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
The Month of July
14 years ago
