Gump & Company fg-2

by Winston Groom

So that’s what we did.

  Somehow we managed to convince the state Fish an Wildlife Service that our oysters wasn’t gonna be no threat to nobody. We started out movin em from the bay beds to the Gulf in the skiff, but pretty soon we was so busy we had to buy us a barge. An also, the price we got for our oysters went sky high, account of we was the only big-time game in town.

  As the weeks an months went by, we added to our operation by gettin more an more barges, an we had to hire more people to help us in the oysterin bidness.

  Little Forrest also done come up with another idea, an in fact, it was what made us rich.

  “Listen,” he says one day after we brought in a big load of oysters, “I been thinkin—Where is the best place to grow a oyster?”

  “In shit,” I answered.

  “Exactly,” he says. “An where is there the most shit in the whole bay?”

  “Probly by the sewage treatment plant,” I says.

  “Exactly! So here’s what we do, we go out there an plant oysters! Thousands of em—millions. We can use planks or somethin to mature the spat—which is the baby oysters. Set the whole thing up on a regular basis with boats tongin up the new oysters an movin em to our barges out in the Gulf. I’ve even got a idea for a submersible barge, so’s we just take it out an sink it with the polluted oysters, then in a day or so pump it out, an presto, we got a bargeload of pure, fresh oysters!”

  So that is also what we done.

  In a year, we are harvestin more oysters by the sewage treatment plant than the law ought to allow an we have expanded our operation to include a oyster processin plant an shippin section, an we have also got a marketin division, too.

  GUMP & COMPANY is what I have named ourselfs, an we is sellin premium-grade oysters all over the United States of America!

  All this has cheered up Jenny’s mama so, that she become our receptionist. She says she feels “totally rejuvenated” an don’t want to go to the po house no more. She has even bought hersef a new Cadillac convertible that she drives around with the top down, wearin a sleeveless sundress an a bonnet.

  As the months go by, we have got so big I went on a hirin spree. I located Mr. Ivan Bozosky an Mike Mulligan, an put them in charge of the accountin department, figgerin they have learned a lesson durin their terms in jail.

  Ole Slim, from my encyclopedia days, I put in charge of sales, an he has increased our volume by five-hundrit percent! Curtis an Snake, whose football playin days with the Giants an Saints is over, I put in charge of “security.”

  Now, ole Alfred Hopewell, from the new CokeCola bidness, I put him in the position of research an development. His wife, Mrs. Hopewell, whose circumstances have been considerably reduced since the riot in Atlanta, she is now our government liaison director, an let me say this: We ain’t had no problems with the state Fish an Wildlife Service since she got on the job. Ever time she have a meetin with them fellers in her office, I hear her Chinese gong sound, an know that all is well.

  Mister McGivver, from the pig-farmin enterprise, was havin trouble findin a job after the Exxon-Valdez disaster, an so I put him in charge of our oyster barge operations. He has quit drinkin, an none of our barges have had so much as a bump on the bottom, now that he is in control. However, he still enjoys talkin like a pirate, which I figger might help keep his crews in line.

  Ole Colonel North is also havin a bit of trouble of his own, an I give him a job runnin our covert operations department, which is basically makin sure that our oysters come up fresh an pure, an have no taint or stain to em.

  “One day, Gump,” he says, “I am gonna run for the U.S. Senate, an show them bastids what common decency is all about.”

  “Right, Colonel,” I tell him, “but meantime, just keep our oysters’ noses clean down here—You know what I mean?”

  I was gonna try to hire the Ayatolja to run our moral an spiritual relations department, but he gone an died, an so I got the Reverend Jim Bakker for the job. He is doin pretty good, blessin all our boats an barges an everthin, but his wife, Tammy Faye, don’t get along so good with Mrs. Hopewell an her Chinese gong, an so I am gonna have to do somethin about that.

  As crew for our harvestin an processin operations, I have got the entire staff from Reverend Bakker’s Holy Land: Moses from the “Burnin Bush,” Jonah from the whale scene, Jacob an his “Coat of Many Colors,” an all of Pharaoh’s Army are now our oyster shuckers. Also, I have got the feller that played Jesus in the “Ascendin into Heaven” act an Daniel with his lion from the “Lion’s Den” attraction, thowin out oyster spat in our maritime farmin bidness. The lion, who has gotten kinda ole an moldy, he just sets outside the door to my office, an lets out a roar sometimes. He has lost most of his teeth by now, but has developed a taste for oysters on the half shell, which I spose is all to the good.

