Nasty Conjugation

Here’s that short story I said was coming. Things are good here, we’re probably going to the beach to watch fireworks tomorrow. If you haven’t sent me your address for postcards, do it do it do it. We ran out of postcards, so we’ve got another round to go out as soon as we go buy more.

Um, that’s all, please enjoy my story. It’s kind of long.

* * *

The morning is still fresh when I walk to the pump station, especially summer mornings like this when you figure if you could bite into it you’d get the night’s juice just running down your chin. I admit I stole that whole juice idea from Buddy, but it sounds so nice that I couldn’t help it. Most people think Buddy isn’t the kind of guy who’d say something like that, but then again most people don’t sit with him in that hour before sunrise waiting for the first car of the morning rush. Now I think about it, I guess I’m pretty lucky.

Today’s Buddy’s birthday – he won’t say how old he is, so we’ve got a little bet going on in town. I hope he won’t find it disrespectful, but I put a dime on seventy-four. I got a little gift for the occasion, a pair of leather gloves with rabbit fur lining the inside. They cost me a month’s pay, but I figure I’ve got a whole life of paychecks ahead of me, and, well, Buddy won’t be around forever. I wrapped them in the Sunday funnies, thinking he might appreciate that. All the other pages just go on about Communist threats or Un-American this and that. It’s enough to make a man give up reading.

Buddy’s already sitting on the stoop when I get there, looking really determined about the donut he’s chewing on. Mr. Randall must’ve brought donuts for Buddy’s birthday – his wife bakes donuts for everything. Rumor is she even brings them to funerals, but no one’s willing to ask her for fear she’ll take offense and not bring donuts to theirs. Personally, I wouldn’t begrudge donuts at my funeral.

“Mornin’, Buddy,” I say.

“Mornin’, Bird. Donuts, if you want ‘em,” he says, pointing behind him with his thumb. He calls me Bird, always has, though I don’t know why and haven’t really bothered to ask. Thing about nicknames, I guess, is once you let one stick it doesn’t have to make sense. People who think too much about it don’t get good nicknames, anyway, according to Buddy.

“I think I will, thanks,” I say, and step inside the tiny stand where we sell pops, chewing gum, and cigarettes. Mr. Randall would’ve sold beer, too, but Mrs. Randall has opinions and Mr. Randall is generally a smart man.

Sure enough, the back office smells like fresh donuts, really one of the best things somewhere can smell like. For all her opinions, Mrs. Randall sure makes some donuts. I take two in case Buddy wants another.

He’s still sitting on the stoop, rolling up a cigarette, when I come back out. I asked him once if I could have one of his roll-ups and he thumped me so hard that it hasn’t occurred to me to ask again. He accepts the extra donut and sets to enjoying life, cigarette in one hand and donut in the other.

“So it’s your birthday today, huh,” I say, sitting next to him on the stoop. He nods.

“Sure is.”

“Actually, dang, I got your present inside with my lunch pail. Lemme go grab it.” I start to get up, but Buddy raps my shin with his knuckle.

“Sit down, Bird. Always rushin’ around, not like it won’t be my birthday in a few hours. Best to enjoy the good part of the morning while it’s here.”

So we sit on the stoop and finish our donuts. Neither of us has much to say, so we watch the sun come up in silence. Truth be told, I always look forward to this moment, with the sun just up, when all the spaces between the street lights fill in and every color looks new. I don’t know, it just makes me feel alright. Buddy leans forward and lights another cigarette.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Bird, ‘cuz I know you think too much about things,” he says, blowing out smoke, “but after eighty years I can’t imagine a better birthday present than one o’ these sunrises.”

I don’t say anything for a second, just watch a caterpillar work his way over the gravel driveway.

“I bet a dime on seventy-four,” I finally say. Buddy laughs and stands up.

“Well, I ‘ppreciate those six years, Bird,” he says, working the knots from his shoulders. “Yep, sure do.”

Buddy wanders off towards the bathroom, a portable plastic toilet on the other side of the gravel parking area, still smoking his roll-up. I asked him why he smokes in the toilet, once, and he told me the smoke scares off the flies and keeps the guts regular.

“Hsst!”

I look behind me and see Mr. Randall poking his head from around back of the gas stand, waving me over.

“Oh hey, Mr. Randalll, morning to you,” I say, but he grimaces and holds one finger to his mouth, still waving me over. I hurry and crouch next to him behind the little building.

