The Mandolin

Being a fish out of water is a bad metaphor. A fish out of water eventually dies. But then one must argue that a fish out of water has two options: to die, or to evolve and grow lungs and legs and other various and sundry accoutrement necessary for life on land. That would be, and probably has been, the argument. Robert and his brothers were fish in slightly different water. It wasn’t a change from fresh to brackish or vice versa, just a change in general. Like a Floridian catfish who strangely finds himself swimming in the clear, salmon filled waters of the North West instead of the red-brown mud bottom of the Apalachicola. In fact, the brothers were like these salmon-catfish. Before living in Missouri they lived in the deep woods of the panhandle of Florida. They lived with their grandparents in Estiffanulga while their mom and dad served as chaplains in the army in the Philippines. When the parents came back, somewhat unexpectedly, they swept up the boys and moved to the Midwest.

They didn’t forget Estiffanulga and visited often. The grandpa, or P.D. as he was known by his peers, was named Ponce Deleon. The famous Spanish conquistador perhaps rebirthed into the flesh and bone of this man of the earth. P.D. was adopted and no one knew exactly where he came from. In fact he was less adopted and more inherited. At age three he was found traipsing around the rare North Florida hills near the old Gregory place looking for grasshoppers. He was found and raised by Katie Elizabeth and Octavious. Being that he was simply found, P.D. had no birth certificate or other evidence that he was actually alive other than his own breath, blood, bone, and flesh. P.D. grew to be a dark, frowning man of most likely Seminole heritage whose only joy for most of his life was his mandolin.

Once after Katie Elizabeth and Octavious adopted him they went to a small music store in Blountstown. The store owner saw P.D. gazing at an old mandolin behind a case. While his parents were looking for tambourines for the church the store owner unlocked the case and handed the mandolin and a pick to P.D. The boy’s parents turned around as they heard him picking out chords on the little instrument.

“That’n theres a Straddy-Various,” said the store owner, rocking back and forth on his feet and snapping his suspenders with his meaty thumbs.

The boy’s grin was almost as big as his head. He didn’t know what a Straddy-Various was or that it might be valuable or that the store owner didn’t know what it was either. His parents couldn’t bare to rip the boy sized instrument out of his hands. Katie Elizabeth stayed and watched P.D. pick his way through the notes and chords, with a strained and focused look on his childface. Octavious put his arm around the store owner’s shoulders in the age old ritual of man-talk.

“Friend,” Octavious said (almost sang), “how much ye’askin’ fuh this hyeh lil geetar?”

“Reckon’at all depends on how much you willin’ to shell out.”

P.D. continued, “Well now, seein’ as how ‘em som’bitches at the rail road aint paid me yet, all I gots ten dollar in my back pocket.”

The store owner, eager to sell the old instrument said, “well, seein’ as how thangs aint exactly walkin off ‘em shelves yonda, I’ma go’n hafta take your offuh.”

The store owner gave Octavoius the case to the mandolin in exchange for two well worn five dollar bills. Octavious took the case and ushered his small family out the door to the packed dirt street. P.D. looked up at his dad with his eyes shining. Octavious looked back at the boy and smiled. He opened the passenger door of the T-model truck and tossed P.D. in the middle of the bench seat, and held the door open for Katie Elizabeth. Normally P.D. helped his dad grind the transmission into second and fourth gears, but now he was too busy exploring the frets of his mandolin.

The model T snaked with a new smoothness through the Floridian pine forest, over red, almost wine colored creeks, back to an old cracker house in the woods. Where music would now interrupt silence.

Eunice

He walks into the gas station corner store and grocery in Three Points, Virginia and looks around. There are pies in display case and the specials of the day are written on a chalk board behind the front counter. The man more than half-way expects some Faulknerian character to come in with a black fedora resting lazily on his head, matching blazer slung over his left shoulder, and his tie loosened. He would sit down and quietly place a dime on the counter, "piece o' pie, Eunice," he'd say to the ancient fry-cook in the back. Then he would uncomfortably lift up one buttock and dig in his pocket. He'd toss a nickel on the counter, "some coffee, too."
The man realizes he might be a similar character, come in from town, not speaking with quite the same lilt. But not now. Gone are the days of slapping down a coin for coffee...

He passes the pies in the display case and asks the young looking woman at the cash register what is good that day.
"'At all depends on whatchee want," she says in a tired drawl.
"Grilled Texas Chicken Sandwich, please."
"Y'ant anything on 'at sammich?"
"What comes on it?"
"Nothin."
He orders the sandwich and a sweet tea, which he gets immediately. The sweet tea has been sitting too long. As he drinks the woman at the cash register is frantically writing numbers on the back of a receipt. After a minute or so of scribbling she throws her pen down on the counter and swears under her breath. She grabs a new receipt and scribbles more. Her eyes grow large as if she has just solved some numerical mystery. She lets out a victorious squeal just in time for the woman cooking in the kitchen to throw the Grilled Texas Chicken Sandwich on the counter. The girl settles temporarily and delivers the sandwich. She almost throws it on the table where the man is sitting and returns to her newly victorious task. The sandwich isn't good. Chicken, bacon, and a slice of that fake yellow cheese. And toasted white bread. With belly some-what full, and appetite less than quelled, the man stands up from the booth. He waves a hand towards the front and thanks the ladies in the store. "Have a good'n," the scribbling woman says without looking up. The man walks outside, slings his blazer back on around his shoulders, squints in the sun and puts his matching fedora squarely on his head. As he walks he tightens his tie.

Back inside, the restaurant continues with the normal clatter and hum. The woman from the back yells at the cash register, "Clara, what'na hell you doin' out yonder?"
"Ain't none o' your concern, Eunice, leave me be."