The Biting Fly

If Wishes Were Horses

TBF — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 23:25:00 GMT

This is a great song that never got enough airplay.

She doesn't even have a Wikipedia page!!! Is that even possible?

If wishes were horses

If wishes were horses
beggars would ride
and we’d leave this town you and I
we’d beat the sunset
be there by dawn
leave our troubles far behind

Chorus:
that’s not how life goes
everybody knows
it takes a long long time
a long long time
to get it right
it takes a long long time

We wouldn’t leave a trail
silent as the night
pretend that nothing's really wrong
we’d follow every train
I know the way
by the time they woke we’d be long gone

Chorus

We wouldn’t even have to fight
or say they were right
nobody’d even have to know
where it is we’d go

We wouldn’t need no cash
to make our escape
your arms in mine
would be our home

Chorus

Life's Lessons

TBF — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 00:39:00 GMT

Stop, Look and Listen

TBF — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 02:38:00 GMT

    Do you remember the old saying to "Stop, Look and Listen" whenever you come to a railroad crossing? Have you ever thought that it was not only good driving advice, but an excellent guide stone for daily life? Essentially, it tells you to take time to gather necessary information and process it with YOUR own brain. Whenever you see, hear or read information provided by others, remember that data needs to be processed once more in order to be properly understood. I could make analogies to computers and such, but I think you get the gist of what I'm saying.
    I've been unfortunate enough to hear some of the statements about the self-mashing Toyota accelerators (remember here in the South we don't press the accelerator, we mash it). Talk about over-reacting!  I fully understand that perhaps 19 deaths have been "attributed" to this hazard and don't make light of these people's loss.  Brook Shields said it best: "If you're killed, you've lost a very important part of your life." (I apologize. I know that was uncalled for.)
   People listen to what some government official tells them and take it for the gospel. When I read that Toyota was pressured by the government into making this recall, I immediately think about how much money our government has invested in General Motors. They really need GM to get back on it's feet. Remember the Ford Pinto? It was produced from 1970 through 1980. Twenty seven people burned to death in Pintos but, in 1974 when Ford knew of the problem, the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration (NHTSA) said the Pinto had no recallable problem. However, the NHTSA did pressure them to fix the problem and in 1978 Ford finally issued a recall. Interestingly enough, Ford defended itself by indicating that the distasteful cost analysis it used for not issuing a recall was required by the NHTSA. The recall was of 12.5 million Ford vehicles. Compare that to the 2.3 million Toyota's with the alleged accelerator problem.
    Altruism is a rare commodity. When our government officials show interest in my well being, I always ask myself, "What's in it for them?" Yeah, I know that's what they are paid to do, but I always wonder if they are doing it for the pay they get from us or the pay they get from lobbyists. Perhaps it's just an 'investment' into their future. One of the best pieces of advice that I know is to think for yourself. USE YOUR BRAIN. Educate yourself. Don't depend on others to take care of you. That's your job. This stuff makes the Libertarian in me show through. Perhaps you, too? See where you really stand when in comes to politics by taking this little political quiz.

The Carpal Tunnel of Love

TBF — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 23:55:00 GMT

    If you suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome you definitely need to consider surgery.  I have commiserated with my wife and her CTS for quite some time. She couldn't sleep, waking up during the night with her hands hurting. She had lost feeling in her fingertips and had difficulty holding on to objects. In short, she was miserable. When she finally decided to go to the doctor, he told her that on a severity scale from 1 to 10, she was a 10. He explained the CTS surgery and that it might be too late to fix the damage. If the nerve is under pressure long enough, it could be dead. If that was the case, she probably wouldn't get the feeling back in her fingers.
    So, about a month ago, she had the left hand repaired. We went to the outpatient surgery center and in about three hours, she was out and headed home. The majority of the time is spent in pre-op and post-op. The actual surgery took about ten minutes. She was given twilight sedation and was able to converse during the surgery. Considering how loopy she was after the surgery, I don't want to imagine the conversation that might have gone on. We spent most of the time in pre-op with her drinking tea and talking about her favorite subjects (I won't go into them) with the nurses.
    It took only a couple of weeks before she started having feeling come back to her fingers. Since everything went well with the left hand, she scheduled surgery for her right hand. There was little swelling and no soreness. The scar is about 3/8" long on the inside of her wrist.
    Yesterday she had the right hand done and the actual surgery took eight minutes. Apparently the sedation was a little heavier this time because she was out during the entire surgery and was about as goofy as I'd ever seen her afterward. When I went back to post-op she was drinking apple juice and telling the nurse it was the best apple juice she had ever tasted.  She drank three cups of the stuff before I got her out of there. Of course she insisted on knowing the brand before we left. The nurse obliged and told her it was Makers Mark (which is a Kentucky bourbon) then corrected herself and said "Members Mark" from Sam's Club.   On the way home she decided she was hungry and wanted some chicken so we went through the drive-through window at Chic-Fil-A . After we got the chicken strips and waffle-fries, she wanted to stop and eat it in the car. I pulled into a parking spot facing the street filled with rush hour traffic. The afternoon sun was blindingly bright coming in the side window as she munched her fries and dipped her chicken into the honey mustard sauce. Still goofy from the anesthesia, her bandaged arm over her head, she looked at me and said, "This is so romantic."
    She's doing fine today. She's out and about like nothing ever happened. The nurse called this afternoon to check on her and asked if she'd gone to Sam's Wholesale and gotten her apple juice yet. I would recommend anyone suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome to see a surgeon. It's not a big deal and it makes you enjoy the little things in life...like chicken nuggets and rush hour traffic.

Lady Gaga "Speechless"

TBF — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 21:13:00 GMT

It thought I'd add this video since "Speechless" doesn't get as much airtime as some of her others. I actually like the studio version of this better, but there apparently isn't an official music video. This is a great song....

Lady Gaga Wants your "Ugly" (don't worry, you've got plenty to spare)

TBF — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 02:01:00 GMT

Alright, I'll admit I have odd taste for my age. But I've always had one standing rule and that is to give a singing, half-naked woman the benefit of a doubt. Some months ago, I did just that and found that I absolutely love Lady Gaga's music. So, you might not be hip (like I obviously am), but don't judge this book by it's cover...or lack thereof. This woman is an incredibly talented singer, songwriter and performer. If you've never heard "Bad Romance", I hope you enjoy it and welcome to planet earth. If you don't, sorry...maybe this is more your speed (click)

There are some kids with amazing, enviable talent out on the innerwebs that have dared to make covers of this monumental hit.

Okay, Igor ain't a kid anymore, but he can wear a guitar OUT...

I hope you enjoyed that...I certainly did.

Illogical

TBF — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 03:02:00 GMT

    I don't know about you, but I have a long history of movie watching. I get it naturally, though, because my father watched every movie that came on television.  Quality was never a factor. Generally, the only requirement was that my mother had gone to bed. That meant we watched movies that came on late at night. A regular Saturday night event for us, mother excluded, was Terracina Theater on channel 6 out of Greenwood, Mississippi. "Hi. Frank Terracina here with another fine movie for your viewing pleasure." Obviously Frank thought we were easily pleasured because his idea of 'fine' was something like "Four Guns to the Border" or "Fort Dobbs". On occasion he would give us a thriller, but it was usually a western.
    While many towns had theaters called the Bijou, the Strand, the Palace or the Majestic, ours was called the "Ricky". The neighboring town had a theater run by the same people and it was called the "Danny". Catchy, huh?  As you guessed, the owners named them after their kids. The first movie I went to see by myself, at the Ricky, was "King Kong vs. Godzilla". Actually, we didn't refer to it as a movie, it was the 'show'. Anyway, one of the things I began to notice even while I was a kid, was that the movies didn't always use logic.
    Did it ever bother you that Godzilla came out of the sea, after spending years in an iceberg he was immediately able to breath fire. So why didn't he just breath fire and melt the iceberg? Was his pilot light out or something? That just doesn't work for me. King Kong had to fight an octopus before he got drunk and was captured. They loaded him on a barge and tied him down with some high strength fishing line. I remember the Japanese guy swinging out over the balcony of the apartment building to demonstrate the line. Anyway, they use electricity to stop Godzilla from totally trashing Japan. So, Godzilla has atomic fire breath, but he can't handle electricity? Okay, so be it. But then they turn around and have King Kong actually get stronger from the electricity. That seems so unrealistic. Of course at this point you realize you're talking about an giant atomic fire breathing lizard awakened from an iceberg and a humongous ape that fought a giant invertebrate and is ballooned to Mt. Fuji for the finale...just as the Japanese planned. So maybe logic isn't required.
    But it's not just the 60's movies that utilize poor logic. Remember the movie "Gremlins"? That one was loaded with illogicity (I don't think that's a real word). I'll give you the not feeding them after midnight and never get them wet business. But how did the bad ones know to sing Christmas carols, dress like Humphrey Bogart (let alone finding that little trench coat and fedora), and flash people? So i watched that and just went with it...like i was supposed to. But when they had the big chase scene and Gizmo was driving the Barbie car all over the store, I told myself, "those things don't accelerate like that! They don't have brakes, either." Of course at that point I realize I'm accepting the fact that a Gremlin is driving it.
    Anyway, that's my thought for today.

The Perfect Gift

TBF — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 23:39:52 GMT

    Well here it is the middle of December and once again I haven't done my Christmas shopping. I never know what to give people and when you ask they either say "it doesn't matter" or "nothing".    I have bought enough bad gifts in my life to know that either of those responses is a lie.
    One Christmas when I was a kid I bought my mother a wonderful gift.  I put a lot of thought into it and really searched for the perfect gift until I was sure I had found it. A Dazey Donut maker!

She didn't have one and I knew she liked donuts. Who in their right mind doesn't like donuts? And is there anything better than a hot donut? I think not.  Anyway, I purchased this unique and clever gift, lovingly wrapped it and presented it to my mother. She didn't like it. She didn't come out and say it, but we all knew she didn't like it. My sister explained that gifts should be personal...for the individual. Geez...it was a Dazey Donut Maker! That's like free donuts for life! I didn't give her a damn football or green army men. She was our cook for Pete's sake! Cook donuts, make me happy and in turn you'll be happy. It all made perfect sense.
    She never made a donut with it. I promise if you asked her she'd claim she made tons of them, but I know she didn't. But I made some. It only made cake donuts. I didn't know that when I bought it. Actually I didn't know what a cake donut was nor did I care. If it had sugar on it, I would eat it. I mixed up the batter, I cooked them and I ate them. And I'm sure that I shared them even though I shouldn't have. Imagine not liking a gift like that!
    So as all the years have past I have done my best to avoid that mistake again. But the urge has lingered to give her a vacuum cleaner or a nice set of ice trays.

Google It

TBF — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 04:43:00 GMT

Have you ever paid attention to the "query suggestions" that Google offers when you start typing in a search word? It's fairly amusing and there is even a web page dedicated to it. I wondered, "Can Google provide helpful hints?" So I typed in the word "Never" in the search box and then offered a few starting letters (of course I choose 'do not filter my search results'...it's a Libertarian thing). Here is a list of ten things Google suggest never to do. The bold part is what I typed in.

