low2go J. Wilborn Posts: 39 (2/8/01 4:55:46 pm) Reply TIME AND PLACE. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The old tractor was parked on a grassy hillside under the protective spread of a giant Lebanon cedar tree. An old FARMALL F-12, that probably had been manufactured in the 1930’s, and had originally been red in color, was now a faded and grease smeared pink. Attached to the old tractors drawbar hitch was an equally ancient rubber-tired trailer. It was easy to determine that the trailer had been constructed from the back half of a vintage pickup truck. The old pickup truck fenders, though dented and badly scratched, showed as some color of green paint. The capacity of the trailers cargo compartment had been increased by adding upright sheets of plywood to the old pickups sides. It must have been done long ago for the plywood was faded bone-gray and weatherbeaten with the upper edges of the wooden sheets , gouged and splintered. Over time, names and other graffiti had been written on the plywood surfaces---nothing offensive ---just names and things that had made sense to someone when they had written or marked it there. Showing over the tops and all around the perimeter of the damaged plywood sides were garden rakes, long handled shovels, and other parphanelia that usually adorns the vehicles of grounds-keepers and gardeners. Inside the trailer bed were power lawn mowers, red gasoline cans, and piles of grass clippings that smelled lush and fragrant as fresh mown grass always does. The four men appeared to be on their noon lunch hour and were lounging in the area of the tractor and trailer. Two of the men had their shirts off and were leaning up against the side of the old trailers fenders. A two liter bottle of DIET COKE sat atop the old truck fender between the two young men. Each man was eating from his own bag of FRITO CORN CHIPS but they were sharing swigs of the warm soda from the large plastic bottle. The slimness of their torsos and the bronzed, suntanned texture of their skin bespoke of youth who toiled out in the summer sun. Sun bleached knots of curly hair atop their heads gave the young men the visages of Greek gods. They were not twins, just brothers---both in their early twenties and looking remarkably like ‘twin-clones’---even their parents had trouble telling them apart. The other youthful looking worker was sprawled on the freshly cut lawn. The knees of his faded Levi blue jeans were tattered and the skin that was visible through the rents and tears of the trousers knees was much more white than his bare back and shoulders. He wore a white baseball style cap that had PURINA embroideried across the front. Bushy red hair that was in dire need of cutting and probably washing, sprang from around the dirty caps edges. There had been an attempt by the young red-head to fashion a braid to his overly long and shaggy hair but that ‘braid’ turned out to be a tuft of kinky hair that looked like a cottony ball of red lint that was circled with a green rubber band. As the reclining person lay on the damp green grass, he listened to the conversation of the others. If he were able to close his mouth, he never seemed to do so. The pointed looking chin appeared overly close to his protruding ‘adams apple’ and the appearance of his dirty and stained teeth would have caused a dental hygienist to faint. His mouth actually hung open as if he were waiting for an oral examination. Wispy red whiskers showed on his face, especially the pointed chin. His fellow workers teased him that they would smear whip cream on his face and let a cat lick the whiskers off. He never remarked one way or the other to the good natured bantering---he probably did’nt think they were teasing him. The fourth man, actually the supervisor who they called Doc, and who appeared older than the others, sat up on the old tractor seat eating his lunch from a brown paper bag. The entire tractor seat was made to swivil and he had it positioned toward the rear of the old tractor so as to be looking toward the other workers. A red bandana was loosely tied around his forehead and tousled tufts of unkempt hair showed around his temple and neck. Although the hair was darkened with perspiration, one could see that it was flecked generously with gray. The lunch bag on his lap looked as if it had been used numerous times for other lunches because it was so wrinkled and grease spotted. With lip-smacking gusto Doc finished the last of a wilted looking sandwich and reached into the scrufty looking brown bag for more lunch. ‘Damn it, I told the Old Lady that I could’nt knaw these friggin apples--that they’ll break my false teeth and we’ll wind up with another lousy bill’! He stared at the rosy red fruit with apparent disgust, like he had just observed a giant worm exiting. ‘Hey Screech, I’ll swap’ya this apple for that HOSTESS TWINKEY that I saw in your bag---even up, don’t need no ‘boot’--even up’ the older man repeated. If the lad named Screech was having any of this swap thing, he did’nt let on, as he continued to selectively pick the golden corn chips from his bag, munching contentedly, totally ignoring the offer. Finally, Screech made a statement of fact to the waiting ‘apple-owner’. Through his half-filled mouth he declared, ‘I et that Twink first thing aday---et that little sucker afore it got all melty and squishy--sure awished I’da had a gulp’a milk to wash her down with, but hell, Twinks are good with just spit’! The older man with the apple just listened, astounded at Screech’s long winded diatribe---like he coud’nt grasp in his mind what was being said. ‘Well I’m still hungrier than hell---why cound’nt she remember about me and apples’, he continued to whine, ‘here ya go Red’, he called out to the slack-mouthed fellow laying on the grass, ‘an apple for ya if you can shut your teeth tight ‘nuf to chaw her off’, and with that remark he flipped the apple to his work companion laying on the ground. In a