Racehoss Page 9

  “Me neitha.”

  We could see the elephants standing under the smaller tent with the sides rolled up about four feet off the ground. It had a large walk-through entrance like a barn and was about thirty feet from the bucket-filling spot. When we walked in under the tent, our mouths flew open and our eyes were filled with the biggest “elefins” in the whole world.

  With one of their back legs chained and anchored down with a stake, about a dozen were rowed up on one side of the tent, leaving only a narrow passageway in front of them. The gigantic monsters swayed back and forth contentedly, picking up bits of hay from the ground and slinging it up on their backs.

  Still holding onto our bucket handles, Floyd and I stood frozen in our tracks. My voice trembled with fear, “Mister, is you sho they won’t bite?”

  “Nawww, they won’t. Here, let me show you,” taking one of Floyd’s buckets. He walked up to the first one in line, sat the bucket down in front of it, and began to pat and pet it. “This is Julie,” pat, pat, pat. “She’s a good old girl. Ain’tcha Julie, baby? Hand me another bucket,” he ordered.

  I stepped forward to hand him one of mine. He got the empty and gave it back to Floyd. As I reached the bucket out to him, “You sit it down for her.” Coaxing, “C’mon, sit it down there where she can get it. She won’t hurt you.”

  I walked closer, sat the bucket down, and JUMPED BACK quickly. “I did mine Floyd! You do yours!” I urged, as my heart pulsated with fear and excitement.

  “See? That’s all there is to it. Think you guys can handle it?”

  Nodding fearfully, “Yessuh,” we chimed with uncertainty.

  Left on our own, we started filling the buckets and packing water to the tent. We still jumped way back after we sat our four buckets down in front of Julie. She emptied a whole bucket with each slurp and reached her long trunk for another. Even after ten trips each, Julie’s thirst was still unquenched. Every time Floyd or I tried to walk past her to water one of the other elephants, she stuck out her trunk and blocked our path.

  After about thirty minutes of steady toting water to only one elephant, trying not to “make ‘em mad,” the five gallon buckets got heavier and heavier. The railroad spike I had in my back pocket became a real nuisance, kicking me in the ass with every step I took. Back at the spigot waiting for our buckets to fill, I said, “WHEW! Floyd, I’m plumb tuckered out!”

  “Me too! Dem bucket hannels dun rubbed a so’ on my hands.”

  “Mines too. The way we goin we ain’ NEVER gon git all them fuckin elefins watered.”

  “Sho ain’t. Shoots, dis heah circus be dun cum an gone befo we git thru.”

  “I tell you whut I’m gon do,” I declared. “I’m gon take that big o’ funky elefin one mo drank, an thas all! She kin git mad, scratch her ass til she git glad for all I care!” We delivered those four buckets to Julie and returned to the spigot. “Floyd, this time les wait til we ketch her lookin off an then run by her,” I plotted.

  When we tried, Julie saw us and politely stuck out her trunk. Neither of us was brave enough to stoop and run under her roadblock so we retreated straightaway. We sat our buckets, as directed, down in front of her. She took her usual four slurps and they were empty once more. Then she playfully sprayed water on the other elephants.

  “Look Floyd,” I said excitedly, “I got a idea.”

  “Whut?”

  “I know how we kin fill ‘er up! An all the rest uv ‘em too!”

  “How?”

  “Next time we ketch them men not lookin, les drag that fire hose over here.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Making certain the coast was clear, we started dragging the hose over to the tent. It reached with plenty to spare. “Okay Floyd, while I keep a lookout, wrap sum hay roun that nozzle so she won’t see it, an ram it in her mouth. Then I’m gon run turn the water up so—”

  “Is you crazy? SHIT! I ain’ stickin my arm up in no elefin’s mouf! You do it an lemme go turn it up.”

  “Nawww, Floyd. I can’t reach her mouth. You the tallest,” I pointed out.

  “Dat ain’ nuthin, I kin pick you up.”

  “We ain’ got that much time, Floyd. C’mon, wrap sum uv that hay roun it an stick it in there befo sumbody cum.”

  Grumbling as he concealed the long brass nozzle, “You stick it in the next un’s mouf.” With the camouflage completed, Floyd cautiously approached Julie, reaching the nozzle up toward her mouth.