10.  Never tell a girl to calm down
9.  Never touch a black man's radio
8.  Never give a cheerleader a keyboard
7.  Never look at a gypsy's balls
6.  Never throw rice at a pisces
5.  Never lick a dead man's hand
4. Never slow dance with a zombie
3.  Never bite a married woman on the thigh
2. Never spit on your shoes
1. Never trust a big booty and a smile

These certainly seem like good, solid advice.

Google is such a magical thing, it can answer any question. Some you didn't even know to ask. For instance...

Do they dream of mauling zebras? [What do tigers dream of?]
Can an opinion be wrong? [Not if it's mine]
Can you not have a belly button? [How about if I just fill it in with lint?]
Can you pick up a ups package? [No. But you can kick it like they do.]
Can you circumcise yourself? [If I'm drunk enough.]
Can you describe the ruckus? [Do you mean the one while I was circumcising myself?]
Can you fart in your sleep? [Yes...and wake myself up.]
Can you fire a gun in space? [Yes, but you would have to get it past security first.]
Can you laminate at kinkos? [Only upstairs...in the VIP lounge.]
Can you milk a hamster? [Yes, but that little stool is a bitch to use.]

It's That Special Time of Year

TBF — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 02:17:00 GMT

    Oh how I look forward to this time of the year! When there's a nip in the air and a fire in the hearth it can only mean one thing. It's time to tell the world how old the Sister is!!!
    She once told me that she had first hand knowledge that the Garden of Eden was really just a truck patch and mostly turnips at that.
    She also said that in her opinion the Big Bang was more like a thud than a bang.
    Maybe she's not quite that old. Mother told me that when Sister was born it was certainly a happy day in the cave. Then things quickly took a turn for the worst when Mother mistakenly nursed a sloth bear the following two weeks. But being the tough little cuss that the Sister is, she somehow made it.
    She once did a cave painting of dogs playing poker.
    These days she an unofficial consultant for the History Channel. If there's a question about skinning out a brontosaurus or the size of a mastodon foot, she's a fountain of knowledge. But I'll tell you one thing, we don't like to go over to her house on holidays because we always end up sitting on the couch chewing a deer hide while watching a show about the extinction of the dinosaurs and her mumbling, "That's not what happened. It wasn't a meteor. It was the damned mosquitoes."
    She's pretty easy when it comes to birthday presents. A sharp stick or a rock that fits her hand pretty well will usually make her happy. I gave her a couple of sail rabbits* last year and she fashioned herself some really nice slippers out of them.
    Anyway, I hope she had a nice birthday and the people from the Guinness Book of World Records didn't harass her too much.

* a rabbit that's been run over so many times there's nothing left but a skin.

Here We Go

TBF — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 16:11:00 GMT

    Okay, I got up this morning intending to get something constructive done today, but while reading the news with my coffee I knew I had to stop and pose a question to the world. What the hell are we becoming in this country?
    Two things. First, the Tiger Woods accident. Tiger Woods had a wreck in front of his house and was injured. Leave it at that. Why do we need to know where he was going? Why does the media need to speculate on marital problems? If he broke a traffic law, give him a ticket. If not, then drop it and let his insurance agent take care of the rest. Since when did the LACK of evidence of wrong-doing become "charges pending"? Have we gotten to the point that we MUST discredit and destroy everybody simply because it makes a good story? I think that every "news" reporter should provide FULL DISCLOSURE of every breath they have taken since birth. At the very least, they should provide us with one unseemly detail from their own life every time they write one of their hopeful smears about a private citizen. Just because Tiger Woods is a celebrity doesn't give anyone the right to speculate on wrong doing. If there is evidence of him breaking the law, fine...that's public domain. If not, then shut up.
    The couple that "crashed" Obama's state dinner should be given a major award. They performed a service to the American public. They clearly indicated how much we have actually gained by spending billions of dollars beefing up security in this country. Why can't the Secret Service simply say they screwed up and didn't do their job? Instead we are going to learn every sordid detail of the lives of the "uninvited guests". Apparently if we totally trash them, we'll feel a lot better about ourselves.
     Do you see a common theme here? Its the "let's do our damnedest to bring down others so we can see how good we are" syndrome. This is what we've become, a people more interested in pointing out the bad in others (true or not) than improving ourselves. Some people think it's human nature. I think if you can identify it, you can change it. Measuring yourself by other's accomplishments, or the lack thereof, makes you a complete failure every time. So if Tiger Woods has some dark secret or the party crashers eventually get arrested, won't we feel smug?

The Young and Stupid

TBF — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 03:48:00 GMT

For some reason I was blessed/cursed with a very good memory. I am able to remember about 75% of all the good things that have ever happened to me and about 99.9% of all the bad or embarrassing experiences. When someone asks my most embarrassing moment it's like a virtual buffet of mortification.
    One of those moments took place in the third grade (I might have already told this one). We were lined up in the elementary school hallway waiting to go practice for a Christmas program and across the hall, a little farther ahead, was a girl that I had a crush on. She was in the fifth grade, I believe, and she stood so quietly in line, her golden hair radiating like a halo. She didn't notice me at first, I'm sure, but after we stood there for a long, loong, looong time, I couldn't stand it any longer. I was never good at pick up lines, so instead...I wet my pants. I think she noticed me.
    Other times I was just dumb. Kids today are a lot more savvy than we, or should I say "I" was in those days. When I was in the fourth grade there was only one creature walking the Earth that struck me as terrifying...

The wolfman. (We didn't have any Jehovah's Witnesses in Podunk) Oh, I knew he was a fake Hollywood monster but for some reason I was pretty darn sure that his existence was within the realm of possibilities. The Wizard of Oz's flying monkeys were absolutely petrifying but all they would do is pull straw out of a scarecrow and take your dog. (Of course they didn't show us what flying monkeys would really do to you.  Any idea how many aerial feces bombardments that they had to cut out of that movie?) Anyway, the Wolfman dressed like your average blue collar worker and then killed people every full moon.  Just look at the picture. This was somebody's father in a pissed off mood!! (I had a belt just like that except mine had a little metal pistol on a chain.) I even remember one time he took on Dracula. Of course Dracula wasn't scary because he wasn't real. I mean, biting people's necks and drinking blood...PHHFFTT! That's fake AND dumb. Really what are the odds of those two running up on each other? That's like King Kong vs. Godzilla. It's just not natural. It's not gonna happen. Now, Godzilla vs. Mothra, okay that's more believable. Fake, but geographically much more plausible.
    Anyway, a friend and I thought that we could send something like $3.00 to Hollywood and get a REAL Wolfman mask. Luckily I didn't have $3.00 or I might have lost all faith in mankind. No doubt we would have put a wad of nickels and a hand scribbled note in an envelope addressed to "HOLLYWOOD" and dropped it in the mail. Instead I spent what little money I had on a plastic Wolfman model. I think it had something like two pieces, a front and a back. You glue it together and put an awful paint job on it, then set it on your shelf and be scared. It was a waste of money. Of course today it would be worth a hundred bucks, but I'm pretty sure I put a firecracker in his butt and destroyed him. You know, to this day when I hear the Beatles song "If I Fell" for whatever reason I think of walking home right after sunset, late October with a full moon rising over leafless trees and thinking the Wolfman was out there somewhere...waiting to kill me...or at least make me wet my pants.

The Fetish

TBF — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 02:22:00 GMT

    Do you have a fetish? No? Liar. Everybody has some type of fetish. That little something that you find a turn on that most other people wouldn't understand so you keep it to yourself. I've always found myself attracted to quirky little things that I didn't imagine anybody else liked. But, thanks to the internet, I now know that I'm not even a blip on the bizarro fetish radar screen.
    For example, I've always had a thing about widow's peaks and that hairy forehead that some women have. Yeah, it's goofy. I'm not talking a full Eddie Munster, but more like these...

(by the way, I stole those pictures)

Okay, so that's not really odd, now is it? Also, nice feet are generally something that many, not all, but many men find attractive. It's really easy to understand because the feet are very curvy. Interestingly enough, larger noses are nice, as well and glasses which are a very nice touch. These seemed pretty normal to me. But I did a little research on the internet and found out that some people take it a little farther than that.
   For starters, an internet search for women with large noses led me to find something called Pinocchia. There are people that like to draw broomstick noses on attractive women for their, uh, own personal pleasure.

Go figure....

    Then, I found a forum about women with glasses. No pictures, but some guys describing what they liked to see. You're thinking little black frames or Lady Gaga sunglasses, right? Nope. These guys like women who REALLY need glasses...with really thick lenses. 20/400 vision or worse. Maybe that's a good thing, I don't know.
    But hold on, there's more. There are the guys that like girls that can pick them up. I don't mean like pick you up at a bar, I mean that can pick you up and carry you around. If you don't believe me, go to Youtube and search "lift and carry". I can see how this ability could come in handy. Say when you've got on some really nice dress shoes and the yard is muddy. Maybe Tom Cruise is into this, too.
    But the one that I really can't figure out is www.carstuckgirls.com. I'm not telling you to go there and look, but...go there and look! How in the hell do you get turned on by attractive women getting their cars stuck? Perhaps it's the damsel in distress thing or maybe a psycho looking for a victim. Who knows?
    Then there's always that latex thing.

If it doesn't just scare the living shit out of you. Or perhaps you're more of the my little pony type.

    I think what this really means in the big scheme of things is that no matter what you've got going on, there's somebody that can out do you...in a big way. So if you've been self-conscious about that huge mole on your neck that looks like Fidel Castro, don't worry. There is a guy out there somewhere that would just love to..............

