Living and Writing in Mexico

It’ll Do

by Peyton Breckinridge and William J. Conaway
Copyright William J/. Conaway, 1989

Episode 8 – Our Union Navy

Well it wasn’t unusual for George Farragut to come into the It’ll Do. He came in often enough that everyone knew him. Every one knew that he was a little strange. One day long after the Regatta, as he was putting down a dark beer, he brought up his favorite subject.

“If those Southerners in Texas can have a Confederate Air Force, why can’t we have a Union Navy?” He was a little touched by being (he said) a direct descendent of Admiral Farragut, who was best known for cussing out the Confederates for mining Mobile Bay. He had nearly everyone’s attention. Guess everyone was a little strange that day.

“I know, Oklahoma has a submarine that they towed up the waterway and parked in Muscogee. It doesn’t work, besides they don’t give a damn which side they were on. What we need—right here in Cherryville—is an honest-to-God Union Navy. It’ll make a great tourist attraction. The most important thing is that it will show everyone just exactly where we stand.”

When Old Man Williams nodded his head, everyone decided that what Farragut said made sense.

Just then Vera came in: Vera was on the far side of thirty, but she was trim and a sort of no-nonsense type of woman. I had thought of making a try for her, but she didn’t seem to be hunting. I think she might have been in High School here, but she had been gone so long—to tell the truth—she was a stranger. I’ll admit, she fitted right in with the crowd at the It’ll Do. Even Old Man Williams said hello to her.

Farragut was still holding forth on the Union Navy, and by now nearly everyone in the place was paying attention.

“We can’t very well reconstruct the “Constitution”, and I think a battleship is a little out of our range. We darn sure can start with our own submarine, and go on from there…”

“On Lake Fenian?” Alice Mae asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Orville answered.

Well, it was decided to build ourselves a submarine. Prom Puckett had some property that went down to the lake, and he offered it as a building site. Now, since only the top part of the submarine would be visible, we decided to use some old VW bug bodies for the bottom part. Most of us knew welding, and you’d be surprised how fast the whole thing went. We got an old Farmall motor to push the thing around.

We finished up just in time for Labor Day. By this time just about everyone in Cherryville was taken up with our project, including our incompetent Mayor, one State Representative, and State Senator Flogg. It was decided that the christening would be held across the lake at the Yacht Club. This is the same place that Merl Haggard (and his band) had dinner the day they gave a concert in Madison.

Most of us weren’t welcome there—but this was a special occasion. Orville and I offered to drive the thing across the lake, where it would be officiallly installed as part of the Cherryville Union Navy.

Since every submarine was named after some kind of fish, we decided to name ours “The Catfish”.

Farragut had found some sort of navy-blue coat and a sword. Once they saw us off, everyone hopped into their cars and tore around to the Yacht Club to be there when we arrived. It got a little fumey going over, but we didn’t have any problems. We tied her up at one of the docks that stuck out into the lake. Senator Flogg’s wife, Alice, broke a new bottle of California Champagne on the part of the sub that everyone could see. Then there were tours given down below. Well, it happened that Vera was one of the last ones to go down and see the inside of it: and Sully, who had taken the day off, offered to guide her through the sub. After they had gone down through the hatch, it sank. I mean, the whole sub just sank, right there.

It took two hours to get a wrecker out to the Yacht Club and haul the sub up to the surface. By that time, Sully and Vera were very good friends….

After Vera and Sully got acquainted, they became somewhat of a “thing”. Now, Sully is all right, even if he does wear those Hawaiian shirts. But no-one would ever say that he wasn’t a gentleman. He keeps the best bar in Cherryville.

Vera, well, Vera was something special. She would come into the It’ll Do pretty nearly every evening after she got off work at the bank, and she would sit on the other side of the bar counter from Sully. They must have had a lot to talk about to each other, because they did a lot of it.

Now—Sully had been married before, we all knew that—and it seemed he took no more than a casual (Mavis would have said “carnal”) interest in the various women that wandered in and out of the It’ll Do and lets face it, we thought they were mismatched. Oh, just about everyone thought so.

Orville pointed his pool cue up toward the two of them one evening and asked me, “Well, J.C. what do you think about those two?” He had this sort of look like his favorite bitch had just delivered him six or eight good-looking pups.

“Shoot pool,” I said.

