I wrote this a week or so ago for a writer’s challenge – sort of writer’s “Improv!”  The elements (prompts) were: an irascible person, a lost dog, papier-mache, and the Oort Cloud.

Here’s what happened:

I don’t remember when I first saw her — a Cold Day in Hell perhaps. Sybil was one of the oddest people I have ever met. If required to describe her, I’d have to say Fire and Ice. When I asked where she came from, she would simply reply “some distance.” I nicknamed her Oorty, after the Oort Cloud, an extended shell of icy objects in the outermost reaches of the solar system, named after a Dutch astronomer who made significant contributions to the understanding of the Milky Way and a pioneer in the field of radio astronomy. Of course, Sybil, not being possessed of any modicum of humor abhorred this honorific. She was a strange one for sure and not given to small talk or sweetness. In fact, she had all the personality of a Moray Eel. I don’t know why she selected me to accommodate her amorous adventures as I am not particularly studly. In the balance of positive and negative aspects of the relationship, the balance was tipped slightly in favor of enduring this peculiar partnership. One might ask, “Why spend any time with her if she was that irascible?” The candid answer would be physical comfort. Actually volcanic intimacy would be a more apt description. Fortunately for me, we rarely spent much time together aside from when she came into the predictably next cycle of voracious need for attention. Symptoms were rarely mild but often varied. At times affectionate (completely out of character) and clingy and other times intense. I am not embarrassed to say that her wolf-like behavior during these times could be lascivious and quite scary and our encounters were not unlike rodeo events. Once her passions were satisfied she would mostly disappear, although we occasionally had coffee when she felt the need to criticize me and the rest of the world. I would think to myself “I’ve got to end this,” but in weakness I would always relent when she appeared. She was a bad habit but an oh so delicious one.

Over time, her mood became less hot-tempered and irritable and more morose. She seemed to be troubled and emanated a sense of doom. One day she called and asked me to meet her at Cambridge Park. We were sitting on a wrought iron bench and I noticed that although not cheerful, she seemed more relaxed. She then announced that she had secured two plane tickets for Mexico. When I asked who they were for she said “why us, silly!” The words us and silly had never crossed her lips before and it was quite an odd feeling to hear this. When I protested that I could not afford it, she replied that everything had been taken care of.

Several weeks later, we were on a Delta flight to Mexico City. Having never been to Mexico before, I was full of anticipation and eager to explore the exotic atmosphere of this richly historical region. However, when we touched down she said that we did not have time to sightsee and that I could do this later. “We must quickly go to Popocatepetl!” Having never heard this word I pressed for more information. “Popocatepetl is beckoning.” I was very irritated at having my dreams of embracing the sights and sounds of the city quashed and this brought visions of smacking the stuffings out of a Sybil-shaped papier-mache pinata.

After a very dusty and bumpy ride on an old converted school bus we arrived at the base of a very imposing, and recently active volcano. We secured a small hut for the evening and intended to rest for what she said would be a trying trek in the morning. However, no rest was to be had because once the kerosene lamp was extinguished, she charged me like a raging bull. Our amorous adventures that night could not be called lovemaking. In fact, it seemed she was trying to destroy me, although I managed to live through it most pleasurably.

Exhausted the next day we began our ascent to the lip of the crater. It took the entire day and when we reached the top, the sun was just setting. I said with a faint tremor in my voice “I don’t think El Popo likes us here.” The heat was intense, the ground trembled and the scent of burnt matches permeated the atmosphere. Grabbing my arm she pulled me closer to the edge. Sparks were cascading in the updraft and I became terrified! Suddenly she stood teetering on a sandy ledge and shouted “Push me in! Do it!” I thought she was delirious and attempted to pull her back. “Do it you cowardly human scum!” In an instant of temporary insanity I let her vitriol overcome me and I gave her a hard shove. Wild-eyed she stumbled back, slipped and went over the edge and down into the fiery caldron. Her ear-piercing shrieks haunt me to this day. Then a strange peace came about and the earth quit trembling. I fancied that I could hear an eerie sound — not quite a moan but more of an “ahhhhhhh.”