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

TBF — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 18:41:00 GMT

    What's wrong with us? Why are antidepressants the most prescribed drug in the United States? How did it happen? Are some of us just "defective"? I am not a doctor and this isn't medical advice. What you are about to read is based solely on observations and opinions with a tad of research thrown in for clarity.
    We all know someone that, based on our personal set of standards, we would classify as mentally ill. Of course our criteria varies; from someone on a city street ranting at the sun, to a coworker with a difference of opinion. You ask yourself, "Why are they like that? Why don't they just 'straighten up', 'move on', 'snap out of it' or 'pull themselves together'?" What you don't realize is that they are probably asking the same thing about you. Generally, who is right is based on what society considers the norm for behavior. And, as we all know, our society is changing. Our country is arguably one of the most diverse in the world today. As our cultures shift, so does the norm. You have always been able to go into the health food store and see some folks that you would consider odd. If you struck up a conversation with them you might even say they were "crazy"...under your breath, of course. Their dreadlocks, tie-died clothes, piercings, strange shoes were all a dead give away that they were, by your standards, nuts. I mean really, why would any sane person get their tongue, lips and eyebrows pierced? Who would go out in public dressed like that? For a good example of this in everyday America take a look at People of Walmart. Then read their hate mail and see how many people think that the owners of the website should be ashamed of themselves. The general reason sited is that "these people are poor". Trust me...I grew up in rural Mississippi where many people lived below the poverty line. The men didn't wear feather boas and go-go boots to the hardware store and the women didn't expose their flesh aprons and thigh cellulite at the grocery. Poor is not the problem, it is only part of the equation.
    I'll bet you've seen one of the television shows about people with hoarding disorders. You know, folks that just can't part with things because of some reason most of us don't understand. We think, "Why don't they just clean once in a while?" or "they're just nasty people...no self respect...crazy." Can you imagine what it is like to feel you must make a decision about every insignificant thing you come across in your life?  Thinking that the empty food containers should be reused, that the rotten lumber on the side of the road still has some value to somebody, knowing that you should recycle all those plastic bags and bottles that come into the house. Then to carry it a step further and think that because your mother gave you a bottle of water you must keep the bottle because throwing it away would actually be throwing your mother away. Or because that piece of paper has a "picture" of Jesus on it so throwing it away would be sacrilegious. Does a hoarder see themselves as a collector?  What's the difference between a collection of Elvis memorabilia and a variety of green bottles if the owner sees value in it? The difference is when you allow it to affect your life. When you start secluding yourself from others because they may not understand. When you stop noticing that it's hard to walk in the spare room and just close the door. When your self imposed isolation and desire to avoid confrontation and criticism cuts you off from the world.
    In our society we are reminded of the differences between liberal and conservative on a daily basis. Is tolerance a symptom or the cause of our "decaying" morality?  At what point does hate take the place of tolerance?  Does acceptance and understanding equate to condoning immoral behavior? What is moral? Is being wealthy immoral? Is being educated moral? Is it okay to use your education to become wealthy?  Should you be allowed to get an education or do you have an entitlement to an education? Should you be forced to get an education? Do you have a right to health care or just a right to affordable health care? Should doctors be allowed to make so much money? Should ditch diggers be guaranteed a certain wage? Is socialism well intended? Is the road to hell paved with good intentions?
    Research has shown that man may not have free will. This is not necessarily the same "free will" referred to in Genesis. If you know me you know that I consider myself to be a Libertarian. I think I should be allowed control of my own life. General John Stark of New Hampshire said it best when he toasted, "Live free or die: Death is not the worst of evils". We should do everything in our power to live a fruitful life. But there's a catch. Your past experience and current situation influence the choices you make. You might have to make a choice between paying rent, buying food or having a party. We all know someone that will undoubtedly choose the wrong one or, rather, the one that would be wrong for us. Emotional and physical influences, together or separately provide us with a means or reason to make decisions . If you have a chemical imbalance in your brain, you can suffer from a myriad of problems. Organic psychosis, migraines, depression, etc. Without a way to balance it, your life will be sheer misery. Maybe you can correct it, maybe not. But while you will feel the influence, others only witness the consequences.  If your father beat your mother and you witnessed it, you might become a battered wife or a wife beater...or not. If your facial features are not symmetrical you are unlikely to be considered handsome or beautiful in our society. If your parents put tremendous pressure on you to be smart or God-fearing or courteous, you know the price you have paid for trying to become what they wanted. If they succeeded, others may see you as smart, God-fearing or courteous and you may see yourself as insecure, flawed and improper. Then again, others may see you as a know-it-all, religious fanatic or goody-two-shoes. Now combine some of those things. You feel insecure because you don't see yourself as being smart while others see you as a know-it-all. Absolutely nothing good comes out of that. What if you moved 1000 miles from your hometown to start a new career and life. You are educated and good at what you do, find a great job and start dating someone that you wouldn't even let yourself dream about, let alone think you would succeed in finding. Everything is going great then one day you find out that a guy you grew up with works in the same building as you. And he knows your father was an alcoholic bum who beat your mother on a regular basis. The fellow is a nice enough guy but what if he asks you "how your folks are". What does that really mean? Or he asks you to meet him for a drink, and when you do and you only drink club soda, will he remember your alcoholic father? How does all this shape your life? What are you going to do different now that you might have to deal with the situation? Does it make you feel insecure, hate your father, hate your mother for not leaving your father, hate yourself for not killing your father? Does any of it matter? How are you going to cope?
    We are all individuals yet we weigh heavily in the lives of everyone around us. We don't show enough tolerance for others. We judge them by our own standards. We despise their individuality. We infringe on their rights. We demand conformity. They should be like us. Perhaps they are. Perhaps we see others as we see ourselves.
    A friend of mine has a serious problem accepting that some people are gay. He says it's because he was brought up to believe it was wrong. The bible tells him it's wrong and against nature. He thinks they are going to recruit his kids and that any tolerance is condoning it. He's so adamant about it that I think there has to be more to it than just the reasons he points out. I've never believed anything that much. Whether that's good or bad remains to be seen. Another friend pointed out that my good-ole-boy attitude was going to send me to hell.
    Do I believe everything I said here? Perhaps. I guess what it all comes down to is the old idiom, "Walk a mile in my shoes." Then and only then will we understand each other. But that is only understanding. You have to work out the rest of it on your own.

Contrary to Popular Belief...

TBF — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 01:42:00 GMT

    ...I am still alive. I have been incredibly busy over the past couple of months and incredibly negligent in keeping up with this blog. Engineering has been my main focus as the quantity of work has just been overwhelming. Since this time last year life has really been a blur. If you remember...
    This time last year my father-in-law died, my wife was assaulted, I found out I had cancer and a kidney stone. After that, my wife had surgery, then I had the kidney stone removed, then had my prostate removed. I've had a broken rib, colonoscopy, bronchitis, was tested for Lyme disease, etc. Geez! But I'm still kicking!
    Enough of the whining. I have spent some spare time reading. Without a lot of detail, I read:
"Blink", "The Tipping Point", and "Outliers" by Malcolm Gladwell
"Rocketmen" by Craig Nelson (not Craig T. Nelson, alias "Coach")
"13 Things That Don't Make Sense" by Michael Brooks
"Calculating God" by Robert J. Sawyer
"The Boys of Everest" by Clint Willis.
"Atlas Shrugged" by Ayn Rand.
"The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand (I just started this one).
    I also participated in the National Geographic Genographic project. They do a DNA analysis and determine the route your ancestors took starting with "Adam" about 50,000 years ago. Paraphrasing the information they reported back to me they indicated that the earliest trace of my ancestors is found in the region of the Rift Valley of Northeast Africa in Ethiopia, Tanzania or Kenya at a time the world population was about 10,000 homo sapiens. It is speculated that the receding glaciers of the ice age allowed for a more moist and warm Africa, giving rise to great herds of game. As the grasslands expanded, the herds moved northward, presumably, and early man followed.
    About 45,000 years ago, they moved through North Africa and on into the Middle East. Drought forced them to remain in the Middle East or move on. The next ancestor was born in Iran or Central Asia about 40,000 years ago. They continued on to the great mountains of the Hindu Kush, Tian Shan and the Himalayas. Obviously this would pose a road block for most of them, so it is most likely that my ancestors moved northward to the areas of today's Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and southern Siberia. The glaciers had once again begun to grow and these people were living in an area never before inhabited by a hominid.
    Around 30,000 years ago they left central Asia. The group had split with one part headed south to India and the other west to the European subcontinent. There were about 100,000 humans in the world at that time. As they went on into Europe they, more than likely, contributed to the end of the Neanderthals. Resources were scarce and Cro Magnon was better equipped to make a living in the difficult times than Neanderthals. It is suggested that this competition led to the end of the Neanderthals. It is also hypothesized by some that they were absorbed into the more numerous Cro Magnons through interbreeding.
    Anyway, the weather continued to be a major factor and my ancestors were pushed into Spain, Italy and the Balkans. Cro-Magnons kept moving through western Europe. They are known for the cave paintings of France as well as fashioning better tools out of stone, ivory and bone, and learning to weave plant fiber into cloth.
    I think it's a pretty amazing story of survival. But I'm going to talk to my sister...she can give me a first hand account of all this stuff.

Chapter 5. The Calm (part 3)

TBF — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 00:28:00 GMT

The last part of chapter 5. To bo back to last installment click here. To start at the beginning, click here.

