dog, it’s one of them Ching Chow dogs from China, look at his mother fucking eyes all slanted an shit”.

My brother decided to have some fun with the young men so he turned his head, looked out the sliding back window at the goat and said “Maaaahhhhahhhhahh” The goat looked at my brother and replied “Maaaahhhahhhahh” back.

The young man sitting in the back of the Deuce and a Quarter jumped up and blurted out “Check it out man, the dude has a laughing dog, you gots to get me out of here man the dude has a motherfucking laughing dog. I can’t believe this shit, the dude got a laughing dog” !!!

I believe that it was a case of mistaken identity.