The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 3

by Donald Harington

  That night he took pains to see how the Goodfeller family was taking in the show, all open-mouthed and flabbergasted. He told Sharline to give each of them a snow cone on the house. She was doing a brisk business with the snow cones; in fact, she used up all of Arlis’ ice, and he’d just have to wait until the mail truck came the next morning to replenish his supply.

  Except for the Goodfeller family and several others, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” seemed to be a disappointment to many members of the audience, and was not what any of them had expected, with only one horse and no six-shooters. But there was plenty of comedy for those who weren’t interested in all the romance, and nearly everybody who stayed long enough to see the whole thing laughed their heads off over all of the Pyramus and Thisbe stuff.

  There was a lot of problems with smoke and bugs, both on account of the absence of any breeze. The wind died down and hardly stirred for the duration of the show, and all the men and boys who puffed cigarettes left the air full of clouds of smoke that dulled the projection but contributed to the magic of all the fairy scenes. The smoke wasn’t thick enough to drive away the bugs—even the lightning bugs swarmed in unusual numbers, and the moths who were attracted to the light from the projector were flitting all over the place. As far as presentation was concerned, it was hardly fit to be seen. And quite a few folks left after enduring an hour or an hour and a half of the show, but not many of them asked for a refund. When the show was over, Goodfeller asked Hoppy if it would be okay if they just spent the night at their wagon parked alongside Hoppy’s because it was too far and dark to head back. Hoppy told them to make themselves at home, and then he asked Goodfeller what he’d thought of the show.

  “Hit were a marvel beyond compare,” Goodfeller said. “After a time, some of my childern went to sleep but Polly and me never blinked. I didn’t keer too much for that critter Puck, who was a-squealing all that jibber-jabber, but Polly said he put her in mind of me!”

  The Goodfeller family camped out in their wagon, and after his wife and kids were settled down, Goodfeller came over to Topper carrying a stoneware demijohn and asked, “Could I interest ye in a little drap of swamp root?” Sharline was showing Arlis how the projector worked, and Arlis was helping her rewind the last reel. Goodfeller’s hooch wasn’t nearly the equal of Chism’s Dew, but Hoppy was all out of the latter so he was glad to share the demijohn with Goodfeller, but he didn’t bother to summon Sharline and Arlis to come and help drink the stuff. They didn’t need any intoxication. It turned out that Goodfeller was from the vicinity of Spunkwater, halfway between here and Stay More, and he even knew some of the folks of Stay More, and had actually sampled some Chism’s Dew on occasion, so they had something to chew the rag about while they imbibed. The liquor had a real kick to it, and Hoppy was almost tempted after a while to offer to show Goodfeller his private “Assortment,” but he didn’t want Arlis to see it. Arlis didn’t need it. And besides it was already getting into the wee hours of the night, and even Hoppy himself, who rarely felt sleepy, had drooping eyelids. So after going through the ritual formalities of saying goodnight to Goodfeller—he had to invite Goodfeller to spend the night and then to decline his counter-invitation to come go home with him to his—he managed to send him off.

  Hoppy climbed up into Topper and there was Sharline and Arlis lying together on the lower bunk. They were fully clothed and they were sound asleep and didn’t even look like they’d been doing anything naughty, but they each had an arm thrown over the other. Hoppy just stood and studied them for a while. He wondered at himself that he felt no urge to kick Arlis’ butt out of there. Maybe it was Goodfeller’s booze which had mellowed him, but he felt no animosity whatsoever toward neither Arlis nor Sharline. He liked them both. If he felt any animosity, it was towards himself, for his many failures and shortcomings in general and his particular failure right now not to feel any resentment of this situation. If Arlis and Sharline had become a pair of lovebirds, maybe Hoppy deserved it. He was such a shithead that he had it coming to him. He watched them for a time, then he stepped down from Topper to smoke one more cigarette before bedtime, and also to take a piss. He noticed then that Goodfeller had left his demijohn behind. Hoppy hefted it and discovered it still had plenty in it, so he helped himself to a few more swallers. Several more swallers, in fact. Then he climbed back up into Topper, and kept on climbing, climbing up into the upper bunk, and if the ceiling hadn’t been in the way he could have kept on climbing right up into the sky.