I stood there for what seemed like ages then slowly made my way down the mountain, arriving at the little hut at dawn. I slept for twenty-four hours but the next day I had an odd peace about me and spent several days enjoying my free vacation, oddly not bothered by the preceding events.

Although this bizarre adventure would be indelibly etched into my psyche, I got on with daily life and was content to be free of her. But one blustery night there was a persistent scratching at the door. Opening it I peered out into the wet darkness to see no one. Then I looked down on a wet and shivering old mongrel, emaciated, bedraggled and forlorn. She pierced me with a baleful look then slinked into the house and hid under a table in the den. From this point she never moved except to eat and leave for brief calls of nature. I wasn’t going to name her, but since she has become a permanent resident, I have decided to call her Sybil.

I recently joined an on-line writer’s group called Iron Writer. It is a little like literary Improv where you are given elements (usually impossibly incongruous) and have to concoct a 500 word story employing them. This is the result of the most recent challenge. The elements were: an Osiria rose; a novel; a photo album and a talking piano.

A ROSE OF OSIRIA

Many abhor storms and bad weather but I find them either invigorating or soothing. Of course I eschew the type that can relocate your house to Oz, but I love a gray Navy day. A night summer squall has paused momentarily and my window is open so I can enjoy a gentle rain should it return. I am in a happy place. Power is out so I am perusing my Mother’s photo journal by candlelight – reminded of her by the intoxicating scent of her favorite magnolia outside. I am reminiscing about earlier days and the stories she told and memories she created. Or, maybe the fragrance is drifting from that peculiar rose bush which burst forth from our fertile river bottom soil last year. It seemed out of place at the time but has been accepted. Only one person in town could identify it as an Osiria rose. According to him, it is very rare and he was confounded that one could even grow in Zone 7, much less erupt from the earth completely unbeckoned.

Sweet thoughts of mother guided my fingers to the keyboard of my grand piano and gently elicited the pleasing melody of her favorite song. I lapsed into a cozy reverie which was abruptly interrupted by an oddly accented voice – “That feels so good!” “Who is that” I shouted into the darkness, very unsettled. “It is I!” returned the voice which seemed to emanate from my piano. How can my piano be talking to me I mused? “Who is this?” I stuttered. “Oh, you are thinking you are owning a talking piano? ha ha ha ha ha.” “No, It is I, Prince Khashayarsha, Ruler of all Osiria!” “Osiria? I have never heard of such!” “Well, of course you haven’t, but you have heard of Atlantis, no?” “Atlantis wasn’t real,” I stated somewhat indignantly. “Of course it was real” replied the disembodied Prince. “We were most zealous and combative rivals in 4900 BC and were advanced and powerful civilizations.” “You see, instead of the great Mediterranean Sea that exists now, the entire region was a vast and fertile valley.” “We were not the only great peoples thriving in a fertile land, beneficiary of the abundant supply of life-giving waters of the Nile and other rivers.” “Around 1500 BC the Great Flood destroyed all.”

“Fascinating,” I replied, “but what are you doing in my piano?” “I require a home. When a person is dispatched violently into the Netherworld, they remain disconnected for a period of time.” “The heavenly familiar scent of your rose bush drew me here and your piano comforts me.” “I do not wish to have a possessed piano” I protested. “There is no cause for alarm,” said the prince. “I am neither malevolent nor nefarious.” “In fact, I am a magnificent Muse” “I intend no harm and if you are kind enough to let me remain for a period of time, I shall assist you in completing the novel on which you are currently so hopelessly blocked.”

In this surreal moment, the offer seemed to make some bizarre sense. “Agreed” I said!

“Bajarildi!!” shouted the prince. “It is done!”

DADDIES ARE FROM THE HEART

A nostalgic visit to a childhood in the Fifties.