  “I’m gon run out to the fireplug an be ready. When you git it in, wave yo hand.” Standing at the fireplug, gripping the big wrench, I waited for Floyd to give me the high sign. It took him several frightened attempts before he got Julie to take the hay-covered nozzle. When she did, he waved his hand affirmatively.

  I yanked on the wrench so hard I went completely around the plug and had the valve wide open. With the sudden blast of maximum water pressure, the fire hose pitched and jerked as it wiggled on the ground like a huge snake. The water sounded like it was rushing through in big lumps, instantly swelling the hose taut.

  I ran back. Floyd was jumping up and down ecstatically. When the full force of water fired through the hose, it shot the nozzle deeper into Julie’s mouth. She had a strange look on her face while an elephant-size tear trickled from one eye. In futile efforts, she coiled and uncoiled her trunk around the hose.

  All the while, Floyd and I danced a jig, whooping victoriously. Julie’s belly rumbled and shook like an earthquake from the pounding force of gushing water. It got bigger and bigger. She cut loose with a waterfall of piss three hands wide.

  We were laughing wildly and forgot all about the workers skittering about. Somebody saw us, “Hey! Just what in the hell do you boys think you’re doin!?” When he realized what we had done, “Hey! Look at what those crazy-assed boys are doin!” They started running toward us. “You Gotdam boys, get out of there! Get away from those elephants!”

  “Catch ‘em! There they go!” another hollered.

  The chase was on. I took the railroad spike out of my back pocket to lighten my load. When Floyd and I reached the road, we left a jet stream of dust behind and didn’t slow down until we got to the intersection. He veered one way, heading home; I took off for the railroad tracks.

  Fearing the circus folks might call the police on us, I needed a hideout and an alibi. I was almost out of breath as I tiptoed down the rooming house hallway. His door was slightly ajar and I slowly pushed it open. The shabby little room was dusky, except for the daylight I let in. The two curtainless, shadeless windows were completely covered over with yellowed newspaper pages. Empty wine bottles lined the walls, and the room reeked of piss, puke, and the stench of stale wine. Wino was lying crossways on the bed, snoring loudly. Careful not to wake him, I eased inside and closed the door. I slept on the floor on some quilts and blankets in the corner of his little dollar-fifty-a-week room.

  Wino, a sweet old man who loved his cheap-ass sherry, became a dear friend to me. He was a retired railroad brakeman with snowy white hair, a weathered Uncle Remus-looking black man. It was obvious that once he had been a handsome man, but the booze had gotten the best of him.

  He cut grass on Nugget Hill for the rich white families who paid him two or three dollars and gave him their leftovers. He didn’t eat any of it until he came home and we’d share. To warm the food, we used a charcoal-filled bucket with a little grill on the top. We ate together right out of the pan. Lots of times with one fork because we couldn’t find the other one.

  He got drunk every night off of cheap fifty-five-cents-a-quart sherry. Sitting around listening to his stories of trips to faraway places and different people he met made me forget she was gone, sometimes. Like the old folks say, “The shade uv a toothpick beats the broilin hot sun.” Wino’s room was that toothpick for me, casting its cool shadow over some of my gloomiest nights. When he was drunk, he had a unique habit of whistling right in the middle of his sentences. I lay on my pallet while he sat on the
edge of his bed rambling on and on, and making long whistling noises.

  “Well, I’m Alonzo Johnson. I’ve traveled all over the (whistle) country an I’ve been in everyplace in Canada (whistle) an everywhere. I’ve been frum the golden gates (whistle) uv California to the rocky shores uv (whistle) Maine. I’ve been to the Empire (whistle) State Buildin an the Statue (whistle) uv Liberty. Seen all kinds uv things. An one thing I learnt (whistle), people’s the same everywhere. When you got money (whistle), you got friends for miles around, but when you git (whistle) down an out, ain’ no need to look for ‘em, cuz (whistle) ain’ none uv ‘em aroun … sususususususus.” Listening to him was mind boggling at first, but after staying with him for four years, I could time them to perfection.

  I was just like a coyote. I’d get out at night, steal, hustle and do whatever I could to help keep the household going. In the early dawn hours, I followed the delivery trucks. As fast as they’d put food out in front of the stores, I took all I could carry and ran for the den. I had to get a bunch; we didn’t have an icebox. We ate up everything we had at one time, like the natives in the Bush Country.