  When he woke up, it was late morning, and he was alone. The lovebirds had flew the roost. Hoppy had a terrible hangover. He usually never had hangovers, but possibly that was just a tribute to the superiority of Chism’s Dew. The only cure was dog hair, so he had a few more swallers from Goodfeller’s jug. He noticed that the Goodfellers’ wagon was gone, and Goodfeller hadn’t bothered to take his jug with him, so maybe he’d meant it as a gift, a way of saying, “Let this keep you company until you get a chance to come on up home and get you some Chism’s.”

  Hoppy was working on the hair of the third dog when a vision drifted into his view. A pretty lady, not real young but not too old neither, not any older than Hoppy, came walking up to him and said “Hello, sir.” She had a thick book in her hand. She had long wavy blonde hair that was done nice, and a real nice summer dress with flowers printed on it, and he fell for her like a ton of bricks at first sight. He was too surprised to say anything, partly surprised because of how swell she looked but also because she’d said “Hello” instead of “Howdy” or “Good morning” or even “How are things stacking up?” And she’d called him “sir,” which nobody had called him since Carl used to call him that in every other breath. Then the pretty lady said, “I hope I’m not disturbing you. My name is Helen Milsap, and I teach school here. Seventh and eighth grades. I’ve been in the audience of your show twice already, and I expect to watch it again as many times as you keep showing it in this town. I just adore it.” She held up the book she was carrying and opened it at a bookmark. “Did you know that ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ is all printed out in this book, The Collected Works of William Shakespeare? I’ve read it more than once. Of course your picture show doesn’t contain all the words, there simply isn’t room for them, but it has most of the more important ones. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  He was slow understanding her question, and then he said, “Yeah, sure, help yourself, have a seat. Or two.” He realized he wasn’t making too much sense. She sat down, and he realized he was holding in his hand a tumbler of the nearly colorless liquid that came out of the demijohn. He held it up to her and asked, “Would ye care to jine me in a drap or two?”

  The lovely lady sniffed. “Whiskey? I wouldn’t care for any, this time of day, thank you just the same.” She folded her hands in her lap as if to prevent them from accepting a glass. Then she looked around her, and at the open door of Topper, and asked, “Where is your…your assistant, Miss Whitlow?”

  “Damned if I know,” Hoppy said. “That gal has a mind of her own.”

  “Would you like for me to tell you where she is?”

  “How come you to ask me if you already knew?”

  “Just to see if you keep track of her comings and her goings.”

  “Some of her comings I know about, but her goings are a mystery.” Hoppy watched the lady’s face to see if she got the double meaning, but there was only the faintest trace of a smile on the edges of her mouth.

  “Is she just your employee, or is she also your sweetie?”

  “She’s more sour than sweet lately.”

  “Because of my Arlis.”

  “Your Arlis?”

  “Yes.” Pretty Helen crossed her fingers and held them up for his view. “We were just like that…until you came to town. Now he ignores me completely.”

  Hoppy didn’t know what to say. It struck him as mighty peculiar, that ole Arlis would have a lady friend as good-looking, smart and nice as this here Helen, yet still be a-hankering after
Sharline, who was sure cute and all but just not in the same class with this lady. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Why should you be sorry?” she asked. “It’s not your fault…unless you drove her into his arms. Have you been mean to her? Have you failed to satisfy her?” The woman blushed, and stammered, “I mean…that is…I don’t mean—”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Naw, I thought she was fairly happy and satisfied with me. But it’s kind of a long story, and are you sure you don’t want a little bit of this moonshine to soften things up for ye?”

