Chapter Two - The Sheriff’s Wife

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me. Eddie was back on the road again, belting out songs in a big tenor voice that might fill a small recital hall but would never pack it with people. He figured as long as he had the air he might as well croon for the traffic. He’d studied classical singing in college but didn’t have the range for the repertoire and couldn’t hold a beat worth fly spit. But if Eddie could have made it on exuberance alone he’d have a million dollars in the bank. If Eddie could have made the money stick, that is. But that’s not the way it was with Eddie. It was if Eddie this and if Eddie that and Eddie could have been somebody if. It seemed as though If Eddie were the name his parents gave him, but you’d never hear an if I out of Eddie.

This is Gopher Anus talking, heading west on Highway Ten, anyone out there. Over!

All he got was dead air.

You take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland before you, but I and my true love will never meet again, on the bonny bonny banks of Loch Lomond.

This is Gopher Anus, heading west on Highway Ten, looking for some friendly chatter, over.

Boot Heel Bobby, Gopher Anus, I can’t believe it’s really you. Had you down for a legend, friend.

Eddie’s face lit up like the landscape after an evening thunderstorm he’d gone through some days before, when the sun was setting under the clouds, and the air was shimmering green and gold, but he didn’t want to seem too happy, for fear he’d give himself away as a myth of his own devising.

A legend? Eddie said. Whatever do you mean by that?

I ain’t heard of nothing but all the way from Utah. Heard your story so many ways I hardly know which one is which. Far as I can tell you’re serving up some monster chili, getting the girls in family way, and all these people are after you trying to shotgun weddings and stuff, and collect for child support, and that’s the least of your troubles. Over!

What do you mean the least of my troubles?

But the air was dead once more. Three more trucks came into view within the next few minutes and Eddie spoke to each in turn.

This is Gopher Anus talking, heading west on Highway Ten, running from Miami Beach, hauling a load of tiny string bikinis, making drops along the coast, and you should see what’s in them, too, they’s busting out all over.

Fishhouse Freddy, Gopher Anus, talking right back at you, partner, sounds like you got a string of bullshit running from here to Honolulu. You must be the one I heard of coming down through Arizona?

Yes! Eddie yelled, punching the air. He could hardly contain his excitement. He knew the last call wasn’t a fluke. People were out there were talking about him, spreading his reputation all around the country. Hot damn, he said to himself, pretty soon I’ll have it all. All the cooking jobs I want. All the women along the way.

He watched the truck go past him, Long John Silver’s Fish and Chips painted on the side. He pressed down on his microphone, Gopher Anus talking to you, what you hear there, Fishhouse Freddy?

All about some prize winning Chili, and some little darling gal named Opal… That be you they’s talking about?

Reckon it must be, Eddie said, cain't imagine why? Over!

But Fishhouse Freddy didn’t respond, and that was the way it went all morning, little snippets of conversation, just enough to let him know the Gopher Anus bit had worked but no one remembered Ophelia’s Darling.

Now he’d have to change his tactics, take a new handle on, pretend he was looking for Gopher Anus, rather than being Gopher Anus, looking for someone else. His best friend growing up was a boy named Charlie Ferris who moved to town from Perth Amboy. He’d call himself Amboy Charlie. Tell some different stories, too.

Amboy Charlie talking to you, headed west on Highway Ten, hauling a load of string bikinis…
Break 19, there, Amboy Charlie, no one hauls no string bikinis. Everyone out here knows it, too. Over

Eddie was taken aback for a second but he never lost his tongue for long. I don’t know about you, Kill Joy, rather be hauling string bikinis, picturing what’s in them, and spinning yarns about them, too, than cheap Brazilian auto parts with Mr. Goodwrench labels on 'em.

This is Kill Joy, Amboy Charlie, otherwise known as Lightning Louie, I’m westbound on Highway Ten. Got a few tales to swap myself. I’ll let you go first. Over!

Eddie didn’t know what to say. He paused a second and looked around, hoping for inspiration, then he noticed a Sheriff’s car passing him on the right.

Heard tell about this Sheriff’s wife, Eddie began his yarn, sounding a little uncertain at first, one of these counties hereabouts, built like a brick shithouse, too, boobs as big as battleships and loves to show the flag. Friend of mine told me all about her, used to stay in this rooming house, overlooking her back yard. She’d take the sun most afternoons, wearing this little string bikini that don’t even cover the bare essentials. Said he’d watch her by the hour, even took some pictures of her, using one of them long-ass lenses, sent me copies of them, too, and she was looking mighty fine. Womanized for years, that boy, all around the south, but kept to himself when she was around, her being the Sheriff’s wife and all, and him not wanting no legal trouble. One day he was out in the yard, working off his rent, and she comes out in that string bikini, sees him raking behind the bushes, and calls out a greeting to him. That old boy waves back at her, and she comes over by the hedge and starts getting friendly with him…

She says does he do this on a regular basis like, and he says no, he’s a boarder there and he’s just working off some rent cause he’s a few dollars short this month, might be inclined to trim her hedges seeing as how they's looking ragged, she’d make him an offer. She starts looking him up and down, asks about that belt he wears, one made out of rubber with bottle caps around it, and fastened with an old seat belt buckle from a General Motors car. Ain’t never seen the like, she says. And why’s he dress like that? All in black with a slub silk shirt and a red bandana round his neck, and boots with silver toe caps on them, initials done in lizard skin. And he says ladies seem to like it. Says he likes the ladies, too. Never done him any wrong. She laughs at that and says to him, in a breathless, low-pitched voice, that he looks like a highwayman and that’s more fun than khaki pants.