  Miss Hudgins, from my Ivan Bozosky days, is now our chief shippin dispatcher, an Elaine, from Elaine’s restaurant in New York City, is one of our main customers for Gump & Company farm fresh oysters. The venerable old New York law firm of Dewey, Screwum & Howe represent us in our legal matters, an the prosecutor, Mr. Guguglianti, who has found hissef another job, is a sometimes “adviser” on criminal matters—assumin we have any.

  I have also found jobs for all members of the army football teams in Germany, the Swagmien Sour Krauts an Wiesbaden Wizards, who do various things around the plant. An Eddie, the limo driver from my New York tycoon days, I put in charge of transportation. Furthermore, I have offered jobs to ole Saddamn Hussein an General Scheisskopf, but they both wrote back nice letters sayin they had “other weenies to roast.” Saddamn, however, says he is keepin his “options open,” an may be back in touch later.

  Finally, I hired good ole Sergeant Kranz to be my plant manager, an it is good to see the ole sergeant again, an get his ration of shit.

  But actually, I am savin the best for last. After we become successful, I got up the courage to write to Gretchen. Lo an behole, after a week I got a really beautiful letter back from her, tellin me all about hersef an how she is comin in the university, an the letter is in such good English I can hardly read it.

  “Dearest Forrest,” she writes, “I have missed you every day since you left for the war and was terrified something had happened to you. I even checked through the American Embassy here, and after some research, they told me you were now out of the army and were well. That was all that mattered...”

  Gretchen gone on to say that aside from English, she is workin on a bidness degree an hopes one day to open a restaurant, but that she would sure like to see me. She got her wish. In two weeks she was settin right down in our plant in Bayou La Batre, headin up our international operations division. At night, we’d take long walks along the beach an hole hands like we did in the ole days, an I was finally beginnin to feel sort of happy again. Kinda like I have a purpose in life, but I am takin it slow.

  Meantime, Bubba’s daddy was kinda lookin for a job, so I made him processin supervisor, and let me say this: He rides them oyster shuckers hard.

  An so, here we all are, growin, tongin, bargin, shuckin, processin, cannin, an shippin oysters. An makin money hand over foot! Above my desk I have a quotation that little Forrest has had done up for me. It is solid gold on a face of black velvet an is from the ole writer Jonathan Swift, an says: “He Was a Bold Man That First Ate a Oyster,” which is, of course, too true.

  Only problem is, ole Smitty an his crew are not likin our bidness one bit. I even offered em jobs, but Smitty say his people don’t work in no “integrated” positions, an so we are havin sort of a Mexican standoff. Ever so often, somebody will cut our boat lines at night, or put sugar in our gas tanks, or other chickenshit stuff, but I am tryin to take it in stride. After all, we is doin so good, I do not want to blow it by gettin in a personal feud.

  So far, the months is goin by fairly peaceful, when little Forrest one night ast the question, what about ole Wanda?

  “Well,” I says, “I reckon they probly treatin her prett
y good up at the zoo in Washington,” but he ain’t satisfied.

  “Well,” I says, “let us write them a letter an see if they will send her back.”

  So that’s what we did.

  Few months later, there come the reply.

  “The National Zoo does not return animals that rightfully belong to it” was pretty much the gist of it.

  “Well,” little Forrest says, “that don’t seem fair. I mean, after all, we raised her from a piglet, didn’t we?”

  “Yup, I reckon,” I says. “We just lent her to the zoo while I was away with the Ayatolja.”

  Anyway, we went to see Colonel North, who was operatin out of a guardhouse he had built on our grounds, an tole him the situation.

  “Them bastids,” he began, employin his usual tact an diplomacy. “Then we will just have to organize a clandestin operation to get Wanda back.”

  An we did that, too.

