Wade had a mouth on him that could stun horse flies. Knock them right out of the air. It wasn't the standard cuss words that did the job, it was the elaborations; often Biblical.
There wasn't a mother's son among us: ('us' meaning Lester and Howard and Jim, and maybe even Lucky) who didn't almost admire that mouth; especially while knowing that Wade was not exactly heaven-bound. Wade could whip them off without thinking: " . . .sacramental cream-of-cowshit . . . ."
His ability came from being raised in Blackford County, Indiana, where cussing among men was as necessary as church on Sunday. Except, in Wade's case, it was church on Saturday, because Wade's daddy was a religious bigot who hated Jews, Negroes, Catholics, Coca Cola (which represented frivolity and broken dietary laws), F.D.R., city people, country people, and members of his own 7th Day Adventist church. Wade's daddy believed that heaven was forty square acres surrounded by walls made of gold and only Adventists, and only the best of them, would be Chosen. He also believed that Mussolini had been misunderstood.
Wade's mom was so strict that when the preacher came to call, the preacher was nervous for fear he'd say something wrong. She threatened grandchildren with eternal fire if they so much as chewed a pork chop, or asked: "Was Joshua as good a trumpet player as Mr. Harry James?"
This pair spawned five kids, of whom Wade was the youngest. He always said it was a good thing his parents found each other, because it would have been a shame to spoil two families.
Months before WWII opened Wade got out of the dry and miserable heat of Indiana bringing a wife and two kids. Wade came to the wet and miserable heat of Louisville. He worked at a company called Tube Turns that cast engine blocks for B-17 bombers. He barely avoided the draft because he worked in vital industry, and also because he had kids. The war had drafted most working-age men. Wade claimed to be a foreman in charge of aging deadbeats, needy housewives, and lazy niggers; and maybe the foreman part wasn't a lie.
He hung on making bomber engines until war ended. When new cars came to market he ran the repair shop at Hull Dobbs Ford, back when it was still located on sleepy Broadway around 8th or 9th. He was a good shop manager, but, truth to tell, auto repair is boring. The car company was only a car company, no better, no worse.
Wade was like the car company. A working guy, a newer model, maybe. Wade would be not-a-little pleased when a snockered TV announcer (in those earliest days of TV, when one could still get by with being a little plowed at work) said "Hull Dobbs stands behind every one of his cars, and if you buy one you'll wish he stood in front of it."
In real short order, then, Wade got sick of auto repair and cast about for something new. That is when history took over.
Back in the 1920s the American Businessman had been celebrated as the new Messiah. Business had been King. The Businessman, it was suggested by a popular writer and opportunist named Bruce Barton, stood with God at his right hand. Barton compared the Businessman to Jesus. He proclaimed the American Businessman as the Great White Hope of the world. Wade, who was only a kid at the time, bought it.
By 1948 Wade looked the part of Great White Hope. He was handsome and six feet tall in a day when a majority of men were not. He weighed in at around two hundred, and not an ounce of it fat. He sported blue eyes, brush cut hair, and a vocabulary suitable for pulpit or barnyard. On days when he was nice, he was very, very nice. Sweet smile and all. On days when he was bad, he was loud. He was also a rising force for change, in a place and time that resisted change.
Because of his mouth he had a choice of businesses. He could become an Evangelist which was mighty profitable, but preachers don't get to cuss in public. Yet, a man adroit with his mouth should use the abilities the good Lord gave. Wade was always a quick study. He became an auctioneer. " . . .easy as fucking ducks with a howitzer."
When he stood above an auction crowd throwing sweat and b.s. through all seasons, he was a man in control. From Louisville to Blackford County, Indiana was not all that far, but for Wade the distance was a million miles. And even a million miles was not quite far enough.
Business competition was slim. At the time there was only one auctioneer of high repute in Louisville. His name was Charlie Weaver, but Charlie was on his last legs. He could not have cared less when Wade rented auction rooms on Bardstown Road, although Charlie's rooms were only a few blocks distant. Charlie's rooms sat about halfway between Wade's place and a working-class slum on Jackson St.
Wade will shortly rise and mouth his way across these pages, and Charlie, in his quiet way will at least rise; but it is with Bardstown Road and Jackson St., plus an important man named Lucky, that our story really begins.