PolitiCook.net

My Cousin Gid

Written by Translator on June 4, 2008 – 12:57 am -

This is an essay that I recently wrote about my growing up in Hackett, Arkansas. I have taken only a little license with the facts, and hope that it is received in the good spirit in which it is intended. It is both cautionary and funny, I hope. Any feedback would be appreciated. Warmest regards, Doc.

Gid

Hackett, Arkansas is a very small (under 1000 in population) town in west central Arkansas, about ten miles south of Fort Smith, and one mile from the Oklahoma border. It is an interesting place, full of interesting folks. All of the women are ugly, all of the men are smelly, and all of the kids are below average, including me. I remember Mrs. Long, but she preferred to be called Mrs. Matthis. It had to do with her smelly husband who decided to go away to the bright lights of Fort Smith, ten miles to the north. She claimed to be a widow, but my Grandmother told me about the sin-infested town just to the north, and how he was drawn there, as if it emitted a powerful pheromone that activated some primal, instinctual urge in him.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that Fort Smith was “wet”, and Hackett was “dry”. Liquor laws are strange in Arkansas, with a “local option” rule. That means, even though Sebastian County is “dry”, Fort Smith voted to be “wet” and so is the Mecca for poor sots who have to have the juice. Sometimes it gets out of hand.

Years ago, a cousin who had been bitten by the bingeing urge ran out of liquor and needed some badly. Unfortunately, Gid was too drunk to drive (not because of legal issues; he simply could not start his car), so started looking for a ride to Fort Smith and back.

He tried to walk from house to house, and for the most part was able to keep his feet, and kept getting back up when the ground rose up to smite him. But everyone was either not at home (Gid had the misfortune to time his requests with Wednesday night prayer meeting) or, for the heathen Methodists, were not interested in taking him anywhere.

He was giving up and started to go home, since he remembered his bottle of Dr. Tischnor’s mouthwash (around 80% specially denatured alcohol) when his salvation drove by. It was a taxi! Gid had some disability money in his pocket, so this was his lucky evening. He hailed the taxi, and it stopped for him.

Now, a taxi in Hackett was a rare thing, except for the mail van that traveled back and forth from Fort Smith every day, and took paying passengers. I think that this was fairly common back in the innocent days, before anthrax mail and despotic Federal control, but the van had come back from Fort Smith and would not go again until the next morning. We still had Sunday mail then, but only at the Post Office. So much for service these days.

Back in those days, cab drivers wore a uniform of sorts, with a tie and a cap. This gave them a certain air of authority, and it was within the rights of a driver to stop and put you out of the car if you were offensive. This driver fit the bill, and Gid offered him two dollars to take him to Fort Smith, to Angler’s Liquor specifically, since it was the one nearest Hackett, and back. The driver said fine, and Gid got in the back of the car.

In those days, gasoline cost 19.9 cents a gallon, and the driver was doing OK since the three gallons of gasoline would cost only about 60 cents, with the driver pocketing the difference. $1.40 was a substantial bit of money then, especially for a cab driver.

So off they went. Gid was, well, Gid, being blasphemous and telling dirty and nonintelligible jokes to the driver. They made it over Backbone Mountain (actually, a hill, but with hairpin curves), then Brook Stevens Mountain (the same, with bad curves as well) and approached the sinful city of Fort Smith. Gid told the driver where he wanted to go, but the driver did not know how to get there. Actually, it was impossible to miss Angler’s because it was on the straight shot to town.

The taxi driver told Gid that he thought that he knew a better way there, and Gid of course said OK, since he was waiting to get his nectar, in the form of Mogan David 20/20. Gid was impaired, but he knew that, including the two dollars for the ride, he had enough money to enter Paradise in the form of at least three bottles of Mad Dog. So they continued their ride, turning right on Wheeler Avenue.

Gid was getting a bit worked up, since they had passed at least two liquor stores that were open (in wet Arkansas areas, seven AM to one in the morning, except for Saturday, at midnight. Can’t sell alcohol on Sunday or on Christmas Day in Arkansas). He told the driver, just stop at any of them, I don’t care.

The driver countered with the fact that Gid had contracted for him to take him to Angler’s, and if they stopped anywhere else, it would cost another dollar. Well, Gid wanted to spend his dollars on the juice, so he agreed, but expressed that this was taking longer than anticipated, and three bottles might not get him back to where he wanted to be.

The driver told him, deadpan, that they were almost there, and pulled into the front of a very formidable looking building. Gid, who had spent quite a bit of time there, cried, “Hell, this is the Sheriff’s Office! You’ll get us both arrested!”

The driver opened the back door, cuffed Gid, and led him to the drunk tank. How easy it is to mistake one thing for another. The lights and siren looked just like a cab sign, and the uniform and hat looked just like one that a driver, or a Deputy, would wear.

Gid got out pretty fast, since he had not hurt anyone. But he always avoided taxis for the rest of his life. He finally drew his last breath at home years later, having not injured anyone, except himself, driving. He never discontinued his quest for Nirvana, but he never found it, either.

Well, that is the report from Hackett, Arkansas, where all of the women are ugly, all of the men are smelly, and all of the children are below average, including me.

Tags: Childhood stories, Humor, My life
Posted in Diaries |