“You don’t think so?”

“Look, just try to think. I’ve known Vera since she came back to town. OK, she had her old man killed in ‘Nam. I guess that just about any man would figure that, well sooner or later, she’d find somebody, but Vera and Sully? Let’s go double-or-nothing on the next game.”

Alice Mae—who just about never comes back to the pool room-came over and the conversation became sort of three-way.

I wish I had the knack, like Mavis or that writer Wadsmith, or whatever his name was, to bring back the whole thing for you. It got a little confusing because Alice Mae kept ordering us rounds of dark beers. Here’s what it all boiled down to: Alice Mae wanted to tell us that—even if you don’t get a chance to see it very often—”True Love” exists. She went on and on about this.

Orville took another tack. He didn’t believe much in ‘Love’, but he knew chemistry when he saw it.

Just because I’m a little younger than the both of them, I tried to tell them that you can’t very well mate a good-looking heifer with an old boar hog. It didn’t work. None of it.

Sully ran the bar and his partner, McGinty, put up the money, there was only one person (well, perhaps Mavis might be the other one) who really ran the place. Old Man Williams.

When Old Man Williams managed to say something you’d best grab it and throw away your Savings Bonds, because you could damn sure count on it.

Now, some will say that some strange things happen at the It’ll Do…Orville, and I were having this conversation, that we all looked over and saw Old Man Williams motion to Vera and Sully. They both went over—one on each side of the bar. Old Man Williams put (none of us had ever seen anything like it) one of his big arms around each one of them and pulled their heads next to his.

This brought the three of us out of the pool room pretty quick and back up to the bar stools. There may have been five or six other people in the bar (hell, we all knew each other) but it was as if you’d dropped a wet blanket over the whole bunch of us. There wasn’t one of us that could hear what they were saying.

No-one would have ever suspected it, but (I think) Old Man Williams started Vera crying. It started out as a soft kind of sniffle, but it just grew until Vera was close to breaking every heart in the place.

That wasn’t bad enough, after a while Sully started getting teary-eyed too, then he just let go and he was crying too. Old Man Williams just held their heads together with one hand around each of them.

It was about at that time that Toot, our local cop, came in through the door. I know Toot had seen some pretty strange things going on at the It’ll Do. I’ll bet, money, marbles or chalk, he hadn’t seen the likes of this. Here were the bunch of us, looking like we’d just been quick-frozen by Birds-eye. Of course Toot didn’t have any idea what was going on, he was too much of a gentleman to go up and ask Sully for a beer, so he just stood in the doorway, not doing anything.

It got solved, though. Old Man Williams (without taking his hands away from either Vera or Sully) swiveled around on his bar stool and bellowed. “Officer Theobald, I want you back here in 15 minutes, and you damn well better have a Justice-of-the-Peace with you. Do you read me?”

It was informal, but certainly one of the finest, weddings Cherryville ever had.

Tags: books, Comedy, short stories

It’ll Do

by Peyton Breckinridge and William J. Conaway
Copyright William J. Conaway, 1989

Epidode 7 – Cherryville’s Citizen of the Year

Well, I just read in the “Cherry Times Record” that Jethro has been named by our Chamber of Commerce as “Cherryville’s Citizen of the Year”, and since I was involved in the whole thing that got him his Award, this is what happened:

It was October and we were all just sort of sitting around the It’ll Do—nothing very unusual about that. It was getting dull. Everyone in the bar, half-drunk or half-sober, was thinking the same thing: the It’ll Do was starting to seem like a Old folks home. Even Sully didn’t have much of a smile and his wife, Vera, had left early in the afternoon to fix supper, even though he didn’t usually get home until about 1:00 in the morning. It was up to someone, anyone, to come up with something.

George Farragut saved us all. Maybe thinking that you’re a direct descendent of the great Admiral Farragut does have some advantages, after all.

Why don’t we sponsor a regatta on Lake Fenian?” he asked, to no-one in particular.

“George,” Sully said, “you know we’re not exactly the famous Something-or-other Yacht Club. What does anyone around here know about sailing except maybe running up and down the lake, usually two-thirds drunk, in some beefed-up bass boat?”

“It’s possible,” Farragut replied, “it’s possible.”

“I don’t see how,” Alice Mae said.

