Who We Is, Part 2.13...

Now, down in rural Arkansas there's some strange things happened back in the day that don't seem so strange now. These days a choir boy gets fondled by a priest; that's world-wide news. Those days something like that would be community gossip, the family would hush it up best they could out of misplaced shame. The priest would go on, the boy would go on, whispers the only thing heard. The priest retired eventually - next priest. The boy took his lumps and sucked it up – became the next bank president or mysterious hunting accident. The community remained obliviously, gossipy, solid.

'Course, in rural Arkansas we didn't know what a priest or alter boy was. We were Baptists and Methodists and Church of Gods. But you get my point.

Ol' Bill was red-faced and old. Can't tell you how old…when you're 14 everybody looks old…but he had solid, short grey hair and a big ol' potbelly. He wore a straw cowboy hat and scuffy boots, drove an immaculate white '67 Fairlane that still had the new rubber smell to it. Bill liked to hang out at the Moore's with all us teen-age boys of a summer day, especially when Mizz Moore was in the mental hospital and Mr. Moore was at work at the pallet mill. Bill'd bring Old Milwaukee beer.

The Moores were dirt poor folk who were unfortunate enough for my dad's church to notice. That's right, "We'll bring you boxes of canned and dry goods by once a week, BUT… dress those children for church every Wednesday evening and twice on Sunday."
People got fed and fed up equally, but the price was getting on and off that beat up old bus with the 'Saving Souls One at a Time' banner on it.

Anyway, I got to know the Moore kids through Sunday school, and during summer vacation I started hanging out at their house during the day. It was cool…smokin', cussin', gettin' into mischief….everything I couldn't get away with at home. Paul, the eldest, was my hero. He was about 17. He looked like Elvis and could whup anybody around. Michael, my age, looked like Paul but was much quieter. Leeroy Jr. was crazy but had a good heart. Donna Faye was twelve but developing quick; she liked to drag me into a bedroom and play spin the bottle. And Earnest and PeeWee liked to kick me in the shins to see if I'd go off so Paul or Michael or Leeroy would kick my ass. Hanging out at the Moore's was fun…you never knew what you'd get into.

One summer day I walked up to the Moore's place and Ol' Bill was sitting on the couch. All the male kids were gathered around him, smoking and drinking Old Milwaukee; the girls weren't around for some reason. I opened the squeaky screen door and Paul said,

"Hey. Here's Steve. Git you a beer, son. Bill here brought a bunch. Thisheer's Bill."

Bill looked me up and down and held out his hand. I shook it, didn't say anything. Bill grinned. Something felt bad wrong about this dude.




I ran into Paul and Michael somewhere, some weeks later.
"You remember that old motherfucker, Bill?" Michael said.

"Yup."

"Well, I thank we kilt 'im."

"Kilt 'im?"

"Yup. He took Paul down to the river bottoms and tried to unzip his britches….and…"

"Huh?" I said. Paul broke in:

"That fuckin' Bill. He kept on takin' me down to the river to drink beer. When he thought I was drunk enough he'd start rubbin' my leg an' shit…"

"Huh?"

"…an' I tol' him next time we need to take a buncha boys down there."

Michael jumped in: "So we.."

Paul continued: "…loaded up with me and Michael and JD Davis an' Leeroy and went on down there with 'im. We all acted like we was drunk and he tried to git Leeroy's britches off."

"Huh?"

Michael's turn: "So we stomped that ol' motherfucker all over the river bank. He was cryin', so we stomped 'im some more. Took his billfold and his beer and his car and left his ol' …"

"…dead ass down there," Paul said. "I guess he's dead. Ain't nobody seen 'im since."

I don't remember anybody ever mentioning Ol' Bill again. No news reports. No nothing.

Southern White Trash Justice, I suppose. When there ain't no gossip about it, it never happened.