“Why we hidin’, Mr. Randall?”

Mr. Randall isn’t small, not really, but he’s thin and flat and so looks smaller than he is. His moustache and eyebrows match perfectly, thick black rectangles of hair that wiggle and wag with a mind of their own. I swear his eyebrows know words his mouth don’t.

“You know Buddy ain’t ever had a proper birthday party?” he finally says in a loud whisper, his eyes looking this way and that.

“Didn’t know that,” I say. “But why’re we – “

“I been setting this up for months now,” he interrupts, peering around the corner again before going on. “But it’ll be my neck if I give it away to Buddy and he takes it in his head to be ornery.”

The way he’s twitching and looking over his shoulder, I figure it must be something pretty important, but I still don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Give what away, Mr. Randall?”

He looks right at me for the first time since calling me over.

“What do you mean, what? Buddy’s birthday p—“

“Why’re you two squattin’ back here like a couple o’ dogs after dinner?”

Buddy’s standing behind us, drying his hands on the rag he keeps in his back pocket. Mr. Randall’s eyebrows look ready to crawl off the top of his head. He springs up like a Jack-in-the-Box and starts walking backwards towards the door.

“Oh! Buddy! Great! Just…just rallying the troops! Yeah! Great!” he says, getting louder and louder until he closes the door with a yelled, “Wonderful!”

Buddy doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with the question on his face. I’m saved from having to answer by the arrival of the grocer, Mr. Summerlin, so I just shrug and walk over to the pumps.

Mr. Summerlin is almost always our first customer, every morning just after sunrise, rolling into town in his beat-up green Ford with the bed full of the day’s fresh produce. Everything about the man is big – his truck, his smile, his handshake, his gut, voice, wife, laugh, curiosity. If anything ever happens in town you can expect to hear his voice booming out of the crowd – What’s this? – Make room! – Giver her some air! – Jesus, get that dog off him! He’s getting out of his truck when I walk up, smiling, a mouthful of teeth like a horse or a toothpaste commercial.

“Mornin’, Mr. Summerlin,” I say. He walks over and slaps me on the back with his great paw of a hand.

“Mornin’, mornin’! Fill her up, son. I’m gonna go talk to the man of the hour,” he says, opening the passenger door and pulling out a huge, ripe watermelon. Mr. Summerlin has a famous memory for names, birthdays, and fruit – anyone going to his grocery on their birthday can expect to go home with a basket of their favorite fruit, no charge.

“Buddy! Buddy, you spry youngster,” he booms as I set to filling up his dented old Ford. Mr. Summerlin is everyone’s dearest friend; I’d wager he’s got dearest friends he’s never even met. Buddy, squatting by the gas stand, raises his hand and waves.

“Mornin’, Sam. How’s the wife?”

“Fatter and crazier every day, now the boys are out o’ the house!” Sam Summerlin says, his round body shaking with laughter at his own joke. “Here you go, Buddy. Happy birthday, I know you like a good watermelon come summer.”

“Buddy takes the huge melon and nods, setting it to one side.

“Much appreciated. I ain’t never known you to forget a man’s favorite fruit on his birthday.” Mr. Summerlin laughs at this, too, being a man who takes any excuse for a chuckle.

“Say, speaking of birthdays,” he says, trying to look sly, “how many does this one make?”

“Wouldn’t be right for me to tell you, Sam, as I hear there’s a wager riding on it,” Buddy says, crushing out his cigarette and standing up. “I will say that Bird over there lost his dime.”

Mr. Summerlin looks over at me and I shrug, which releases another rumble of laughter.

“Fair’s fair, I s’ppose!” he says.

“Sure is,” says Buddy, bending to pick up his gift. “Thanks for the melon, Sam.”

“Don’t mention it!” Mr. Summerlin says. “Mr. Randall ain’t around, is he?”

“He’s here but all holed up in his office. Been actin’ spooked all morning,” Buddy says. Finished with the Ford, I walk up just in time to catch Buddy raising his eyebrows at me.

“Guess Mrs. Randall’s been getting at him about something or other,” I say, not looking Buddy in the eye. Mr. Summerlin slaps me on the back again, nearly knocking me over.

“And that’s a fact!” he roars. “ Well, I’d best be off to open the grocery. You two younguns be good now,” he says, paying me for the gas plus a dime for a tip.