I didn’t plan to grow up without a father. He left us, at his own hand, when I was little. Nor did I plan to be thrust into the role of “man of the house,” as appointed by towering blue-haired matriarchal old women in black dresses and lacquered high hairdos. In fact, I was terrified of the responsibility. I didn’t know what it meant, but I was certain I was not up to the task. What I DID want was a Daddy. Someone to whistle at me, play catch and tussle my hair. One to go fishing with, and ask advice and sometime just sit and hug.

My paternal grandfather in Montgomery was definitely not a candidate. As Highway Commissioner of the great state of Alabama, he cut an imposing figure although he was short in stature. Somehow, and probably not legally, he had custody of negro trustees from the colored prison who served as cooks, maids, laundresses, drivers and yard workers. For a year or so around age five, I was raised by them. No, grandfather Scott was a fiery, red-faced martinet. White linen suits, black Kentucky colonel string ties. States rights and white supremacy! A powerful presence to be sure, but not capable of a nurturing nature. “Children should be seen, and not heard,” was the order of the day (and probably his motto).

My maternal grandfather on the other hand, Howard Gibbs, better known to me as Papa, filled the void right off. Our times together were not very frequent, but rendered powerful memories. Papa was a business man in Mobile. A stockbroker and insurance man, a member of the Mobile Country Club and well respected in the community. Going to his house was exciting to me although Aunt Kitty (my step-grandmother) although pleasant, probably subscribed to the adage about children. They live at 1 Country Club Road in a ritzy section of the city known as Spring Hill. The house was always in perfect order and we children felt a little intimidated about even sitting on one of the antique chairs. I used to joke that they should put one of those felt-covered museum ropes over the entrance to the living room. Even with this atmosphere, it was a special place. We would always go for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I can still feel the excitement of opening Christmas presents on the prized oriental rug — a Gilbert Erector set, a chemistry set or a Great Houdini or Harry Blackstone magic set. One of my best presents was a fishing and scaling knife, proudly presented to me by Papa, much to the horror of my mother and aunt Kitty. Papa and I escaped into the back yard with my prized contraband and spent hours throwing it to stick point first into a tree. This simply time sharing with him became a fond and indelible memory.

Another much anticipated treat was to accompany him on his stocks, bonds and insurance route into towns in lower Mobile County such as Grand Bay and Bayou La Batre and Moss Point and Pascagoula in southern Mississippi. I loved to go to Mrs. Bill’s restaurant in Moss Point. The hamburgers were so delicious and I would ask Mrs. Bill what made them taste different. She always told me that she added two teaspoons of love to the meat. When I got older, she confided that there was sage in the hamburger. I have tried to duplicate this burger without success, although I have come close.

Another time, we stopped for lunch at a white-washed concrete block restaurant with a sandwich sign that boast “fresh fried chicken.” We went in, found a booth and ordered the prized and much touted chicken. After waiting forever, we asked where the restrooms were. They were “out back” so we went out into the heat to the little houses out back. We soon discovered the delay in our “fresh friend chicken!” Said chickens were being chased by a tiny little colored man wearing an apron and chef’s hat and brandishing a meat cleaver. We had to stifle our laughter. When we went back inside, Papa told the man that we had to get back on the road and would get a burger somewhere.

Holiday visits to Papa and Aunt Kitty’s were always greatly anticipated, especially Christmas. I have always been hot natured so in the winter I would keep the window open in my second floor room. One Christmas night there was a full moon and I could have sworn I saw Santa and his sleigh streaking across the heavens.

Papa did the best he could being a surrogate Daddy and I think he did quite well. He’d had two girls (my mother and my aunt) so received no training in the area of little boys. The very best time was when he’d take me fishing in the bayous of south Mobile County. He knew an old Cajun fellow named Leo who served as our guide and angling coach. On these adventures, I would ride the Greyhound bus from Fairhope on the eastern shore to Mobile and he’d pick me up at the yellow brick bus station on Government Street. For dinner he would always say “I have a surprise for you!” and it was always the same surprise — chili dogs at the Dew Drop Inn on Old Shell Road. It opened in 1924 and he first took me there in 1948 when I was five. It is indescribable delicious and when the first owner sold it he admonished the buyer — “Don’t change nothin’” They didn’t and the last time I went, it was still the same. I think some folks have a knack for “improving” themselves out of business.