  I probably looked like one too. My hair was long, I was skinny as a rail but tough as a boot, and my eyes were sunk deep in my head. The closest thing I ever got to a bath was swimming in the T & P Pond. I didn’t bathe, I guess, because Lonzo didn’t.

  I kept seeing him leave at the crack of dawn each morning with one of our two mayonnaise drinking jars, but this morning he got both and said, “Cum go wit me to drink some real water. We havta go early when they eyes is shet an they mouths is open ketchin flies, cuz us colored folks ain’t allowed.”

  We walked quite a long ways to a mineral water well on a knoll near the courthouse. “Useta be a tall standpipe up heah, but they dun tore it down. Thas why they call it Standpipe Hill. Once you drink the water frum this well, you keep comin back.”

  “How you know?”

  “I’m standin heah, ain’t I? An I been all the way to Canada an cum back. I bet yo mama drunk some uv this water befo she left.”

  “How cum?”

  “Cuz she ain’ no fool. Yo mama be back. She gotta cum back when she kin, though. You got any money?” As I dug deep into my overall pockets, he smiled and said, “It cost you a penny to chain yoself to this well.”

  I had seven pennies, more than enough, and dropped my honor-system penny into the little metal box with a lock, “Whut happen if you don’t pay?”

  “Ain’ no tellin,” he answered in a serious tone as he scooped a dipperful of water from the well. After pouring it into one of the jars, he handed the jar to me. “Afta yo first mouthful, turn around three times an make a wish.” I took a drink and did what he said. “Didja make yo wish, Albert?”

  “Yessir.” With all my heart, I wished Emma had drunk some.

  “Spittin it out’s bad luck.”

  “Whut happen to you?”

  “No tellin.”

  The head-aching winds of March had subsided and spring arrived, but it made no difference what time of year it was, only now I could do it barefoot. I even did it in the rain. I had a water-puddle kick that always got an extra nickel or two thrown, and even a quarter sometimes. From time to time, Mr. Albert was among the crowd watching me dance on the downtown street corners. No thumbs up, but I could see “you’re gonna make it somehow” on his face. When his wife and boys were with him, he sneaked the look. I could read it when our eyes touched. He winked. I smiled. He threw green and I picked it up. His wife said how cute I was and, “That boy’s talented, isn’t he, Albert?” He nodded.

  I remembered what Emma told me, “If he don’t say nuthin to you, you don’t say nuthin to him.” By the time I gathered up the rest of my money, they were gone.

  When Emma came back, I thought I was dreaming or had died and gone to heaven. Lying on those raggedy quilts on Lonzo’s floor, half-asleep, I heard talking. “Wake up! It’s Emma, I’m back.”

  I opened my eyes, and there stood Emma and a Mexican. She was much bigger now, close to two hundred pounds, but I never saw anything so beautiful in my life. She was all decked out in a glittering, sequin-covered black dress, fur, and had pretty rings on her fingers. “Miz Bertha tole me you’d prob’ly be over here. Put yo shit on an les go.”

  She gave Lonzo fifty dollars for “lookin out” for me. Dividing fifty-five cents into fifty dollars was a lot of sherry! We left in a car with a big shiny bird on the front of the hood. Within her first fifteen words she asked, “Whut do you think bout this guy? Name’s Sabbado. Ain’ he good lookin?”

  “Yes mam, Emma,” I answered indifferently. “Here, I kept it for you while you wuz gone,” handing her the crap blanket, which she promptly tossed on the floorboard.

  “Whut ees you name?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice.

  “Let Sabbado hear you tell when you wuz born.” I didn’t respond. “He’ll talk afta he see whut I brung ‘em.” He drove down to the Nickels Hotel, the aristocratic hangout of the “big time” hustlers. They’d already been by the room and had clothes lying all over the bed. “I bought these for you. Go take a bath an try ‘em on.”

  I came out wearing a towel and tried on my new clothes. Nothing fit; everything was too small. While putting my same old rags back on, I said,“You don’t even know whut I look lak.”

  She angrily threw them in the corner, “Well, fuck it! We’ll gitcha some mo shit!” Later that night as I lay on the crap blanket on the floor I heard her say, “Not now Sabbado.”