It stays pretty quiet after Mr. Summerlin leaves. We get a few more of our regulars, of course, coming in or out of town, but the normal morning rush never comes. Most everyone who’s headed out of town has a watermelon for Buddy. Around ten o’ clock Mr. Jimmy Bickmann, the traveling salesman, stops in on his way to the next county over. He’s got a melon for Buddy, too.

“Not that I don’t ‘ppreciate it, of course,” Buddy says, sticking Jimmy’s melon with the ten or so he’s already got, “but what’s got everyone bringing me watermelons?”

“Sam Summerlin’s got a sale on ‘em today in your honor,” Jimmy says, flashing the famous wink-and-a-smile that earned him a reputation as the best salesman in the tri-county area. “Reckon everyone at the store was buying one.”

“That so,” Buddy says.

Jimmy’s our last customer for a while. Somehow business gets even slower, most people dropping by just to give Buddy their best wishes and a watermelon and not even to buy gas. For some reason people are starting to set up picnic blankets across the street, chewing watermelons and smoking cigarettes and generally having a leisurely time. I guess there’s nothing illegal about it, sure, but it’s really strange either way, and the way Buddy’s standing by the road and staring at them I figure we might should do something. I say as much to Mr. Randall – well, I shout it through his locked door – and he says he’ll be out after he finishes his phone call.

“This have something to do with that party you mentioned, Mr. Randall?”

His door slams open and he looks at me like I’d suggested he slap his wife.

“You! You just keep quiet about all that, boy. You never know who might hear!” he says, and I see he’s sweating right through his shirt even though it’s a real fine day, not too hot. Well, he hurries across the street and me and Buddy watch him waving his arms and talking to the growing crowd of picnickers. After a bit one of them laughs and hands him a watermelon. He stalks back over to us, face red as a tomato, and shoves the melon into my arms.

“For Buddy,” he says, then goes and locks himself in his office again. I follow him to see if he wants to share one of these watermelons with us, since we haven’t had a customer for an hour, but I can hear he’s on the phone with someone.

“I know, I know…yeah, but Summerlin told them! Yeah! He’s got a sale on…”

It being rude to listen in on someone’s phone call, I just leave him alone for a while. I figure that’s the safe way, with someone as tense as Mr. Randall.

Back outside Buddy’s still staring across the street at the picnic. It’s gotten pretty big, actually, and everyone looks like they’re having a good time of it. Every once in a while someone wanders over to shake Buddy’s hand and give him a watermelon, which Buddy handles with what grace he’s got.

“I don’t know half the damn people who’ve given me fruit today, Bird,” he says, adding another melon to the pile. “It just ain’t right, somehow.”

I nod, but I’m not sure I agree. After all, watermelons are pretty tasty, which I start to say, but then I have to stop saying it on account of the elephant that’s walking down the road. Buddy sees me staring and looks over, too.

“Bird,” he says.

“You reckon?” I ask.

We both move to the side of the road for a better look, and sure enough here comes an elephant just walking own the road out of town. There’s a man on his back, sitting on a big gold blanket, and he’s waving a huge red flag with something written on. Squinting, I can just make it out.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY,” it says on one side, and on the other, “BUDDY!”

The crowd across the street starts cheering and hollering, and boy if it isn’t just full of people now. There’s a man selling cotton candy, another one selling beer, and groups of kids in red ball caps are handing out flags with big gold ‘B’s on them. Buddy lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag.

“Everyone’s out o’ their damn minds today, Bird.”

Behind the elephant I can hear a marching band just starting into Sousa, and here they come, all in red, white, and blue, horns shining like fire or lightning or something similarly impressive. Behind the band there’s a whole crowd of tumblers, fire eaters, jugglers, midgets on bicycles, dancing horses, and clowns. I notice Buddy’s moved off by himself, standing near the road and watching his parade flow by.

After the circus geeks there’s a whole load of big, fancy cars full of as many important people as our little town can offer. The Rotary Club drives by in a pair of shining blue Ford convertibles waving tiny American flags, followed close behind by the Women’s Club in a pink Chevy. Mr. Summerlin rattles by in his beat up old truck, his wife standing in the back blowing kisses to the crowd.

