Robert Tacoma
Possum Surprise
2009, EN
Possum Row is a small Texas town unlike any other, where the lowly possum is king, cows are widely ignored, farmers have their own religion, and lawyers are afraid to set foot inside the city limits. But everyone in town loves a party, and everyone loves Doc Seymore, so Taco Bob and his possum ranchers set out to throw Doc the biggest party the area has ever seen. But first they have to save the town from the greatest threat to small business in this country since the 1930s which, it just so happens, is where the town and its ornery residents seem be stuck anyway.
Table of contents
Possum Surprise
1: “That was some doggone fine barbeque!”
2: The Row
3: Nightfall
4: Doc Seymour
5: Plans
6: Full Night
7: Ideas
8: The Texas Lottery
9: Dawn
10: The Tournament
11: The Gang
12: Dot
13: It’s a Predatory Universe
14: Back at the Ranch
15: Roadside Blues
16: Dust
17: Badlands
18: Down on the Ranch
19: The Dusty Slug
20: The Trap
21: Possum Surprise
22: Doc
23: Hazel’s Homecoming
24: Cowmore
25: Inspection
26: Hollywood
27: Town
28: Back at the Ranch
29: Hazel’s Doozy
30: Dot
31: Doc
32: Party Plans
33: Kracker
34: Janie
35: Pedro
36: Get Ready
37: Get Set
38: Possum Parade
39: Mayor
40: Possum Gras
41: Kracker
42: Chef
43: Nurse Monia
44: Judges
45: The Only Lawyer in Possum Row
46: Ride
47: Buck
48
∨ Possum Surprise ∧
Possum Surprise
Possum Row, just outside Armadillo, Texas, is a key, a clue, a laugh, and a dream. Possum Row is a tumbleweed of imagination bouncing along the hard landscape of reality.
The community of Possum Row itself is held together by hard work, friendship, duct tape, wire fence, spit, grit, and a common distrust of the government. Its hardscrabble inhabitants range from the emotionally and morally destitute to the merely eccentric. Most shun the glitter and flash of the big city and are content with the simple pleasures in life, often because they can’t afford much else – except, of course, beer and lottery tickets.
♦
Armadillo isn’t hard to find. It’s located in the Texas Badlands just upwind from the Mexican border, a few hours’ burro ride from the small town of Brownspot, said by some to be the southernmost point in the US.
♦
Brownspot is just a stone’s throw south of Brownsville – a popular destination for Mid-Western vacationers and Atlantic hurricanes.
∨ Possum Surprise ∧
1
“That was some doggone fine barbeque!”
You could hear them coming before you could see them: six weary possum wranglers on horseback followed by an ATV driven by what appeared to be a circus giant. Each man was covered with dust and several gave a quick wave as they passed the main house of one of the last remaining Texas possum ranches.
It was the crack of dawn, and the ranch boss Taco Bob was already back, sitting on the front porch of the big house. He had his feet up and was watching his men come in while stealing glances at a full whiskey bottle close by. It had been another long, hard night and they were all, to the last man, worn out and thirsty – and hungry as bears.
Taco Bob always said that getting your boots off after a full night of possum ranching, getting cleaned up, then putting bare feet in something warm and fluffy was his idea of living the fine life. So, while the men headed for the washhouse, he wiggled his toes contentedly in fleece moccasins and came to a decision. He wasn’t usually one to do much liquor drinking before full sunrise, but it was Saturday, so he said, “What the hell,” and poured himself a short one.
The clouds hanging over the eastern hills slowly turned pink while Taco Bob sipped from the heavy glass and listened for Hop’s call to breakfast.
His foreman, One-Eyed Pete, had said earlier on the walkie-talkie he’d hit a dog on the way back from taking Hop into town to the food and liquor store. The van came out of the encounter a lot off better than the hound.
Hop Chong’s reputation as an outstanding cook, and having a recipe for about everything, had the ranch hands anxious about what sort of repast the ranch’s dedicated and hard working cook had put together this time.
After getting their horses squared away, the boys washed up quick, then joined their boss on the porch.
It didn’t take much on Taco Bob’s part to convince the ranch crew to join him in a little drink while they waited for that call to come to the table. There’s not much that’ll put an appetite on a man like a full night of possum ranching and a sip of whiskey, so a small stampede broke out when the dinner bell started clanging.
The main entrée of the morning turned out to be Manchurian Barbecue, served with gator tail soup, possum loaf, sweet potatoes, collards, ford hooks, rice, biscuits, and squirrel pie. Hop stood there like a proud mother hen looking over the hungry ranchers going at it. He encouraged the boys to eat up and kept bringing out more platters and pots of food.
“White Devils, eat up! Plenty more!”
Though not generally ones to cotton to being called names, the assembled ranchers tended to let slide any kind of verbal abuse from the diminutive Asian man for several reasons. One, he did that with everyone; two, he was a fine cook and took good care of the men; reason number three had to do with the man’s short temper and the long knife he always carried down inside his apron.
