Moonshine Excerpts
CHAP-7 Moonshine, Watermelon, and Rock Salt
I don’t know how old he was but he looked ancient. He was a tall man who always
wore a brown cap with ear flaps, the kind worn in the winter. He wore his all year
round. It looked as old as he did with its tears and snags. He wore bib overalls which
were full of holes and sported a few poorly sewn on patches. Normally they were so
dirty they could have stood up by themselves in a corner when he took them off.
There was always a hanky hanging out of his back pocket. It was filthy and looked
like he only changed it about once a month or every three thousand miles. He
always had a home grown twist of chewing tobacco sticking up out of the top of his
overalls and there usually was a big chew in his jaw.
Duke, his first name, could spit that tobacco juice farther than anyone I’d ever seen.
If you were in his line of spit fire you’d better move quick or he’d get you. He couldn’t
see very well, he didn’t have a right eye. I don’t know how he lost it but he was too
cheap to buy a patch or a false eyeball. The empty eye was only half closed and you
could see into the eye socket area and this had mucous dribbling out of it all the
time. He was continually wiping at it with that oil rag he called a hanky.
When you looked below the one good eye which was usually glaring at you, you
were looking at one of the biggest noses I’d ever seen on a person except for maybe
Jimmy Durante whom I’d seen on TV. It looked like a big long tater sticking right out
the middle of his face and it pointed off to the right. It looked like it had been broken
several times. I could only guess how that happened with that mean surly mouth of
his.
Once past that big snot box of his you were looking at a cruel sneering mouth. It
always had a ring of dried tobacco juice around it and when he opened that mouth
you were looking at the longest brown teeth. They looked like big ole butter beans
and stuck way out. He was as buck tooth as you could get, I really believe he could
have eaten an ear of corn through a picket fence. The man looked like he’d been hit
dead between the eyes with the biggest ugly stick someone could have picked up.
He was hard to look at straight in the face and when he’d talk to you he’d put that old
ugly mug of his up close to yours. It would give you the heebie-jeebies.
He was afear’d of my momma though. I’ve seen him tuck his tail and run like an old
egg sucking hound dog that had been caught in the chicken coop when he’d see her
in town. They’d had a run in at the IGA store parking lot years earlier. Momma had
pulled into the lot next to his pickup just as he launched a mouthful of tobacco juice
with it hitting the side of our car. She confronted him saying, “Duke you spit that
nasty tobacco juice all over my car, what’s the big idea?” Duke looked at her and
then her car, laughed saying, “That old rattle trap could use a washing anyway.”
Momma had a short fuse and he had just lit it. She yelled, “Get out of that truck you
old son of a bitch, I’m going to bust you in your one good eye.” He wasn’t laughing
now and said, “I ain’t gonna fight no woman,” and rolled up his pickup window.
Momma threw a punch while he was doing this and cracked the window badly. Duke
backed out and started down the street with Momma running alongside the truck
cussing him up one side and down the other, kicking dents in the side of his pickup.
From that day forward when Duke saw Momma or her car in town he’d leave and
come back later. He’d met his match in ill temper and didn’t want any part of that little
banty sized woman from Tulip, Indiana.
CHAP-7 Moonshine, Watermelon, and Rock Salt
I don’t know how old he was but he looked ancient. He was a tall man who always
wore a brown cap with ear flaps, the kind worn in the winter. He wore his all year
round. It looked as old as he did with its tears and snags. He wore bib overalls which
were full of holes and sported a few poorly sewn on patches. Normally they were so
dirty they could have stood up by themselves in a corner when he took them off.
There was always a hanky hanging out of his back pocket. It was filthy and looked
like he only changed it about once a month or every three thousand miles. He
always had a home grown twist of chewing tobacco sticking up out of the top of his
overalls and there usually was a big chew in his jaw.
Duke, his first name, could spit that tobacco juice farther than anyone I’d ever seen.
If you were in his line of spit fire you’d better move quick or he’d get you. He couldn’t
see very well, he didn’t have a right eye. I don’t know how he lost it but he was too
cheap to buy a patch or a false eyeball. The empty eye was only half closed and you
could see into the eye socket area and this had mucous dribbling out of it all the
time. He was continually wiping at it with that oil rag he called a hanky.
