Possum Surprise

by Robert Tacoma

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  32

  Party Plans

  “All right, men. Since we’re all a lot more sober this morning than yesterday morning, I reckon we can go over this list before I head into town in a while to talk to the Gras committee.”

  Everyone had gathered on the porch after breakfast, including Skunk. While everyone else worked the possum herds during the night, Skunk slept in his truck with his feet sticking out the window. He would have likely still been asleep if Mumbles hadn’t set fire to one of his shoes an hour earlier.

  The Possum Gras had been the main topic of conversation since Hazel’s doozy the day before, and several of the men lounging around the front porch had ideas of their own to contribute. Taco Bob leaned back in his rocker and looked over the list written on a yellow pad.

  “I got some of the things usually going on at the parade and Gras wrote out here. Hazel told me last night maybe we should have a special float for Doc.” Everyone nodded agreement. “Hazel, you got any more ideas before I open the floor for suggestions?”

  “I reckon not, boss. I think I’m about give out of ideas for a while.” Hazel did look a little drained. Horse gave the man a comforting pat on the back while Taco Bob continued.

  “That’s fine, Haze. You deserve a break. I made a couple of phone calls yesterday afternoon to other folks on the committee. The fellas liked the idea of moving the Gras up a little and having it at Doc’s. I imagine the parade should have the usual stuff like the Armadillo Elementary School Screaming Pocket Gophers Marching Band, the banker’s float, the possum float, Horse here will be doing his usual thing, the Possum Row fire truck if they can get it running, and the cattleman’s float, to name a few.”

  Mumbles stood growling and with his fists clenched. Skunk took the cue and did likewise. Taco Bob shook his head sadly.

  “Mumbles, you just got to let it go. Kracker can’t help it if he’s a greedy asshole.”

  “Mn? Mnhn mm nn!”

  “Okay, maybe he can. But with somebody like that, I’m thinking we should give it a little more time for things to work out on their own. A person with that much meanness might self-destruct, eventually.”

  Mumbles and Skunk didn’t look too convinced, but both grudgingly sat back down. Taco Bob went back to his notes.

  “We need us a theme for the Possum Float. Any ideas?”

  Everyone gave this some hard thought. Jones spoke up first.

  “How about something that has to do with good-looking women? Like a ‘Possum Ranchers Do It All Night Long’ kinda thing? We could get a bunch of really sexy women in bikinis smiling and waving and wiggling around and throwing money to the crowd along the street!”

  “Not bad, but I think between the bankers, dentists, and dermatologists, ‘most all the good looking women from around here will be hired on to their floats again this year. We need to try to keep the cost down anyway.”

  Horse looked like he was about to explode.

  “How about ‘We Recycle’? Folks is into that kinda thing nowadays.”

  “That ain’t bad.” Taco Bob made a note. “Anybody else?”

  Jones was up again.

  “What about Hummer’s? They going to have a float in the parade? Already got plenty of girls. Maybe they could give out some free samples?”

  This got everyone’s attention. Taco Bob had to think about it a bit, but something came to him.

  “Maybe they could throw some discount coupons to the crowd?”

  Pete picked up on it.

  “You mean like twenty-percent-off coupons for their Happy Ending Massage?”

  Taco Bob wrote it down. Skunk had an idea.

  “How about Trapper Tom? That ol’ coot is always showing up anyway with some kinda weird critters an scaring folks. Put him inna parade at least you could keep an eye on him.”

  Taco Bob nodded and wrote it down.

  “One of the fellas on the committee I talked to on the phone said there’s a chance the Brownsville Ass-Riders Club might make it this year. They got all those donkeys, mules, burros, and jack asses they dress up like little cars for parades.” Taco Bob checked his notes. “Remember the Shiners had those little cars last year, all made up like burros and donkeys and such? Imagine they’ll be there again.”

  Skunk was nodding and agreeing. “Yeah, them fellas live for that shit. They hang out in lodges all year drinking and planning how to drive their little cars all squirrelly down the street.”