    “Well, how is he.” Woody slipped back through the door and hung up the phone.
    “He’s in the hospital with a busted jaw. She said he’ll be laid up for at least a month...said they had to wire his mouth shut!”
    “Hospital? We’ll there goes my job.” I went back into Woody’s room and sat back down.
    “Coy, Jr. how can you think of yourself at a time like this?”
    “I’m not thinking of myself! I like Johnny, he’s a good guy. But...”
    “But nothin’! You was thinking of number one and nothing else.”
    “I was not!”
    “The only reason Johnny is laid up in the hospital is us...and mainly you!”
    “ME? How is it me? I didn’t make him a drunk!”
    “There you go. You sound just like your Mama!”
    “He’s a drunk! And don’t be talking about my Mama!”
    There was a short pause as Woody and I looked at each other. I could actually see disappointment on his face. He shook his head as he closed his eyes and frowned.
    “Coy, Jr., go look in the mirror and then tell me not to talk about your Mama.”
    I started to get up and leave, but I knew he was right. I didn’t want to be like my Mama. In fact, I didn’t want to be like anybody in my family. I always had talked down to Woody, I had told on him a million times and I never believed half of what he told me. But he was always right there with me no matter what. The situation I’m in these days is probably as bad as I could have ever imagined...and Woody is right there in the thick of it with me. As tough as it was to admit it, Woody was probably my best friend.
    “Woody, I’m sorry about getting you into this mess. If Mama Pope hadn’t had that still none of this would be going on.”
    “Aw, man, don’t worry about it. I’m just mad ‘cause my one shot at killin’ Hannon got screwed up by a certain somebody.”
    “Maybe one day you’ll thank me for keeping your butt out of Parchman.”
    “Maybe...”
    “You know, I wonder if Hannon and Fiveacre know it was us that put Hannon in the car and caused his wreck. The only way they could would be if Mama Pope told them or old Pate told them or somebody saw you in the car with him going out to Gunner’s Creek.”
    “I know nobody saw me in that cop car! I am absolutely sure that nobody saw me riding with him, so forget that. And I don’t think it was Pate ‘cause he helped us do it. So, in my mind, if they know anything, it had to be Hannon remembering it or Mama Pope told them...and I find it hard to believe Hannon remembering anything after I hit him in the head with that pump handle.”
    “Whatever the case, the only reason I can figure that Fiveacre and that other guy would come after us out at the gin was because of Mama Pope and us knowing about the still.”
    “Now hold on a minute, you forgot about old Barton. Coy, Jr., we took his job away from him. And there goes his drinking money.”
    “Hmmm. That’s a good point. Maybe that’s all it was. Wouldn’t that be a heck of a coincidence?”
    “It’s a small world, Coy, Jr., and truth is stranger than fibbin’.”
    “Fiction. It’s ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.”
    “Huh? That don’t make sense! What’s fiction?”
    “You know...like science fiction. Fiction. A story that’s not true.”
    “How’s that different from fibbin’?”
    “It’s not like that...” I caught myself fixing to go off on Woody for being stupid. “You’re right! It doesn’t make sense.” And I let it go at that.
    Woody and I hung out the rest of the afternoon talking and carrying on like we didn’t have a care in the world. About four o’clock or so, I called my house to see if Mama was home. Nobody answered the phone so I headed on home.
    “Woody, if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
    “Good luck. And don’t let your Mama hit you no more. Next time just knock the living daylights out of her before she gets a lick on you.”
    “I’m not going to hit my Mama, Woody.”
    “Okay, okay. But if things get too rough you can come back over here and spend the night.”
    “Thanks,” I went out the door and headed down the road. It was still broiling hot and I could see a mirage hanging over the road. It looked like a creek crossing it about a hundred yards ahead. I staggered along the road side trying to focus on the mirage with my one good eye all the while hoping a car would come by and stir up a breeze. No matter how far I walked, that mirage stayed the same distance ahead of me. Before long, I started to feel like I was in a tunnel as my eyesight began to close in. I could only see straight ahead and the sides were kind of blacking out. Then, I thought my ears were ringing until I realized it was just bugs chirping down in the side ditch. The thought of Johnny Ray Fiveacre and Barton coming by crossed my mind a time or two, but for some reason I wasn’t really worried about it. They wouldn’t recognize me with my puffed up face, I reassured myself. I put all that stuff out of my mind and thought about how Mama was going to act when she saw me. I bet she’d be sorry for hurting me and say she didn’t mean to. She’d probably tell me she’d make me a cake or something. I know it was just that Pope temper coming out and from my own personal experience...it’s really hard to control when it gets loose. Then again, she wasn’t sorry for any of the other times she beat folks up. I always feel pretty bad after I’m mean to somebody, but I guess that’s because I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of it.
    I got to the house and Mama wasn’t there. She didn’t leave a note, but I figured she was probably over at Mama Pope’s house. There was a piece of cake wrapped in aluminum foil sitting on the counter so I helped myself to it. I got a glass of water and went to my room to eat. It had been a mighty long day and I was dog tired. I lay down on my bed and within a few minutes I drifted off to sleep. Daddy woke me up when he came home from work about six thirty or so. He stuck his head in my door and when he saw my face, his eyes opened wide.
    “What have you gone and got into?”
    “Huh?”
    “Have you been in a fight? Did you and Woody go get in a fight with somebody today?”
    “No. Mama did it this morning.”
    “Your Mama? How’d she do it?”
    “She slapped me about a dozen times.”
    “What had you done to get slapped, talk back to her?”
    “She said I did, but I didn’t.”
    “It’s hard to believe your Mama did this, Coy, Jr.”
    “Well, she did. She was talking about Johnny Cooper being a drunk and I said I liked him and that he was a nice guy.”
    “And she slapped you.”
    “Yep. She grabbed my hair and started hitting me in the face. She stuck her fingernail in my eye and it’s been hurting all day.”
    “Let me look at it,” Daddy came over to the bed and I stood up.
    “I put some ice on it this morning.”
    “You work today?”
    “No. Johnny didn’t show up.”
    “I heard he was in the hospital.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “His step daddy works down at the wood yard. He said some guys beat him up at the gin yesterday.”
    “Yeah...they did.”
    “That’s why you and Woody had to get me to come get you last night.”
    “Uh...yeah. We walked as far as we could.”
    “You see who beat him up?”
    “Just some guys, I guess. I didn’t know but one of them and that was ol’ Barton.”
    “Why’d they beat him up?”
    “I don’t know. I guess because Johnny fired him.”
    “Why didn’t you boys go help him?”
    “Daddy, two of them was grown men! They would have killed us!”
    “How many of them were there?”
    I thought about exaggerating a little and tell him there were five or six, but I figured he probably already knew the answer. “Three...Barton and two other guys.”
    “Could you recognize them if you saw them?”
    “Nope.”
    “How about Woody?”
    “Nope.”
    “You know Johnny might need you boys to help him press charges against them for assaulting him.”
    “I don’t know who it was that hit him. It wasn’t Barton.”
    “So you saw which one hit him?”
    Now I was painting myself into a corner. I needed to start thinking before I answered questions. “It wasn’t Barton, it was one of the other two. I only know it wasn’t Barton because I recognized the clothes he had on.”
    “Do you know what the other guys had on?”
    What is this, Dragnet? I don’t know who they were!”
    “Okay, I was just asking. Did you finish painting?”
    “No. We had about a half day left. Johnny had some on his side and we had a little on our side left to do.”
    “If Johnny doesn’t get that gin finished he probably won’t get paid. And that means you won’t get paid.”
    “I can’t think of myself when Johnny is in the hospital. He’s the one that’s really suffering over this.”
    “You and Woody could go out and finish it tomorrow.”
    “What if those guys come back? Besides, we don’t have a way out there.”
    “I can drop y’all off in the morning and pick you up at lunch. Think you could finish by then?”
    “I’m not going back out there and have those guys come out and beat me up.”
    “Why would they beat you up?”
    “I don’t know. They’re mean.”
    “They were probably just after Johnny and now he’s in the hospital so they don’t have a reason to go out there.”
    “Well, I don’t know. I got Barton fired, so he might be after me.”
    “I doubt it. Where’s the paint?’
    “Most of it was in Johnny’s truck. I guess it’s still out at the gin.”
    “No, his step daddy went and got it last night. It’s over at their house.”
    “Where’s that?”
    “Out by Harold Gilmore’s place.”
    “Well, what about Woody...what if he won’t go for it?”
    “You tell Woody he won’t get paid if he doesn’t finish painting and I’ll guarantee he’ll go.”
    “Okay, I guess. But what if they come back?”
    “Well, Coy, Jr., I reckon you’ll have to stand your ground.”
    “Haven’t I been beat up enough?”
    “Between you and Woody, I think y’all can handle a couple of ‘grown men’. Now let’s go get something to eat. Your Mama is over Mama Pope’s and she said we needed to get our own supper.”
    “Aw, naw. Not root hog or die again.”
    “How about we go get something at Tastee-Freeze?”
    “Okay. Let me get my shoes on and I’ll be ready!”
    “Then, we’ll go and get the paint out at Johnny’s place. I’m sure he’ll appreciate you and Woody taking care of his painting while he’s in the hospital.”
    “Maybe I better call Woody before we go.”
    “Call him when we get back. I don’t want to have to feed him, too.”
    Daddy and I went and ate a ton of stuff that Mama would have fussed about but she didn’t come home that night, so she never knew. When we got home I spent an hour on the phone convincing Woody that we should go back out to the gin. The next day, Daddy dropped me and Woody and all the painting stuff off at the gin. We didn’t see hide nor hair of Barton or Fiveacre. One car stopped to turn around and Woody threw down his paint brush and took off running. He was just about out of sight when I yelled at him and got him to stop. The last part of the wall ended up having grass and dirt stuck to it from his paint brush after he finally got calmed down enough to go back to painting.
    It took a couple of weeks to get paid, but that was because Johnny couldn’t get out of the hospital to go by and pick up his check. With Johnny laid up for a month or so, it looked like my painting career was going to be cut short. I really didn’t like painting, but it was about the only way I had to earn some money. He was grateful to Woody and me for finishing up the job and gave us a little bonus. He also told us that as long as he could get work painting, we had jobs if we wanted them. Funny how that little bit of work paid off. Even though we could have gotten killed, I felt pretty good about going back out there and finishing up. I’m glad Daddy talked me into it.
    Johnny told us that the reason that he got beat up was because Barton wanted to get paid half of the money Johnny had been promised for painting the gin. And when Johnny told him he was gonna pay him for the work he had done and that he’d pay him after he got paid, one of the other guys socked him in the jaw. He also told us that Barton needed the money because he owed Johnny Ray Fiveacre a couple of hundred dollars for whiskey that he’d been getting on credit. He never said why they were coming after me and Woody. He did say that Johnny Ray Fiveacre claimed Mama Pope had ripped off a couple of hundred gallons of moonshine and sold it herself. That seemed highly unlikely, but these days I wouldn’t have doubted anything I was told about Mama Pope.
    Mama wasn’t talking to me very much nowadays. That’s okay, because I was less likely to sass her when there was no conversation. She was over at Mama Pope’s all the time, even spending the night two or three times in a row. I figured she was helping her make whiskey or something. She was probably making runs over to Snipe or Okaluka or wherever they were selling the stuff. It was pretty tough thinking that my Mama was “runnin’ ‘shine”, but, then again, it didn’t really bother me. Me and Daddy were eating at Tastee-Freeze a lot and it was way better than Mama’s cooking to me.
    Daddy seemed to be working a lot, too. He wasn’t upset about Mama being gone all the time, either. His life was probably better without her griping and fussing twenty four hours a day. There’s something to be said for being a man, eating whatever you want, watching TV and sleeping as much as you want without listening to the constant drone of a bitter woman.

Chapter 5. The Calm (Part 2)

TBF — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 01:32:00 GMT

    I'm not sure how many are following this, but I'll post some more for those who are. Some feedback would be nice! For the record, I would like to get rid of the email requirement with the comment box, but I can't seem to figure out how. Actually, I never even see the email addresses because your comment is unmonitored and goes straight online. Anyway, ask questions, make suggestions, do something to let me know that you're alive. As usual, if you want to go to the last entry, click Chapter 5. The Calm. If you want to start at the beginning, click
Chapter 1. How Things Came to Be

