Chapter 5

TALE TELLER'S LODGE; THE RIVER RAT, THE COP, THE GIRL BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

 There is a drinking establishment known as Tale Teller,s at the Hammock Fish Camp.  A small bar with a pool table and a few tables, it sits just up from the boat ramp and stalls by a small community of mobile homes and houses.  You can meet some teresting people there. 

  I used to occasionally target shoot with an ex-cop that I met at the bar.  From the rural south, he always had a tale to tell of some of the slightly illegal things he did while a police officer.  Not quite legal searches, thumping cocaine users on their noses, roughing people up for information.  He left the impression that there was a great deal more than what he told but noted that he couldn't do those things now. 

He usually had a good story to tell and enjoyed telling about the time that he had driven a woman to his house from a party that his wife was still at.  She had shown she was attracted to him and when they got alone began making out.  The woman was on her back with her pants down when he told her he had changed his mind about making love.  He said she came up off of the floor and called him everything in the book, for a minute he was afraid he was going to have to fight her.

He speculated on what his wife would have done if she had walked in and found them.  His wife was one quarter Cherokee and had quite a temper though he said he didn't know if it was the Cherokee or the woman that made her that way.

I met the River Rat at that little bar.  He was a short man in his fifties, still drinking like a fish and smoking pot.  He was a two tour combat veteran from Korea where he had lived with a Korean woman and fathered a child between stints at the front.  He was on his second marriage and had three kids that had done well.  He said that some were amazed that his children had done well considering their father.

The River Rat and I sat around on his boat on many a weekend drinking and talking with whoever came by.  We were drinking on the boat one night and decided we needed some pot.  I still had a few plants in the woods and we took his dog Gator and headed for the field. 

To get to the field you had to drive to the back of an orange grove that bordered on a lake.  There was a drainage canal of varying depths and steep slopes that was crossed where it emptied into a stream.  An alligator of about ten feet lived further down the bank and provided excellent security.  Though the gator would throw itself in the water to get away if you came near it I always carried a .45 automatic when tending the plants.  It served a double purpose, target shooting was the cover story for being there and I have never trusted alligators after seeing the bite one took out of a Kayak in the shallows near the fish camp.  The inhabitants were said to have walked on the water.

I took my .45 automatic and the River Rat took a .22 rifle.  The River Rat and I were good and drunk, the dog was sober though he had been known to drink a bowl or two of beer.  We crossed the canal and scaled the other bank.  It was a moonless night and you couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you.  Walking along the edge of the stream I stepped into nothingness and found myself in the water almost to my waist.  I came back up the bank quickly and engaged in the relevant profanity.

We stumbled around through the underbrush for a while looking for the field.  We had a flashlight but didn't want to use it for fear of attracting attention though we later noted that there probably wasn't anyone crazy enough to be in that swamp at night.  Most of the land was low with standing water in places, when I planted it had been difficult to find an appropriate spot with proper cover from aircraft surveillance. 

We finally found the field  and harvested one scrawny plant.  On the way back the River Rat fell in the stream in the same spot that I did.  Gator was having the time of his life running around in the bushes.

I think we made it back to the boat before we realized that we had no way of drying out the pot.  We decided to call it a night.  I went to his house the next day and we dried it in the oven and smoked some.  His wife raised hell when she smelled it, she had very high paying job with the Navy.

                             ****

I lived at the Hammock Fish Camp for a while.  The owner had a small camper parked behind a building and I rented it from him for a small sum.      

I was riding the streets one night with Brain and his fiancee who he had met in a bar and soon married.  She was a waitress and a good lady and I think she did a lot of good for Brain.  Before they married he once asked me if I thought that he made a good choice and I basicly told him:

Thought for the Moment:  In matters of religion and matrimony I never give advice, because I will not have anybody's torment in this world or the next laid to my charge.

Lord Chesterfield

Letters, 1765

He and I were drinking that night and his fiancee was driving us around when we passed a girl hitchhiking.  We stopped and picked her up and before long she and I were making out.  She had been at a country and western bar and had some type of trouble and was planning to hitchhike to Jacksonville where she had friends.  They dropped us off at my trailer and in no time we were out of our clothes and into the bed.

She had no tits to speak of and didn't even bother to take off her blouse. I guessed that she had been kidded about it a great deal.  We had sex once and then she rolled over facing away from me for a few moments engaged in some sort or inner turmoil.  I tried to have her again after a rest but she still wasn't ready.  Finally we made it again and I was going to sleep on top of her but she wouldn't let me. 

In the morning she was much more cheerful but I wasn't.  I had a hangover and she started in calling me "dear" and wanting to cook me breakfast.  She must have called me "dear" every other sentence and it was about to drive me up the wall.  To say that she wasn't good looking would be an understatement of the first degree, in addition, she gave a definite impression of not being completely sane.  When I start thinking that someone is crazy they generally are. 

During breakfast she began talking about staying in that little camper with me and being my woman.  While she was good in bed she was a bit too crazy for my liking.  I started making plans for her to head on down the road. 

Thought for the Moment:  Never sleep with anyone crazier than yourself.

Murphy's Law

After breakfast I got her in the car and headed out of town.  I made several excuses why she couldn't stay with me and said I would help her on her way to Jacksonville.  I took her to the next town, about twelve miles down the road, and she began telling me she had all sorts of problems and she wanted to live with me and I could help her sort herself out.  I offered to take her to a mental health center but she wanted to return and live with me.  She kept on about moving in with me for some time.

Finally I had to drop her off by the side of a major road.  Cold, but the only logical course of action. 

Thought for the Moment:  A woman occasionally is quite a serviceable substitute for masturbation.

Karl Kraus

Then again, sometimes not.

I went back to the camper and worried for a while that she might show back up.  A car door woke me early one morning and for a moment I thought she had returned.  She hadn't and as I got up to urinate I chided myself, finally certain that I had escaped.  Aaaaaarrrrrrrooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww!!!  It was painful to urinate.

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