  Jones had a question.

  “How about them farmers? They going to be driving all kinds of tractors an’ such?”

  Taco Bob took it. “I reckon – mostly pulling floats. Last year they had some lawn tractors, maybe they could have a lawn tractor race after the parade.” He made another note on his pad.

  “I got an idea boss.” Horse took his pet possum out of his overalls pocket and held it up. “How about a possum talent contest at the party?”

  “Now, Horse. You know Roscoe’s the most talented possum around. Wouldn’t be much of a contest would it?”

  Horse just grinned and gave his pet marsupial a few squeezes – just enough for the little possum to fart out the first few notes to Freebird. Taco Bob once again consulted his notes.

  “Speaking of the party – besides maybe having lawn-tractor races, there should be the usual things like an arm-wrestling contest, peeing contest, nose-picking contest, and the Willie Nelson look-a-like contest, though I doubt they’ll let Skunk enter that one this year after what happened last year.”

  “That was rigged! I swear I ain’t never had roaches in my hair before that day!” A snort-laugh got away from Mumbles. “Did you do that? You sneaky bastard!”

  Mumbles ran only a few steps into the front yard before Skunk caught him. While they wrestled in the dirt, Taco Bob continued reading from his list.

  “Of course, we’ll have some games and rides set up for the young ‘uns, plus possum races, the possum beauty contest, and then there’s the thing everybody likes best, the thing that has the biggest cash prize and most prestige – the cooking contest.”

  Several stomachs growled audibly, and Hop appeared at the doorway. The culinary master dropped a hand into his apron and came up with a small container of possum surprise.

  Hop sported a menacing smile and a chuckle right out of a scary movie.

  “I leady to go. Let’s wok!”

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  33

  Kracker

  Buck really liked the way the engine in his new truck growled when he kicked it in the ass. Sure, the big Hemi engine used a lot of gas, but hey, he could afford it. Besides, as owner of the biggest cattle ranch in the area, he needed to make a statement whenever passing through Possum Row. Driving a truck with a fuel bill big enough to feed half the hungry children in a small country was part of that statement.

  “Damn shitkickers! Get outta the way!”

  Buck romped down on the gas and the big pickup roared around an old stake-body truck carrying a load of possums through town. Ever since the state inspector had determined there wasn’t any Mad Possum Disease the damned possum ranchers were getting in his way again. The way Buck figured it, if someone ran all the possum ranchers out of business, it would make things better for the town – get the streets cleared so cattle trucks and other important vehicles could get around easier.

  Of course, they’d be doing something about the road soon enough. Four lanes at least. Probably have to tear down a few old buildings to make room. Good. Things would be changing soon enough for this town and the wetbrain hicks living in it.

  Buck whipped the big pickup into a handicapped parking space next to Pedro’s and swaggered inside.

  “Pedro, come on over here an’ take a look at this.”

  Pedro was in deep negotiations with a weathered old Indian over a big bag of some kind of dried plants. The shopkeeper shoved a tin of tobacco and some crumbled bills into the old man’s hands as if to dismiss him. The old I
ndian looked like he might protest, but then gave Buck a strange look and left the store. Pedro was smiling.

  “Señor Kracker! What can I do for you today?”

  Buck was still pondering the look he’d gotten from the old man with skin like tree bark.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Oh, just another crazy Indian. Can I interest you in some fresh Datura?”

  “Does it go with steaks?”

  “Oh, yes, spice steaks right up. You’ll love it!”

  “Okay. Just sell me enough for a few steaks and I’ll give it a try. You put it in the barbeque sauce?”

  “There’s no wrong way for you to use Datura, Señor Kracker.” Pedro lit up a big gold-filled smile as he filled a paper bag.

  “Pedro, I got something here for you to look at.”

  Even though there wasn’t anyone else in the store, Buck looked around anyway.