“You should know that my brother-in-Law, Farley, has a boat concession down on Lake Eufala. It’s a slow season for him and he has some catamarans and sunfish, and so on, that we could use. We could haul a bunch of them up here to the public dock and—get this!—not only charge an entrance fee, but rent the boats out too. I know Farley will rent them to us at cost, if we just tell him the proceeds were going for charity.”

Well, we had never thought of that, but it made some kind of sense. Even Alice Mae nodded her head.

“I can set out the course and the rules. You know what it would cost us—beside the hauling, that is?— one big, big trophy, and perhaps two or three smaller ones. Old Henry over at the Sports and Trophy Shop will most likely give us a discount on those, too.”

“Don’t forget the concessions,” Sully added.

“What will we do with the money—provided we make any, that is?” Mavis asked.

That started a pretty good general discussion. Someone, I think it was me, suggested that we take the proceeds and have a really big on the house party. That didn’t get very far. Mavis, Bless Her Heart, suggested that we buy some books for the Library—but we all knew that the City Commission had thrown out all the books in favor of computers and that dog just wouldn’t hunt.

There were more suggestions, but in the end we agreed to donate all the money—if any—to the Madison County Orphanage Fund. Hell, I guess nearly everyone likes kids and wants to give them a chance. That may even apply a little more to the folks at the It’ll Do than it does with some of our CIVIC leaders.

Anyway, one of the guys that comes into the bar once in a while is named Fergus, who works for the newspaper. He just happened to be taking a break that day from chasing down a front-page story of how someone had stolen three geranium plants from the front porch of old Mrs. Fachel. After interviewing Mrs. Fachel he felt in need of a dark beer. He got interested in listening to the rest of us hash out the details of the “First Annual Great Cherryville regatta”.

After about three dark beers, no-one keeps a count except Sully—and possibly Vera, he eased down from his bar stool and said, “If you all can pull this off—I mean really—I’ll personally, Fergus Pease, see to it that every damned paper in the state will promote it.”

We knew Fergus, and we thought he could deliver. So, if some of us might have been a touch skeptical before, now the challenge was on us. You know there is a lot of bar-talk; we became serious right then, right enough.

“How are we going to go about it to make damned well sure it comes off?” I asked George Farragut.

“First, I need to talk to my cousin, Farley. We’ll need him if we’re going to be able to do it. I know Farley, he’ll help. Can you wait, Fergus, until I get his OK.?”

“Sure—but you better get on the stick. Lake Fenian freezes over sometimes in January”.

“All right, we have to have weight advantages. I can do that. Then we’ll need application forms and set up an entry fee schedule. I can make a rough draft of that. Then I need to set out a course and mark it with buoys.”

It was beginning to sound more like The First Annual George Washington Farragut Regatta to some of us. He saw the look on some of our faces.

“Of course, we’ll need timekeepers, some violations officials,and judges. The judges need to know how to work a calculator. We need a starter with a gun.”

“I have a few of those,” Orville said.

“Then we need a place where people can pick up and fill out their forms”.

“The It’ll Do!” we all shouted.

“I think it will take about six to eight weeks to set it all up—how about the 20th of November?”

None of saw any problem in that—except Sully.”George, it’s damned cold on the lake by the end of November. Some folks are taking pot shots at the ducks. How about in the Spring?”

Sully was voted down 10-1. The Regatta would be held on the 20th of November, come hell or cold water. Fergus took turns looking each of us in the eye.

“Can I count on it?”

Ten and one-half beer mugs were lifted in his direction. Fergus downed the last of his (dark beer) and, stopping only long enough to remind George to call him, walked purposely out the door. In fact, he left so quickly that he forgot to pay his tab. Sully just chalked it up on an old school black board where he keeps note of such things.

November came around faster than you’d expect. By the 15th we had 105 entries. Whatever happened, we figured the orphans would have a good Christmas. Farragut had set out some buoys in a more-or-less triangular fashion and Sully had contracted with the summer rodeo concessionaire to serve hot dogs, chips, and soft drinks for anyone who showed up. Sully, off to the side a little ways, set up another tent to sell beer—and dark beer to the people we knew.

We rented the hell out of those sailing boats that Farley had provided us. I don’t know why, but a lot of farmers suddenly thought they were some better than Admiral Halsey. This was OK. by us. So some of them rented these boats two or three days in advance and floundered around Lake Fenian, trying to learn how to work them. It was funny—provided you had hard dry ground under your feet.