    It was dark now and we could see headlights every now and then through the trees up ahead. I figured it must be about nine o’clock and I was pretty sure Mama and Daddy would be some kinda mad about me not showing up yet. We kept walking and came up on the main road at the bridge over Gunner’s creek. The Phillips 66 was just across the it about a hundred feet inside the city limits. Luckily I had a dime in my pocket so we went to the pay phone and I called the house. Daddy answered the phone, which was completely unexpected.
    “Where are you boy? Why didn’t Johnny bring you home?”
    “Oh, me and Woody had something to do and we, uh, we’re at the Phillips 66. Can you come get us?”
    “Yeah, I can come get you. I don’t understand why you didn’t just get Johnny to bring you home.”
    “Okay, thanks. We’ll see you in a little bit.” I hung up the phone and looked at Woody. “You know I’ve got to come up with something good to explain why we’re here, don’t you?”
    “Tell him we went to look at Billy Jenkins’ new litter of fiest puppies.”
    “Has Billy Jenkins got a litter of puppies for real?”
    “Yep, he called me the other day and told me I could buy one if I wanted it. Me and Daddy been lookin’ to get a squirrel dog.”
    “Sounds believable. Let’s just hope nobody talks to Billy before we can go look at his dogs.”
    We moved back into the shadows beside the building so nobody would see us. We sat down on a couple of milk crates and Woody was feeling around in his back pocket for his pack of cigarettes.
    “Dad gum cigarettes is smashed flat. Coy, Jr. loan me thirty cents so I can get a fresh pack.”
    “I ain’t got thirty cents. I spent my last dime on that phone call. Besides you don’t need to be going inside where someone can see you. With our luck, Fiveacre or Hannon will show up just as you walked into the light. But I tell you what, I’m so hungry right now, if I had some money I might risk it to get a pack of nabs or something.”
    “Now see, if I had a pistol, we could waltz right in there and get anything we wanted and not worry about Hannon or no Fiveacre.” Woody started laughing as he lit a flat, broken cigarette while holding it together.
    “Woody, if you had a pistol we could get them to bring us something out here.” We sat there about ten or fifteen more minutes before Daddy finally showed up. When he pulled in, we stood in the dark waiting for him to come over, but he must not of seen us. He stopped by the pumps, got out and started putting some gas in the truck. He was looking around, apparently for us when he saw us standing over by the building.
    “You boys come get in this truck. What’s the matter with you standing over there like a couple of idiots.”
    We ran over and jumped into the truck. Both of us slumped down in the seat so that nobody could see us.
    “I’m gonna go pay...what are you doing? What have y’all done?” Daddy was extremely suspicious of our bad posture.
    “We ain’t done nothing. Let’s go, we’re tired,” I hoped I didn’t sound too demanding, but I was never good at lying to Daddy. He walked off and went inside for what seemed an eternity. I looked up and he was leaning against the counter talking to Melvin inside.
    “Geez, what is he doing!” This was no time for Daddy to be shooting the breeze.
    “Duck! It’s a cop car!” Woody banged his head against the door as he hunkered down. I kept my head up enough to see it was a city cop and not a sheriff’s car.
    “False alarm! It’s a Rainer cop, not a Sheriff’s deputy,” I informed Woody.
    “Why are you boys hiding?” Daddy had slipped up on us from behind.
    “Y’all done something you shouldn’t have done?”
    “Naw, naw, naw...we’re just tired! Been paintin’ all day...wears on your back.” Woody was thinking fast for a change.
    “Yeah, I was considering getting in the back of the truck and laying down,” I added.
    “You look like you’re hiding from somebody.”
    “Let’s just get home. I’m about to starve to death.”
    “Well, your Mama ain’t home yet.”
    “Where’d she go?” I was a little surprised because Mama is usually home by dark no matter what.
    “She and Mama Pope had some business to tend to. They been gone all day I reckon.”
    “Well what are we supposed to do for food?”
    “Root hog or die,” Daddy didn’t sound too enthusiastic about it himself. I figured we’d probably end up eating sandwiches again.

    I was lying in the bed thinking about how horrible my life had been going the past few months. Except for a couple of bright spots when we found out we had a good case against Hannon and when Ilene asked me out, not much else made life worth living. I guess the only thing that kept me going was the old saying about it being darkest before the dawn, and my life was like a cave. The only way it could get any darker was if somebody gouged my eyes out. Unfortunately, I knew of several people that would volunteer to do it.

    The next morning I got up and went out to meet Johnny at our usual time. I intended to quit so that I wouldn’t end up getting killed. I hated to leave him with no help, but I didn’t want to go out to the gin and risk those hoodlums coming back. Woody didn’t show up and neither did Johnny. I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to Johnny. I went back inside and had a cup of the coffee Mama had just made. I wasn’t really hungry, so all I ate was a stale donut.
    “What were you and Mama Pope doing yesterday?”
    “We had some business to tend to.”
    “See the lawyer?”
    “Don’t you mind what we were doing, why aren’t you going to work?”
    “Johnny didn’t show up.”
    “Probably laid up drunk somewhere. You didn’t think he was dependable, did you?”
    “I don’t understand why you hate Johnny so much. He is as nice as anybody has ever been to me. He has never once been rude or said an unkind word.”
    “Drunks are all the same...the only goal they have in life is to be high as a kite.”
    “Well, I like Johnny and that’s about enough talk of his being a drunk.” Mama looked at me like she was about to explode. She walked over to me and stood there staring at me.
    “What did you say to me?” She was standing right over me as I pushed my chair away from the table.
    “Mama, Johnny is a nice guy and I don’t like you calling him a drunk.” I stood up and stepped to the other side of my chair. Mama reached over and grabbed a handful of my hair with her left hand and started slapping my face with her right. I backed up and she hung on tight. She must have slapped me a dozen times before I got away from her.
    “What are you doing?” I leaned against the sink, rubbing my burning face.
    “I’m sick of your smart mouth! You think you run the show around here, but you don’t. Do you hear me? You don’t run this house!”
    “Why’d you do that?” I headed toward the back door.
    “If you ever want to amount to anything, you better start listening to what I say, mister!”
    I looked at her one more time and stepped out the door. I had no idea why she was so upset with me. I thought the Johnny Cooper issue had been straightened out last week, but apparently not. My mouth had gotten me into trouble most of my life and mostly with Mama. It’s ironic, seeing how I inherited it from her and those hot headed Popes.
     As I walked toward Woody’s house, my eye was really starting to ache. Mama must have poked her finger in it when she was slapping me. I saw Woody out along the fence row behind their house smoking a cigarette and eating blackberries.
    “Dad gum it Coy, Jr., what in tarnation happened to your eye?”
    “Mama slapped me.”
    “I’ll say she did! Whew-ee that is gonna be ugly.”
    “It feels like she stuck her fingernail in it.”
    “It’s red as fire and your cheek looks like your gonna have a heck of a shiner. It’s already purple. What did she hit you for?”
    “I guess I was sassing her.”
    “Coy, Jr. don’t you know by now your Mama is a mean little woman? Don’t get me wrong, she’s my aunt and all, but heck fire man...SHE’S MEAN! You don’t talk back to her!”
    “You know Woody, normally I’d get mad and yell at you for saying that, but I think you’re right. She is mean. And she flew off the handle this morning for absolutely nothing.”
    “Well, I don’t know if it was for nothing or not...”
    “What do you mean? I didn’t say anything bad enough for her to hit me like this.”
    “What I’m saying is that maybe she’s in a bad mood about something else.”
    “We’ve all got a lot on our minds these days, now don’t we?”
    “Yeah, but I heard Mama and Daddy talking last night and she said that your Mama and Mama Pope had gone and bought a truck yesterday.”
    “Do what?”
    “They went and bought a truck. I figure it must be for running moonshine like Hannon told Mama Pope to do the other day.”
    “Aw naw...he must have been back over there since the wreck.”
    “I got to thinking that might be why them fellers was after us yesterday. You know if Mama Pope went and told Hannon what we done, he’ll be gunnin’ for us.”
    “You don’t really think she’d tell him do you?”
    “Did you see how she acted when he hit her? She froze up like an ol’ possum. Yeah, I think she’d tell him.”
    “Yeah, she’d tell him.” I had to agree. For some reason, I kind of think Mama Pope might do whatever was necessary to save her skin. Even at the cost of her family.
    “Coy, Jr., that eye’s lookin’ mighty bad. You need to go put some ice on it. It looks like it’s gonna swell shut.”
    “It’s burning like wild fire. She must have scratched my eyeball or something.”
    “Let’s go in the house and get you some ice.”
    “Think it’s okay if I stay over here today? I don’t think Johnny is gonna be showing up and I know I don’t want to go home.”
    “Sure. You can spend the night if you want. If you go home, your Mama might poke out your good eye!”
    We went into the house and Aunt Ida was watching The Price is Right, so she didn’t even know we existed. I got some ice out of the freezer, wrapped it in a dish rag and put it on my eye. Walking back to Woody’s room, I stepped into the bathroom and took a look in the mirror. It looked like I had been snake bit on the face. My cheek was all puffed up and turning black and my eye was open just about a quarter inch. I went on back to Woody’s room and we spent the rest of the morning sitting around and discussing how bad we had it these days.
    About lunch time the phone rang and Aunt Ida answered it. We slipped out into the hall and stood by the kitchen door listening to one side of the conversation. It was hard to tell what was going on, but somebody was in the hospital and somebody was going to Okaluka. A few minutes later we heard her say my Mama’s name so we figured she must be talking to her. Then she said “Honey you know you don’t need to be doing this...Coy will skin you alive if he finds out...Be careful...okay, bye-bye.”
    Woody and I looked at each other and Aunt Ida came busting through the door where we were standing. “LORD GOD! You scared me to death! What in the world are you boys doing in here. I thought y’all were working. Oh baby what have you done to your eye.”
    “I, oh...uh...,” my mind went blank. “
    He stepped on a hoe and it popped him in the eye...just like the Three Stooges,” Woody volunteered as I stood there looking at Aunt Ida with my one good eye. “
    A hoe? It sure is looking bad. You better go let your Mama take care of that for you.”
    “Aw, he’s alright. He’s pretty tough for a weenie,” Woody laughed as he headed back to his room. I followed like a puppy, not saying a word, just faking a laugh like I was amused.
    It was hot in Woody’s room and it smelled like dirty feet. I raked some clothes out of a chair and into the floor so that I could sit down. Woody lay on his back across the bed, propping himself up on his elbows.
    “Wonder what happened to Johnny?” I asked.
    “He might still be laid out in the driveway at the gin.”
    “Wonder if we ought to go and check on him?”
    “Coy, Jr., how do you think we’re gonna get there? Walk?”
    “I ain’t walking, I was just wondering if he was okay.”
    “Has he got a phone at his place?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t even know where his place is.”
    “I think he lives out by Harold Gilmore.”
    “Way out there? I thought he lived in town.”
    “Well his Mama lives out there, but she ain’t a Cooper no more. Let me ask Mama what her name is...maybe we can call her and find out something. HEY, MAMA! ... MAMA! WHAT’S JOHNNY COOPER’S MAMA’S NAME?” Woody looked up at the ceiling as he waited for an answer. At my house I’d be getting a good talking to for yelling out at my mama.
    “CHRISTINE!”
    “NAW...I MEAN HER LAST NAME!”
    “WHITEHEAD! WHY?” Aunt Ida yelled back at Woody from the kitchen.
    “JUST ASKING! Coy, Jr. there’s a phone book on the floor beside you...look up her number and we’ll call her.”
    “I’m not calling her! What if he’s dead or something?”
    “He ain’t dead. They didn’t hit him but one lick.”
    I looked up the number. There was only one Whitehead listed so I gave the book to Woody and pointed to it. We went to the kitchen and eased in the door. Aunt Ida was standing in front of the sink looking out the window with one hand on her hip and raising a cigarette to her lips with the other. Woody picked up the receiver and dialed the number, then we slipped back out into the hall.
    “Uh, is Johnny there? ......no ma’am...this here’s Woody Povine...me and my cousin work for him.........Aw naw.....your kiddin’! ...how is he? Oh, that sounds rough.....Okay, we was just wondering what happened to him seein’ how he didn’t show up and all this mornin’. Well, you tell him we’ll be thinking about him. Yes ma’am...bye-bye.”

