I was putting together a post about the different kinds of beat-downs, and one of the examples I was going to use of an educational beat-down got me all nostalgic and kind of took off. I figure — what the hell — time to tell a story.
About 1996 I had become a pretty seasoned street deputy. Wisdom — even though I had tried my best to avoid it — had snuck up on me, and latched on, so I was only mildly surprised when one of our frequent fliers staggered into the Sheriff’s Office.
“The hell, Eddie,” I observed, setting my can of soda down.
“They whupped my ass!”
Indeed, “they” had, and done a workmanlike job of it, too, if I do say so. One of his eyes was swollen shut — with the other fast catching up — blood was still running down his face from his nose and lip; and he had the careful movements that hinted someone had worked over at least one of his kidneys like they were getting paid to do so.
“Sit down before you fall down, Eddie.”
“They whupped my ass for no reason, Mr. Eden1, and I want something done about it!”
Under the alkali smell of caliche dust — and piddle — I caught a sweet, hoppy whiff of malt liquor, although I couldn’t tell if it was coming off of the shredded clothes, or his breath.
“Who whupped your ass, Eddie?”
“You know!”
I looked at the little moron over my Gargoyles, “No, Eddie, I don’t. I can’t read your mind, and Ms. Cleo2 filed a restraining order on me. Who whupped your ass?”
“You know …” his gaze bounced all over the waiting room, looking everywhere but at me, “… Them!”
I sighed. “Emmylou!”
The dispatcher popped up in the dispatch window, “Yo.”
“Call the ambulance to take a look at dumbass here. He’s either drunk or concussed. Or both. Call me if he tries to leave.”
“Yo.”
Five minutes later I’m in one of the little enclaves that pop up in Texas towns, and down the street I see a large group of excited folks at a house. This would be what we finely-trained law-enforcement types call “A Clue”, and I park the Super Scooter in front of the house belonging to Ms. Lucille Phillips. The crowd goes silent, and several very large, very fit young male relatives of Ms. Lucille block my way as I walk through the immaculate picket fence into the yard; the largest folds his arms, “This doesn’t concern the law.”
I look at him coolly for a few moments — although he can’t see my eyes past the sunglasses — then I take my glove off and tip my hat, “Good afternoon, Ms. Lucille.”
Although she is tiny and delicate, Lucille Phillips radiates dignity. Her grey hair is smoothed into a bun, and she wears her dress and floral apron with a regal grace that queens would envy. Her gaze is level, as she snorts, “The law is standing in my yard, Mr. Eden. You sure it’s a good afternoon?”
I smile, gently. I am seriously fond of this little old lady, and I take off my sunglasses, “It’s a hot day, and I thought to myself ‘I’ll bet Ms. Lucille has a cold glass of peach iced tea’.”
Another snort, half exasperation, half amusement. “Light and set, Mr. Eden. Tyrel, give the man a seat.” Up on the porch a gangly adolescent pops out of chair like he’s been goosed, and scoots over the edge of the porch, where he bonelessly assumes a cross-legged seat on the spotlessly clean planking. I look at the pack of Y chromosomes, get a silent, yet emphatic, warning to watch my Ps and Qs, before they part. I step up, take off my hat, drop the glasses and gloves into it, and sit down, mentally picking the six to shoot if things got stupid.
The clink as she sets a tumbler of iced tea on the glass table pulls my attention from the crowd, and I look to see a china plate with …
“Is that pecan cobbler?’
“And homemade peach ice-cream.”
“Ohh.” She settles into a rocking chair on the other side of the table with her own glass, and we make polite conversation while I reverently consume a heavenly pecan cobbler.
Tyrel has been getting antsier and antsier, and pretty soon he can’t help himself. I’m in the middle of carefully ensuring that the next spoon-full has the proper ratio of cobbler to ice-cream, when he suddenly bursts out, “He shouldn’t have done that!”
Ms. Lucille briefly closes her eyes, from the crowd a male voice hisses, and out of the corner of my eye I can see one of her grandsons glaring at the child and jerking his head; but Tyrel has the bit in his teeth, “It wasn’t right!”
I clean the spoon, and murmur, apropos of nothing, and giving the plate my complete and full attention, “No, he probably shouldn’t have.”
“He shouldn’t have ought to have done it!”
That’s the pebble that starts the avalanche. A voice in the crowd tries to “explain” what “Tyrel meant”, but someone else says he meant something different, and I concern myself with another piece of manna as the floodgate opens and I get the story from twenty different throats, with me making appropriate — albeit brief — responses.
When the explaining finally dies down, I wipe my mouth with a linen napkin, and Ms. Lucille looks at me across the table, “You’re a dangerous man, Mr. Eden.”
I can’t help it — I grin at her and waggle my eyebrows. She laughs, full-throated and silvery, and I wonder how big of a swathe she cut through the male population as a young girl, before she pats my arm, “What are you going to do?”
“My job is to conserve the peace in this county, Ms. Lucille, and it looks to me like things are almighty peaceful here. Thank you for the tea and cobbler, and I’m going to wander off.” I stand, and take her tiny hand, giving the respectful heavy Southwestern nod. She nods back at me, “Tell Mr. Jimmy that I’ve got some tea and cobbler for him, too.”
“I will, Ms. Lucille. Thank you.”
This time the crowd is considerably more jovial as I get in the patrol car and leave.
When I pull up to the S.O. the Sheriff is sitting out front next to Eddie, and as I walk up he sniffs.
“Is that … pecan cobbler I smell?”
I burp contentedly, “And home-made peach ice-cream.”
“Bribed! He’s done been bribed, Mr. Jimmy!”
I look at Eddie, “Oh, that reminds me.” I get out my notebook — purely for effect — and pretend to leaf through it, “Did you say to Ms. Lucille Phillips — and I quote here: ‘Hush your mouth, old bitch, men are talking’?” I glare at him over my sunglasses.
“Umm.”
Beside Eddie, the Sheriff sounds like a small SCUBA bottle detonating, innocent coffee spraying through his moustache.
“Umm.”
I pound the Sheriff on the back, as he attempts to cough up both lungs and his liver.
“… I don’t … remember?”
The Sheriff glares at Eddie through streaming eyes, “Eddie, boy, don’t you lie to me. Did you say that?”
Eddie is silent, as he regards his toes with the sort of intensity usually reserved for scientists who have found a new bug. There’s a pop as the Sheriff Gibbs smacks him, “Get your dumb ass in the car.”
“Now, Mr. Jimmy, I was wronged!”
“Don’t ‘Mr. Jimmy’ me! I ought to throw your drunk ass in jail for the night, but I’m not. I’m going to take you home, and then ask folks nicely not to burn your trailer down with you in it. You dumbass.”
I burp, meditatively, “Ms. Lucille said she had a glass of tea and some cobbler for you, if you dropped by, boss.”
“Appreciate it. Move, Eddie!”
“De nada.”
Ian
In the 1990s, Texans had a real problem pronouncing “Ian”.
Kids, ask your parents.
So...it was a self-inflicted ass-beating....
Ian, I just made my first ever post on Substack. Please take a look.