  “I need me one of these. Actually, it needs to be exactly like this one.” Buck didn’t trust Pedro any further than he could toss a mule, but Pedro was the kind of person he needed to ask about something like this. He took a small jewelry case from his pocket and set it on the counter. Inside was a piece of silk that Buck carefully unfolded to reveal one pearl – one solid black pearl.

  A jeweler’s eyepiece appeared in Pedro’s eye, and Buck dropped the pearl into the shopkeeper’s outstretched hand. The unusual pearl got a very thorough inspection.

  “This is very nice merchandise, Señor. You are wanting to sell it?”

  “Naw. Actually, I’m looking to buy another one like it, exactly like it. That pearl is black as black can be and purty damn rare. I thought a man with your connections might know someone.” Buck let this sink in.

  Pedro frowned, then made a careful measurement with a caliper and took a picture of the pearl on a sheet of white paper next to the cap from a black felt-tip pen.

  “I might know someone, Señor Kracker, let me make a few calls.”

  Pedro gave a big shrug and squinted his eyes, but never took them from the pearl in Buck’s hand.

  ♦

  Buck threw the small paper bag of steak seasoning on the front seat and fired up the big pickup. He hadn’t felt so good in years. Between his investments in South America, bank account in the Caymans, and the cattle ranch outside Possum Row, he was making more money than he could count. Of course, he had everything leveraged to the hilt, but that’s what you had to do these days if you wanted to make the really big money – a concept your typical penny-pinching clodhopper farmer or rancher could never grasp. Buck smiled, knowing this kind of sophisticated thinking is what made him special. And now this sweet deal with the pearl falls in his lap. Buck was on a roll – he stood to make a serious chunk of change off that.

  At the last barbeque for the suits with the limo, the main man had taken him aside and asked for his help – a confidential matter. Turns out the executive had a hot young girlfriend on the side, and the wife at home had found out. Seems the wife had always wanted a set of pearl earrings, but not just any pearls: she wanted earrings made from the rarest and most expensive pearls in the world – Malaysian black pearls. The man hoped the pearl earrings would keep him out of divorce court. The wife had some very explicit pictures taken by a private detective, pictures of a nature that could cost the executive his job, as well as his marriage and most of his money.

  The man had found only one pearl so far, though – the one in the tiny case now sitting on the dashboard of Buck’s truck. The man had practically begged Buck to find another black pearl and said that money was no object.

  While Buck roared down the dusty streets of Possum Row, he picked up the little jewelry box and gave it a kiss. He’d bleed the man for enough money to buy Doc’s place, then flip it for three times the money to the suits. Best part was he’d have to use only enough capital from his Cayman accounts to buy the second pearl. Buck stuffed the box in his jeans pocket.

  “God damn but I like dealing with desperate people. Especially rich, desperate people!”

  Buck swerved the big truck and popped a rabbit sitting alongside the road. He was laughing so hard he didn’t even notice he’d almost hit a little girl as well.

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  34

  Janie

  Janie had been staring intently at a footprint in the sand when the big truck swerved and hit the bush she was sitting behind.

  Grandmother had taught her how to read sand, but Janie knew now it had also been a lesson in patience. She’d spent untold hours, sometimes even days, studying prints not only in sand, also but in clay, mud, and even on rock. Slowly, ever so slowly, the print would change as the grains of sand dried and moved or were blown by the breeze. Janie wondered sometimes if watching like this for hours at a time was part of the reason people thought she was crazy.

  Even in the poor light of dusk Janie knew the print was from the old man as soon as she saw it. She’d just determined the print to be less than an hour old when the truck hit the rabbit and nearly her as well. As the truck’s tire smashed into the bush, she jumped back and twisted her ankle – badly.

  The waves of pain made her cry out as she lay on the ground holding her ankle. She had not been hurt so badly in a long time, and the terrible sting of the injury scared her enough to make her cry. She closed her eyes and cried from the pain, then she cried for Grandmother, then she cried because she was scared and so very tired of being alone.

  When Janie finally rolled over on her back and opened her eyes, it was nearly dark. Her ankle throbbed and she started to cry again from the pain. But her body sensed something. She sat up fast with a rock in her hand ready to throw with every ounce of strength and fierceness she possessed. Three feet in front of her sat the old man.