One of the most exciting aspects of these fishing trips was that we had to get up before dawn, a concept very foreign to me, but nonetheless adventuresome. We would find a little Mom and Pop all night diner along the way and get a hearty breakfast. When we got to Coden near Bayou La Batre it would still be dark. Our friend Leo had already been out in his John boat and seined for live shrimp. Once in the boat the dawn would break and it was glorious! I vowed to get up before dawn more often but it didn’t happen often. The boat was equipped with an ancient and olive green 5 horse power Evinrude. When we got to the first likely spot, Leo would kill the motor and using oars wrapped in croaker (burlap) sacks, he’d stealthily row to our first location. We used long bamboo poles and small hooks. Leo was a man who was at one with nature. He wet his finger and hold it up to test the wind, gently turn his head and announce “let’s row over to near that rotten tree.” I think he could smell where the fish were hiding. I was taught how to skillfully run the barb through the abdomen so as to attach the shrimp without killing it. Maybe this was the secret because we never caught less that three dozen fish of all descriptions. There were red snapper, several kinds of trout, bream, and others. I even caught a small shark one time. When it got lighter, the big boy fishermen would emerge, with their sparkly bass boats and fancy spinning reels. However, they never seemed to have much luck. They’d see up pulling them in, crank up and race over to inquire about our secret methods. I always got a chuckle when Leo told them “white skrimps and cane poles!”

The crowning glory was my snagging of a two foot Spanish Mackerel! I was so excited I almost walked out on the water to bring him in. Leo wrapped him up in some newspaper for me and we put him in Aunt Kitty’s refrigerator, much to her chagrin. When Papa took me back down to the bus station to catch the last bus back to Fairhope it was pitch black dark and I was totally exhausted. Too wound up to nap, I unwrapped the newspaper and proudly showed my catch off to my somewhat startled seat mate. In fact, I showed the damn thing to every last poor soul on the bus. They were good sports about it though. Many years later I realized that the driver had left the overhead lights on for me to show off my coveted prize. I like men like that. He must have been a real Daddy too.

The following one-pager was my first shot at “Iron Writer,” a kind of writer’s improv. I was given four elements: a saxophone, working a puzzle, a basement and Dylan Thomas’ poem “Don’t go gently into that dark night.” This is the result.

Living in Brooklyn can have its advantages. You could say that you would never be bored. For entertainment I have a ten story wall of the next building where the residents are either exhibitionists or blithely unaware they are exposing their daily drama to the world. It is better than one of those sports bars with twenty-seven different TVs blaring out at the same time. For example: Fourth floor and five windows to the left — a nightly “slug-fest” between Mr. and Mrs. X. Fifth floor and a few windows to the right — a shapely and more than amply endowed young woman who seems to like undressing very close to the window. I do not reject this odd practice and it is part of my evening enjoyment. Ninth floor, somewhere in the middle, the Boots Randolph (or Charlie Parker) wannabe who practices his alto sax nightly with excessive vigor. Exercises from Exercices Journaliers D’Apres Terschack Tous Saxophones. I can barely hear him but enough to know that although his technique is flawless, he is always a quarter tone flat. “Push in damn it, push in!” (the mouthpiece) I shout.

When my interest in this nightly show wanes, I turn to my puzzles: jig saw puzzles. I am a sucker for them. The harder, the better, like the 1,000 piece monsters you can find at K-Mart. So I usually have a million mili-pieces spread out over two card tables. My latest one is a tranquil fly fishing scene in Montana – cool river colors with a majestic back-drop of snow-capped mountains. So far it has been sitting there for nine month undone because the last piece is missing, the head of the fly fisherman and the central focus of the whole damn puzzle. The puzzle represents all the unfinished business and frustrations in my life. Add to that, Mr. Sax and my stupid cat Morris. The TV cat Morris is much smarter.