Break 19, Get on with it, Charlie. We ain’t got all day you know.

The scanner carried other voices, none of which spoke to Eddie. They’d be talking smokies mostly, alligators in the road, jaw jackers, alligator stations, or where to find good chicken fried steak, or when and where they’d meet for chow, but Eddie paid no attention to them.

She asks him what room he’s in, so he points out that rear window, only one that they can see, on account of them magnolia trees; and what kind of hours does he keep, and he says he works mornings cooking, at Martha's Interchange Cafe. You must’ve tried that pot roast chili, made with brisket, stewed in beer, till it’s all soft and stringy, fresh chili peppers and garden herbs, couple of secret ingredients, just to round the hot stuff out, all served up on a china plate, side of rice and turtle beans, just to cool the tonsils down, Dixie long neck bottle beer, and you got yourself one hell of a meal, make a dragon out of you in a heartbeat, ma’am. That’s what he done said.

Moves around a lot, that boy on account of all his woman trouble. Boy calls himself Gopher Anus, that’s his handle anyway, always like to eat his food whenever I pass through.

Eddie paused a moment to let the story settle in.

Sounds to me like powerful chili, Lighting Louie said, you say his handle’s Gophers Ass? I can’t say I’ve heard it none but I’ll be keeping an ear out for him. So what about that Sheriff’s wife, what’d he ever do with her?

But Eddie was thinking, damn, does he really want to hear more of this? He wondered where to take the story.

Said she’d never had his chili, never eats there anymore, on account of a feud she'd had with Martha over some catering job they’d done. Said she’d love to try it though, if he’d like to make her some, maybe when he trims her hedges, then she turns and walks away, waving her ass like a party invitation.

So, he goes on with what he’s doing, all his hormones raging, raking up Magnolia pods, gets to feel she’s watching him, but soon as he looks that woman’s way she rolls over on her belly, undoes her bikini top and goes right back to reading. He just stands there watching her, hoping for a better view, but she don’t move a muscle. He goes back to raking some until he feels her eyes again, burning a hole in the back of his skull. Soon as he looks over at her she goes back to reading. But then she rolls around again, without tying off her top, reaches for her tanning lotion, just about to dribble it on when she ups an sets her top back on and runs back into the house…

Talk about cruel and unusual, a second voice on the scanner said. Why she’s abusing his civil rights.

So anyway, that boy figures she’s just teasing and he should play it cool, so he goes on with what he's doin till the job is done, takes a walk around the block, and rings the Sheriff’s door bell. Woman, she comes out to greet him, still in her bikini, not the least embarrassed by it. She says, hi, in a friendly way, but don’t invite him in. Says he come to make an offer, wants to trim her hedges now, says he’s got some time to do it, if she’d like to have it done. She says no, some other time, they ain't due for trimming yet, but keep an eye on things, she says, and try me when they’s ready.

Shit, boy! Lighting Louie said. Sounds like a come on to me.

That’s what Gopher Anus thought, but he didn’t get nowhere with her.

Then that night he’s by his window, reading some old spy novel, gets the feeling he’s being watched, so he looks over at the Sheriff’s house, and there in the upstairs picture window he done seen that Sheriff’s wife, and she was looking out at him, so he gets up where she can see him and she starts…

Blue lights flashed in the rear view mirror. Eddie looked down at his speedometer. It was only five miles over the limit, and plenty of cars were faster than his. Eddie looked back at the squad car, riding on his tail, and figured he’d just change his lane, but the sheriff’s car stayed with him.
She starts what, there, Amboy Charlie, you still out there? Over!

A second car merged in ahead, coming off an entrance ramp. A third pulled up on Eddie’s left and signaled him to stop. Smokies crawling all over me Louie. Guess we’ll have to finish next time. Amboy Charlie over and out.

Eddie pulled to the side of the road, surrounded by Deputy Sheriff’s cars. He thought they must have heard his story, and somebody didn’t like it, and that somebody was the County Sheriff and somehow he’d found Eddie out, and now they were going to bust him for it. Eddie pulled back on the latch and started to open the door, ready to have it out with the cops. But a voice on the bullhorn said, Stay in the car and with your hands on your head.

Two cops, dressed in khaki, sprang from their car with handguns drawn, while a third came up beside him, pointing a shotgun at him. A wet spot formed in Eddie’s jeans and spread throughout his crotch.

Eddie put his hands on his head. Deputies dragged him out of his car and laid him out prone on the ground and frisked him. They cuffed him and read him his rights and hauled him down to the County Court House, put him in a room with some deputies, who asked him a ton of questions.