  Colonel North spent months preparin for the clandestin operation. He has bought all sorts of camouflage clothes, an greasepaint for our faces, an scalin wire an hacksaws an knives an compasses an stuff. When I ast him what the plan is, he says we will figger it out when we get there.

  The day finally come when we get to Washington, an we went out near the zoo an hid out in a park till nighttime. By midnight, all we can hear from the zoo is the bears an lions an tigers growlin an an occasional bellow from the elephant.

  “Arright, it’s time to saddle up,” says Colonel North, an the three of us begin to sneak into the zoo. We have just gone over the wall when all of a sudden seemed like ever light in the place come on, an sirens go off an bells clang, an in no time, we is surrounded by about fifty police.

  “I thought you was sposed to be a expert at this sort of thing,” I says to the colonel.

  “Yeah, I thought I was, too,” he says. “Maybe I’m just a little rusty.”

  Anyhow, the colonel, he tries to get us out of it by tellin the police we is spies practicin for a top secret clandestin operation in the Iraqi zoo in Baghdad, so’s as to capture some of Saddamn Hussein’s animals an hole them hostage, an a bunch of other shit like that. The head policeman an everbody else begun laughin so hard that it give little Forrest time to slip away in the confusion. Finally, they was loadin us up in the paddy wagon, when a shout broke out in the night, follered by a oink.

  It was little Forrest an Wanda, who he had hacksawed out of her cage. They run by us so fast that the policeman drop everthin an go chasin after, which also gives me an the colonel a chance to escape. The police, I guess, do not know that one of the few things little Forrest inherited from me is my speed, an he gone sailin into the night like a bat out of hell. Colonel an me take off in the opposite direction, an finally we meet up at our secret hideout in the park, as we have agreed to do. Little Forrest an Wanda is already there. “Goddamn, Gump!” shouts the colonel, “we done pulled it off! That was a brilliant clandestin operation on my part, huh?”

  “Yeah, Colonel,” I says, “you was slicker than owl shit.”

  Anyway, we sneaked out of the park an down by the railroad tracks just about sunup, an lo an behole, they is a boxcar there on a sidin filled with pigs.

  “This is great,” says the colonel. “What could be a better disguise than to hide in there?”

  “For Wanda, maybe,” I says. “I ain’t sure about us.”

  “Well, Gump, it’s the only game in town. Climb aboard,” he says.

  So that’s what we did, an let me say this: It was a long an uncomfortable ride home—especially since the boxcar was headed out to Oregon, but somehow we made it, an the colonel, he is pattin hissef on the back the whole way.

  Anyhow, we got on home with Wanda, an little Forrest seems happy as he can be, now he has his pet back. Ever day, ole Wanda sets outside my office door, across from the lion, which, fortunately for Wanda I guess, ain’t got no teeth. But he looks at her all the time in a kinda longin manner, sorta as if he wanted to marry her, or somethin.

  One day, little Forrest comes up an wants to talk. We gone out to the dock, an he says what’s on his mind.

  “Listen,” he says, “we been workin pretty hard here lately, haven’t we?”

  “Yup.”

  “So I was thinkin, maybe it’s time for a vacation.”

  “What you got in mind?”

  “Well, maybe we can get away from this bay, ya know? Maybe go up to the mountains. Maybe go river raftin, or somethin, huh?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I says. “You got some particular place you want to go?”

  “I been studin up,” he says, “an they is a place in Arkansas that looks pretty good.”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “It’s called the Whitewash River,” he says.

  So that’s what we did.

  Before we left, I took ole Sergeant Kranz aside an gave him his instructions as plant manager.

  “Just keep things movin,” I says, “an try not to get into any shit with Smitty or any of his people. We got a bidness to run, okay?”

  “Sure, Gump,” he says. “An I meant to tell you, I sure appreciate the opportunity here, ya know? I mean, my retirement from this man’s army after thirty years wadn’t somethin I was lookin forward to. An now you give me my first real job. I just want to say thanks.”

  “It’s okay, Sergeant,” I tole him. “You doin a fine job. It’s good havin you around. After all, we been together more or less since them days in Vietnam, with Bubba an them, an that’s been more than half my life ago.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s so, I guess. War or peace, I guess I can’t get rid of you, can I, Gump?”