On edge lately, but having comforting dreams where I dispatch someone into the NetherWorld with barely a twinge. This may be a Freudian release of some description but is quite satisfying to me and I do not feel in the least bit guilty.

Tonight, after cleaning the cat box and cat house, what should I find but the missing puzzle piece of the fisherman’s head. Oh Joy! Morris had purloined it in the dead of night and hidden the treasure like Magpies’ propensity to steal and covet shiny baubles. I am thinking: why do I need Morris? Why do I need my puzzles? Why do I need the torment of the off-key musician? I begin to conjure thoughts most pleasurable.

Although I have never considered myself a candidate as a serial killer, the idea holds a certain allure. I could execute the musician, stuff the cat into the saxophone and bury the lot in my basement. At that point, I would totally ignore the admonishments of poet Dylan Thomas and WOULD go gently into that good night, without a rage, and whistling a happy tune!

This story is based upon a recent “visitation” I’ve had. This woman came to me in a dream five nights in a row! I don’t know who she represents or what the significance of it might be but it has been a deeply emotional experience for me. I have fleshed out the story with some childhood memories and thrown in some fictional bits for color. I hope you will enjoy it.

SEARCY

On the “dog” – the 7am Greyhound run from New Orleans to Pensacola on US highway 90. Got on in Biloxi just below D’Iberville. Just stopped in Bayou La Batre west of Mobile for a break. Bus squeals to a short stop with a big whoosh of the air brakes being released. Driver operates door mechanism and hollers “Bayou La Batre. Ten minutes!” What a sleepy little town this is. Nothing but shrimp boats and such. Peaceful though. Had enough for a 5 cent Cheri-cola and a pack of Tom’s Peanut Butter crackers. I’m on my way to pick potatoes in Foley, Alabama, in Baldwin county for the summer. They put out more taters than all of Idaho, or so they say. Good wages for a rough life. But, what the heck, what else have I had? I’m at home in the woods and the fields. Digging taters with the Mexicans and the school kids – all equals in the rich dirt of the land. Movin’ along now at a top speed of about 45 miles an hour. The air-conditioning on the bus consists of these little slits in the wall by the seat. You pull the slot back to let the air in from outside. I kinda liked the whistlin’ noise it makes and sometimes I fall asleep.

U.S. 90 goes through Mobile and picks up U.S. 98 coming down outta Hattiesburg. We’re driving down Government street now under all those Water and Live Oaks that form a canopy over the street.  Brought back some sweet memories. I marched many a Mardi Gras parade with the Lucedale High School band. We always bragged to our friends about it being 7 miles long, way out and back down Dauphin Street to Bienville Square, but I think it was probably more like 4 miles. Nothin’ like teen hormones and egos to stretch a tale! Mobile is bustling. The war is over and things are happening all over. Brookley Air Force Base is booming. I may try to hire on there some day. Coming out from under the oak bowery now and into downtown by the water front. I love Mobile with its wrought iron balconies and pretty parks. Reminds me a lot of New Orleans – that forbidden city I love so much. We stop for half an hour at the yellow brick Greyhound station on the southwest corner of South Conception and Government Boulevard. It’s a thriving scene and lots going on. When I was a kid, I always thought that being the announcer would have to be the coolest and most important job of all – “Now boarding, Gate Two, for Dallas and San Francisco!”

Heading out again. Down deep into the Bankhead tunnel. Pretty new. Just built it in 1941. Before that, you had to go over a steel cantilever bridge way to the north side of the city in a place called Africa Town. Way up high with a middle section that lifted up for ships to come through. Been over it a few times. Kinda scary but I liked the low hum the tires made on the metal grid. Ain’t never been in a tunnel before and it’s kinda scary too. Made me nervous, but we popped out all safe and sound on the other side of the river. The road that stretches across to Spanish Fort is called the bay causeway and it runs the seven miles over the mouth of the Mobile Delta.  There are a bunch of islands and six rivers – the Mobile River which is the Alabama river come down from Montgomery, the Tensaw, Apalachee, Middle, Blakely and Spanish rivers. They built it in 1926 over the islands, rivers and low salt marshes. Somebody told me once’t that in some places they sunk cotton bales for the foundation. The salt water hardened them enough to make for a solid road bed. Before then, to get over to the eastern shore of Mobile Bay, you had to take the side-wheel bay steamers. Wish I coulda seen that.