Chapter 5. The Calm

TBF — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 01:15:00 GMT

    Some more from the continuing saga of Coy, Jr and Woody Povine...

Click here to read the last installment Chapter 4. The Rest of the Plan (part 3) or click here Chapter 1. How Things Came to Be  to start at the beginning...

    Woody and I worked for Johnny both Friday and Saturday painting the gin. Woody was better at painting than I was. He actually kind of enjoyed it, saying that he liked to see the “progress” he was making. I had never known Woody to be interested in progress of any type.
    Monday morning Woody and I were standing at the end of my driveway at 7:00 a.m. sharp. It was already about 90 degrees and my week old sunburn had just about completely peeled now. It still itched like crazy, but the resulting tan seemed to be helping me tolerate the heat a little better. Woody was wearing a long sleeve shirt and, unfortunately, a sombrero that he’d won at the carnival last fall. What made it look worse was all of his hair sticking out and he kept the chin string pulled tight.
    “Woody, I can not believe you would actually wear that god-awful hat. Maybe at lunch we can do a Mexican hat dance.”
    “Laugh all you want little man, but I got sensitive skin and don’t want to end up looking like an old dried up prune like you. You’re just jealous cause I can make something like this look good.”
    “Oh, yeah! You make it look good alright. You look like a reject from Remember the Alamo”.
    “This hat ain’t nothing like the ones they wore. This hat is an identical replica to the one Cisco Kid wore on his TV show.”
    “Now, I beg to differ. If I recall correctly, Cisco’s was kinda white with a little band around it...not the size of a truck tire with red and green and little yellow zigzag’s.”
    “Naw, naw, naw. He wore one just like this in some of his shows.”
    “Oh, I see...that must have been like his Christmas special or something.”
    “Yeah, that was it...his Christmas special.”
    About that time Johnny drove up. I could see him laughing through the windshield. When we got in, Woody jumped in the middle and his hat was mashed against the back glass of the cab. Johnny’s laugh had deteriorated into a serious coughing fit. It was one of those kind where he ends up with slobber coming out of his mouth and his head turning blood red. Obviously Johnny had smoked one cigarette too many and that was a shame because he was a really nice guy. He definitely had his faults with his drinking and stuff, but for my money he was just a good guy with a bad problem.
    “You ain’t got TB or nothing do you?” Woody asked Johnny as he slid a little closer my direction.
    I elbowed Woody in the ribs pretty hard and asked Johnny if he wanted me to get him a coke or some water out of the cooler. He was getting his breath back and after a couple of seconds, we headed out.
    “Sorry about that, fellows. This cough seems to be getting worse. Must be those paint fumes,” Johnny said as he lit a cigarette.
    “Paint fumes do that to you? Coy, Jr., remind me not to breath while I’m painting,” Woody was dead serious.
    “Woody, why don’t you go ahead and stop breathing now?” I know he could see the disgust on my face. It was obvious that my cousin was not only an idiot, but he was seriously lacking in social skills.
     We got to the gin and took all the painting gear out of the truck. Woody and I started painting on the west side of the building so we were in the shade. It wasn’t half bad this morning in the shade and Woody and I talked about girls a little. Of course he asked me about Ilene and if I was going to see her anymore. Then he started comparing her to Wanda Jo Suggs and said in his book, Ilene was the real keeper.
    “You know, Coy, Jr., Ilene is the kind of girl that would fit right in the Povine family.”
    “Woody, don’t say that! She’s a nice, sweet girl and hasn’t got a bad bone in her body so don’t be saying stuff about her!”
    “I said she’s good enough to be a Povine. What do you want me to do, man? There ain’t no pleasin’ you!”
    I thought about what he was saying and then realized that I had, in my own mind thought being a Povine was a bad thing. This was one of the basic differences between me and Woody. He was proud to be a Povine and I resented being a Povine.
    “She’s a Crabtree, alright? Let’s just leave it at that.” I didn’t know exactly what I was feeling. It was like I would ruin her if she was my girlfriend, but I wanted to be around her. It was confusing because I know that I’m not a nice enough guy to give something up that I really, really wanted. But at the same time, I found myself not wanting her to get hurt when she realized I was just me and nobody special.
    “Okay, okay. But we’re Povines and we’re rebels, remember? We fought the law and WE won! We’re notorus, right?”
    “Notor-E-us. We’re notorious. Woody, being notorious ain’t always a good thing.”
    “It gets the chicks, though! And I bet if little Miss Crabtree knew what we had done this past weekend, she’d be climbin’ all over you!”
    “Speaking of that, have you been keeping your mouth shut?”
    “Coy, Jr., I been standing out here in the broilin’ hot sunshine with you most of the time...who am I gonna tell, the pigeons?”
    “Well, you’ve had some free time and you know you like to talk.”
    “I ain’t said nothin’ to nobody. But I heard Mama say that Miss Tony down at the beauty shop said that Hannon had to pay to get his cop car fixed.”
    “Now does that sound right? No Hannon ever paid for anything bad they done.”
    “Well, we about out of paint, Coy, Jr. I’m gonna go around to the truck and get me a drink of water and another bucket of paint.”
    “Alright, I’m gonna finish this up and move the ladder down some. We’re about done. It’s not gonna take us another two gallons to finish up.”
    “Well then maybe we ought to stretch it out some so we can get paid for the whole day. Has Johnny said anything about our next job?”
    “Nope. He did say he was trying to get the old cotton compress to do next, but I don’t know any more than that.”
    “Well...I’m gonna get that paint and I’ll be back in a minute or two.” Woody walked off and was gone for about fifteen seconds. The next thing I knew he came running around the corner of the gin, the front of his sombrero was flipped back over his head and he was waving his arms like he was on fire or something.
    “Coy, Jr., Coy, Jr. It’s them! It’s them. It’s them fellers!”
    “It’s who? What are you talking about?”
    “It’s the fellers in the truck. The truck what hit Hannon!”
    I jumped down off the ladder and went to the corner of the building. I peeped around the wall and saw three guys standing by a white pick-up truck. I recognized the truck to be the same one that brought the jugs of whatever it was out to Barton the other day and one of the fellows standing there was, in fact, Barton.
    “The one in the tee shirt and white pants is ol’ Barton,” I whispered.
    “The one with the cowboy hat is the one what was driving the truck when it hit Hannon. They look like they’re fixing to fight Johnny! Coy, Jr., what we gonna do?”
    “We ain’t gonna do nothing. Johnny was in Viet Nam, he can handle himself.” No sooner did the words get out of my mouth when one of them cold cocked Johnny and he went down like a slaughtered cow. They looked at him a couple of seconds and he didn’t move a lick. Then they turned and headed our direction. We jumped back behind the corner and leaned flat against the building.
    “What we gonna do? What we gonna do?” Woody was getting that wild look in his eyes again and I knew there was only one thing we could possibly do.
    “RUN LIKE HELL!” I had run fifty yards before I threw down my paint roller. I looked to my left and Woody was shedding his hat and shirt while running like a shot at deer. We did a high hurdle over a barbed wire fence, hit the cotton field and never let up. I know we must have run three miles before we got the courage to look back.
    “Where in the world are we?” I said as I fell to my knees trying to catch my breath.
    “I don’t have any idea. All I know is that I’m gonna die if I don’t get some air.” Woody lay down on the ground looking up at the sky, his chest heaving in and out as his color slowly washed back over him. He was still wild eyed and all, but we were too give out to run another step.
    “That looks like a creek over there...must be Gunner’s creek. We can follow that south and make it back to town.”
    “Reckon them fellers know where we are?”
    “I doubt it. Why don’t we hide out here till dark and then head to town? We can call somebody to come get us when we get to the Phillips 66.”
    We went over to the creek bank and sat down in a cane patch that was covering the side of a wash out. Woody and I weren’t saying anything. I was pretty sure we were thinking the same thing, but all we did was sit there and breathe. Then Woody let me know we weren’t thinking exactly the same thing.
    “I know what I’m gonna do with my paycheck...I’m buying a pistol and a bunch of bullets. This here crap is gonna stop!”
    “Aw yeah...that would be a wise investment. Start shootin’ folks. Then we could all rest easy. Somebody gives you some crap, shoot ‘em. Somebody looks at you cross-eyed, shoot ‘em.”
    “Well, I tell you what, people would stop this kinda crap. I wouldn’t be settin’ out in a cane patch sweatin’ like a pig and getting’ covered in redbugs.”
    “Naw you wouldn’t...you’d be settin’ in a cell in Parchman sweatin’ like a pig ‘cause they were fixin’ to put your butt in the gas chamber!”
    “Coy, Jr., the way I see it I could of shot three people today in self defense and not had to run ten miles.”
    “So you could just pack heat all the time and when somebody gives you some crap, you’d just shoot ‘em in self defense.”
    “That’s about the size of it!”
    “Then what would make you one iota better than them? You’d be the same! You’d be the bad guy!”
    “Well little man I wouldn’t be hidin’ in a cane patch with you, shakin’ in my boots wantin’ my Mama.”
    “Woody, you didn’t have to run...you could have stayed and fought the three of them. That’s what a BIG man would have done, right?”
    We just sat and looked at each other for a while realizing how stupid we were and how ridiculous our situation was. It was so hot down in that hole I thought I was gonna pass out. But we stuck it out and waited till just about dark before we dared poke our heads out in the open air. When we came out, it felt like a late fall evening, the air was so cool against our soaking wet clothes. We headed south along the creek bank keeping an eye out for Barton and those other fellows. I knew we had at least two or three miles as the crow flies before we got to the road, but we walked forever. That creek has more twists and turns in it than I ever imagined.
    “Man, my belly thinks my throat’s been cut! I could eat a horse right now.”
    “You know, Woody, I been thinking about this... The other day those same two guys with Barton brought out two jugs of moonshine to the gin. Then, the day Barton quit, Johnny told me that Barton was buddies with a Fiveacre guy and that Fiveacre said he’d better watch me. Now we know that the guys that picked up Hannon after the wreck were the same two guys, so one of them must be a Fiveacre. Hannons and Fiveacres are a bad combination.”
    “Coy, Jr., you remember when we was over at your house and watchin’ TV and the news said that a Fiveacre was escaped from jail?”
    “Yeah, and they said he had been in jail because of selling liquor or something.”
    “Yep. I remember that cause we were talking about them Fiveacres being such a bad bunch!”
    “So...Hannon is making my grandmamma run a still and Fiveacre is selling it.”
    “So then the guys that Hannon was meeting in Okaluka was the same guys that he hit in the car! Stinkin’ ass bastard!”
    “Well I guess this pretty much explains everything. I bet Hannon let Fiveacre escape from jail.”

Chapter 4. The Rest of the Plan (part 3)

TBF — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 23:48:00 GMT

    Here is the final part of Chapter 4. Hopefully you've found this interesting enough to continue reading. To go to the last entry, click this link Chapter 4. The Rest of the Plan (part 2). To start at the beginning, click this link, Chapter 1. How Things Came to Be.