Over the dinner-table sounds, and numerous brief but sincere compliments to the chef, the men heard a car pull up outside. As owner of the possum ranch, Taco Bob took it upon himself to get up and take a look-see. Being so far from town, they didn’t get much company.
Out front sat a county-mounty police car. There’s not much that’ll get your ass to clench up like ‘The Man’ pulling up outside your door; and a couple of the boys were looking a mite nervous when they heard the news. Taco Bob told everyone to be cool, since it looked like it was just old hard-ass John Raddick who lived down the road.
There’s some folks that being in a position of authority like law enforcement tends to bring out the unpleasant side of their personality. This was Deputy John all over.
Up the steps came the deputy, still talking secret code cop-talk into his radio as he banged on the screen door. Taco Bob yelled at him to bring it on in. The big man came in the kitchen decked out in his fancy cop outfit and hitching at a squeaky black leather belt with all kinds of guns and radios and whatnot hanging off it. He looked down at the rough-looking possum ranchers sitting there enjoying all that delicious food and tipped his hat a little.
“How y’all doing?”
Hop gave the man a big smile and headed for the kitchen while the men each mumbled something about doing fine – and not a one missed a beat enjoying all that excellent chow.
Hop brought out a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels, and Taco Bob helped himself to another portion of that meat-just-falling-off-the-bone barbecue. He had a good idea already, but aimed a questioning look at the deputy while gnawing on a bone and getting barbecue sauce all over his face.
“So, Deputy John, wh
at brings you down here to our humble abode this fine morning?”
The Instrument of the Law had gotten so caught up in watching the men working on all that mouth-watering cuisine that he had to think about it a second. He cleared his throat and adjusted his belt, which set it to squeaking again.
“My dog Rex has come up missing. I was just wondering if any y’all seen him around?”
There’s a special kind of snort a man makes when trying to suppress a laugh. Several of these floated up from around the table. Deputy John got a squinty look in his eye. Taco Bob managed to keep a straight face.
“You mean that big ol’ mean dog of yours that’s all the time coming down here and digging under the fence and killing my possums?” Taco Bob said this while holding a big piece of barbecue and shaking it for emphasis.
A couple more muffled snorts escaped from the table and the deputy got a little red in the face. The big man’s tone of voice changed for the worse when he inquired as to the nature of their merriment and insinuated a possible sexual relationship between the assembled possum ranchers and their own mothers.
It got real quiet then. Possum ranchers might be a bit rough around the edges, and do tend to get a little out of hand at times, but they sure don’t stand for any bad talk about their mothers. Things suddenly got mighty tense. The room was so filled with tense you could almost cut it with a knife. Hop stood in the doorway with one hand in his apron looking ready to do just that.
But Taco Bob, the silver-tongued and vengeful orator that he sometimes is, took a shot at getting everyone to calm down and make nice.
“Now, I’m sure Officer John here didn’t mean any of that, did you?”
“I sure – ”
“See there? And anyway, what with the rigors of keeping the peace in the least populated part of the state, and then worrying about a run-off dog, any man’s bound to get a touch out of sorts. I got an idea.” The head possum rancher gestured to the various aromatic platters of serious cooking still on the table. “We got plenty, sit yourself on down and get some grease on your chin. Maybe a short one to cut the dust and a bite to eat will help you unwind.”
Room was made at the table and Hop brought out a plate. They all stayed real polite and watched while Deputy John worked on a double helping of Manchurian Barbecue. Sometime during the demise of the next bottle of whisky a warm camaraderie began to spread itself around the table. Jokes were told and glasses tipped back. Then the deputy dropped a bomb.
“Y’all know Doc is leaving town, don’t ya?” Everyone stopped what they were doing. Doc was a good friend to Taco Bob and the boys and everyone in town knew it, including the deputy. “Seen a ‘For Sale’ sign up at his place in town yesterday.”
One-Eyed Pete took it. “That sign’s been there for a while. Doc might be moving to a bigger place.”
Every man at the table noticed the mean little smirk the deputy came up with as he was scraping more barbeque onto his plate.
“Oh, I thought maybe he was leaving town.”
Though they were pretty sure Doc would never move out of Possum Row, this was still a mite unsettling for the possum ranchers to hear. A sprout of concern began to take root in the men’s minds.
Everyone’s attention eventually returned to eating and drinking. At one point the ranch hand named Mumbles gave the deputy a friendly slap on the back on his way to the outhouse. It was heartwarming for the men to see this since Mumbles had been known to harbor some hard feeling towards law enforcement. Taco Bob thought he heard a faint jingle of keys as the screen door slammed.
While their guest made a pig of himself on the barbecue, the possum ranchers finished off their meal with slices of pie until every man was full as a tick. They leaned back in their chairs with toothpicks and drinks and showered praise on the cook for another outstanding feast.
Never one to miss a trick, Hop made sure that when Deputy John left he had a ‘doggie bag’ of barbecue to take with him for lunch the next day.
♦
For a while after that, any kind of dog joke was real popular around the ranch. Deputy Raddick was seen driving by out on the road a few times looking for Rex the Wonder Dog. The possum ranchers made sure to smile and wave, and a couple of the boys rubbed their bellies while waving.
