It was going to be a good day for Jim Fletcher and me. We
were going to be real cowboys at last. I would be Gene Larue. He hadn’t decided
on a name yet. But we were ready.
We had a hideout in a forested area a mile or so from where
we lived, the perfect spot. It was a cedar tree that had grown so large that
its drooping limbs formed a tent-like structure that was protected from all but
the strongest rain. Over time, we had hacked out a small opening, undetectable by a stranger. It was our little “Hole In The Wall.”
From nearby dumping spot, we had collect odds and ends for crude
furniture and storage containers for secret hordes, like a “naughty” magazine
that I had found under an entry-porch at school and sneaked home. We weren’t
sure if cowboys looked at such things, but we were certain of other habits.
They smoked “roll your owns,” so we had save our pennies and
Jim at purchased a sack of Bull Durham at my daddy’s store, “for an uncle.”
Now we had the ultimate possession to make us real cowboys,
a bottle with enough “Old Yellowstone” for two strong shots like the cowboys always enjoyed after coming to town. We had found a bottle in the dump with a
smidgeon of the yellow liquid in it. Then I had gently pilfered small amounts
from the stash my daddy stored in his barn. He kept a bottle there to ease his
mind when he closed the store and fed his cows. My mother allowed it unless he
got too jolly during his little “happy hour.”
The amount in our bottle had grown slowly over the months,
but on this soft early-spring day, it was time to be real cowboys at last. The
bottle with its inch and a half or so of inviting liquid was stored in a place
of honor in our hideout, along with the Bull Durham, papers, and a rusted BB
gun capable of dropping an “Indian” at a hundred yards.
We had explored along Bayou Bartholomew all morning, looking
for “Aarheads” and, having found some nice specimens, carried them back to our
spot on our stick horses named “Paint” and “Ranger.” We would use the artifacts
to make real arrows later.
Jim had still not decided on a cowboy name. Try as we could,
we couldn’t think of a single “colored cowboy” in all of movie history. He had
about decided on “Whoozit” when we arrive home from the range on that fateful
day.
We tied our horses outside and it was time for good shot of
whiskey. We had some Garrett Snuff bottles for shot glasses and Jim watched as
I carefully poured equal halves into two of them. We toasted our comrades, whom
we had not included in this adventure because of the limited amount of product,
and downed our drinks just like we had seen the cowboys do hundreds of times,
or so we thought.
Oh, my god!
It was like someone had pointed blowtorches into our mouths
and down our throats. We went into coughing spasms that seemed to shake the
roots of our mighty cedar. Neither could speak.
When we could catch our breath, we both charged through the
opening and out into what we thought might be a reviving atmosphere. Gagging
gave way to a retching that gave way to a gasping that gave way to tears that
gave way to eyes wide as the bottom of coke bottles.
Jim gained speech first. “That must not be the same kind
they drink,” he said in a still raspy voice.
“Can’t be,” I said. “They enjoy it when they do it.”
“I ain’t takin’ no chances anyway,” he said.
“Me neither.”
He took a breath and made one of those decisions that can
alter history. “I ain’t gonna be no goddam cowboy.”
“Me neither.” I took several deep breaths. “What you gonna
be?”
“Maybe a baseball player.”
“A baseball player?”
“Yeah, they got colored baseball players now.”
That sounded reasonable. Jim had a revelation and said, “I
got a cousin who’ll trade us a baseball for that magazine we got.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We can play in Daddy’s pasture. What else
we gonna need?”
“Just some chewin’ tobacco, I reckon.”
“We can swap our smoking tobacco for some chewing tobacco,” I said. “It’s
gotta taste better than whiskey.”
“Sure,” Jim said. “We’ll just be baseball players.”
The nice thing about stories about kids growing up in the
South is that, no manner how good the story is, there’s always another one for
another day.
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| Mammas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Trust us. |
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