seemingly blurred motion of his hand, so quick that a casual observer could never have seen the action, the fellow called Red cought the fruit in midair and gouged out a generous bite with his foul looking cuspids. Red’s pale green eyes seemed to dart furitively from person to person, as if he suspected someone was going to steal the apple he had been given. Juice from the fruit coarsed down Red’s chin and clung there like drops of morning dew on his scraggly facial hair. It appeared as if he never took the apple away from his mouth for in a mechanical type motion Red continued to chew and rotate the apple simultaneously. The chewing sounds made by Red were attention grabbing for everyone else stopped their eating and stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the way Red was eating. ‘Holy hell Red, you remind me of a damn alligator the way you chaw’, exclaimed Boxer, Screech’s older brother. Boxer, apparently feeling sick and disgusted, closed his bag of corn chips by rolling the top down and clamping it with a pair of VICE GRIP pliers. It was as if to say, ‘I was hungry, but I just can’t stomach watching you eat like that’! Screech continued to munch his corn chips but he was’nt looking Red’s way. Boxer took a final swig from the soda bottle and handed it over to his brother. Screech upended the container and finished it with a loud gulp, then belched loudly. He then tossed the empty container up into the trailer on the pile of grass clippings. ‘Hey Doc, how often does your wife give you apples when you tell her not to’? All eyes and attention was directed to the older man, still slouching up on the tractor seat. The young men were always hearing the gripeing and whining of Doc about his wife. If it was’nt about lunch and apples, it was the way she fixed his shirt collars or folded his socks, or starched his underwear. Although Doc complained much of the time, it was always good natured gripeing; just something to get a laugh from the others or to turn a joke on someone. Doc was the only one of the crew who was married. Screech and Boxer saw the same type behavior between their own parents. Although the the brothers were both past twenty-one, they still lived at home. ‘Well I can tell ya this, when I get home tonight the Old Lady is going to hear about it--she was probably just feelin onery this morning when she did my vittles--she knows damn well I can’t knaw them old John apples---she’s gotta cook ‘em and make sauce outt’vm fer me---and I’m still starved---hell, I could eat the north end out’va an old fat hog runnin’ south and not even have a bone leftover’, Doc spouted to his spellbound audience. The brothers grinned at Doc’s outburst--- Red’s pointed chin seemed to be bouncing atop his generous ‘adams apple’--one could’nt tell if Red laughed or even grinned for that matter, with his trap door looking mouth and all---but there was a hint of a ‘puffing’ sound. Very little was known about Red---his roots were not in this small Iowa community. Since showing up in the summer of 1988 with a traveling carnival, he lived in the old maintenance shack out on the abandoned railroad spur west of town. Red did’nt talk much about himself or anything else. He came from some where in the south. His voice was not the pleasant southern accent of the deep south but more of a flat and toneless twang of Kentucky. Actually, it seemed folks just were’nt that interested in where Red come from---if he’d ever told them they would have promptly forgot---Red just never made or left a big impression. It was a well accepted conclusion by all who knew him, that Red was simple minded---at some things but just downright brilliant at others. One time when Red had applied for the schools janitor job, the high school principal had administered Red a series of tests. One question on the test was what year was the Battle of Hastings fought and bigger than hell Red scrawled in 1066 and even added the AD to his answer---amazing thing--- it had’nt been a multiple choice question either so no hints or guesses applied. Another thing that amazed folks was that Red could tell you what day of the week a certain date occurred on even if that date was fifty years before. It was impossible to assign Red any type IQ status for so many other things he was definately short on. Doc, who happened to be a Navy veteran, used to say that ‘Red had a full seabag, it just was’nt all stenciled’! Even in the sweltering heat of Iowa summers, Doc always wore long sleeved shirts and full trousers. He would keep his shirt collar buttoned all the way up to the neck. Doc’s front torso, buttocks, and both legs were horroribly scarred and ravaged from a jet fuel and ammunition fire that almost took his life during the Viet Nam war. Doc would only talk about it when he’d get a beer of two in him and that was’nt very frequent---Doc would say ‘drunks are’nt squared-away’. Sometimes Doc would tell sea stories to the younger men and it would inevitabily be ‘when I was on the Old Bird Farm, this or that had happened’. That’s what Doc called the aircraft carrier he had served on --- and that terrible fire---it had made a hero out of Doc for having saved a number of lives before sustaining his own life threating injuries. Interestingly, the pilot who had been involved in that terrible conflagration that had cost the lives of more than one hundred sailors, had been Senator John McCain from Arizona. He had been flying combat missions from that carrier, the USS FORRESTAL and sometime on a later ‘sortie’, his fighter-bomber had been shot down over North Viet Nam where he was a prisoner-of-war for the remaining years of that long and drawn out war. Doc acknowledged that he had been awarded some naval medal for heroism but contended in a humble manner that he was only doing what any other hospital corpsman would have done--he never did show the actual medal to anyone who knew him---he had given the impressive looking award to his girl friend when