They wanted to know where the handgun was, and where the money was, and where he’d left his partners. But he kept saying he had no gun, and all his money was in his pocket, and he’d never had any partners at all. They offered a deal to rat the others but he said he was all alone. They must have sweated him for hours, that’s the way it seemed to him, but he never changed his story. He told them it must be a personal matter, just between him and the Sheriff, and they wouldn’t get much out of him unless he could speak to the Sheriff alone.

The Sheriff’s a busy man, they told him. He’s got a big county to run, he can’t be concerning himself with the likes of yankee scum like you.

So tell him I’ll confess, but only if he’ll witness it.

The Sheriff was a tall, slender man with veins bulging out of his forehead, an otherwise blank, humorless face, and a thick, muscular neck that indicated a strong physique despite his slight appearance. Unlike his deputies, the Sheriff dressed plainclothes, which appeared to be off the rack from Sears. His suit fit more like a cardboard box and had those little bubbles in it where the fabric detached from the interfacing during the dry cleaning process. He looked more like an office clerk than a chief of law enforcement.

Who the hell do you think you are telling my deputies here you won’t talk to no one but me. You think I’ve got time to listen to every low down, cat piss fucker comes in through these doors?
Forgive me for disturbing you, Sheriff, Eddie said, gazing at the bubbles in the Sheriff’s suit. I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this. Do you mind if we talk man to man, totally off the record, of course, with none of these other people present?

Are you just trying to waste my time, or do you have something to say for yourself?
I told you I’d make a confession, Sheriff, and I meant it, but only under my conditions.
I don’t bargain with the likes you and I don’t need your confession, neither. All we got to do is say the drifter done it, and that will exculpatate everything. So why don’t you just admonish yourself and let us imprisonate you a while.

Because you don’t have the weapon and you don’t have the money and you don’t have the make on me, Eddie said, still staring at the Sheriff’s suit.

All I was doing was driving down the highway minding my own business, telling a story to friend of mine about some apocryphal Sheriff’s wife…

At these words the Sheriff blushed and a hush came over the room. So you’re the one, he said. That weren’t no Bible story, boy, and no use trying to expurgatate it by invocating your religion, hear. That was my woman you was talking about. I heard you say the Sheriff’s wife more times than I care to enunciate.

The Sheriff cleared the room so he and Eddie could talk.

We’ve got you up on some serious charges and I’m half a mind to throw in some more just to clear up unsolved cases. Way things work around here, boy, you could be looking at twenty years of getting your gopher anus poked. So unless you aim to cop a plea, you’d better start talking now, and tell me something I don’t know.

But Eddie’s eyes were visibly fixed on the bubbles in the Sheriff’s suit. The Sheriff finally noticed and seemed to be disconcerted.

Something wrong? the Sheriff said.

Couldn’t help but notice the suit,

The Sheriff’s face lit up a bit. I appreciate that!

Interesting fabric, Eddie said, they call that a seersucker wannabe, or what?

The Sheriff’s smile disappeared. He looked down at the front of his suit and said, what are you getting at?

Eddie approached the Sheriff. Let me show you something, he said.

Eddie took hold of the jacket, pinched that poly/wool worsted fabric, nipped the lining the same way, and watched the bubbles disappear as he parted the layers of cloth.

You’ve got to understand, Eddie said. I was married six years to a woman named Muffy. She filed for divorce a year ago after she went through detox. Said her recovery made it essential. She couldn’t face being married no more or having normal sex with me now that she was sober. She’d finally realized she was gay and had taken a lesbian lover.

Now, aside from Muffy’s trust fund we never had much money, on account of I couldn't hold down a job, and she was always spending hers, but during our separation period I happened to inherit my grandma’s nest egg, which would have set me up for life, but Muffy decided the money was hers, for all I’d put her through.

The way things were going I figured she’d probably get it all. So I went off on a wild spree trying to gamble the money away and thereby leave her nothing of value. At first I couldn’t lose for winning. All these women were coming around and I was having the time of my life. But that didn’t last for long. My bookie got the cash, the cars, the house and everything in it.

Excuse me, the Sheriff said, but what’s the revelance (sic) of that to this here confession?

I’m getting to that, Eddie said, I laughed myself silly in Muffy’s face when she discovered what I’d done and now I’m trying to get away, make a life for myself on the road until I find someplace to settle so I can start all over. Cooking is just a hobby, see, but I figure it’s something I can do until I get my life together. I don’t have no credentials for it so I just try to promote myself making up stories for long haul truckers about this cook and womanizer who makes some prize winning chili and wears these clothes I’m wearing now. You must’ve heard me describe the outfit, but hell, it's just a marketing gimmick. I’m hoping them boys that hear the story'll spread the word around so I can find myself some work in some of these roadside beaneries and thereby earn my way out west. So I’m just passing through, you see, and would have been gone from here hours ago if you hadn’t busted me. I don’t know your situation and I don’t mean to defame your wife, she must be quite a lovely woman if you thought I was talking about her. But I have this active fantasy life, on account of being married to Muffy an' all, but none of it has a grain of truth except for the clothes and the chili. That bit about the Sheriff’s wife, that was just to spice it up. You know how truckers hate the Sheriff. If you like, next time I tell it, I’ll make her some Senator’s wife, whichever one you choose.

