|
Patches make all the difference
By Reavis Z. Wortham
Contributor
Published October 22, 2009
“Is that Ed?” Doc asked, looking outside through the plate glass window of Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Café.
Youngster looked up from his Iphone.
“Yep.”
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked.
That question prompted all the Hunting Club members to address their attention to Doreen’s parking lot. Youngster’s glances alternated between the tiny screen in his hands and Ed’s bizarre behavior.
Well, I guess bizarre might be a little strong. He was standing behind his truck, hands on the tailgate, kicking the stuffings out of something.
I knew what was going on. I’ve done the same thing myself.
“He must have been coming around the back and caught his shin on the trailer hitch.”
The Club members broke up, because the whole situation is funny. Everyone knows trucks have trailer hitches that stick out, most especially trucks in Doreen’s parking lot. But we’ve all cut around the back and cracked a shin from time to time.
Then the only sane response is to kick something.
But Ed just kept kicking, and kicking and kicking. His mouth was moving also, so each repetitive motion was addressed by a word that we could identify from so far away.
“Something else is going on,” Doc surmised.
We waited until Ed exhausted himself, then he came into the café and joined us at the round corner booth. Breathing hard, he nodded to the assemblage and hooked a forefinger through a mug Doreen had thoughtfully supplied while he was venting his rage on the truck.
Everyone said howdy but Youngster, who kept thumbing his Iphone. “Howdy Youngster.”
“Hidy,” he answered without looking up.
“Haven’t seen you since this morning.”
“Yep.”
“What are you doing? Tweeting?”
“Don’t know. I’d have to look,” he answered absently.
Catching a warning look from Doreen, I changed the subject. Knowing Ed always kept a dip in his bottom lip, I thought I’d be proactive. “Doreen, can you bring Ed here a foam cup.”
“Don’t need it,” Ed answered. “I quit two days ago.”
The café was stunned into silence. Ed began dipping when he was two, and none of us could recall ever seeing him without his lip being loaded up.
“Why?” Wrong Willie asked.
“I need a new boat.”
“What’s that in your bottom lip?”
“Shredded jerkey.”
“Does it work?”
“I guess. I’m not hungry. But my bride, the Accountant, told me the other day that right now we couldn’t afford another toy.”
The boys nodded again, recalling similar discussions with assorted spousi.
Ed sipped his coffee and a small dribble stained his shirt. He suddenly reddened and we expected another explosion similar to the previous exhibition. He quickly checked his watch, reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a new nicotine patch.
Quickly unsnapping his shirt, Ed slapped the fresh patch on his shoulder. The number of patches already there reminded me of a toddler with a new package of band aids.
Youngster looked up.
“Uh, you’re not supposed…”
Ed glared again, opened another patch, considered putting it under his tongue, and then slapped it beside the others. “Don’t say a word. Just keep looking.”
“Yessir,” Youngster said, and returned to his Iphone.
“So when the Accountant told me I couldn’t spend three hundred a month on a new boat,” Ed continued, “she gave me an option. She said I spend that amount on dip each month, so if I quit dipping I could use that same money for the boat. So I quit.”
“How’s that working for you?” Woodrow asked.
“Temper is a little short.”
Youngster brightened when he read something on his phone. He took out a pen and wrote on a napkin and gave it to Ed. He read it, put the napkin in his pocket and left without a word.
“What was that?” I asked Youngster.
“A lead on a boat.”
“It better be a good one,” Doc said, staring out the window. “Ed won’t survive much longer.”
We followed his gaze, seeing Ed literally chewing at a pine tree he’d just bumped with his shoulder.
Woodrow nodded. “If he stays in that state of mind much longer, he’s going to earn enough money for his boat by chewing down trees for a logging company.”
“I have a new nickname for Ed, though,” I said.
“What did you come up with?”
“Patches,” I answered and we watched the guy formerly known as Mister Ed spit out a wad of something and slap another patch onto his chest.
Reavis Z. Wortham is an award-winning outdoor writer with family ties to Lamar County.
Share |
Save |
Mail |
Print |
Letter
|
|
 |
|
|