When you looked below the one good eye which was usually glaring at you, you
were looking at one of the biggest noses I’d ever seen on a person except for maybe
Jimmy Durante whom I’d seen on TV. It looked like a big long tater sticking right out
the middle of his face and it pointed off to the right. It looked like it had been broken
several times. I could only guess how that happened with that mean surly mouth of
his.
Once past that big snot box of his you were looking at a cruel sneering mouth. It
always had a ring of dried tobacco juice around it and when he opened that mouth
you were looking at the longest brown teeth. They looked like big ole butter beans
and stuck way out. He was as buck tooth as you could get, I really believe he could
have eaten an ear of corn through a picket fence. The man looked like he’d been hit
dead between the eyes with the biggest ugly stick someone could have picked up.
He was hard to look at straight in the face and when he’d talk to you he’d put that old
ugly mug of his up close to yours. It would give you the heebie-jeebies.
He was afear’d of my momma though. I’ve seen him tuck his tail and run like an old
egg sucking hound dog that had been caught in the chicken coop when he’d see her
in town. They’d had a run in at the IGA store parking lot years earlier. Momma had
pulled into the lot next to his pickup just as he launched a mouthful of tobacco juice
with it hitting the side of our car. She confronted him saying, “Duke you spit that
nasty tobacco juice all over my car, what’s the big idea?” Duke looked at her and
then her car, laughed saying, “That old rattle trap could use a washing anyway.”
Momma had a short fuse and he had just lit it. She yelled, “Get out of that truck you
old son of a bitch, I’m going to bust you in your one good eye.” He wasn’t laughing
now and said, “I ain’t gonna fight no woman,” and rolled up his pickup window.
Momma threw a punch while he was doing this and cracked the window badly. Duke
backed out and started down the street with Momma running alongside the truck
cussing him up one side and down the other, kicking dents in the side of his pickup.
From that day forward when Duke saw Momma or her car in town he’d leave and
come back later. He’d met his match in ill temper and didn’t want any part of that little
banty sized woman from Tulip, Indiana.
Chap-8 Holloween Pranks
After about a ten minute wait we heard our victim coming. The car was loud and we
could hear the radio blaring Be Bop Alula. Then we saw the headlights. We started
giggling like a pack of girls because of the fun we knew was about to take place. Butch
said, “Yeehaw, this is going to be good.” Billy laughed and said, “They’ll never know
what hit them.” When the car got into the middle of the curve traveling its slowest we all
stood up and chucked our stinking missiles. All of us being ex-little leaguers and pretty
good baseball players, we really plastered that car.
Unbeknown to us, the driver had the windows down and three of our potent projectiles
shattered inside the car causing a horrible stench. To our surprise instead of racing
away trying to avoid the smelly assault, the driver slammed on his brakes and got out of
the car hysterically mad and screamed, “Who’s the sorry son of a bitch that did this?
You’re dead, your f_ _ _ing dead.” He searched the brush line with his eyes trying to
locate us. We had ducked down so as not to be seen.
This was the first time we had laid eyes on Bennie Parker. He ran around to the rear
of his car and opened up the trunk producing a wicked looking pick handle. He then
advanced into the brush. All of a sudden with that pick handle in his hands, he didn’t
look so stunty. As he headed in our direction he said, “I’m going to kill me a low down
son of a bitch tonight, just look at my car.”
Billy said, “Oh shit,” and the race was on. We like to have run over each other trying to
get away from that pick handle and the mad man swinging it. He was swinging it with
both hands over his head saying someone was headed straight to hell tonight. We
broke and ran into the woods. Bennie might have had short legs but between his youth
and his temper he made up the distance between us. I could tell he was gaining on us
as we ran through the woods. As he got close I dove under a log where some timber
had been felled. I lay there and could just make out movement to my left. Most of us
had gone to ground as the only way Bennie could locate us was by sound. It was pretty
dark in those woods. The longer I lay there the more I could make out as my eyes got
accustomed to the dark. I could hear Bennie close by stomping around; threatening a
horrible death to anyone he caught.