The Sheriff burst out laughing. You’s either the lyingest sumbitch I ever apprehended or you’s telling the gospel truth and I sure as hell don’t know which. But if you can lie that good about my wife, you can sure congerate one about yours. And what you’ve told me gives me reason to think it was you robbed that store. So I’m gonna hold you a while longer, until that store clerk comes around, to see if he can identify you.

Fine, Eddie said, how long will that take?

He’s in the hospital comatose see, so it could take him quite a while, and he could just end up dying on you, and you'd be facing manslaughter.

Excuse me?

Man had a weak heart, boy. Failed him soon as he seen the gun. Lucky for him some people come by just as you was leaving. Said they’d seen that Cadillac car go tearing out of there like a nigger running away from the law.

Sheriff, Eddie said, I know you’re lying and you know you’re lying. So why don’t you fess up. You haven’t got a lick on me cause there ain’t nothing there. But you heard me on the radio, ain’t no law against what I said, and other people heard it, too, and rumors will get to flying around about that Gopher Anus story and what he done with the Sheriff’s wife and how you busted the man who told it, accused him of crimes he didn’t commit, and everyone will think it's true and you’ll just be the loser for it. Now why don’t you just take my word and spare yourself the shame.
Cadillac only made 200 of that model and color, and most of them is crushed by now. Are you expecting me to believe there's two of them in this here county of nothing but swamps and Alligators? Better get yourself a lawyer, son.

If there is another one, Sheriff, I'm sure you've got the means to find it.

The Sheriff put Eddie in the drunk tank, a room about twelve feet square with a toilet bowl in the corner and gym mats laid on the floor for sitting or sleeping or lounging around. He shared the space with ten young punks who cursed their lousy luck while trying to come across to each other as the toughest guy in the room.

Fucking cops dude fucking hassling my fucking ass all the fucking time dude I mean get this dude they got me in for a fucking month right on a fucking DUI and driving without a fucking license dude so I get out of the fucking joint and I get my car and I go down to the fucking bar and I get fucking plastered dude I mean I’m so fucking ripped I don’t know what the fuck’s happening right but the next thing I know I’m in my fucking car and out of the fucking lot and I see those flashing fucking lights and I fucking gun that motor dude leave that fucking cop dude eating my fucking dust got that three forty seven slant six just putting out fucking horses dude and I mean I’m just fucking laughing hauling ass down that fucking road. Fuck! If that fucking ditch hadn’t swung around like that and gotten in my fucking face he never would have fucking caught me dude no fucking way he would have caught me dude turns out it was the same fucking cop that busted me before dude fucking cop was just sitting there dude sitting outside that fucking bar sitting there fucking waiting for me dude fucking hassling my ass.

* * *

The public defender came the next morning. Eddie told her the charge was bogus. All I was doing, Eddie said, was chatting on the CB radio about my buddy Gopher Anus and some old Sheriff’s wife he’d known who liked to show her assets off, and I was just getting to the good part when the Sheriff’s car pulls me over.

The Public Defender’s eyes lit up. Is he the one who makes the chili?

You mean you’ve heard my stories, too.

No, but I’ve heard of them.

You don’t say.

The one about Ophelia?

That’s… But Eddie stopped himself. His lawyer was also a very large woman, and suddenly she looked none too friendly.

Don’t you worry about a thing, she said. I’ll have you out of here in no time.

Harrison County Courthouse
Inventory of Personal Effects
Date: October 24
Prisoner: Conover, Steven Edward

Item - Amount
Belt - 1
Boots - 1 pair
Wristwatch - 1
Wallet - 1
Cash - $6.20
Driver’s License - 1
Passport - 1
Key Chain - 1
Address book - 1
Pocket Knife - 1
Sunglasses - 1
Pen - 1

On the Art of Making Contest Chili

This contest chili may sound like heresy to many native Texans, who claim the dish as their own, but it won a prize in a big chili contest many years ago. It was also the only chili the judges chose to eat a bowlful of themselves after tasting several dozen pots. To the author's way of thinking, that was the highest honor they could have bestowed.

Rather than using cubes of beef, which is the usual way with contest chili, this recipe uses brisket or chuck roast. Of the two cuts, chuck is normally cheaper, but brisket is more uniform in consistency and tends to "pull" better than chuck. The meat is braised for a couple of hours to the consistency of pot roast. It is served on a plate with rice and your choice of beans on the side.

This contest chili also uses fresh ingredients. Fresh peppers, tomatillos and tomatoes (a sacrilege, I know, but the flavor one is looking for is more like that of mole poblano), onions, fresh herbs and garlic, and finished off with cocoa, cumin and fresh cilantro. When you make it right you get a good balance of flavors with zingers of herbs and spice, and a nice depth and roundness from the bitter chocolate countering the heat going down. It is a bit like having a symphony orchestra playing in your mouth.