  So the lady relented and allowed him to pour her a glass from Goodfeller’s demijohn. The first sip nearly knocked her out, but the second sip went down easier, and by the third sip she was telling him what a nice feller he was, how he was so much better-looking than Arlis that she couldn’t understand why a sensible gal like Sharline would’ve wanted Arlis in the first place. After a while she asked him if he’d had dinner yet and he said heck, he hadn’t even had breakfast yet, so she jumped up and stirred around and lit the kerosene stove and made what she called an “omelet,” which was a whole lot of eggs and cheese and onions, big enough for both of them to eat, and it was sure mighty fine. They washed it down with more of the Goodfeller. And then spent a couple of hours talking, or rather she did most of the talking and he just listened and kept making sure the moon went on shining into their glasses. Finally as he was pouring the fifth or sixth he said, “You was going to tell me what went with Sharline and Arlis.”

  “Who cares?” she said and gave him doe’s eyes of adoration. And then she reached across the table and took his hand in one of hers. “Oh, I ’spect they’re just over at Arlis’ store. He has to run the store, you know. But there’s a couple of side rooms, you know.” She winked at him.

  “Yeah, yesterday I had to watch the store for him while he and Sharline drove all over the country putting up those posters for the show.”

  “So you know about the side rooms? The one with the stacks of feed bags and flour sacks in it? That’s where I lost my cherry.” Helen got red as a cherry and covered her face, and said, “Oh, will you listen to me! Honey, you’d better not pour me any more of that stuff!”

  But a minute later she shoved her glass out for a refill. Hoppy was tempted to tell her that for her own good she had better go easy on the stuff. But he couldn’t tell her that. He hated himself for not being able to make her stop. He hated himself for various thoughts that were popping into his mind and were immune to his conscience because of Goodfeller’s beverage. When, eventually, he said, “Would you care to see my humble abode?” she was on her feet at once, unsteady and staggering, but on her feet, and he had just a little trouble helping her up the steps of Topper. They both held onto their glasses of booze. He gave her a guided tour of the furnishings and equipment in his one-room house.

  “Two bunks?” she said. “Do you sleep separately?”

  “Some of the time,” he said. He was tempted to tell her that last night he had occupied the top bunk while her boyfriend had shared the lower bunk with his girlfriend, but he had at least enough sense left not to try to explain that. He didn’t have enough sense to keep him from reaching under the lower bunk and pulling out the blanket that was wrapped around his special reel. He removed the blanket from the reel and handed it to her.

  She read the label. “‘Assortment.’ What is this?”

  “It’s a secret pitcher show,” he said. “It’s fifteen minutes or so of real people without their clothes on doing all sorts of wicked things.”

  “Really?” she said, and held the reel close to her eyes as if she could see some of it. “What kind of wicked things?”

  “Sexual,” he said. “Like you never dreamt.”

  She giggled. “You don’t know what-all I’ve dreamt.” And then she pressed the reel and herself against his chest and whispered, “When it gets dark, sometime, will you show this to me?”

  “It don’t have to be dark,” he said. “I can show it right here and now on that wall.”

  “You can? Oh, goody!” She clapped her hands.

  So he fired up the delco and turned the projector to face the alabastine rectangle on the wall, and refocused it, and threaded the reel into it, and started it up. They sat side by side in the same place where her boyfriend and his girlfriend had spent the night. It was kind of hot inside Topper, but who cared? He wondered what might happen if Sharline came back, but who cared? He pretended that he had never seen the Assortment before, and was watching it for the first time through Helen’s eyes, and he was shocked but captivated and amazed and tickled to pieces. Not to mention horny. He had to stop pretending that he was her, because she couldn’t have between her legs what was bursting his fly. She had something there, though, because without even thinking about it she put her hand on it and commencing rubbing it. The pitcher show came to the part about the German shepherd and she gasped and then cried, “How awful!” and then she observed, “But she looks like she’s enjoying it.”

  “I don’t know about her,” he said, “but that ole doggy is having the time of his life.”