On November 20th George Farragut, with his bull-horn we had rented, told them:

“Ladies and Gentlemen and Sailors all; the First Annual Great Cherryville Regatta will begin in ten minutes, so take your positions. You all have your printed instructions. Just think! One craft and crew will be the very first to win! I must tell you that I will not be a judge or time keeper. The ‘Mobile Bay’, myself commanding, will be in competition with you. May the best sailors win! Good sailing to you all!”

Well, the whole bay where the boats had assembled looked in worse shape than the Sears parking lot after an ice storm. Everyone was friendly to everyone else and there weren’t any fights, or anything like that. I saw people throwing cans of beer over to other boats for those who had been caught short—even one bottle of Jack Daniels changed hands. We’re basically a friendly bunch.

Orville was standing up on a point with a .357 Magnum. All the crews should be able to hear that one. Down on the rocky beach George prepared his craft. He was wearing that old sword and the old naval hat of his. He had asked Fergus, Thad, and me to crew for him. God knows why, because not a one of us knew anything at all about boats. We all agreed to do it. I think we all did so because there wasn’t a single one of us who thought George was playing with a full deck (cards, that is, not the boat) and we didn’t want him to get himself into anything he couldn’t get out of.

There was one more who must have had the same thing in mind, Jethro. He made such a fuss trying to get on the boat. (George had named it “Mobile Bay”) that George let him come along, but told him to stay out of the way.

The time was getting close for us to set out, Orville’s pistol had already sounded, but we were working on an elapsed time basis and George had decided to let most of the traffic get out of the way before we began. Somehow-or-other, we got those sails up and the Mobile Bay headed out into the lake.

What none of us knew was that George was just giving them a head-start and he meant not only to win the trophy, but be first across the finish line too.

By God! George Farragut was making good time! Of course we were all doing everything he told us to do, as best we could. Most of us had worked places where, if your boss yelled at you to shut a gate, you didn’t ask questions—you just ran (or rode) like hell to get the damned thing shut.

There were three power boats looking after the rest of us, just for safety. By this time, our sailing boats were spread out all over the lake.

Admiral Farragut’s great-great grandson (so he said) wasn’t about to be beaten by a bunch of local farmers. He was pushing the Mobile Bay as hard as it would go.

We had had (wouldn’t you know it?) a norther come in just two days ago—there was even some ice on the lake—and we were getting wet and cold and maybe just a little bit scared at the way George was pushing us. Even Jethro was hunkered up in the far front end of the boat to keep out of the wind and spray.

Perhaps Sully was right, and we should have waited for Spring. Fergus, good to his word, had rounded up reporters and TV people and we had signed up a bunch of contestants, so we couldn’t very well put the race off until then, but it was cold!

George finally pushed the Mobile Bay just too hard. First thing we all knew, the mast and sails were down in the water and the deck was filling up like a man who just spent the week-end in the drunk tank. There didn’t seem to be anyplace to go except into the lake. Jethro, as I said, is a smart dog. He knew he could make it to shore; an so, naturally, he headed toward the nearest one.

We followed Jethro. Even George Farragut abandoned ship—he said later it was to look after our safety, but I figured it was more of a matter that sitting out in the middle of the lake freezing his rear end off didn’t exactly appeal to him.

Jethro is, no doubt about it, a good dog, a loyal one. He likes humans better than he likes other dogs, I think—but he’s no Albert Swietzer. That’s why he was the first one off the boat and swimming to shore. He was cursed with this long yellow tail. Before he knew it, four pairs of hands grabbed onto it. When he wants to go someplace, he generally does.

He made it, even with all that weight on his tail. Well, Jethro is a big dog, and strong. We four (five, really) stumbled up on the shore. We were all damned glad to be there, too.

It happened that there was one of those news photographers right there when Jethro dragged the rest of us to shore. You can guess the photos and stories that came out: DOG SAVES FOUR LIVES! “Cherryville’s Citizen of the Year?”

Tags: books, Comedy, short stories

It’ll Do

by Peyton Breckinridge and William J. Conaway
Copyright William J. Conaway, 1989

Epidode 6 – Lady from Mars

George Washington Putnam wasn’t exactly what you would call a regular at the It’ll Do. He stopped in the bar now and again for a beer. It was a surprise when he came in one Thursday afternoon and asked us for our help.