I like looking at all the old fish camps and restaurant shacks along the way. I love to fish and I’m thinking, if I make enough this summer, I might spend a few days back here fishing for striped bass. Folks say you can’t get ‘em off your hook fast enough.

Bus stops at the Malbis restaurant at the top of the hill. They made it to look like the Alamo and it has some Texaco pumps out front. There is a whole settlement of Greek folks up the road, and they started the place. I hear tell that the food is really good. Wish I wasn’t so dang broke. Would love to get my mitts on some real food ‘bout now. Guess I’ll have to stick with soda pop and peanuts until my ship comes in. Some day. We turn right and go down the steep hill and drive through Daphne and Montrose. More oak canopies giving me a very peaceful feelin’. The little one-room post office in Montrose is supposed to be the smallest in the country. We pick up a passenger here. Woman ain’t seen a bath in forty-eleven ages. Smelt worse than an “un-slung chitlin!” Hope she ain’t fixin’ to sit by me. Bus stops in Fairhope at the bus station and driver hollers out same routine. “Fairhope – 10 minute stop!”

I get off to stretch my legs and as I walk around the corner, I run into a big commotion. A bunch of rowdy redneck bullies (Guess I am a red neck, but I ain’t a bad one) had crowded around a woman and was just a tauntin’ her. She couldn’t speak, being mute I found out later and I guess that’s why they felt she needed pickin’ on. She was a strange lookin’ woman but also had a way about her that had its own beauty. Mixed blood. Can’t remember what she’d be called – mulatto? quadroon, octaroon? Probably a quadroon – one fourth Negro and the rest somethin’ else. I wouldn’t say she was beautiful but stunning. Tall with strange green eyes and dusky skin. Something noble about her. Well, they kept on after her with insults and wouldn’t let her just walk away. “You ain’t nothin’ but a bleached out nigger,” and “what good are you dummy? Can’t talk none!”

I could tell she had to pee real bad but she couldn’t get away from ‘em. Finally she couldn’t hold it no more and let go, soakin’ her flour sack dress, trickling down her leg and making brown mud in the dust at her bare feet. The shame and humiliation on her face was more than I could bear. I ain’t no hero, but I couldn’t take it no more and went and stood up to the ring leader. This probably weren’t a good idea. He was the biggest bully and shoves me back hard and shouts out some nasty things to me that was real mean like. Couldn’t figure why he was madder than a puffed up toad ‘bout one poor woman who weren’t no threat to him. I guess some folks need to put other people down if they’re different. Afore I knowed it, the woman goes over, and with a beautiful right upper cut to the jaw, knocks the guy flat on his ass! Couldn’t believe it! I am shocked, but also scared cause there was about five of ‘em. She grabs my hand and we walk away. She couldn’t say anything but I could tell she was grateful. I kinda liked it when she squeezed my hand so hard. Didn’t want to get involved and had to get back on the bus, but I just couldn’t leave her by herself. We walk over to a diner around the corner and I spend my last quarter on coffee and donuts for us. I had just remembered ‘bout the bus when it lumbered on by, shaking the glass window of the diner as it went. Well, I think “That was dumb, what do I do now?” Had no more cash and didn’t know if they’d let me use the rest of the ticket another day or what, but this woman had got my brain tore up for some reason. She takes my hand and we walk off down the street. An ugly old Hudson Hornet almost hit us. Mighta been deliberate. I don’t know.

She leads me to a boarding house and musta knowed the lady cause the woman listens to my story and lets me have a room on the promise that I’ll pay when I can.  The house lady said I didn’t have to go all the way on to Foley to pick taters as they was workin’ away out at Willie Nelson’s packing shed and they was hiring right now. She tells me to go down to Bishop’s Fish Market where they post the jobs on a cardboard sign in the window every morning.