    Thursday morning I was standing at the end of the drive way at 7:15. I knew good and well that Johnny wasn’t showing up. He’s probably laid up somewhere with a hangover or still drunk. When he hadn’t showed up by 8:30, I gave up on him and went back in the house. Luckily, Mama and Mama Pope were going to take care of some business this morning and she had already left. I went to my room and laid across my bed and before I knew it, I was sound asleep. About 9:30 I was awakened by somebody in the driveway just sitting down on their dad gum horn. I went to the kitchen and looked out the window and saw Johnny’s truck starting to back up the drive. I ran out, jumped off the porch and flagged him down waving my sack lunch.
    “Boy, you gonna work today or not?” Johnny smiled as he flicked his cigarette butt out in the yard. I ran around and jumped in next to Barton. I remembered that I had to hold the door closed.
    “How’s it going Barton?” He just sat there and acted like I didn’t even exist. “I ‘bout gave up on y’all,” I leaned forward and looked at Johnny who was opening a fresh pack of Picayune cigarettes. The cab of the truck wreaked of whiskey and cigarettes so much I thought about farting just to balance it out. Barton’s eyes looked like they were about ready to start bleeding.
    “Yeah, we were running a little late this morning,” Johnny lit the first cigarette out of the pack.
    “Rough night last night?” I asked. Barton looked at me with his big ol’ bloodshot eyes and it made me think about a horned toad shooting blood from its eyes. “Barton, I bet if you squinted real hard you could shoot blood out of your eyes like a horned toad.”
    “I bet I could squeeze some blood out of yours if I wanted, no?”
    “Oh, lightin’ up Barton. The boy’s right. Your eyes look like two slices of country cured ham.”
    “Sorry, Barton. I was just kidding.”
    “You don’t pay my troubles no mind, boy.”
    “Okay Barton. That’s enough,” the smile was gone from Johnny’s face. “I don’t feel like a bunch of crap this morning, so just calm your coon-ass self down, got it?”
    I sat silent for the rest of the ride to the gin. When we got there, I got out, got a bucket of paint, grabbed the roller I was using yesterday and walked toward the gin. I figured I would stay to myself today so as to not upset Barton any more. The last thing I needed was to get beat-up by some Dago sot.
    When noon time finally rolled around I tried to stay away from Barton, but for some reason, he decided he wanted to come over and start some mess.
    “Hey little boy! You think you be better than everybody, no? Well you get up from that bucket and I’ll show you something.”
    “Come on, man. I don’t want to fight you. All I want to do is sit here and eat my lunch.”
    “You better stand up or I’ll kick you ass settin’ right there.” The second I stood up, Barton knocked my sandwich out of my hand onto the ground. I looked down at it just as he covered it with his nasty boot and ground it into the dirt. I bit my lip a little and sat back down on the paint bucket. Two seconds later, Barton kicked the bucket out from under me and sent me sprawling across the ground. I scurried to get up, but he kicked me over before I could get to my feet. I was getting so mad I knew I was about to go berserk. That Pope temper was beginning to take over my mind. It just began to envelop my brain like a tow sack and I knew if it did, I might not live to regret it. I jumped up and grabbed my paint roller to use as a weapon. Barton’s nostrils were flared like a bull as he started to take on a wrestler stance. He was hunkering down and moving his hands around like he was fixing to put me in a headlock or something. I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with the paint roller when I heard Johnny start yelling.
    “Barton! What in hell are you doing?”
    Barton’s head spun around to look at Johnny and I saw my opening. I did my best underhand wind-up and smacked Barton right in the crotch with the blunt end of my wet paint roller. He let out a gasp then doubled over and hit the ground. Slowly rolling over he was holding his private area and starting to gag. Before long he was on his hands and knees puking his brains out. From the backside view that I had, you could see a big smear of silver paint right in the groin area. Johnny stood there shaking his head.
    “Barton, what in hell were you trying to do? Coy, I’m sorry. He was drunk out of his mind last night and I guess he ain’t over it yet. Barton, I hope this teaches you a lesson.”
    “What’s he comin at me for? I didn’t do nothing to him!”
    “He’s an idiot, Coy. When he gets drunk he’s just an idiot. That’s all I can say. Barton, you’re going to apologize for all this crap or I’m gonna kick your ass myself.”
    “Apologize? Why hell naw! That boy he thinks he better than everybody else.” Barton was getting back up on his feet and wiping the vomit off of his face with his shirt tail.
    “I don’t think I’m better than anybody!” This guy was out of his mind. I had known him for two days and said about ten words to him and he thinks he knows me.
    “Barton, where in hell did you get an idea like that? Coy here ain’t done nothing to you. All he had done is work like he was supposed to.”
    “Okay, Johnny boy. You think what you want but I tell you he’s gonna be trouble. Mark my word.”
    “Barton, I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about, but we need to get back to work. I don’t have time for this kind of crap so you go back over there and start painting. Coy, you come with me. BARTON, get back to work, dammit!” Barton was mumbling as he walked back around the side of the gin.
    “Johnny, why is he starting a fight with me? I haven’t done anything!”
    “Oh, some fellow told him that he better watch you because you were trouble or some such crap.”
    “Watch me? Who said that? Watch me for what?”
    “I don’t have a clue. He just said this guy told him to keep an eye on you. I told him he was crazy, that I’d known your Daddy for umpteen dozen years and you were good folk.”
    “I want to know who it was. Who said to watch me?”
    “Just some other nut. Look here, you want a sandwich?” Johnny opened the door of the truck and offered me a store bought sandwich out of his lunchbox.
    “No...no, thank you. I’m fine. Kinda lost my appetite.”
    “Tell you what, I’m gonna let Barton have a few days off to get his head straight. You tell your cousin Durwood if he wants to work some, be ready in the morning.”
    “All right. He’ll do it, I’m sure.”
    “Can I pick you both up at your house?”
    “Yeah, I’ll tell him to come over. We’ll be there. Seven o’clock?”
    “Seven o’clock. Don’t say anything to Barton. I’ll take care of him after I let you out this afternoon. Now let’s get back to paintin’. We are WAY behind schedule.”
    I went back and picked up my roller and tried to knock some of the dirt off of it. It had pretty much dried by now, so I figured nobody would see a little dirt and grass way up on the roof and I went and climbed back up top and went to work where I had left off. I went through about ten gallons of paint by day’s end and was more than ready to get down when I noticed that my ladder had been moved.
    “That’s real funny. Yeah, really funny. Hey... Hey Johnny! I need the ladder back so I can get down!” I saw Barton standing by the truck just looking up at me. It was pretty easy to guess who moved the ladder. I saw Johnny walk over to Barton and say something to him. When Johnny turned his back and was coming over my way Barton flipped him a bird.
    “That’s about right!” I yelled from my perch, “Yeah Barton, Shoot him the bird!” Then Barton looked up and raised his finger toward me holding it high over his head. And with that, Barton started walking down the gravel drive out toward the main road. Johnny and I got all the stuff loaded into the truck and left out for home. We passed Barton a good ways down the road but Johnny never let up. I looked back and Barton was holding both hands up in the air, once again flipping us off. I looked over at Johnny and could tell he was still pretty mad. I couldn’t tell if he was just mad or maybe his feelings were a little hurt. From what I had picked up in the past couple of days, Barton had been working with him for about a year or so. It seemed odd that all this came out of the blue like it did. I say out of the blue, the way things had been going for me lately, nothing should seem odd or out of the blue. Every time I turned around, I was finding out everything was related.
    “Johnny, you said somebody told Barton to watch me ‘cause I was trouble...who said that?”
    “Some ol’ guy that runs with Barton...one of those Goat Run Fiveacres.”
    “Well that explains it.”
    “Explains what?”
    “You know a Fiveacre killed my Grand Daddy?”
    “Naw! You got to be kiddin! One of those Fiveacres?” Johnny seemed to be totally shocked.
    “Yep. One of them Goat Run Fiveacres.”
    “I knew they were a trashy bunch but I didn’t know they were murderers!”
    “Well, kinda. Just take my word for it...you want to watch those Fiveacres!” I laughed, thinking of the irony of what I had just said. Johnny started smiling and even chuckled a little bit as we headed on home.
    We stopped in front of my house and Johnny asked, “Reckon your cousin’s still interested in working with us tomorrow, seeing how we’re going to be short handed?”
    “Yeah, but I warn you, Woody will want to know what he’s getting paid before he does a lick of work.”
    “I’ll pay him the same thing I’m paying you. See y’all in the morning.”
    I nodded my head, got out of the truck and started toward the house. As the old pickup spun its maypop tire hopping back up on the road, it dawned on me...I had never asked how much I was getting paid.
    “Yep. You gotta watch me...not only am I trouble, but I drive a hard bargain, too.”

Chapter 4. The Rest of the Plan (part 2)

TBF — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 02:54:00 GMT

    I went to Petco this aftenoon to pick up some KMR (kitten milk replacement) formula for the kittens. Based on the price there appears to be a gold mine in milking cats. Obviously there would be an intitial cost of a shark proof suit, but judging from the prices, $8.00 for 8 fluid ounces, you could recover that fairly quickly. The powder is $24.00 for 14 ounces. Anyway, I can't figure out why folks take their dogs into Petco. Are they going to let them pick out something? You never see anyone bringing their fish with them, though. Walking down the aisle holding a fruit jar full of neon tetras, letting them decide on which food to buy...getting a new little pirate's treasure chest. Anyway, I bought the KMR, got some kitty roast beef (the vet fussed when she found out we had fed them real roast beaf) and a cat napper for the window. We had one before, but they aren't designed for four or five twenty pound cats to get in it at once and they broke it.
    Oh well...I thought I would post some more of Chapter 4 in the off chance somebody actually enjoyed reading it. You can start at the last installment, Chapter 4. The Rest of the Plan, or the beginning Chapter 1. How Things Came to Be