It’s not easy to get surprised about anything going on in the It’ll Do. Old George managed to hand us one that kept me hard at work building dark beers. He was planning to build his own rocket ship and fly it to Mars. He said he needed our help in building it.

There are two ways of looking at this. We could see him safely off to the State Mental Hospital in Sommerville. Or we could work with him, to make sure he didn’t blow himself (or anyone else) up. You know the crowd at the It’ll Do, so you know the decision we made.

Building a rocket ship is not easy work. There weren’t any of us that wanted to work very hard at it, either. George pushed hard. His brother-in-law, Fenton, worked in the caves where the army stored a lot of their surplus equipment. He had access to titanium, old rocket motors, and such-like. George managed to con him out of an incredible amount of
stuff.

The thing ended up being about 85 feet long. It had quite a number of surplus rockets sticking out of it from all sorts of strange angles. He pressurized the cabin with some old scuba equipment.

George was crazy. He wanted Thad Holtzer’s dog, Jethro, to go up in it first for a test flight. Since we were all fond of Jethro, we couldn’t allow it anyway. That just left George. We couldn’t, in all good conscience allow George to let himself get blown away, either. Even Vera couldn’t figure a way out of this one.

My friend, Orville, is a pretty sharp man, as Mavis would say, a good psychologist. Orville decided that, all things considered, what George needed was something to take his mind off the subject. I remember that it was a Tuesday evening at the It’ll Do. Only Vera, Mavis, Alice Mae,J.C., and Orville were there when Orville began to explore the subject.

“We all know that old George is crazy, don’t we?” Everyone nodded at that.

“We all know we can’t very well let him go up in that piece of junk, with its’ rockets and what-all. The fool will just get himself killed?” We all nodded at that.

“So it is incumbent upon us,” (every once-in-a-while Orville can come up with some really interesting words to use),”to put a stop to this.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“How?” Alice Mae added.

J.C. plunked his glass of dark beer” down on the bar. He had a foxy look. A grinning fox.
“Well, why don’t we get him a lady from Mars?”

“If he actually had one, maybe he wouldn’t be so determined to try to fly that thing up there,” Vera added.

“J.C., you’ve got something in mind?” Mavis asked.

“Well, you all know that George doesn’t get around much. I know a girl that works at The Barn. She’s sure not a Martian, she’s from Texas. If we could dress her up right, and give her some coaching, she could make a real fine Martian lady. She just might be able to talk George out of doing it.”

“J.C., you just get that girl over here to me,” Vera said. “I absolutely guarantee that in a couple of days we’ll have a Martian lady to work with.”

That pleased everyone. We figured to split the costs, just so we could save George’s life. Vera took that girl from Beeville, Texas and did a job on her so she was a Martian in no time at all.

Orville brought George Washington Putnam into the It’ll Do a couple of days later. I had cautioned everyone at the bar to keep their mouths shut. Across from me on one of the stools was the Lady from Mars. I had fixed her a beer mixed with cranberry juice. It looked exotic. She did too.

Orville steered George over toward the bar, but stopped about five feet short of where the Lady from Mars was sitting.

“George,” he said. “Do you see that lady? Well, she is not an EARTHLING. She told me, in confidence mind, that she is from the planet Mars. I thought you might want to meet her.”

“Oh, I do, I do indeed,” said George.

That was all it took. Sue Ann from The Barn did her job. She told him (as they were sitting in one of my horse-shoe booths) that it was a better thing for Martian to visit Earth than vice-versa. Mars had such strict immigration laws. It was near to impossible even to get a travel permit. She even took George home that evening to her mobile home, to boot.

There was no more talk about getting into a space craft for a flight to Mars.

Tags: books, Comedy, short stories

It’ll Do
Copyright William J. Conaway, 1989

Episode 5 – Full Moon Madness

One day around the time of a full moon this fellow came into the It’ll Do who we’d never seen before, and I want to tell you—from my place behind the bar—he looked strange.

He said, “Would you look at this gadget for me?”

Well, I’m a friendly sort of person and, besides, I’ve got something of a curious nature. “What have you got there?” I asked.