  “If you will spare me, little hunter, I will try to help you.”

  Janie dropped the rock and starting crying again, but this time her tears were different.

  ∨ Possum Surprise ∧

  35

  Pedro

  Pedrito – Pedro’s recently paroled nephew – sat on the floor behind the counter a few feet from his uncle, but around the corner, where he was sure his uncle couldn’t see him open the bottle of beer he’d just swiped from the cooler. As he slowly, quietly, turned the bottlecap, he heard someone come into the store and his uncle’s voice.

  “Humberto! Que pasa, mi amigo?”

  Pedrito peeked around a display rack of cell phone accessories and mouse traps on the counter and saw the big man walking slowly towards his uncle behind the cash register. Hummer looked depressed. Poor Hummer had looked depressed ever since the rumor about the new whorehouse started.

  “Hey, Ped.” The current only proprietor of a Possum Row cathouse put his hands palms-down on the counter. “I sure could use a beer.”

  Pedro smiled, took two steps to his right, reached behind the counter, and snatched the just-opened bottle of Dos Equis from his nephew.

  “Here, try this. On the house.”

  Hummer grabbed the bottle and downed half in one swallow.

  “Thanks, Ped. The dust, it always makes me thirsty.”

  “Oh, don’t thank me. Pedrito will be happy to pay for it out of his next check.”

  The frowning young man stood up and started to protest, but then dropped his shoulders and slunk into the back room. Pedro yelled after him.

  “Hey! When you get that semi-trailer unloaded, wake up the driver so the next truck can pull in. And leave that damn guitar alone.”

  The door opened and a boy of perhaps twelve came into the store with a grimace, a limp, and a wiggling cloth sack he held at arms length. Without saying a word the boy bought a snakebite kit and limped back out with his sack.

  The two men looked at one another and shrugged.

  Humberto produced an oversized Bowie knife from somewhere in his baggy clothes and started carefully paring at a fingernail.

  “When I think about the person who would buy a place on this very street and ta
ke business away from my poor sisters and myself, well, I just get a little crazy thinking about it, you know?” A tiny trickle of blood came down Hummer’s thumb. He stabbed the knife into the wooden counter, kicked back the second half of his beer, and licked his thumb. Hummer paused, seeming to consider the taste of his own blood before nodding solemnly and announcing, “Anyway, I need a few things: four loaves of French bread, a big jar of pickled possum feet, and an enema bag. No, that pink one on the bottom. Yeah, that one.” Hummer placed the items into a brown paper bag as Pedro brought each one to the counter. The younger man paid for his purchases.

  “What was that big pickup truck I saw leaving here? Was that the man Kracker?” Hummer furrowed his brow for all he was worth. “I am thinking he may be behind this new whorehouse somehow.” Hummer stared at the shopkeeper menacingly as he yanked the big knife out of the counter. Pedro hadn’t seen this side of Humberto in a long time. He let his right hand drop behind the counter to rest on a loaded Uzi.

  “Humberto! Mi amigo! You should smile and be happy, or at least be stoned like usual.” The merchant lit up the kind of smile usually reserved for customers questioning the ancient ‘sell-by’ dates on his canned goods. “In fact, I have some fresh Datura.”

  “Datura? My uncle took just a tiny bit of that once. He didn’t sleep for three days and then tried to eat a bus. After that we never saw him again.”

  “Exactly! Here, take this as a token of my friendship. No charge!”

  Hummer seemed hesitant until he found out it was free. He stuck the small plastic bag in his pocket and hurried out of the store.

  Pedro watched him go and shook his head slowly. Hummer was right not to trust Kracker. Pedro himself had a bad feeling about the man, but he forgot about all that when he remembered the very profitable phone call he needed to make. He opened his wallet and took out the still-crisp fifty-dollar bill with a phone number written on it in pencil. He made the call, then carefully erased the number.