  They both laughed. Pretty soon the pitcher show was showing the part where a feller slips his pecker into a gal’s rear end. “Ouch!” said Helen. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t hurt.” Hoppy didn’t try to tell her that it didn’t hurt, because he didn’t know. He could imagine that many of the things in the Assortment which he had never tried were difficult but they all seemed to cause pleasure for both parties concerned…or, in the case of one scene where there were three fellers and a gal, all four parties concerned. In that one, the gal took turns putting the peckers of two fellers on both sides of her into her mouth, one at a time, whilst another feller was doing her in the ordinary way. Hoppy never had much cared for the scenes with multiple partners; he figured it was something to be enjoyed just between two, not three or four. Helen commenced squirming around in her seat, and said, “My stars and body! You’re right, I never dreamt that a gal would take it into her mouth like that! Isn’t that unbelievable? Well for crying out loud!” For as long as the scene lasted, until the gal made all three of the men come, Helen kept on uttering expressions of astonishment. “Well blow me down!” and “As I live and breathe!” and “Can you feature that!” After another scene in which two gals were pleasuring each other with their mouths down below, the reel came to an end, without any Exit Music or Finis or nothing. It was a silent pitcher show. Helen seemed disappointed. “Is that all?” she asked. She tossed off the rest of her glass in a couple of swallows, and Hoppy was obliged to fetch the demijohn. “I surely do wonder,” she declared, “what it would feel like to have a feller’s thing betwixt my lips.”

  He asked her, “Didn’t ole Arlis ever get ye to do that for him?”

  “Never. Does Sharline do that for you?”

  “I aint never asked her.”

  “Well, then,” she said, and commenced fumbling to unbutton the fly of his overalls, “we can cheat on them in a way they haven’t cheated on us.”

  As she began, Hoppy became considerably worried on account of what enjoyment it was giving him. He was afraid that he might want it done again sometime. It really was the best thing that ever happened to his body.

  The only thing wrong with it was that it made it impossible for him not to live inside his penis while she was trying to get it down her throat. He knew he was going to come in an instant but there was no way to stop it.

  Yet there was a way to stop it, and it happened. The door of Topper flew open, and there was Sharline and Arlis. Helen got up off her knees and tried to stand, but staggered against the projector with a crash. Fortunately the projector was bolted to the floor, or else she would have toppled it. There was no telling what harm she’d done to it. And no telling what harm they’d done to their bonds with their sweethearts.

  Chapter eighteen

  "Helen!” cried Arlis. “Just what in tarnation do you think you’re a-doing?”

  “I don’t know i
f there’s a name to it, but it sure is fun,” Helen said. “Hoppy, sugar, has it got a name to it?”

  “Not that I ever heared tell of,” Hoppy said. “It’s a silent pitcher show. No captions.”

  “Ila Fay Woodrum says it’s called sucky-suck,” Sharline said. “She did it once on Preacher Binns. It give her a tummy ache for a week afterwards. But Landon, who on earth is this woman?”

  “This here woman, when she’s sober,” said Arlis, “is Miss Helen Agnes Milsap, Teacher of the Year for Newton County. But she’s plainly six sheets to the wind. Helen, what have you been drinking?”

  “I don’t know if there’s a name to it, but it sure is fun,” said Helen. “Hoppy, sweetums, has it got a name to it?”

  “Not that I ever heared tell of,” Hoppy said, “other than bald-face swamp root. I reckon you could call it love-in-idleness, whatever that means.”

  “How long has this been a-going on?” Sharline wanted to know.

  “We just got started,” Helen said, “but you interrupted before we finished.”

  “I mean,” Sharline said, “how long have you two’uns known each other?”

  “Three hours?” said Hoppy. “Maybe four?”

  “You never did that for me!” Arlis said to Helen, pouting. “And besides, it’s against the law, I bet.”

  “Nobody ever told me about sucky-suck,” Helen said. “I might’ve lived my whole life without knowing about it, except for dear Hoppy’s secret pitcher show.”