My new friend gets a scrap of paper from the boarding house woman, and a pencil and so she could “talk” to me. I was surprised with her bein’ “deaf and dumb” that she could write. She couldn’t speak and all, but she sure weren’t dumb. Tolt me her name was “Searcy” but wouldn’t say how she managed or nuthin.’ I walk her down to her house. Guess you could call it that. It was more of a shack sitting on the edge of a gully and made outta old Alabama highway traffic signs and held together with tarpaper and stuff. She squeezes my hand and said goodbye. I guessed by now she weren’t deaf cause she seemed to understand me pretty good.

My room at the boarding house reminded me about stories I had heard when I was little. Just bare walls and a lone light bulb handing down from a single cord in the middle. Pretty sad but it sure was cozy to me. Didn’t get no sleep and tossed and turned all night thinkin’ about that damned woman. Shouldn’t say, “damned” in the same breath. There was something royal in the way she held herself. She was very nice to look at and was tall and had a thin nose. Had a scar on her left cheek that made her even more interesting. She just seemed to grow on me.

The next morning I hit the Fish Market and get on an old flat bed truck with a bunch of Mexicans and rode out Greeno Road to the packin’ shed. Got took on right away and was glad to get it. Pay was 30 cents an hour and more than people was making in town. Hard work for sure and usually lasted from early morning to past dark. Funny thing, when I get back to the rooming house, Searcy was standing there waiting on me. Didn’t know what to think, but we sit down and she writes more to me. Said she liked me. Didn’t know if that meant like a boy friend or just a friend, but I would have took it either way. I wasn’t attracted to her like man to woman but wanted to be with her. In some strange way, she makes me feel whole and sorta peaceful. Never met any woman like that cause they was usually gettin’ on my ass, or stirrin’s stuff up, or leaving me cryin’ in my beer.

One day we didn’t have work cause it was rainin’ real bad like. But there was Searcy. I took her over to Walker’s Five and Dime and bought her a Big Chief note pad and a pencil so she could “talk” to me. We had to go to the bank next door to get the pencil sharpened. She seemed to love that note pad. By now, I like her so much; I woulda bought her a whole box of ‘em.

It was real strange and all, but no matter what time I got off or where I was, there was Searcy, just standin’ and lookin’ at me. She’d hold out her hand and take me places. That woman knew some stuff. She took me down to the beach and we looked for shells. She taught me how to catch crabs in a wire trap she had hid out under the wooden pier. Used rotten chicken guts from Mrs. Pope’s grocery… and fish heads from the fish house. Crabs love fish heads. Guess most people don’t think of crabs of having any brains, but they must be smart. How else could they turn rotten meat into a flesh that is so delicate and sweet? Searcy showed me some meat-eating plants on a little sandy path next to the beach. She called ‘em “sundews.” They had little stems with a pad of spikes on the end with some liquid on ‘em. The bugs would land on them to get the juice and would get stuck. The plant then just turned ‘em to mush and ate ‘em up, slow like. Kind of creepy, but kind of cool too. We went to one of her secret hideaways back in a swampy place by the beach. Lots of bald cypress trees, thick underbrush and an artesian well. We caught crawdads and cooked them in a little pot she brought. Ain’t never seen nobody that knew so much about nature. I even learnt about the giant amphiuma! We was eating some hot dogs and I threw a little bite over that landed in the dark red leaf-stained water. I was watchin’ it bob around and this dark brown thing slithered up from the muddy, leafy bottom and grabbed that sucker in a flash! I thought it was a snake or maybe even an eel but she grabbed her pad and wrote down what it was. It’s like a giant salamander but it was over a foot long. Scared the “bee-Jesus” out of me. We’d go to the gullies in Fairhope. The gullies are like little grand canyons and the cliffs are so beautiful with layers of different colors of sand and clay. She knowed what made each color. Searcy showed me which mushrooms you could eat and which’uns would kill you dead on the spot. I think she knew near bout every animal and bird there was and think she could talk to ‘em in some kinda special secret language. She was nature, and nature was her!