Anyway, back to the chili contest. As the judging proceeded a unique thing happened; one of the judges tasted this chili and beckoned to the others to come taste it, too. Soon all five of them hovering over this one pot of chili. They inspected it carefully, wondering at first what the fresh green herb was. One judge knew it as cilantro, which most of them had never tasted. It was well before one could find it in any suburban supermarket.

In the end, this contest chili was judged "most creative." It did not win the top prize largely because of the inclusion of beans. It was the author's first and only contest and he was unaware of the unwritten rules for making contest chili.

Eddie's gourmet chili recipe.

Brisket or Chuck Roast 2 - 3 lbs. (Venison or Wild boar, if you hunt)
Large onion 1
Roma tomatoes 3
Tomatillos 5 or 6
Fresh Chilis 5 0r 6
(Ancho, Anaheim, Jalapeno, Serrano, Habenero - One Each)
Olive oil 1/4 cup
Fresh Garlic 2-3 cloves (to taste)
Oregano 1 sprig
ground cumin 1/2 tps.
ground coriander seed 1/2 tps.
clove 1 or 2 to taste
Ale, porter or stout 1 12 ounce bottle

cocoa powder (bitter) 1/2 teaspoon
Fresh Cilantro 1 small bunch
cumin seed 1 teaspoon


Preparation

Remove the seeds from the chilis and chop coarsely.
Peel the onion and chop coarsely.
Remove the skins from the tomatillos and wash carefully until the stickiness is removed.
Quarter the tomatillos.
Wash and quarter the Roma tomatoes. Don't use canned (too much liquid).

Cooking

In a dutch oven, or covered brazier, preheat the olive oil and garlic cloves, then add the chopped onion and peppers. Cook gently until tender and browned.

In a large skillet, sear the meat with salt and black pepper to taste.

When the onions and peppers are brown and tender, add the meat to the pot with the oregano and powdered herbs and clove. Pour in the beer and braise, covered, on low heat for two to three hours until the meat "pulls" easily.

Remove the meat and toss the garlic, clove and oregano. Quickly boil off any excess liquid. Add the cocoa powder and cumin seed, well bruised in a mortar and pestle. Stir in chopped cilantro.

Pour the sauce over the meat and serve on a plate with rice and beans.

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Chapter One - Eddie

If Eddie had known where he was going he never would have left where he was at. Half slumped down in the driver’s seat, he was leaning a little to the right, elbow deep in the armrest, left hand draped on the wheel, left foot planted on the edge of the seat where he kept it for highway driving. The heel of his boot had worn a spot to the warp and weft of the velvet, but that didn’t bother Eddie none. He knew the old heap would be ready for scrap long before that seat wore through and the way he drove that Cadillac car he might have been on to something.

His boots were custom made from horsehide, black with silver toe caps on them, initials cut from lizard skin. He’d kept them up with polish and spit, but just like everything else about Eddie, they were starting to show their age. They’d cost him eight thousand dollars once when he was out on a tear, spending the money his forebears made from years in the widget making trade. Half a billion some said it was, after the brokers had churned the account. But Eddie went through it in less than a year after his parents died, on slow dogs and fast women, losing poker hands and spread bets he couldn’t cover. If he had hung on to the money he’d be rich man today, but all that was left of his forebears' sweat was the worn out boots and the beat up car and the clothes he’d packed in the trunk.

A song came up on the radio that Eddie used to like. He tapped out the beat on the steering wheel, shifted his weight in the seat a few times, then KO’d the FM band. He grabbed his CB radio mic, shoved both feet to the floor, and launched into some of that CB chatter in a version of Texas Twang he’d learned from nowhere anyone could place. This is Gopher Anus talkin, headin west on Highway Ten, anyone out there? Over.

His accent might have sounded like something, even to Texan ears, were it not for the riffs off Gomer Pyle, and bits of North Carolina cracker he’d picked up some years back. It wasn’t that Eddie was phony, or nothing, he was just purebred Yankee, see, and it didn’t take much, to his way of thinking, to know that Connecticut lockjaw wasn’t the way to appeal to truckers working the deep south routes.

This is Gopher Anus talkin, headin west on Highway Ten anyone out there? Over.

Eddie put down the mic and sighed. The romance of the open road was not living up to his expectations, given that he was alone and lonely, and his sole means of companionship had only a one mile radius. The handle he owed to his songwriter buddy, a one hit wonder from the 1960s, whose only composition had won the Grammy before fading along with its author into the obscurity of booze, drugs, and sex addiction. He was a surgeon when Eddie met him, the kind who trims the trees, but he sure did have some tales to tell about the leading lights of the counterculture, and the underaged groupies who serviced them.

A flashing light on the dashboard demanded Eddie's attention. But he wondered how he'd fill his tank when he had no money for gas. Suddenly, the scanner squawked. This is Tango Tyler, over.

Eddie grabbed his microphone.

Whaddaya say there Tango Tyler? This is Gopher Anus talking, heading west on Highway Ten.

Whatchya hauling? Prairie dog shit?

Seat of your pants, there, Tango Tyler, think you’re some kinda comedian do ya? Rig full of laughing hyenas here be much obliged for your jokes an' all but you wouldn’t want to mess with 'em none. They ain’t been fed a spell.