∨ Possum Surprise ∧
2
The Row
On the outskirts of Armadillo quietly sits the unassuming community of Possum Row. The Row is just a few old buildings, some dirt roads, and a breed of folks not particularly concerned about keeping up with the rest of the world.
The long-time residents are mostly work-hardened families who don’t mind strangers, but don’t like change, and a collection of ornery hermits who don’t like either. The pace of life tends to be slow, since most folks are either smart enough to realize what a slower pace does for your ability to enjoy life, or else so lazy as to be permanently stuck in low gear.
For years the social and economic cornerstone of Possum Row has been Pedro’s Fine Liquors and Guns. Though a small store by any comparison, there’s little wasted space. The shelves of the old wood frame building are crammed beyond capacity from floor to ceiling with a wide array of merchandise.
Besides an impressive selection of mind- and mood-altering libations and deadly weapons, one can buy books, groceries, children’s toys, and holiday decorations at Pedro’s. Pedro sees himself as a proprietor of distinction and takes pride in keeping his customers inebriated, armed, entertained, informed, and fed – all while in a festive mood.
There are few things needed for life’s journey not available in the ramshackle old general store, and usually those things can be had just down the street at Humberto’s Easy Nickel, usually referred to as Hummer’s.
Humberto, a humble man whom fate hadn’t troubled with looks, charm, or high intelligence, did, however, possess some inherent fundamental business savvy. His path in business might have been less certain if he hadn’t been amply blessed with many sisters from good, strong, mule-plowing stock who took to the world’s oldest profession proudly and enthusiastically.
While Pedro had shifty eyes and only smiled when to his advantage, Hummy always had a sleepy look and a lopsided smile, like one perpetually stoned. A popular story around town had him taking a large dose of mescaline once, then falling asleep. He supposedly woke in full hallucination on the roof of a moving train in a violent thunderstorm. He was never the same.
Over time Humberto had developed the traditional girth and, unlike Pedro, a mean streak he didn’t try to hide. But the two businessmen smiled and greeted each other warmly on any chance meeting, even though each instinctively mistrusted the other.
♦
It was not uncommon to see the front door of Pedro’s store propped open with a rifle, and Pedro himself propped against the doorframe. The storekeeper was hard to miss. Not a tall man, but big and dark with a drooping mustache and the stature of one not afraid of large quantities of traditional Mexican food. He often wore a sombrero, which accented the twin bandoliers he wore across his chest and the large pearl-handled pistols on each hip. The man had the ‘bandit’ look down pat, and not by accident.
Pancho Villa had been the shopkeeper’s idol since he was a kid. His grandfather had often told tales of the infamous banditos from their own family tree who’d ridden the untamed land of his native Mexico.
As a teenager Pedro had been a wild one – his sights set on a career in carousing. But his father sent him away to school. He returned seven years later with a different outlook on things. Life as a small-town merchant after taking over the family business seemed considerably more appealing than it had when he left. Three years at UNLV with a major in mathematical probability and a minor in casino fraud, followed by four years at San Quentin making license plates and cleaning toilets, can change a man.
Not long after opening the store for another day and getting himself positioned at his usual place in the doorway, Pedro rolled out one of his better attempts at a sin
cere smile.
“Hola, Taco Bob! How you doing today?” Pedro motioned for one of his favorite customers to come inside.
“Morning, Ped. I’m parked around back. I gave your man my feed order.”
“Excellent! Anything else for you today?”
The shopkeeper followed Taco Bob into the store and took up his station behind the cash register. Taco Bob looked toward the books.
“Did those new crossword books come in?”
“Ah, sorry, señor. Your man, Mumbles, he got the last two yesterday.”
“He did?” This was some news for Taco Bob, since he suspected none of his ranch hands had any money so close to payday. And though Pedro was known to extend a little credit from time to time, Taco Bob knew for a fact that Mumbles had been on a cash-only basis for a considerable while. “Mumbles had money?” Then again, maybe the wrangler had gotten some from his infamous cousin, the darkest of a whole family of black sheep.
But Pedro was smiling the widest of his wide selection of devious merchant grins.
“No, mi amigo, he trade some nice bullets.” A sausage-like finger pointed to a box of .357 magnum Police Specials in the display case. While Taco Bob was busy working over this turn of events, Doc Seymour came in from across the street – totally preoccupied, as usual.
A large but fit man, Doc’s goatee was losing ground to gray. He was prone to wearing shorts and sport coats with patches on the elbows, giving him the look of an eccentric professor. He walked up to the register.
“Pedro, I need a few things. Here’s a list.”
While Pedro busied himself filling bags, Doc wandered the store studying his worn pocket-journal. He looked up and noticed the possum rancher gazing forlornly at the empty crossword puzzle bookshelf.
“Morning, Taco. Someone clean out the puzzles on you?”
“Morning, Doc. Yeah, sure did. I reckon I’ll live, though I sure was looking forward to some ponderous wordplay.”
“Stop by the lab tomorrow, I’m pretty sure I saw a nearly new crossword book when I was looking for something the other day.”
Possum Surprise Page 1