    The next morning I went over to Woody’s to see if he heard anything. What I was really interested in finding out was whether or not he had told anybody about our incident with Hannon. When I knocked on the door, I could hear him coming from the back of the house.
    “Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow,” apparently in pain with each step. He opened the door and kind of squinted in the bright sunlight. He was bare footed, had on a pair of cut off jeans and a snap-up cowboy shirt with the front wide open and the sleeves rolled up.
    “Hey man, what’s wrong with you? I could hear you moaning all the way from out here.”
    “I’m stove up”, Woody turned and walked away from the open door. I followed him in and closed the door behind me.
    “What’s the matter? How come you’re stove up?”
    “I jumped of that dad blame bridge! Oh, that’s right little man, you wasn’t there, was you?”
    “Hey, you volunteered! It was your idea to wreck the car, not mine.”
    “Yeah, like you would have done it. Anyway, what you want?”
    “I just came over to see if you had remembered anything else about the guys that picked up Hannon.”
    “Naw. I heard Mama on the phone talkin’ to somebody and they said his car was stole by a midget.”
    “You’re kiddin’! That was my idea. I started that rumor.”
    “Musta’ been your Mama she was talkin’ to, then.”
    “I sure hope Hannon doesn’t remember anything. If he does, then that means he’ll be out to get us ‘cause we know he’s into moonshinin’.”
    “Not only us, but Mama Pope, too,” Woody was right. This whole thing was getting way too big for a couple of redneck teenagers to handle.
      “You ain’t been on the phone tellin’ folks about yesterday, have you?”
    “Of course not! Do you think I’m stupid or something?”
    “I just want to make sure you haven’t been talking to anybody!”
    “No! I ain’t! Besides, I’m so sore I don’t think I could dial the phone if I wanted to.”
    “Woody, I think we still ought to lay low and ride it out. I can’t see us gaining anything by stirring the pot more than we already have.”
    “What pot you talkin’ about?"
     “It’s a saying! Geez, it means we don’t need to be doing anything that’ll get things stirred up.”
    “That’s fine by me. I’m too stove up to be stirrin’.”
    “We’re gonna have to go on like it didn’t happen. And do our dead level best not to let on that we know anything.”
    “That ought to be fairly easy for us…nobody ever accused us of knowin’ very much in the first place!” Woody chuckled as he slowly propped his feet up on the coffee table.
    “Oh, guess what? I might have a job.” I told Woody.
    “Doin’ what?”
    “Working for Johnny Cooper painting the gin.”
    “Well I’ll be dogged. Your Mama gonna let you work with that drunk?”
    “I guess so. Daddy said he’d ask him today and see if I could start tomorrow.”
    “If he’s got some more openings let me know. I’m a little on the broke side myself.”
    “Alright. I’ll ask.”
    “How much he gonna pay you?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
    “You mean you’re gonna take a job and not know how much you get paid?”
    “Woody, I’m not making one thin dime right now, am I? The way I see it, anything is better than nothing!”
    “I don’t know about that. My time’s worth something even if I’m just settin’ around.”
    “Whatever. Where’s your Mama?”
    “She’s at work down at the ice plant. They puttin’ in a new baggin’ machine and she’s answering the phone while Daddy helps the guy put it in.”
    “I didn’t even know there was a phone down there. Who calls the ice plant?”
    “Well I reckon anybody what wants ice!” Woody seemed insulted that I would ask such a question.
    “Okay. Okay. I believe I’m going back over to the house. If anything comes up about...you know, the incident, give me a call.” I got up and headed to the door.
    “Will do. I’m gonna lay right here on this couch and try to get this soreness out of my legs.”
    I let myself out and headed home. It was probably already near 90 degrees so I was pretty sure I’d spend most of my day trying to stay cool. As soon as I got to the house, I went in and made some red Kool-Aid and got out a big glass. I looked in the freezer and the ice trays were sitting there empty. I thought about calling the ice plant since now I knew they had a phone, but I figured Aunt Ida would just call Mama and tell her and I’d get in trouble. So I filled up the ice trays, poured a glass of hot Kool-Aid and put the pitcher in the refrigerator. I went outside and sat down on a bucket in the carport. The past few days had been too eventful for my taste. So I figured I’d just sit there a while, sip on my Kool-Aid and try to come up with a way to straighten out all this Hannon mess we had gotten into. It was gonna take a powerful lot of thinking to get out of this one.

    The next morning at 6:45 I found myself standing at the end of the driveway waiting for Johnny Cooper to come by and pick me up. By some hook or crook way, Daddy had convinced Mama to let me work for Johnny. Actually it was a pretty tough night last night and me and Daddy may be eating sandwiches every meal for the rest of our lives, but by dang I had a job. I was kinda proud of my Daddy for putting his foot down and telling Mama how it was going to be. Of course we’ll have to do something special for Mama real soon, but I think it was worth the trouble. My only hope is that Daddy will be willing to stand his ground from now on. But I’m smart enough to know that’ll never happen.
    Johnny showed up at about 7:15 and he had another fellow with him that I had never seen. I climbed up into the cab of the truck and had to slam the door a couple of times but it wouldn’t stay shut so I just held it closed. A dark skinned guy that looked like a Mexican or a Dago or something was sitting between me and Johnny. I’m not sure what a Dago is, but I know they are darker than me and talk funny. He was wearing paint spattered white britches and an old white T-shirt that was also splotched with the apparent paint colors of the last few jobs he had done. The inside of the truck smelled like a conglomeration of cigarettes, paint, and whiskey and body odor.
    “Mornin’ Coy, Jr. Welcome to the Cooper Paint and Roofing Company,” Johnny had a cigarette hanging from his lip and was all smiles. As he reached out his hand across the guy sitting in the middle, the truck’s tires drifted off the edge of the road for a few dozen yards. I shook his hand, thanked him for hiring me and did my best to keep the door closed and stay on the truck seat.
    “Whoop-whoop, get back up on the pavement...this here is Barton,” Johnny kinda nodded his head toward the other fellow as he wrestled the truck back onto the road.
    “How you doing?” I tried to smile and make eye contact. Mama always said it was important to make eye contact when you first meet somebody. That way they’ll know you’re not scared of them.
    “How you?” He never even looked at me. He just stared at the road and his fat jowls kinda bounced as we rode along.
    “So. We gonna be paintin’ at the gin, huh?”
    “Yeah, it’s a big job for ten folks.”
    “Wow, you got ten folks working for you?” I was amazed that Johnny could ever have a crew that size.
    “Nope. It’s just me, Barton and now you. It’s a HUGE job for three folks.” Johnny laughed out loud as he flicked a cigarette butt out the window. Barton never changed expressions.
   “My cousin Woody might be interested in a job if you need more help,” I asked even though I didn’t have any idea how much I was getting paid yet.
    “That Lonnie’s boy?”
    “Yeah. His real name’s Durwood.”
    “Oh, yeah. Durwood. I remember him. He was a booger when he was a young’un.”
    “He ain’t changed too much since he got older.”
    “That’s right. You boys stole that truck and got shot by ol’ Hannon or something didn’t you?” Barton glanced towards me for a second.
    “Something like that. I can’t talk about it though.”
    “Can’t talk about it? How come”
    “Lawyer said not to. Said we might cause a mistrial or something.”
    “What, you suing the police?”
    “Not really suing them, but trying to make things right, you know, justice and all.”
    “Man you guys are pretty brave, going after the law like that. But I can’t really blame you. If that bastard had shot at me, he’d better damn well kill me because I’d be going after him from that second on. Wouldn’t stop till one of us was dead. I guarantee. Say I guarantee, Barton.”
    “I ga-rwan-tee.” Barton never looked away from the road. From the intensity of his stare, you’d think he was driving. I kinda wished he was because Johnny was laughing so hard he started having a coughing fit and was running off the road again.
    We finally made it to the gin and unloaded the ladders and paint buckets from the truck. Johnny gave me a few instructions and started me up on the roof rolling on silver paint. It was pretty tough to stay up there after a while. Not only was it fairly steep, it was hot as blue blazes. Sweat was running down into my eyes and dripping off my nose. I could feel the blistered skin on my back start to burning again just like it did last weekend. Man I was going to be in some kinda pain tonight. I painted a whole five gallon bucket of silver paint and went down to take a break. I found a shady spot and sat down on the empty paint bucket. As I sat there, a truck pulled up behind where Johnny had parked and Barton walked over and spoke to the driver. Barton reached over into the back of the truck and got a couple of milk jugs out and headed over to Johnny’s truck. He opened the toolbox, moved some stuff around and put the jugs in it. About that time, Johnny came walking around the corner of the gin, zipping up his pants.
    “Whew! That feels better....had to shake the dew off my lily. Heat getting’ to you? Take a breather. I don’t want you croakin’ on me. Cigarette?”
    “Uh, no thanks...I don’t smoke.”
    “I ought to quit, but then I’d have to quit drinking too and I like it too much.”
    About that time Barton walked by and gave Johnny the thumbs up signal. “We gonna knock off about two this afternoon, that alright with you?” Johnny asked me.
    “Sure. Kinda hot up on that roof, by two I ought to be well done.” I got up and went over to the truck to get another bucket of paint. The whole time I was pretty sure Barton was watching me. That guy is one weird dude. I took the bucket and went back up on the roof to paint some more. As I slopped the silver paint on the rusty tin roof, I watched Johnny and Barton go over and take a look at what Barton had put in the truck bed. They talked for a minute or two then went back to painting where they had left off.
    By two o’clock I had finished up the five gallon bucket of paint I brought up. I kicked the empty bucket off the roof and chunked down my paint roller. I had just about as much silver paint on my shoes and britches as was on the roof. I figured it was a good thing going home early because I
could hide my clothes from Mama before she got home from work. I’d just wear them again tomorrow and figure out how to clean them later. We gathered up all the empty paint buckets and sorted equipment and put it in the truck. I saw the two jugs that Barton had got from that fellow and figured it was probably kerosene or something.
    “Johnny? What’s in those jugs, paint thinner?”, I asked thinking I might use it to clean some of the paint off my shoes.
    “Naw, man that’s uh....white gas. Barton uses it for his cook stove.”
    “Why’d that guy bring it out here? I didn’t know that anybody would deliver white gas.”
    “Oh, uh, yeah. That fellow got a good deal on it and gave Barton some cause he knew he used it.”
    “Huh, who’d have thought.” I learn something new everyday. The ice plant has a phone and you can get white gas delivered.
    “Barton, can I use a dab of it to clean some of the paint off my shoes?”
    “No.” Barton looked at me like I was crazy or something.
    “Oh, okay. I just asked. No problem.”
    We started to pile up into the cab of the truck and Johnny said I would probably cool off quicker if I rode in the back. The way Barton looked at me I figured that I had offended him when I asked to use his gas to clean my shoes. It might be a sin or something to use cooking fuel for paint thinner wherever he came from so I just kept my mouth shut and climbed into the back of the truck. Barton got back out of the cab, grabbed the two jugs and put them in the front with him and Johnny. This guy was weird even for a Dago or whatever he was.
    I sat down on the spare tire that was in the truck bed and held on tight for the ride home. As the wind was blowing my hair all over the place and my shirt was flapping in the breeze, I got to thinking about those two jugs of white gas. Something was telling me they more than likely had white “lightnin’” in them instead of white gas. I bet ol’ Barton is a drunk like Johnny and we were going home early so they could get lit. When he dropped me off at the house, I asked Johnny if he was picking me up at 7:00 again tomorrow.
    “Yeah. 7:30 or 8:00.”
    “We working Saturday, too?” I asked hoping that he’d say no, but knowing I needed the money.
    “We’ll have to wait and see how far we get tomorrow and Friday.” With that he slapped the truck in gear and squawked the tires when he leapt back up on the pavement. A cloud of blue smoke billowed out of the tail pipe and the old paint-splotched truck took off like Morty’s goose.