Holding up the rear is Mayor Nelson and his wife in a big fancy red convertible, both waving and smiling and looking real friendly. When the car reaches Buddy, Mayor Nelson hops out and runs over to give him a watermelon tied with a big red bow. Some photographers show up to take pictures of that, and then the Mayor jumps back in his car and drives away. Buddy’s starting to look pretty sour about the whole situation, but at least he handled it like a gentleman.

As if the parade weren’t a big enough surprise, out of the clear blue sky come three roaring military-style planes flying in formation, which buzz the gas station before rising up and disappearing into the clouds. There’s one more plane coming, a crop duster, and it’s coming in real low, too. When it gets close I can see it’s painted all red, white, and blue, and the dang thing actually lands right on the road in front of the pumps. Well, between that and the other aeroplanes and just about everything else the crowd’s gotten pretty worked up, just yelling and clapping to beat all. Someone jumps out of the passenger seat of the plane, a big man in a nice suit, and he’s walking over to Buddy with his hand out and a big smile stuck on his face.

“James Buddy Fincher! Boy, is it a pleasure to meet you,” the man says, and it’s kind of a shock to hear Buddy’s full name like that. “Name’s Nelson, Senator Ted Nelson.”

“Just Buddy, if you please, Senator,” Buddy says, shaking the Senator’s hand and looking pretty uncertain. “And if you don’t mind my askin’, how did I warrant such a hullabaloo?”

Well, Senator Ted Nelson just laughs and laughs at this, like it were the cleverest joke he’s ever heard. Surprisingly, Mr. Randall comes hurrying over from the station with a big old soapbox, which he sets down on the road in front of the plane.

“All set here, Mr. Senator Nelson, sir,” Mr. Randall says, still looking as twitchy as ever.

“Ah, Benjamin, good to see you, good to see you,” Nelson says, clapping Mr. Randall on the back, and it’s awful strange to hear Mr. Randall’s first name, too. “Thanks again for all your help with the day’s festivities.”

“No sir, not a problem, your honor, always happy to help the Grand Ol’ Party,” Mr. Randall says, and he kind of flinches when Buddy looks at him.

“Well, if you please, Buddy, I’d be honored if you’d come and stand with me as I address this gathering of my fine constituents,” the Senator says, taking Buddy by the shoulder and leading him to the soapbox without waiting for his answer. Buddy doesn’t look too pleased, but, God bless him, he just stands there real patiently while Senator Nelson starts to talk.

“Well, ain’t this just a grand day for a parade, ladies and gentlemen?” he says, spreading out his arms and smiling as the crowd cheers and a few cameras flash. “Yessir, a grand day to celebrate a grand man in this grand old country of ours!”

There’s more cheering at that, of course. Senator Nelson rests his hand on poor Buddy’s shoulder; he’d been trying to sneak away.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, what a day to celebrate that which makes America strong – her people! Sturdy people, honest people, people pulling themselves up by their bootstraps and greasing the wheels of that great railroad called Progress that keeps America moving down the tracks toward a bright future!

“People like Buddy here, who served in the First World War, who gritted his teeth and, along with every other honest worker among you, carried our country on his back through the darkest days of the Depression! Simple, God-fearing men whose lives should provide inspiration for us all!”

The crowd just about goes hogwild at all of that, and I even admit to feeling a tingle of national pride myself. There ain’t no one who talks prettier than a politician with his heart set on it, I guess.

“And what a shame, friends, what a deep black shame that we must live in such suspicious times that neighbors bar their doors against each other, when the foul specter of this Red Menace looms huge and horrible over our very heads! When common sense, I say, the very instinct for survival urges us towards unity, we willingly allow ourselves to be divided by the fear of a common enemy!”

People are all riled up now, and I see Mrs. Summerlin stand up and yell, “Hallelujah!”

“No, ladies and gentlemen, I say, and I can see, that you are stronger than that. I can see that you are not a people to be ruled by fear! In this, the very heart of our country, I can see the spirit of brotherhood shining bright as a torch. And that, friends, is why I have decided to name today Buddy Day, in honor of this man and every man and woman like him, whose lives of quiet duty make up the very fabric of our proud star-spangled banner!”

Everyone’s on their feet, hollering and clapping, and Mrs. Summerlin starts singing the national anthem in her big warbly voice, and pretty soon it’s spread through the whole crowd. I can’t see Senator Nelson’s face, but I imagine he’s pretty pleased with himself. Everyone’s walking over to shake his hand, and Buddy’s too, though Buddy looks mighty uncomfortable with the whole thing. After the crowd’s cleared out a bit, Senator Nelson walks over to me.