It was about this time that he got close to Shawn, the slowest of our pack of pranksters
and Shawn’s nerves gave way. He jumped up and started running in my direction.
Bennie caught him by the collar about fifteen feet from me and struck him across the
legs with the pick handle. Shawn let out a scream that sounded just like a girl. Bennie
said, “Shut up, punk, who else is with you, I want names and I want them now.” Shawn
was scared and on the verge of tears but he said, “Go play with yourself. I’m not telling
you anything.” Then out of the shadows I saw a figure moving towards Bennie and
Shawn. I could tell by the bulldog body that it had to be Butch. Billy and his long legs
had already outdistanced all of us and he was back at the bicycles waiting on us.
Bennie poked Shawn in the chest with the pick handle and said, “ Boy if you don’t start
talking I’m going to knock your teeth so far down your throat your going to have to drop
your pants to eat, now who else is with you.” Bennie drew the pick handle back. Butch
stood up and pulled out a slingshot he’d been carrying in his back pocket. He reached
into his front pocket getting a steely marble and loaded it into the slingshot. Just as
Bennie started to strike Shawn he let that steely marble fly. He was only about fifteen
feet from Bennie and the steely caught him right above the right eye on the forehead.
Bennie let go of Shawn and dropped the pick handle grabbing his forehead and falling
to the ground kicking and cursing every ancestor we ever had. Shawn took off running
with Butch right behind him all the way to the bicycles.
I lay right where I was, too close and too scared to move. Bennie was so close to me
trashing around on the ground that I could smell his aftershave lotion. It was Old Spice
my daddy’s favorite. After a couple of minutes Bennie rolled over onto his hands and
knees about five feet from where I lay under that log. He started yelling again, “I will
hunt you down, you little son of a bitches if it takes me the rest of my life, you’re dead.
Nobody f_ _ _’s with Bennie Parker and lives to brag about it.” He staggered to his feet
and fell up against my log, his left foot standing on my right pant leg. I stopped
breathing afraid he would hear me.
Bennie rubbed his face feeling the large knot rising on his forehead and mumbled to
himself, “I shore hope this damn thing doesn’t spoil my looks.” I had to put my hand
over my mouth, I wanted to laugh. The boy could have had a hatchet sticking out the
front of his face and it would have been an improvement. That knot sure wasn’t going
to hurt that ugly mug of his. He started shaking worse than a hog shitting peach pits
and had to sit down on the log. I guess his nerves gave way. He then let out a long,
wet sounding fart. I thought he probably needed to go home and changer his
underwear ‘cause God did it stink and it didn’t smell like Old Spice. He stood up with
the aid of his pick handle and turned one more time looking into the woods and yelled,
“This ain’t over by a long shot; you’ve not heard the last at Bad Bennie Parker.” He
then turned towards his car and mumbled again to himself, “Oh crap. My damn
underwear is ruined,” feeling the back of his britches with his left hand. They were wet
from the load he’d just dumped in them. He then headed on out of the woods. About
five minutes later I heard his car start up and burn rubber heading away from there. I
lay there another minute. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been caught. That was one close
call.
CHARLESRICHARDSHEETZ-BOOKS
251-937-4836
After about a ten minute wait we heard our victim coming. The car was loud and we
could hear the radio blaring Be Bop Alula. Then we saw the headlights. We started
giggling like a pack of girls because of the fun we knew was about to take place. Butch
said, “Yeehaw, this is going to be good.” Billy laughed and said, “They’ll never know
what hit them.” When the car got into the middle of the curve traveling its slowest we all
stood up and chucked our stinking missiles. All of us being ex-little leaguers and pretty
good baseball players, we really plastered that car.
Unbeknown to us, the driver had the windows down and three of our potent projectiles
shattered inside the car causing a horrible stench. To our surprise instead of racing
away trying to avoid the smelly assault, the driver slammed on his brakes and got out of
the car hysterically mad and screamed, “Who’s the sorry son of a bitch that did this?
You’re dead, your f_ _ _ing dead.” He searched the brush line with his eyes trying to
locate us. We had ducked down so as not to be seen.
