For a moment, we watch the snowflakes at the window and I am about to say, "How beautiful" when he says, “What a mess.”
"Guess it depends where you're from."
"No, it don't. Going to be some nasty pile-ups out there today." He says this with a fatal look in his eye.
I turn the subject back to Pete. “Did Pete’s cure always work?”
“Some say yes; some say no. I'm in the yes group. This thing here dropped down to the size of a peanut, like this--” His right forefinger and thumb made as if to pinch a peanut.
“And then what happened?”
“Grew back. Had to take another cure.”
“And how about now?”
“Pete’s gone somewheres. Ain’t no cures like that anymore. People’re too smart for their own good, nowadays.” He sighs noisily, scratches the side of his head. “Come to think of it, it's all part of the cure.”
“What is?”
“You know, seeing all them things in that back-of-the-bar museum. I’d like to have a leaf off that cigar the deadman smoked, a bit of dirt from corpse of the Cardiff Giant, some little bit of skin off that stony lady corpse, and maybe one tiny little hair off that hairless cow from India --”
“What about a splinter of bone from Sheridan’s horse?” I added.
“That, too, yes, sir.”
“And what would you do with them -- if you had them?”
He blinks. “Don’t know . . . exactly.” He rubs his eyes, and heaves himself to a standing position.
From where I sit, looking up, the goiter is larger. It seems to have grown.
He meets my gaze, winks, says, “It does that sometimes.”
“Does what?”
“Gets smaller. Whenever I tell that story, it shrinks a little. You see, telling is part of the cure, just like when Pete took me round to see them oddities. What I need's a good big rattlesnake,” he says, grinning.
“But I won’t be able to do that until after snowmelt.”
Then the man turns and walks off, and the farther he gets from me the smaller the goiter looks until I can barely see it, and by then he's out the door into the snowstorm.
I turn back to the coffee stain on the floor, but now all I see are goiters.
Sam
It was in Biloxi, Mississippi that I heard a "realistic" mermaid tale told by my friend James Clois Smith Jr.. Then, in Jamaica, in the 1980s, I heard another spin on the same myth. Both of these were tucked away in my memory for future use. Then I read J.D. Suggs' story of how he was kidnapped by a mermaid and the three stories merged into one. I soon found that audiences of all ages liked to hear "Sam" read aloud. It's a good yarn for the road, that old forgotten sea road of long ago.
Before they had motors, ships traveled about with steam. And before that they had sails, as you know.
There were mermaids in those days, and they followed the ships. If you called anybody’s name, the mermaid would ax for it—“Give it to me.”
If you didn’t give it to them, they would capsize the ship. So the captain had to change all the men’s names. One was named Hatchet and another was named Ax. One was Hammer, and another, Furniture.
Whenever the captain wanted a man to do something, he said, “Hammer, go on deck and look out.”
Then the mermaid would say, “Give me Hammer.” So they throwed a hammer overboard, and the ship was allowed to proceed on. Another time the captain might say, “Ax, you go down in the kindling room, start a fire in the boiler, it’s going dead.” But the mermaid overhears it, and she says, “Give me Ax.” So they throw her an iron ax.
Next day captain says, “Suit of Furniture, go down in the state room and make up those beds.” And the mermaid says, “Give me Suit of Furniture,” so they throwed a whole suit of furniture overboard.
Now, one day captain made a mistake, he forgot himself, and said, “Sam. Go in the galley and cook supper.” The mermaid heard that and she said, “Oh, give me Saaammm!”
But they didn’t have nothing on that ship that was named Sam, so they had to throw Sam overboard.
Soon as Sam hit the water, the mermaid grabbed him.
Then she blew a bubble over his head, so he could breathe. Her hair was so long, she wrapped Sam up and he didn’t even get wet, and that’s how she took him to her home at the bottom of the sea.
When they get there, the mermaid unwraps Sam, and has a good look at him. “OH, Sam, you sure do look nice,” she says.
“Then she says, “Do you like fish?”
Now Sam loved to eat fish most every night, but he was smart, so he said, “No, I won’t even cook a fish if captain asks me.”
Says the mermaid, “Well, then—should we get married, Saaammm?”
And Sam shrugs, and as he doesn’t have nothing better to do he says, “I guess.”
So they were married.
But after a while Sam begins to step out with other mermaids down there in the deeps. This got his wife jealous, so she went after Sam’s girlfriend and gave her a good beating. And she didn’t show up no more, but one day the girlfriend saw Sam, and said to him, “Would you like to go back home to dry land?” And Sam can’t help it, he’s powerful homesick, and he says without thinking, “Yes, I would.” And that girlfriend grabs him up and wraps him up and ferries him to dry land.
And do you know what that mean mermaid says?
She says, “Now if he can’t do me no good, he sure can’t do her no good neither.” And away she goes with a little flip of the tail.
So Sam got back to where he was before he shipped out to sea, and he told everyone about his great adventures under the ocean and his life there, and he told of the things he saw, and how the mermaids had purple lips and greenish seaweed color hair. And all the land women went out and demanded purple lipstick and green hair dye, and that’s why we see so much foolery like that today— all because of Sam.