“It’s a thing I have been working on for—oh, I guess—10 or 12 years. “Funny thing: I started out to make a gravitational device, but I ended up with something entirely different.” He slid this small black box back and forth between his two hands. It didn’t look like much; it could have been one of those portable radios, but it didn’t have a dial face. It just looked like a small plastic box. It had one toggle switch. That was all. It didn’t seem very impressive to me.

“What’s it for?” I asked.

“That’s just it: I’m not exactly sure. It does some strange things.”

I just looked at him, waiting for him to continue. He sipped on his beer a couple of times.

“Pass me an unopened beer, will you?”

I did. He waved this small black box over the top of the bottle and flipped the toggle. The cap flew off and headed in the direction of the garbage can.

“It can do much more than that,” he said. He ordered another. Then he turned this box over in the general direction of the juke box and pushed the switch. Before you knew it, there was music playing. I’ll swear before God Almighty that no-one had put a quarter in the slot, but there we were, listening to Conway Twitty. “I don’t know quite what to do with it,” he said.

“Mister,” I said,”just keep it away from my juke box.”

“It will do the strangest things—I don’t know exactly what it will do— and, in truth, I am somewhat afraid of it.”

J.C. happened to be sitting at the bar. He suggested that they try it out on the pool table. It moved every ball into all six pockets in about one second flat. J.C. came back and ordered a double dark beer.

There were only the three of us. The dark beers kept coming, and I was doing my share. All this time that little black plastic box was sitting on the bar. I even considered offering it one, just for luck.

J.C., this stranger, and I were the only ones in the bar, and we were all sort of looking at one-another, but none of us were looking anywhere near the box.

“Innkeeper, I’m giving this (he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the box) to you,” the stranger said. “Now it is your’s.”

What did I want with a thing like that? I wanted this stranger to take it away—to Siberia, or California, or, better yet, to New York.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

For one of the first times in my life, I hadn’t been keeping track. “Twenty,” I said.

He laid a fifty down on the bar with a relieved smile and told me to keep the change. Then he walked out of the It’ll Do—not too steady, but then I wasn’t feeling very steady either.

Now there was this thing sitting there on the bar. J.C. and I both had a dark beer. We finally looked at it. It didn’t seem to be doing anything, but all of a sudden the Juke box started playing “Kern River” by Merle Haggard. It was the perfect time for a refill.

One of my Brothers-in-law, Jerry, is a truck driver. He had stopped over in Cherryville to visit Vera, and was due to go on to L.A. that evening. Somehow-or-other, with a few dark beers I persuaded him to take that little black box with him. I asked him to throw the damned thing just as far as he could out into the ocean. He was a pretty good guy, and he said he’d do it, without even asking why.

He left for L.A. over two months ago. We haven’t heard from him since. I don’t think I’m going to tell Vera about this.

Tags: books, Comedy, short stories

The It’ll Do

by Peyton Breckinridge & William J. Conaway
Copyright, William J. Conaway, 1989

Episode 3 – CHERRYVILLE

There aren’t too many people who know it, but Prom Puckett’s great-grandfather founded Cherryville. One night at the It’ll Do, Prom talked about it. He told us what happened so long ago when Prometheus Puckett built a town. A town that was then, not much more than a bump on the prairie.

He had come (hadn’t everyone?) from back east. He wasn’t very skilled at anything. Since he didn’t have any idea where he was going, this place looked about as good as any other. At least it didn’t have any other people on it. In some ways being empty was good, particularly if one is low on money and doesn’t have a trade. Prometheus Puckett wasn’t lazy, he was smart.

Cherryville has a spring on the north side of town. Back before the building of Lake Fenian or before we had windmills there just wasn’t much water in this part of the country.

Prometheus went over to Madison and collected every empty whiskey bottle he could find, or empty. He brought them back to Cherryville, and filled those old bottles with spring water. He hand-labeled them “Pottowatomi Salving Water” and sold them in Madison. Pretty soon he was making enough money that he could get into something else. He opened a General Store, and that’s, more-or-less, how the town began.

It was only a store stuck out in the middle of nowhere. He was getting along. You could say that he had prospects, but wasn’t exactly what you would call prosperous.

He began hunting a wife. The natural place to look was over in Madison. Now, Madison at that time was just a small raw town. It did have a Methodist minister, by the name of Rev. Sellman, who had three unmarried daughters.

