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His Best Asset Linda Chubbuck West Palm Beach FL
The calaboose in Fightingtown Creek, Georgia was not the place Reotis Cobb wanted to wake up in every Sunday morning, but lately the miserable tank had claimed his name as resident pretty often. He stretched full length on the flop mat that was his bed with his hands laced behind his head causing his arms to fly out like trussed chicken wings, oven bound. The dark whiskers that had been poking their brittle heads out of his face last night now blossomed like an unforgiving cactus in the dark desert of the cell. His eyes narrowed as he thought how he hated this place, thought of how fragile a man’s liberties had become these days, even after he’d spent the better part of the week busting his ass in the copper mines and sweating like a dumb animal for some foreman who hated his guts. Pullin’ a cork didn’t use to have its limitations, but somehow lately he managed to find his Sunday mornings worshipping at the Church of St. Mattress in this foul hoosegaw. His head was pounding out the truth of too much whiskey and his bloated body sang the praises of nausea and dizziness, a now familiar hymn. As he swung his feet slowly around and folded them under him in Indian style, he thought of how many Sundays his Gran had dressed him up for church in the blue serge pants that were too tight for him and the short white shirt with sleeves that rode two inches above his wrists. He sneered at himself reflecting on how ridiculous he must have looked to the rest of the congregation as he and his Gran walked furtively down the side aisle and sat toward the rear of the church to support a hasty retreat after the last hymn. Damn, he was a puny fool back then, a palsied pup that shrunk from the slightest of insults. But things had changed now, he taken his licks and came up the better man for it. Through watery eyes, he looked at the two other ‘guests’ he shared all this luxury with. Both of them were still passed out, snoring and sending up alcohol fumes like invisible smoke signals. The slat wood floors they laid on were stamped with a variety of paisley stains of past fluids, oily and vile. No one should have to be treated like a common cur, sleeping in a hell hole like this. Someone had to do something about it, a man was still a man. Maybe he could make a pitch to the town council to get things changed. Like hell he would. He eyed the bucket that stood lop-sided in the corner and wondered if he had to go bad enough to get up and use it. He did. But as he untwisted his legs from the sitting position and stepped gingerly to the bucket, dodging his roommates, he speculated on exactly what it would take to simply blow this place to kingdom come. When Sheriff Boot Dillard let him out at noon, he had to suffer the lecture that went with freedom. “You know Reotis, you’re drinking yourself into an early grave here, you oughta be thinking about settlin’ down, doin’ somethin’ productive with your time, life’s too short. Use your best assets.” Reotis surveyed Boot’s form. Frayed battle boots, faded jeans, topped off with a kaki short sleeve shirt with ‘Sheriff’ poorly embroidered over the top pocket. Fresh grease stains punctuated the bulging button holes from his hammy neck to his belt and Reotis couldn’t help but wonder if Boot had ever been accused of using his best assets. Maybe he was just born naturally lazy, fat and short on brains. “Yep, Boot, yer right,” he drawled “probably need to spend more time at Grans, find some religion.” “Now there’s the ticket.” Boot winked, his bug eyes swimming with sincerity. “Ya know, that calaboose needs some rightin’ up in there.” Reotis jerked his head in the direction of the tiny jail cell. Boot turned, slow and deliberate and eyed the dull stone walls. Sucking his teeth into a meditative cluck, he smiled broadly at Reotis. “Well, wouldn’t be much of a deterrent all fixed up, would it now?” Reotis stared at Boot and shook his head miserably as he started to turn and walk away. “Where are you headin’ now son?” Boot threw in as if he really cared. Reotis glanced over his shoulder and shrugged at Boot Dillard. “Goin’ to think some productive thoughts, just like you said, Sheriff.” And he sauntered slowly down the dirt road kicking up dust devils with each step. The thought of blowing up the calaboose obsessed him the rest of the day and gave him a kind of peace of mind. He began to figure the particulars involved in such a mission. How much dynamite, the fuse, weather conditions and mostly how he could get away with it. If he couldn’t make a clean job of it, it wasn’t worth doing.