Don’t be givin me lip now, boy. Running a handle like Gopher Anus, you take what’s coming to you.

Got your attention didn’t I?

Don’t be letting it go to your head. Been trying to raise some chat all day.

Eddie was pleased as he could be. He’d been a full day on the road already, up through the swamps on Route 19, where mile after mile of mangrove shrubs were a man’s sole travel companions. Unless you count the Florida heat, which felt like being smothered up in a marathoner’s jockstrap. He’d jabbered into that microphone every half hour or so and this was the first bit of conversation he’d had in all that time.

Looking for that good old boy they calls Ophelia’s Darling. Ain’t heard tell of him lately, have ya?

Sound’s like a live one, Good Buddy, you two doing the hanky panky?

Hell I am. But your wife might be. Might be doing her myself, that is if she’s woman enough, but married to a fellow like you, I don’t see how she could be.

Hoo wee? Don’t be talking about my Mama. I’m half a mind to shove your teeth right down your lying throat.

Just squarin up the put downs, partner. Heard that handle round these parts?

Can’t say I have there, Gopher.

How long you been driving, Tango?

Darn near half my lifetime, and I’m well over fifty.

And you ain’t heard of…damn! All his cookin and womanizin… boy’s a legend near’s I can tell.

The traffic ahead was slowing down over the crest of the hill. Trouble ahead there, Tango Tyler.

You got that right, boy, I’m already up to my backside in it.

Another half a mile on, Interstate 10 was a parking lot, and a truck stop parking lot at that, filled with scores and dozens of trucks, all within range of his radio, and all at a dead stop. Eddie looked down at his gas gauge. He turned his vapor fueled car to the shoulder in order to save on gas.

Just like I was saying, Tango, that boy makes the best damn gumbo, heard tell it won prizes too, down in New Orleans and pot roast chili, hoot dee dang! Made with brisket, stewed in beer, with garden herbs and chili peppers, couple of secret ingredients just to round the hot stuff out, served with a long neck Dixie Beer. Worked cafes from here to Abeline long as I been driving rigs, last I heard he’d be in these parts. I always like to taste his cookin whenever I pass through, but that boy never stays put nowhere. Gets himself in woman trouble everywhere he goes, has to hotfoot out of town once they get that way about him. Says them gals want saddle ponies they shouldn’t be ridin rodeo.

Where you from, boy? Tango said.

Why do you ask me that?

Cuz yew shur dew tawk funny…

People been saying that all my life, never had a notion why. Must be on account my pa, him being in the service an all, an me being raised all over like. Boy picks up all kinds of notions, gettin run all around like that.

What did you say that handle was?

Ophelia’s Darling.

Can’t say I’ve heard it none. You say that boy’s a living legend? Sound’s to me like an ol’ fish story.

Damn, Eddie said to himself. He’d never known his racetrack friends to give him any trouble whenever he got into character and launched into one of his spiels. He’d livened up parties for years that way, ever since he could remember, and no one ever second guessed him. He’d always thought the point was to make people believe the lies, even when they knew he was lying.

Is that a fact? Eddie said. Maybe you’d know Ophelia then…

Eddie paused for a second, trying to picture Ophelia. He figured if he were to sell the story she would be the key.

…used to be a truck stop waitress outside Tuscaloosa, ugly as an old sow she was, wen coming out left side of her nose, eyes like flea bit hound, had the hots for this Denver boy, used to come in regular, making a run to Jacksonville…

Break 19, Gopher Anus, why would he go through Tuscaloosa?

How should I know? Eddie said. Maybe he had business there.

Eddie scanned his map a second. Reading how the Interstates go he saw he’d taken his man off route. He’d said Tuscaloosa just for the rhythm of it but figured Chattanooga might sound more convincing.

Now where was I? Eddie said, just to stall for time. He needed a place to take the story or he’d be in even greater trouble than he was in Tuscaloosa.

Just like I was saying, partner, that old Denver boy, he always took Ophelia’s spot whenever he come through and when she come to pour his coffee he’d start flirting in on her like she was a Playboy bunny or something. She’d be saying, you don’t mean it, stop giving me such sass, and such, but she’d be creamin herself deep down. It always shown in the light in her eyes, and how she primped when he come in, way she dropped that huckleberry pie the time he’d pinched her butt, peeled right off her fingertips cause she was giving him the eye rather’n what she was doing. Said he’d help her clean it up, so they go down on hands and knees and she gives him this come-on smile and he winks back at her, and she grabs him and squeezes him, plum near took the life out of him…

Break 19, Rodent's Rump, I thought you said this feller cooked?

I’ll be getting to that, don’t fret. So anyway, some of the regular boys, they didn’t like that trucker much, ‘count of him being so cocky and all, and getting the eye of the local girls. So being the practical joking sort, they done wrote a letter up, addressed it to Ophelia, signed it lover boy, an' mailed it down the road apiece, said they’d go out dancing next time he come through. That was always Thursday night, first and third week of each month, round about nine o’clock.