From what Prom Puckett told me, they must have been the kind that would shy away just about any young man. Having a father like Rev. Sellman probably didn’t help very much to improve their prospects.

Mrs. Sellman wasn’t of the same disposition as her husband, having a good deal more sense, and she was actively encouraging all comers. Prometheus Puckett looked like a good prospect to her. It wasn’t long after he went wife-hunting that love blossomed between Leticia, and Prom.

One thing, though, the Reverend insisted that Prometheus show himself to be a man of substance. All he could show the Reverend was a raggedy store and some bottled water. It clearly wasn’t enough.

At that time about the only fruit trees growing in the vicinity of Madison, there were none in Cherryville, were cherry trees. Prom seemed to have a knack. He knew he had to make some more money. He was pretty sure he knew just how to do it. So he started buying baskets of cherries.

With the water from his spring and those cherries he started making some of the stoutest Cherry Wine you could imagine. He did not try to call it Pottowatomi Fire Water, but it would have qualified.

When Puckett had donated $500 to the First Methodist Church Rev. Sellman consented to give his daughter, Leticia, away.

According to their great-grandson Prom, the marriage was a happy and fruitful one.

That’s how Cherryville got its’ name.

Many years later another great entrepreneur came to town.

When Todd Northcutt arrived in Cherryville, he came with money. No-one really knew him. Todd wasn’t a good-looking man, he had a way with words that had no equal in Cherryville.

He started with the Chamber of Commerce. He told them that he was looking for a business opportunity. At the same time he wanted to provide the young people of Cherryville with an opportunity to work here, at a good salary. Instead of leaving their families and going away.

McGinty, my partner, was on the City Council—although he wasn’t exactly what you would expect as a civic type. He got pushed into the position by some well meaning types that didn’t know any better. He was the only one who thought that Todd was a bull-shitter of the first order and said so.

Todd had a way about him. He told the City Council that if they floated a Municipal Bond they could get a matching amount from the Federal Government. Then he told them some story about how the THING these days was Memorabilia. He had the best idea for a non polluting factory that anybody ever had. They were so anxious to get their hands on some federal money, they didn’t take a very good look at the idea I guess… The Municipal Bond,
was for half-a-million dollars.

He would take on some twenty employees—and work from there, he said. Of course he had showed up in Cherryville with the fanciest car in town—better than any of the local doctors were driving. Started putting on expensive parties in the mansion he had rented. Everybody thought he was the best thing that ever happened to Cherryville.

He must have had some pull to bring Alf Landon to town, though. He said it was for publicity.

We were proud to have the famous Alf Landon in Cherryville. It’s true that Mr. Landon was somewhere in his 90’s. He was still sharp, though.He didn’t come into town in a big parade. He came in more-or-less unannounced. So there wasn’t any particular fuss made over him. He didn’t do much about the factory or Todd Northcutt either. Nobody could figure out what publicity they were planning.

Alf Landon came in to the It’ll Do and ordered a beer just like anyone else would do. To tell the absolute truth, no-one recognized him. He started up a conversation with Mavis, our
librarian. It didn’t take her more than a minute to figure out who he was. Pretty soon everyone gathered around to hear what Mr. Landon had to say.

“At my age there is only one dream that still holds my interest”, he said, “world peace,”. “The pictures taken from outer space showing the earth as a pretty little ball hung out there in all that darkness showed how we’re all truly brothers.”

He stopped and looked around the It’ll Do and then continued. “Even if brothers will fight once in a while they’re still family.”

You’ll have to give it to Mr. Landon. He lifted what was left of his glass of beer and tipped it in a salute, tipped his hat to all of us and left.

You might think it would take quite a while to go through $500,000 Dollars. No, it took less than three months, and then no Todd Northcutt.

He had managed to get into trouble with our bankers, and one (as far as we knew) of our doctors wives. He had run up a truly spectacular bill at the Elks’ Lodge, owed for a new Lincoln from the Ford agency and the rent on the mansion had never been paid.

Looking back on it all, you had to admire Todd. He put some life into old Cherryville. When he left town, he left the City Council with a very difficult decision. One of those they would have to run a country mile to get out from under. What to do with a manufacturing company that made buggy-whips?

Tags: books, Comedy, short stories

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”.

Tags: books, Comedy, short stories

It’ll Do – A Family Bar

Tags: books, Comedy, short stories