he was recovering at the Naval Hospital in San Francisco and now, years later, that girl friend was Doc’s ‘old lady’---. Suddenly, Red wailed a blood-curdling bellow that the men would say later sounded like Tarzan of the Jungle and bounded to his feet. Like a berserk street fighter, he was beating his back and arms with the dirty white baseball cap with the PURINA advertising. The crew, thinking that Red was being attacked by bees, all bolted off in different directions, and when they got to what they thought was a reasonably safe distance, turned to gather their wits. Even at the distance they now were they could hear Red screaming ‘PISS-ANTS---PISS-ANTS---PISS-ANTS’ as he continued to whirl around and round and flail with his cap at the offending and biting insects. Seeing that a bee threat was not the problem, Doc rushed back, grabbed the leaping and bounding Red by the arm so he could help him and commenced brushing off the hoard of ravenous pests. Screech and Boxer did not approach to help but continued to stare from a distance at Doc and Red with shocked disbelief. Doc was to tease them both later when he told them Red had scared them so badly with his screaming that it had taken the ‘curly-locks’ out of their hair---Doc sure had a way of telling things the way they were. It just happened that the tractor and trailer was parked near a water spigot with a garden hose attached so Doc led a now much calmer Red over and commenced to douse him with the hose. Red did’nt raise any objections and in a few moments Red was soaking wet and seemingly much relieved. ‘Dammit Red, it’s too bad those hungry little bastards chowed down on ya the way they did, but I’ll bet ya a dollar to a doughnut you got that sweet apple juice all over ya and that’s what they wanted and went after ---they were’nt after you, you ugly turd, ya ain’t sweet ‘nuf fer even a piss-ant to wanna chaw on’. Red slouched forelornly, holding his PURINA ballcap while Doc continued to let the water spray over his head and bare back. The ball of red fuzz with its green rubber band that was supposed to look like a ‘braid’ but instead looked like a ball of red lint, grew saturated with the water and took on the appearance of a drowned rodent. Red may have been attempting to talk or yell but no sound come out, instead with the flow off water over his face, the open mouth and sagging jaw, moving as it did, looked like a fish out of water gulping in great quantities of air. Finally Doc turned off the spigot and recoiled the hose. Red had’nt moved---he stood there like a water soaked old dog. Doc, as well as the brothers who had returned and were watching the goings-on, drew back from Red like they expected him to shake like an old dog will shake themselves when they are soaked. But there was no shaking from Red to rid himself of the water---Red just stood there and continued to drip and look pathetic, still making the movements with his mouth like the fish out of water thing. ‘Well Red, its just real lucky you ain’t allergic to ant toxin or Screech and Boxer may have had to give you mouth-to-mouth breathing---would’nt that’a been a real kick in the family jewels’! Doc guffawed loudly--- laughing at his own remark--- he sounded like a mule braying. Screech and Boxer suddenly looked kind of green through their bronze suntans---they also looked like they wanted to vomit. ‘Good thing its hot out today Red---you’ll dry off real quick but we need to check those ant bites after awhile---never know--there may be some delayed reaction’ Doc continued, sounding very medically informed to his crew. The brothers were probably praying from their hearts, ‘just anything, but for sweet God’s sake, don’t let old Red’s breathing falter--no way in hell could I ever breathe into his ugly mouth’. Doc went over to the back of the old tractor and commenced to dig around in the toolbox. ‘Here ya go Red, I knew we had some paper towels around some place---use what ya need to dry your face and fer God’s sake Red, do somethin with yer hair---looks like a dead squirril’, Doc exclaimed. Screech and Boxer were nodding their heads affirmatively nearby-----they both thought of something more gruesome that Red’s hair looked like. ‘And now we gotta get back to work boys---gotta lott’a diggin to do this afternoon---me and Red will get the ditcher around up on the Catholic side while you two go dump the trash and clippings --- when you get done , Boxer you drop off and take the ditcher over to the Protestant side and do that hole---Screech you go on over and clip off that dead limb from the old pin-oak---cut it small so it don’t take the whole trailer, and then come back and help us square up the holes’. Doc was now their boss--laughing time was over --- they all listened respectfully as he laid out their tasks. They all knew Doc, and even with all his scars and his gripeing, would always do more than his share---some other boss would have sit and watched them work and then have taken all the credit---yea, but not Doc---he was’nt that way. Screech went over to the old tractor--- prepared the magneto advance switch and started to hand crank the ancient old FARMALL. On the second twist of the crank, the old tractor fired off and the unmuffled engine noises made any conversation impossible. Boxer climbed upon the hitch behind his brother who was going to drive and the old tractor and trailer went meandering off ---wending its way between headstones and monuments and tombstones of the Springdale Cemetary. Doc looked up at the sky toward the sun as if he were calculating the time and remarked to Red who stood silently nearby ‘its a hell’va life my friend---- but I’m damn glad to be doing ‘er----just really glad’. Red, who had’nt uttered a solitary word since his Tarzan like bellows when being attacked by the forageing ants, looked over in Doc’s direction and stated in a soft but sincere sounding voice, ‘I ‘im much obliged to yer----and thanks a lot fer the apple Doc’.