“Boy, do you think you can stretch one of those gas hoses over to the plane?” I think about it for a second, but can’t see no way, and I tell him so.

“Well, no sir, I reckon them diesel pumps ain’t got more’n a six foot hose on ‘em. You outta gas?” I say. He looks down at me like I’d been speaking French and then sighs and folds a dollar bill into my hand.

“I don’t care if you fill it with water or whiskey, boy, just see to it that I can get a picture of Buddy gassin’ my plane. Be quick about it, son,” he says, then goes back to shake some more hands.

I manage to piece together an old pump handle with a garden hose and hurry it over to the plane where Buddy and the Senator are standing. Buddy treats me to a real killer of a look, but I just bob my head and hand off the thing to Senator Nelson. I ain’t too comfortable with the situation, making Buddy use a fake hose like that, but I admit the scene was pretty nice – Senator Nelson standing in the plane and waving to the crowd while Buddy pretends to fuel it up and the cameras flash.

By time the plane takes off the sun’s starting to set, and most of the crowd’s leaving for home. There’s a few people still sticking around, finishing their watermelons and chatting. Buddy’s sitting by himself, chain-smoking his hand-rolled cigarettes and looking a little tired. Even though they can’t hardly compare to a parade, I figure now’s as good a time as any to give him his gloves. I run inside to grab them and then go to sit by him on the curb. He really does look worn out.

“Hey Bird.”

We both turn around, and Buddy drops his cigarette. It’s the first time all day I’ve seen him look so surprised. An older lady’s walking over to us, she’s maybe a little younger than Buddy, with her silver hair pulled back into a bun. She’s got her back straight, though, and her voice doesn’t have that little shake that older people kind of get.

“Long time no see,” she says, stopping in front of Buddy, her eyes looking a little wet in the sunset. Elephants, marching bands, and aeroplanes never put so much shock on Buddy’s face today as this old lady with her strong voice and her hands folded in front of her. I ain’t so dense that I can’t notice when a man needs a moment, so I get up to give them some space.

“Winnie,” he says, then clears his throat. “Winnie, I ain’t seen you since…dammit, I don’t even remember when, but I didn’t reckon I’d see you again.”

“I’ve been living the next county over. I wouldn’t even have known you were here but for a telegram from old Sam Summerlin,” she says, taking a seat on the curb next to Buddy. The both sit there, looking a little awkward. “It was real nice of the Senator, the parade and everything.”

“I ain’t completely ignorant,” Buddy says, and they both stay kind of quiet for a minute. Buddy starts to light a cigarette, but she reaches over and takes his hand.

“I know you aren’t, Bird. But whatever his motivations, it’s more than most could ask for.” After that they just sit there, holding hands, with the sun setting on the field across the road, and I feel a little embarrassed watching and go inside to drink a pop.

After about an hour or so, with night already pretty thick, a pair of headlights turns off from the field and onto the road headed out of town. I look outside and see Buddy standing over by the pumps watching the car go, so I figure it’s safe now to go give him his gift.

“Hey Buddy,” I say, walking over, “I know it can’t hardly compare, but here’s that gift I told you about.”

“Ain’t no need for this, Bird,” he says, unwrapping the gloves. His hands are still kind of shaking.

“Reckon I wanted to, though. Hope you like ‘em, Buddy.”

He puts on the gloves and wiggles his fingers, then sits down hard on the watermelons, as if just then all the strength had suddenly gone out of him. I sit down next to him.

“Hope you don’t mind my askin’, but why’d that lady call you Bird?”

“Just a nickname,” Buddy says after a moment. “Don’t think too much ‘bout it.”

Well, I sit there and try not to think too much about it, but I can see that Buddy’s shaking a little, and not just his hands. His shoulders are quivering, soft and steady, like there’s a tiny earthquake going on inside his chest. I didn’t ever figure a man like Buddy could cry, and watching it’s kind of painful, but I sit there just in case he’d appreciate having someone around when he’s done. He doesn’t look at me, just sniffs really loud and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“They’re real nice gloves, Bird.”

This entry was posted on Monday, July 31st, 2006 at 8:20 am and is filed under Short Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.