The Biggest Barracuda
Once, while telling this story in St. Petersburg, Florida, a lady came up to me and asked if the man I called Dana lived most of the year in Marsh Harbour in the Bahamas. I said, "Yes, same guy." She said, "I've seen his butt and it was shark bit." People like veracity in stories and I usually try to give them that. Sometimes I get carried away. Not long ago a boy in Tampa raised his hand after I'd told a story and said, "How do we know if you're telling the truth?" "You don't," I replied. That said, I beg you to believe this one because it happened just like this. If you don't believe me, ask Dana.
I went out my backdoor every day, took a step, and there was the great big blue Caribbean sea as near as my nose and far as the distant horizon. Nothing between me and the reef except fine-particled sand and that famous gin clear water. Beyond the crystal shallows, the mysterious purple beginnings of depths. Cerulean blue. Magenta. Blue, blue depths dropping to a famous place called the "horns of the bull" because of the curve of the reef and the breakers bone white shine. Out there, fish twinkled in the velvety gloom. Overhead glassy calm, but just below this the current pulled towards Haiti. The burnt orange sea fans hung on the edge of the cliff of reef. I’d sometimes watch them as the tide frosted white over my skin, bathing me in a snowstorm of tiny, tickly bubbles.
Mostly I liked to stay within the reef where it was quieter and safer.
Day after day I skimmed the sandy bottom, frightening flounder and watching them flutter away in a vapor trail of sand. Sometimes I scared myself when a stingray shot out from under me, and then, heart pounding, I’d watch it wing itself away into the grape-colored distance. Occasionally a squadron of squid hung luminous in front of my face, their wise and intelligent eyes surmising my intentions. The backdrop was misty violet, and below that, there were acres of turtle grass, dancing to and fro in the pulsation of the current.
I wasn't prepared for the barracuda. It came out of nowhere and while we seemed to see each other at the same time, I knew from experience that it had been watching me.
This was no ordinary guy, let me tell you -- this was a
venerable hunter, a reef prowler who’d been around many a year.
It took me several seconds to comprehend the animal's size; it was at least ten feet from toothy mouth to swallow-finned tail.
Seeing this monster reminded me of Dana, my diving buddy who'd been bitten by a lemon shark. The shark wanted the grouper Dana had just speared. After circling him once or twice, the lemon shark bumped Dana hard, turned him around, and then took a big bite out of his butt. Dana was fat, and heavy. But that didn’t stop him from shooting out of the water like a missile. Once airborne, Dana, ran on his flippers – on the top of the water – for about five feet. Then he flopped into the dinghy. The lemon shark stayed behind only because it got what it wanted – Dana’s red grouper.
Barracudas, as any diver will tell you, are unpredictable.
This beast was larger than the one that ripped another friend's dive mask -- and in doing so, the flesh of his face -- over at Reef Pointe.
This guy was much larger.
I looked at my hands.
My stomach turned to ice.
I was wearing all of my turquoise rings – all five of them -- and they were flashing prettily in the sun.
Noticing this, I quickly used my thumb to roll the rings around so that the bright blue stone faced down. But the sun caught the silver and there was nothing I could do about that.
The great fish eased slowly near. But oddly, it turned and was lengthwise again. It seemed to me the fish wanted me to see how long it was, how dangerous it was, how it had me.
If it wanted me.
I was in deep water, slogging with my fins. My snorkel was just at the surface and I was drawing deep draughts of air, trying not to let my heart beat so infernally fast.
Barracudas can hear heartbeats.
Hanging there, close to the reef, I had few choices.
Rise like Dana, walk on water? That was just a story, even though I’d seen the row of perfect spaced magenta marks all the way down his right, white, butt cheek.
Fleeing was out of the question.
Curiously, the night before I read a magazine article about a boy who was badly chomped by a bull shark. The animal thumped up on the sand, rolled over and severed the boy’s legs off at the knees. I pressed my mental delete button, got rid of that image.
Another took its place, all in a matter of seconds.
Same magazine, different story. Man faces grizzly bear on lonely mountain trail. Bear comes galloping for him. Man’s wearing ski coat that makes him appear bigger than he is. Man puffs himself up, puts his arms out, spreads his legs – looks large. Bear throws on brakes, gravels to a stop. Looks puzzled. “Hey, that’s not the little bit of cheese I saw.” Grizzlies have bad eyes. This one wandered off, coughing and woofing disgruntlement.
Now the barracuda came closer.
I saw its sleek, silver torpedo length. The barra’s eye was bright as a moon and his under-bite was all spike teeth. His uppers gleamed.
Monster.
The ancient scars on his sunny sides told me this guy was a battler. I felt his hunger. His eye studied every swipe of my fins, for nothing else on me, or about me, was moving.
I visualized a storm of red bubbles and blood swirls.
He’d saw me apart in two seconds.
Strangely, seeing my imminent death inspired me.
I tried the only trick I had.
Opened my arms, spread my legs for bear.
Hung myself to dry in the coral-headed, daylit current; and waited.
I had air – a lungful of snorkel breath.
My stomach was bellied out like a fat man.
Belly pushing triggers certain internal functions.