  In looks maybe, but in principle she hadn’t changed one bit. She had met Salvador in Mexico and convinced him to sell his bar and come back to Longview with her. Having used up most of his money, she took what was left and set up another gambling, et cetera house at 1000 East Whaley Street.

  This was the first un-shotgun house I’d ever lived in. It had electricity, three rooms and a kitchen, a well off the back porch, and an outhouse in the back. It was farther from the T & P Station than our other house and didn’t tremor as much when the trains went by. Best of all, it was only half a block from the corner liquor store.

  Prohibition was ancient history, and the bootleggers who formerly dispensed homemade moonshine graduated to selling the cheap, packaged whiskey and wine. Emma was no exception. The liquor store man gave a good discount when it was bought by the case, and she doubled her money reselling it by the half-pints and quarts. So after hours, all day Sundays, and during the games, it was bootlegging as usual. Even when the liquor store was still open, the gamblers would rather pay Emma a little more than to have to leave the game to go get a bottle.

  The liquor store was the pulpwood haulers’ headquarters. Most of them lived across the Sabine River and came to town after cutting and hauling wood destined for the paper mills. Eighty percent were related either by blood or marriage, and three or four would be part owners in the old, battered trucks. Every evening after work, the huge oak “council” tree at the back of the liquor store was surrounded by the old model, beat-up, long-railed pulpwood trucks.

  “Them o’ pulpwood boys” were noted for hard work and paying their bills, especially their whiskey bills. The white store owner extended them liquor credit freely, cashed their checks, and even loaned them money. All they had to do was sign the book. The haulers marched in and out of the store like ants, buying a half-pint at a time.

  The cooking and gambling did it. As soon as they finished transacting business at the liquor store, the pulpwood haulers made a beeline for “Big Emma’s.” Every last one of them loved to gamble and they lined the walls around the crap table as often as possible. Some were there so often it didn’t seem like they’d ever left. Big Emma (they named her that) fed them, and won their money. They didn’t call her Big Emma because of size; it was more of an accolade for being the top-of-the-heap whore.

  They walked in heading straight for the kitchen to “jes help yoself.” Emma had no set fee for the food, “When you git thru, jes gimme somethin.” They emerged as greasy
around the mouth as a meatskin, pitched her a “fair price,” and bought a half-pint. They gambled and ate at the same time, keeping the dice so slippery Emma had to ofttimes stop the game to drop them into a glass of soapy water.

  Just like with the railroad workers, when the pulpwood boys gathered, she sent for Allen. He lived in the Old Field section of town with the same woman he had been living with for years. Sometimes when I was sent to phone him, his old lady Lucille answered and I gave her the message, or if he answered, “Blue?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Albert. Big Emma said tell you to cum git suma this money.”

  Allen would come in a taxi. He was a good draw because he kept a pocketful of money all the time and the pulpwood boys wanted to beat him just because he didn’t smell like pine resin. He stood out like a show horse in a stable full of mules at the crap table. They had on dirty overalls and he wore his customary tailor-made silk shirts and trousers. Nine times out of ten, their hopes of beating him were mere wishful thinking.

  I’d seen him lots of times at the other house. He ignored me and I did my best to stay out of his way. I liked to watch him gamble. He’d begin to sweat, take out his silk handkerchief and meticulously place it between his neck and collar. He always rolled up his sleeves so the grime and kitchen grease the pulpwood boys smeared on the blanket nailed to the table top wouldn’t get on his cuffs.

  He was quick to squabble with them about their crap table etiquette, “Man, don’t be puttin that nasty-ass ashtray over here, gittin all that shit on my shirt! Nasty, stankin, funky-dick muthafucka!”

  While Emma was busy running the crap game, Salvador and I manned our designated posts. I covered the back door, handled the whiskey trade, and served as the official runner. Salvador generally sat on the front porch, “out of the way,” watching for the police.

  Besides the hot tamale man, Salvador was the only other Mexican (I knew of) living in Longview. He kept mostly to himself and didn’t participate in the games or on-going hoopla of the gamblers. He drank his Canadian Club whiskey alone. Only occasionally would he take a drink with some of the others, but not before wiping the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve.