The It’ll Do
by Peyton Breckinridge & William J. Conaway
Copyright William J. Conaway, 1989
Episode II – The Day Marty Robbins Came In
We all know Marty Robbins is dead, and there isn’t a person around here who doesn’t feel a loss. When the customers get around to playing the juke box, he still gets as many plays as anyone.
There aren’t many that know Marty Robbins was here once, in the It’ll Do. When he came in I tried to be polite. The folks here don’t generally believe in sticking their noses in where they aren’t wanted, but I asked him what brought him to Cherryville anyway.
It turned out that Marty was on the trail of some car, some antique car. It turned out to be in Madison and not Cherryville at all. There used to be some fine old cars here, but they’re all gone. Anyway, Marty came in and he slid up onto a barstool and ordered a beer just like anyone else would’ve done. He just sat there sipping his beer.
There was this little under-age girl that came in, fit to bust her jeans. She came in with Big Albert, who works with Mr. Sybert at the Western Auto. Albert (I never heard anyone call him Al) gets a beer, goes over and plunks some change into the juke box, and they started dancing. I don’t think they ever let up enough to notice Mr. Robbins. but you could be sure he noticed them. It was only a little past-noon, but it was a Saturday, and the kids were having fun. Mr. Robbins could have been thinking, as I was, that ‘You only go around once’.
It isn’t everyday we get a visit from a State Senator, but who should come in but Senator Albert Flogg. There are some that call him ‘Floggy’ but every four years the Democrats seem to remember his real name. It wasn’t normal for him to go into a Bar; he knew that there are lots of folks who don’t hold with liquor at all. I thought he saved most of his drinking for the State Capitol?. He wouldn’t have been so bad by himself, but George Sommerfied came in right behind him. George is a dyed-in-the-wool Republican, but we don’t discuss religion or politics in the It’ll Do.
Flogg had to go over and say hello to Mavis, the librarian, and Old Man Williams. While Sen. Flogg was holding forth, George Sommerfeld went right behind him and sat down on the only stool next to Mr. Robbins.
Other than them, there was only Orville and J.C., that’s all. They’re both pool shooters, so they were playing a friendly game. Everything was friendly like it usually is in the It’ll Do. I had this feeling it wouldn’t last: it didn’t.
George Sommerfeld turned around to the Senator and said, “Hey, Senator. Got any…(he paused for a few minutes) legislation going? I heard you was going to introduce the Total Prohibition Bill? any truth in that?”
Now Sen. fLogg doesn’t get too hot under the collar by anyone rousting him out—he’s used to that kind of thing. Hell, he may even like it. But he was just close enough to the trouble-maker that I didn’t like it. At the moment I had a few other things to look after. Naturally, I was looking out for Marty Robbins. But it got a little harder when the little girl yells, “Up your’s, Bull-Hockey Whimp!”
That was the start of the gully-washer. This boy, Albert, just reaches over and as cool as you please—would you believe it?— rips the shirt right off this little girl. She should have been wearing a bra—but she wasn’t wearing anything. She didn’t have, so to speak, much to cover up. But one hand was covering for all-hell, while the other one was working over Albert’s hair. She should have stayed all covered up for all the damage she was doing to Albert.
Both J.C. and Orville have some sort of Macho thing. Orville was closer to the dance floor. He hauled off at Albert—he should have remembered to bring his pearl-inlaid pool cue with him. He didn’t get more than the first shot in the war—and got about what the South did when they fired on Fort Sumpter; he ended up over in the booth next to the door. Then J.C. waded in, but he ended up in the same place after a few fancy flips.
While I was on hold for the police I heard Old Man Williams excuse himself from Mavis; Old Man Williams doesn’t get up from his bar stool very often and when he does it’s to take a piss. He weighs in at a good four-hundred pounds, not more than a hundred of that can be the dark beer I’ve been serving him. He smiled as he made his way over to the Dance Floor.
“TOOT,” I said over the phone to our local cop, “I need you.” As I looked up the Senator and Sommerfeld were wrestling and rolling over toward the pool table in a serious political discussion. I don’t know why. They looked fair like they were going to go the distance. “Toot, I really need you!”
Now, while I was waiting for Toot, the little girl forgot her modesty and aims a good kick at Old Man William’s crotch. She didn’t know Old Man Williams; you couldn’t find his crotch with a witching-stick.
Toot, God bless his empty heart, took them all away. but not before Old Man Williams went over and put a quarter in the juke. He played Merl Haggard’s “Big Butter And Egg Man.” Mr. Robbins got slowly up off his stool, went over to put a quarter in too. It wasn’t until after he’d paid for his last beer and left that it came on: “Among My Souvenirs”.
Living and Writing in Mexico 
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