Woman gets her big night off, wears that new red dress she’d bought just for the occasion, and goes to the stop to meet her man, She sits by the door and waits, he rolls in about eleven, sidles up to the service counter and takes his regular seat. Ophelia weren’t nowhere in sight cause she'd gone off to the ladies' room half worried sick about her man, or so it seemed to me anyway from all the smoking she’d been doing, and half being mad for being stood up. Writ all over her face, it was.

Girl that took Ophelia’s place, she come over to pour his coffee. He says where’s Ophelia, and why ain’t she waiting on me, and she go home already, or she get fired for dropping that pie? Girl points out Ophelia to him, coming out from the ladies' room, hair done up with bows and ringlets, wearing that bright red dress she’d bought just for the occasion, makes her look like a fire truck, and lover boy, he’s sipping coffee, and just then the waitress says, I think she’s waiting on you, lover boy, seein’s how ya’ll had a date tonight. Lover boy chokes and sprays his coffee all over that gal’s uniform, and then he says, the hell we did, and puts his dollar down and walks.

Woman sees him leave, of course, gets all teary-eyed and weepy, pumps that girl that waited on him for every word they’d said. Only makes her cry some more. Fellow hired to do the cookin, he comes over to sympathize, sees her dressed like a Christmas package waiting to be unwrapped, takes her back to the kitchen and makes a happy woman of her right there on the salad counter, bunch of us watching through the door, never did take that dress off of her…

Break 19, there, Gopher Asshole. You some kind of woman hater? Why are you being so mean? Over!

Who you calling a woman hater? I’m just telling what happened is all. Ain’t gonna give it no sugar coating to please no damn feminists. Over.

Sexist fucking pig.

Another voice broke in. Shut up and let him finish, bitch, some of us wants to hear this yarn.

Appreciate that, partner. Can’t imagine I hate women half as much as she hates men and I got plenty o' reason to… But anyway, boys, like I was saying, after that cook was done with her that Denver boy never crossed her mind. Cook, he saw where things was going, her making eyes at him and all, and always calling him darling and such…

Break 19, it’s Tango Tyler, you’re breaking up real bad, there boy, but you sure tell one hell of a yarn for a fellow that might be lying. I wish to hell I’d seen this boy, like to taste that chili too, but it’s the first I’ve heard of him. Tango Tyler over and out.

But Eddie still had an audience so he just kept on talking. …hit the road soon after that, took another job, and ever since that cookin fellow’s been known as Ophelia’s Darling, always seems when I pass through where that old boy’s been cookin the CB’s rattling all about it and all the drivers is making detours just so as they can eat his chili, and you’d have known him if you’d seen him, always dressed in black, he was, unpressed jeans, and a slub silk shirt, red bandanna round his neck, belt made out of rubber, bottle caps around it, fastened with an old seat belt buckle from a General Motors car. I ain’t never seen the like. Boots with silver toe caps on em, initials done in lizard skin. Never wears nothing else that boy, except them cooking whites that is, and all the girls go crazy for him account of his outlaw looks an all.

Eddie sat there jamming until the roadway cleared, talked his way through Tallahassee, kept on telling the same story as well as he could recollect from what he’d said the time before. He didn’t want to keep explaining where he’d gotten his accent from so he cut back on the dialect.

* * *

Eddie cruised the truck stop just to the west of town, one of those big, new-fangled places, all plastic and stainless steel, acres of parking lots out back for staying overnight, truck wash and diesel pumps, convenience store and cafe seating several dozen. Help Wanted signs hung out, so Eddie parked and entered. He was all dressed up in black, just like he’d described, hoping he’d be recognized. But no one paid him any mind, he seemed downright invisible. He asked to see the Manager, who kept him waiting long enough. Turned out he was a cold-looking cuss, with a face as hard as a stone in your shoe. Eddie didn’t speak to him directly, sized him up a bit at first, deciding how to approach him, then stepped up with his hand held out, only to pull it back untouched.

I’m Ed Conover, sir, he said, I saw that sign in the window there and figured you could use some help. Seeing how my car’s broke down, and I’ll be needing travel money once I get it fixed, I thought I’d come in to inquire. I can give you a about a week, until you find some permanent help, and I’ll do just about anything as long as it needs doing well.

The Manager looked him up and down as if he’d done hard time somewhere. Eddie simply didn’t fit in asking for work in a truck stop joint. His lordly looks and presumptive airs were things that hard times couldn’t sully and plain folks just didn’t take to. For him to be down and out like that was just like wearing a ‘kick me’ sign, and the way things looked to Eddie, the Manager planned to do just that. Well, the Manager said, with a pause, I don’t know…

But Eddie needed the money bad. There was no way he could gamble for it. He had nothing to gamble with. Word might get around besides, and then he’d be in real trouble. He’d seen what happened to friends of his who thought they’d cross his bookie. A couple of boys named Beau Bo and Billy might come 'round for a visit. They’d been out on the wrestling circuit, but couldn’t learn how to be gentle enough not to hurt their opponents. Eddie was able to get out of town before those two came calling and he wasn’t about to push his luck. He knew he’d have to work for a change but that didn’t mean he didn’t still care about the kind of work he’d do.

What sort of work you got, he said?