Loretta Cobb at seventy four was as spry as a forty year old on her best day. A woman smitten by the word of the Lord and a long standing revered member of the community, her word was as good as the gold you could take to the bank. And she liked it that way. Reotis had been her son’s boy. The wife ran off to Chattanooga with a pan salesman and was never heard from again, leaving Reotis with Loretta and his dad, Levin. But time saw Levin ship out with the Merchant Marine and but for a few post cards and a little cash now and then, he wrote himself out of the picture. With dignity, Loretta took up the yoke and raised Reotis as best she could. And while he wasn’t a scholar, he was bright and could use his head when he wanted. He just never wanted to. On Wednesday after his latest stay in the calaboose, Reotis climbed the steps to Gran’s porch and plopped into a wicker chair next to the door. His hand clutched the side of his face and he emitted a guttural moan that sounded like a heifer in labor. Lured by the bellowing, Loretta hurried outside to find Reotis cleaving to his jaw in abject suffering. “Well son, what ails ya?” She murmured. His tormented eyes turned full blue on her and he mumbled through the cotton wad he’d stuffed inside his check. “Tooth, Gran, bad tooth.” He pointed at the bulge on the side of his face. “Dear Lord,” Loretta breathed, “how’d you go and let it get so bad?” Reotis simply turned his best pathetic look toward her and her heart melted. “Then come on get up, I’m puttin’ ya to bed with some peragoric for the pain till we can get you into Doc Levy tomorrow.” She grabbed a handful of the sleeve on his shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. He went with her docilely, intermittently interjecting a moan of real quality. She maneuvered him into the guest bedroom and went off searching for the peragoric. He lay back on the bed as a smile slid over his face. When she came back with the brown corked bottle, her face was riddled with worry. He hated lying to Gran, but he had to do what he had to do. “Thanks Gran,” he said taking the spoon and bottle from her. “ How mucha this?” he asked. “I’d say about three tablespoons from the way you’re carrying on here.” She smoothed back the long hair that fell into his face. “Rest now, I’ll be back in a while to check on you.” He nodded obediently, unplugged the cork and watched as she closed the door quietly behind her. Popping the cork back into the bottle he stretched out, checking his watch to see how long before Gran returned. Twenty minutes saw Gran peeking in the door, not to disturb, just to check. He moaned and snored intermittently knowing it played well. As the door shut, he checked his watch to be sure. Twenty minutes to the second and she would be back, a creature of habit all her life, you could pretty much set your watch on Gran’s time schedule. Twenty minutes would be enough. Two tablespoons of peragoric would have put any sick man down for an hour or more, so when Loretta stuck her head in the room a second time twenty minutes later, Reotis knew she was convinced that he was down for the count. This time when the door clicked, Reotis waited till he’d heard the screen door shut and the squeak of the rocker on the front porch. Tossing the quilt aside, he checked his watch, sprinted to the window and squeezed out. Twilight was settling in on Fightingtown Creek complete with tiny bugs that zig-zagged wildly in a frantic pattern much like Reotis as he dashed in the barn and gathered his supplies from an old barrel. The entire town would be at dinner now, his timing was perfect. The best track star Vestal County High School ever had, moved at full stride toward the cowardly structure of the hoosegaw. It stood empty, a testament of man’s inhumanity to man and a goodly distance from Boot Dillard’s office. But he would fix that testament, really quick now. Peeking in hastily to be sure of no occupants, Reotis quickly arranged the dynamite on the side facing away from Boot’s office. Next, he took the incredibly long fuse and set it into the package. The copper mines had taught him something anyway. Backing away slowly from the jail, he carefully strung the fuse for almost seventy five yards. Checking his watch, twelve minutes had passed. He dug deep into his jeans pocket and pulled out a lighter Gran had given him two years ago for his birthday. God love Gran, she always gave the best gifts. Flipping the cover back, he drew a deep cleansing breath. And lit the fuse. Vestal County’s best, again sprinted full stride back to Grans, his feet barely hit the ground as his strong legs pumped hard and fast down the road. The explosion rang full and rich in his ears as he pressed himself back through the window and dived into the bed, arranging the quilt just so. Loretta burst through the door to find her grandson twisted up in his quilt snoring. Her jaw went slack that anyone could have slept through the noise but she guessed a man on peragoric could do just that. Her allegiance to duty kept Loretta in the house rather than walking off to quench her curiosity. Reotis needed her and she wasn’t about to leave him, but it surprised her when Boot Dillard shuffled the front porch steps and rapped respectfully on the door. She always made him wait. Hat in his hands, he circled the brim once turning it gently clockwise, when Loretta’s image framed the door. “Boot Dillard, what in heaven’s sweet name’s goin’ on in town?” Boot lowered his head slightly as if in the presence of royalty. “Well, Miz Cobb,” he said “it seems someone blowed up the calaboose down to the last stone, nothin’ but left but a pit.” “Oh my stars!” Loretta gasped putting her slender fingers to her mouth. “Who would do something like that? Anyone hurt?” “No ma’am, but we figure someone what had a righteous hatred of the place would be our first suspect. Is Reotis in?” Loretta put it together quickly. “What do you mean Boot, is Reotis in? He’s been here all afternoon and evenin’ too with a toothache. He’s righteous as rain, he is. I checked on him regular.” From behind his Gran, Reotis appeared rubbing his cheek and smelling of fresh peragoric, the cotton wad firmly wedged inside his check. “Wuz up Sheriff?” Reotis mumbled barely intelligibly and flashed Boot his finest pitiful look. Boot surveyed Reotis as Loretta’s grandson stood there looking piteous and miserable, then shook his head. “Someone blew up the calaboose clean down to the ground tonight. You got any idea who it might be?” Boot was walking on eggs, Loretta Cobb’s word was gospel so his implications bordered on near blasphemy. Reotis rubbed the evening shadow that had crept across his face. “Can’t say as I do Sheriff, but it’s probably someone what hated the place.” “Uh huh” the Sheriff grunted, circling his hat in his hands again “that’s what I thought too.” Boot looked from Loretta to Reotis and back again. His instincts felt right but his timing was all wrong. Defeated, he squared off at Reotis. “Well, I hope that tooth gets better son,” Boot said flatly, “you’re real lucky to have your Gran here.” And he cocked his head toward Loretta. “You know Boot” Reotis said draping his arm around his grandmother’s shoulders, “I just was thinking the same thing, she’s my best asset.”
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