This was the first time we had laid eyes on Bennie Parker. He ran around to the rear
of his car and opened up the trunk producing a wicked looking pick handle. He then
advanced into the brush. All of a sudden with that pick handle in his hands, he didn’t
look so stunty. As he headed in our direction he said, “I’m going to kill me a low down
son of a bitch tonight, just look at my car.”
Billy said, “Oh shit,” and the race was on. We like to have run over each other trying to
get away from that pick handle and the mad man swinging it. He was swinging it with
both hands over his head saying someone was headed straight to hell tonight. We
broke and ran into the woods. Bennie might have had short legs but between his youth
and his temper he made up the distance between us. I could tell he was gaining on us
as we ran through the woods. As he got close I dove under a log where some timber
had been felled. I lay there and could just make out movement to my left. Most of us
had gone to ground as the only way Bennie could locate us was by sound. It was pretty
dark in those woods. The longer I lay there the more I could make out as my eyes got
accustomed to the dark. I could hear Bennie close by stomping around; threatening a
horrible death to anyone he caught.
It was about this time that he got close to Shawn, the slowest of our pack of pranksters
and Shawn’s nerves gave way. He jumped up and started running in my direction.
Bennie caught him by the collar about fifteen feet from me and struck him across the
legs with the pick handle. Shawn let out a scream that sounded just like a girl. Bennie
said, “Shut up, punk, who else is with you, I want names and I want them now.” Shawn
was scared and on the verge of tears but he said, “Go play with yourself. I’m not telling
you anything.” Then out of the shadows I saw a figure moving towards Bennie and
Shawn. I could tell by the bulldog body that it had to be Butch. Billy and his long legs
had already outdistanced all of us and he was back at the bicycles waiting on us.
Bennie poked Shawn in the chest with the pick handle and said, “ Boy if you don’t start
talking I’m going to knock your teeth so far down your throat your going to have to drop
your pants to eat, now who else is with you.” Bennie drew the pick handle back. Butch
stood up and pulled out a slingshot he’d been carrying in his back pocket. He reached
into his front pocket getting a steely marble and loaded it into the slingshot. Just as
Bennie started to strike Shawn he let that steely marble fly. He was only about fifteen
feet from Bennie and the steely caught him right above the right eye on the forehead.
Bennie let go of Shawn and dropped the pick handle grabbing his forehead and falling
to the ground kicking and cursing every ancestor we ever had. Shawn took off running
with Butch right behind him all the way to the bicycles.
I lay right where I was, too close and too scared to move. Bennie was so close to me
trashing around on the ground that I could smell his aftershave lotion. It was Old Spice
my daddy’s favorite. After a couple of minutes Bennie rolled over onto his hands and
knees about five feet from where I lay under that log. He started yelling again, “I will
hunt you down, you little son of a bitches if it takes me the rest of my life, you’re dead.
Nobody f_ _ _’s with Bennie Parker and lives to brag about it.” He staggered to his feet
and fell up against my log, his left foot standing on my right pant leg. I stopped
breathing afraid he would hear me.
Bennie rubbed his face feeling the large knot rising on his forehead and mumbled to
himself, “I shore hope this damn thing doesn’t spoil my looks.” I had to put my hand
over my mouth, I wanted to laugh. The boy could have had a hatchet sticking out the
front of his face and it would have been an improvement. That knot sure wasn’t going
to hurt that ugly mug of his. He started shaking worse than a hog shitting peach pits
and had to sit down on the log. I guess his nerves gave way. He then let out a long,
wet sounding fart. I thought he probably needed to go home and changer his
underwear ‘cause God did it stink and it didn’t smell like Old Spice. He stood up with
the aid of his pick handle and turned one more time looking into the woods and yelled,
“This ain’t over by a long shot; you’ve not heard the last at Bad Bennie Parker.” He
then turned towards his car and mumbled again to himself, “Oh crap. My damn
underwear is ruined,” feeling the back of his britches with his left hand. They were wet
from the load he’d just dumped in them. He then headed on out of the woods. About
five minutes later I heard his car start up and burn rubber heading away from there. I
lay there another minute. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been caught. That was one close
call.
CHARLESRICHARDSHEETZ-BOOKS
251-937-4836
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