Out came a thunder mother of a fart -- a great fatman fart that sent up a chain of bells.
Startled, the barracuda soared away into the dark blue gloom.
But not before turning his great length the other way as he shot off towards a hole in the reef.
As he made a knifelike quarter turn, I glimpsed the side of him he’d kept from me.
The barracuda was a one-eye.
Like me, hiding my fear of him, he’d tried to keep something from me. The killer could only see on one side of his head.
Well, we were both fakers, and so, lived to see another day.
And the moral of the story?
Don't hold back what's inside, it might save your life.
Don't go farting around either.
Neither moral holds up that much.
Maybe the real moral is, read more.
The Seventh Bridle
The Seventh Bridle is a found story but, right now, I can't for the life of me remember where I got it -- picked it up on the road somewhere in Kentucky, Ohio, Virginia, Iowa, or all of these places. It's a just-for-fun story that would easily make a good folksong and maybe already is. I've read it aloud in horse country through the deep south and into Texas, and naturally, people love it there. Unpublished but not unheard.
I woke up in my rocking chair in front of the fire at the stroke of midnight! In the dim light I saw six men digging under my hearthstone. These are men I’d seen before on Scrag Mountain, but what are they doing in my cabin?
I watched a while, and they got my hearthstone up and fetched seven bridles out from under it. These they took outside. I followed behind them softly. Then the six men bridled up six of my best red calves, and they galloped off into the night. I saw them thunder off under the oaks, and then, to my surprise, they flew up into the air, and sailed out off into the sky.
Then I saw, down at my feet a seventh bridle just a-laying there on the grass. So I picked it up and I tried it on one of my calves to see if the magic would work for me as well.
Well, sir, that calf bolted and blew and took off like a deer and we half-flew and half-rode all the way down to Coffee Creek. There the calf jumped the crick, and the bridle slipped off. That calf, head held high, struck the water with its hoofs and thrashed around while I got a good soaking myself.
Pretty soon, while I was trying to stay afloat, along come a big oak limb. I clumb on top and got myself situated. I was safe. And I still had a good grip on that bridle, too. But just as I got comfy on that there log, I pass under a big water hickory, and from off a limb above my head, a large blue mountain cat drops down.
I stared at the cat; and the cat stared at me. And then when I was a-looking into its red-ember eyes, darned if that crazy animal didn’t jump on me and grab the bridle outten my hand, and plug the bit right into my mouth, and ride off the log with me as its mount.
Away I go, this time a-swimming and a-galloping up into the milky clouds where I spun around at the cat’s whim and desire until it reined me and sent me shooting down to earth like a comet. Forthwith, it tied me up in front of a cave mouth, and then it went inside.
Now, as a thinking man, which I am, or leastwise was, I got to thinking: If I could just spit that bridle out, I’d be okey-dokey again. But I couldn’t manage to do it by the time that fool cat come out of the cave and stepped up for another ride. I let him get closer, and then---Fwhoosh!—I spat the bridle out, and worked it into the cat’s mouth, and went off for a ride on his back the same way he’d rid me.
We pummeled the earth for quite a good while over trees and hills and hollers. And we didn’t quit that ride until the sun come up. After which I unbridled the cat, and he went to sleep under a persimmon tree. I don’t think he ever woke up. But I unbridled him and hung that thing up in my barn. Lord knows, I never wanted to see what would happen if I used it again.
Well, human beings is curious, you know. And one day some years later I got to wondering what would happen to my old plow mule if I bridled him with that there bridle in the barn. So, one day I slid that thing into his mouth, and…he turned into a beautiful Tennessee Walker, all glossy and pretty, and you know something, he’s stayed that way, too.
You may as well ask, everybody does—What happened to that bridle? Well, I burned it. But my Tennessee plow mule didn’t turn bac
k into a mule. No, sir, he’s still the best Tennessee Walker that ever trod the earth.
Y’all come over sometime, and try him out!
Of Lions and Men
A few years ago I was at a conference telling stories to young people and during a break I went outside the school with Cherokee storyteller Gayle Ross to get a breath of fresh Texas Gulf Stream air and out of the oak trees comes a man in painter's pants and with splotches of white paint on his shirt, and he asks us if we are storytellers and we say yes and he says, "I am too...would you like to hear one of mine?" and we say yes and out comes this story, and that's exactly what happened and he said I could tell it but he didn't want me to sing it because that's what he did. So a little cuento from the borderlands, unsung, and for the first time, writ.
There was once a lion who fell in love with a girl.
“I love your long dark hair,” the lion said.
“I’m sorry but I am already promised to another,” the girl said. She had no wish to marry a lion, besides what she said was true – she was already promised.
The lion thought to himself – in the grand manner of lions – how could a mere man compete with me?
Gently, he continued his courting -- “I would care for you like no man; and I would love you like a lion.”
“I see what you are,” said the girl. Then, wary of the lion’s teeth and claws, she added, “I’ll think about it.”
“Very well,” said the lion, and in his heart there was hope.
Yet when the girl told her grandmother what had happened, the old woman told her, “You cannot marry a lion.”
“What shall I tell him then?”
THE AMERICAN STORYBAG Page 16