  “Let’s just hope they ain’t no more wars to fight, Sergeant,” I says. But in fact, they was one more, though I didn’t know it at the time.

  In any case, little Forrest an me, we got packed up to go to Arkansas an the Whitewash River. Ever since we got in the oyster processin bidness, little Forrest an me have had a sort of uneasy truce. I mean, he is on his best behavior, an has saved me from mysef an my own stupidity more than once. He is vice-president an chief executive officer of Gump & Company, but in truth, he really runs the bidness, cause I certainly ain’t got the brains to.

  Well, it is a cool spring day when me an little Forrest get up to the Whitewash River. We hired ourselfs a canoe an packed it with pork n beans an Vienna sausages an cheeses an bologna an bread for sambwiches, an off we went.

  The Whitewash River is very beautiful, an all the way down it, little Forrest is explainin to me the geologic history of the area, which you can see cut into the riverbanks from time to time. Like he says, it is to be seen in fossils—like me, I guess. We are close to the beginnin of the famous Smackover Formation, he says, which is where all the awl in the whole southeastern United States comes from.

  At night we’d camp out on the banks of the river an build a little fire from driftwood an set around an cook our pork n beans an eat our supper, an I am thinkin that this is the first vacation I have ever had. Little Forrest is pretty cheery, an I am hopin me an him can get along better as the days go by. I sure am proud of the way he has growed up an taken charge of so much stuff at the Gump & Company oyster plant, but I am also worried that he is growin up too fast. I mean, I wonder if he has ever had a real boyhood, an got to play football an stuff like I did. I ast him about it, but he says it don’t matter.

  One night he give me a big surprise. He reaches in his knapsack an pulls out a ole harmonica, which in fact is the one I have kep all these years when I played it over in Vietnam an later with Jenny’s band, The Cracked Eggs. To my amazement, he done begun to play some of the ole tunes, an he played em sweeter an prettier than I ever could of. I ast him how he learned to play the thing, an he just says, “Natural instinct, I guess.”

  We is almost finished with our trip down the river when I seen a feller on the banks hollerin an wavin at us an motionin to come over. So that’s what we did. We pulled in at the bank, an he come on down an grap our bow line.

  “Hi,
” he says. “You fellers new in these parts?”

  We tole him we was from Mobile, Alabama, an that we was just passin through, but he says we gotta come up an look at some property he is tryin to sell on the river. He says it is the best property in the whole state of Arkansas, an will give it to us real cheap.

  Now, I tole him we was not in the property buyin bidness just yet, but he is so persistent that I figgered it wouldn’t hurt to foller him to his property, so as not to hurt his feelins. Well, when we got there, I gotta admit, I was somewhat disappointed. I mean, it was nice land an all, but they was a lot of sort of shabby buildins aroun, an people with car gardens an rubber tires in they yards, painted white. It kinda looked like a place I might of lived in mysef—at least till a year or so ago.

  Anyhow, he says to just call him Bill, an not to worry about how the “outstructures” looked, account of in a week or so they would all be torn down an replaced by million-dollar houses, an so if we signed up now, we would be the first to get in on this good deal.

  “Let me tell you fellers somethin,” Bill says, “I am a politician in these parts, but politician don’t pay enough, an so I have made the investment of my lifetime in the Whitewash River enterprise, an I guarantee it can’t bring none of us nothin but satisfaction and success. You know what I mean?”

  Well, ole Bill looked like sort of a nice guy. I mean, he seemed pretty genuine an had a husky down-to-earth voice, white woolly hair, a big ole reddish nose look like Santa Claus’s, an a nice laugh—an he even introduced us to his wife, Hillary, who come out of a trailer wearin a granny dress an a hairdo look like a Beatle wig an brung us some Kool-Aid.

  “Listen,” Bill says in almost a whisper, “I ain’t sposed to say anythin to anybody about this, but the truth is, this Whitewash River property is right over the Smackover Awl Formation, an even if you don’t build you a house here, if you buy it now, afore anybody else finds out, you will be millionaires a hundrit times over, account of the awl.”

  Just about then, a ole feller shows up on the scene, an when I seen him, I like to of fainted dead away.