It’s washing trucks. You want the job? You don’t quite look the type.

I was hoping you’d need a cook since I can do some fabulous food. Prize winning Chili and Seafood Gumbo, like of which you’ve never tasted. You might’ve even heard of me from some of them truckers passing through.

The Manager’s face froze shut. He folded his arms across his chest and Eddie knew he was done for but kept on talking anyway so as not to be seen backing down.

Got me a reputation too, and one hell of a following. I’m telling you, sir, I’d keep this place full-up day and night, I would, known some boys to go out of their way much as fifty miles or more just for a plate of my chili, so what do you say there, partner, we…

You’d do just about anything, huh? Long as cookin’s what needs doing. Take it you don’t like washing trucks.

No, sir, don’t mind washing trucks a bit. It’s just that I know cooking better. Thought I’d point that out to you, since good cooks don’t come around too…
Got no time to dicker, you want to wash them trucks, or not?

Eddie let go with a wide, winning grin that pulled a little to the right, and his eyes sparkled up as they always did, whenever he smiled like that. Hell, he said, I’ll take it, how bad can it be, but I only work for daily cash, and I want ten bucks an hour, too, so have we got a deal or not.

The Manager glared at Eddie a little while longer. You know, he said, I could use a good cook, might’ve been willing to try you out, you’d held out for it long enough, but I don’t let no drifters in cause critters like that would rob me blind, but no one wants to wash trucks no more, it being out in that heat and all, so you can help yourself to the work, long as you’ll take the minimum wage.

The Manager eyed him even harder, waiting for him to speak. Eddie was desperate enough to tell him, Hell, I’ll take it just the same, but he’d never worked for the minimum wage and he wasn’t about to start. Thanks just the same, Eddie said, I think I can do better elsewhere.

But Eddie’s moment of hesitation was all the Manager needed to see. He turned and walked away from Eddie without another word. Eddie detected a lift in his step. Thanks for making my day, it said, like he’d just bought himself a Wall Street banker.

You suck the bones of your dead, Eddie yelled to the man’s retreating backside. But Eddie’s words had no effect, except to shock the patrons. Unless he was going to kill the man, all he could do for his pride was leave.

There weren’t any other restaurants around, but there was a car wash down the street so Eddie figured he’d give it a try. He walked in, shook the man’s hand, and explained his situation.

Just one or two days is all I need. No paperwork, no deductions, ten bucks an hour, cash money, that’s less than you pay at the labor pool.

The man didn’t even stop to consider. The place was busy and help was short. Can you start right away? he said.

The sooner the better. Eddie replied.

The boys will show you what to do, but keep it to yourself, will you, what you’re getting paid and all. I wouldn’t want no permanent help. Gives me too much trouble.





From Eddie’s Journal
October 22
7:35 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Cash on hand 4.77
Income 36.00
Expenses:
Water .99
Dinner 18.63
Beer 8.43
Net 12.72










October 23
7:15 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Cash on hand 12.73
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Breakfast 3.63
Lunch 3.35
Dinner 15.37
Beer 8.43
Net 40.07

I had a bad dream about Muffy. She’s calling me from Santa Fe, where she’s living in sin with some New Age dyke she met at Betty Ford.

Oh, Edward, she says, crying, things are so awful you’d never believe it. Jane and I fighting, always over little things; the dishes, the garbage, the kitty litter. And AA’s so political I can’t deal with it anymore. My gluten allergy support group does nothing but bitch and moan about how they miss their fresh croissants… I’m dying for a drink… and I really miss you, Edward, and I want to come home so badly, I’ll make it up to you, darling. I promise you I will.

So pull out the crystals and meditate, I tell her.

Crystals? she shrieks. I don’t do that stuff any more. I’m into Shakra plates now, they’re much more powerful than crystals…

Then I hear the door bell ring and I’m sure it must be Gummy, and I want get rid of Muffy, but the way she’s going on and on, I can’t get a word in edgewise. It does no good to hang up the phone since she always calls me back.

…they’ve helped me to focus my energy, which tells me I need to come home.

Then Gummy enters the room. She comes at me with her head cocked forward, eyes fixed on mine, and she’s swinging her ass to some bump and grind that’s playing in her head, and pulling up her long plaid skirt. She kisses my neck and caresses my groin, and I’m telling her to stop because my wife on the line, but she doesn’t pay any attention to me, and I'm trying to get rid of Muffy, who's giving me this discourse on Kundalini healings, while Gummy is cooing and nibbling and whispering words in my other ear, but I can’t hear what she’s telling me, because Muffy’s going on and on like she's channeling the ghost of a flim-flam man until she’s finally gasping for air. Then Gummy’s panting and moaning on the left, there's an eloquent silence from Muffy on the right, and I hear a loud click on the line, and no sooner does Muffy ring off than Gummy disappears and I’m left hugging my pillow.








October 24
7:26 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Previous Balance 40.07
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Breakfast 3.23
Lunch 4.31
Crap game 90.00
Net 6.53











October 25
10:15 p.m
Pensacola, Florida
Previous Balance 6.53
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Lunch 3.23
Gas 25.34
Net 41.99