As hard as the work was, I actually had fun and met a lot of nice folks. Even the high school kids was cool and we joked around a lot. Them Mexicans practiced their English and laughed and sang songs and the whole thing was like family. Felt like we was a tribe of special people, set apart from the World. We all got along. Every once in awhile some of the Mexican guys would get into a fight over some woman. I think they mighta had a stash of tequila hid out somewhere cause it usually happened at the end of the day.

The trucks would come rumblin’ in from the fields with loose taters or giant bags of ‘em and dump ‘em at the top of a conveyor belt. The women would sort ‘em out and toss out the bad ones. Different sizes would go off down different chutes. My job was to stand at the end of one of the belts with a burlap sack. They also called ‘em gunny sacks or croaker sacks. The sack was on a scale and when they was a hunnert pounds of taters in the sack, you’d flip a wood paddle and the taters would start going into the other sack. You didn’t have much time to sew up the first sack and sling it outta the way ‘fore the other sack was full. You sewed ‘em up with a wicked stainless steel curved needle that they called a “sail cloth” needle. Seen one guy run one all the way through the flesh between his thumb and first finger. He was tryin’ to impress some dolly. Don’t know if it worked or not. They had to cut the back end of the needle off with wire cutters so they could take it out. He paid more mind to his business after that.

One night when I got off, they wasn’t no Searcy. It upset me and I guess more so I was upset that she had done wormed her way into my heart somehow. Still was confused about what it meant to be together but it didn’t matter. Just being with her is what mattered. I thought, “Oh well” I can’t have all her time. But, the next day, she won’t there again. It got me all down in the dumps and everything. I been put down by wimmen before but got over it real fast like. Always more fish in the sea ready for a roll in the hay. But this thing just had me bumfuzzled. Why did I care so much when I ain’t never even kissed her. Or for that matter, ain’t even thought much about kissin’ her. But being with her is like being a whole person and I’m kinda ashamed to admit I guess, but I never felt really loved much or like a whole person in my short life. Made me real confused. Was this God pokin’ a finger at me for past sins? I done some bad things in my life but mostly to myself. Can’t recall doin’ anything that deserved feelin’ this low. Each and every day, I tried to keep my mind on my work, especially with them sewing needles that could sure stitch your hand to your gizzard. The season is ‘bout over and I ain’t seen Searcy in six days. Don’t know whether to be mad, sad or worried. No one seems to know much about her at all.

Time to leave on out. I am really way low down about not knowing what happened to her but have to move on. Last day and I am getting on the old Greyhound dog to head back to Perkinston. Will probably have to hitch-hike up from Biloxi. For some reason the bus is packed this morning and there ain’t but one seat left – the aisle seat next to me. The driver gets on and announces. “This is the Greyhound run from Pensacola to New Orleans through Mobile and Biloxi. If that ain’t where you’re goin’ you need to pack on up. First stop, Montrose.” He reached over and pulled the long handle to close the door, puts her in gear and takes off.

Why am I so sad? Can’t get her off my mind. Who is she? What does this all mean? Suddenly the bus jolts to a stop, the air brakes made a sound like “pooooeeeessssh” and the driver reaches over and pulls the door lever. Folks is looking all around wantin’ to know what’s goin’ on because usually, if you miss the bus, you just miss the bus. A tall woman get on and shuffles down the aisle with her brown and yellow cardboard suitcase. It’s Searcy! She looks at me sweetly and sits down. I said “where the hell you been? I bin worried sick about you.” She says only “Making a place.” Her lips didn’t move but I heard her clear as a bell. Strange. She took my hand, put it on her knee and covered it with her hand. She said, “Everything is going to be alright.” The driver closed the door and the bus rumbled off. I thought “Yep, everything’s gonna be alright.

 

Copyright June 2017 – All rights reserved. Stephen K. Scott