Brother Otis, The Real Sling Blade, A Goat Offer, And What Was In The Air

BROTHER OTIS

Brother Otis is in love with me. I suppose it’s natural. Not because I’m gorgeous, but because I am one of the few people that listens to his insane ramblings. I take his picture, and in his mind, that means we’re a couple. I’m going to have to address this soon, but I’m hesitant. He’s insane, and his battles with police are epic, legendary, and violent. I’d hate to be forced to shoot him.

Brother Otis came into the shop on Tuesday, wearing what he described as "German camoflauge". As usual, I took his picture.

"Hey Rebbie, remember the last time you took my picture, you let me look at it on your little screen? Can you do that again?"

"Yeah Otis. Here it is."

He stood over my shoulder and critiqued his stance.

"I should have had my head cocked in that pho-to. I’m not standing at attention properly. I also should have worn my spectacles."

We took another picture, and after his preview, he was pleased with the results.

"Thank you, Rebbie." He kissed my shoulder and dashed to the door, shouting over his shoulder, "I love you Rebbie!"

The next day, Otis called.

"Rebbie, remember last time we took a pho-to, you put it in the machine and it went ’zzztt-zzztt’ and the picture came out? Can you do that again?"

"Yeah, I can do that. Do you just want copies of all the pictures I take of you?"

"Yes, I do. I want to document every time I’m with my beautiful Rebbie."

After that conversation, I talked to Aunt Cheryl. She used to council Otis when she worked in mental health services, and she agreed that I would have to talk to him, but only if someone else was present.

He called again yesterday.

"Hello, Rebbie. This is your husband, Captain O-tis of the German SS. I need some of that pepper spray that the Nazi’s used. Do you have any?"

I told him that we did not have pepper spray, and couldn’t get any. That was a lie. If I go missing, look for me to be locked in the closet of Otis’s house in San Augustine, Texas.

THE REAL SLING BLADE

I met the real sling blade. He was tall and bald, and hunched over. His pants were hiked up so high that it left his socks visible. His flannel shirt was tucked in the front and the back, the sides escaping to billow behind him.

He came in to buy a tool. He walked up to Tom the jeweler and mumble-grunted a question.
Tom is deaf, so he asked him to repeat it.

"Ah need uh tool to (incoherent grunting) with."

"Well, come on back to the tool room."

I pretended to work while I eavesdropped on their conversation. I couldn’t understand most of it, but I had a good time watching Tom desperately try to escape from sling blade. When I heard him explain that he needed a tool to remove a lawnmower blade, I began to suspect that this was a joke. It wasn’t.

Tom told him he could have an $8 wrench for $3 so that he would leave. When he finished his checkout (which I can only properly explain in person because there are facial contortions involved), Tom looked at me.

"That guy was a fuckin’ weirdo."

"Have you ever seen Sling Blade, Tom?"

"No, I ain’t."

"Well, you should watch it, because you just met the real Sling Blade."

A GOAT OFFER

Crazy pill lady (see previous pawnshop blogs) is now the president of the Rebel fan club. She no longer comes just to pawn things, but drops by to tell me how her life is going. A couple of weeks ago, she came in while I was eating lunch.

"You wanna come out to my car and see my new hobby?"

"Sure, let’s go."

I looked in her car and found three baby goats chewing on a laundry basket, with a dog craning his neck from the backseat to groom them.

We stood and admired the baby goats, and pill lady explained that she purchased them to calm her nerves.

She came in last week and told Aunt Cheryl that the city had given her notice that it was illegal to keep goats within city limits.

"I got two doctors to write notes saying that I need these goats, and that I’m gonna train them to be seeing eye goats."

"Did you just say ’seeing eye goats’?"

"Yeah, they’re practically seeing eye goats already."

Aunt Cheryl did not laugh at her, but she really, really wanted to.

Pill lady came in this week to explain that she had given the goats away.

"They were gonna fine me $3000 a day, per goat. I was gonna try to fight them, ’cause they were seein’ eye goats, but I decided I better just get rid of them in case I lost the fight. I gave ’em to this lady I met that just loves goats. After she left, I thought ’Dad-gummit, I coulda given them goats to Rebel’. I’m sorry."

"Oh, that’s okay," I said. "My backyard isn’t fenced right now, a the fat little bastard from next door keeps riding his four-wheeler through my yard. They’re safer on the farm."

"Well, I definitely want them to be safe. They were special, being seein’ eye goats and all. One of ’em even tried to jump in the bathtub with me."

WHAT WAS IN THE AIR

On Thursday, I got hit on by three of the local mental patients. They all happened at different times, but in almost exactly the same way. I would be in the midst of "normal" conversation with them, when they would stop and say,

"You still married?"

"Yes, I am."

"Damn, I was gonna ask you out."

I don’t know why I am so attractive to crazy people, but I hope I can find a way to use it to my advantage. Like creating an army of the mentally ill to do my bidding.