My boyhood best friend and mentor, Jaybird, took one look at the Volkswagen in front of the commissary store on Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm and said, “Shoot, dat ain’t nuttin’ but a coffin wit’ wheels on hit.”
The car belonged to Vinnie the mail carrier, who always stopped at the store for the ultimate Southern snack: an RC Cola and a Moon Pie.
“She’s a beauty — I call her Beulah the Bug,” Vinnie said. The mailman’s arrogant, boastful nature had always irritated Jaybird.
Peering at the dashboard, the old black man muttered, “Why, shucks, hit ain’t eben got a gas gauge.”
“Don’t need one,” Vinnie said. “I just switch to the reserve tank when the main one runs out. Its gas mileage is unbelievable. You ought to swap that old clunker pickup you call Matilda for one. Then you’d have something you wouldn’t have to work on all the time.” Bristling, Jaybird walked away.
“You heah whut dat no-’count clown said ’bout Matilda?” he asked me. “We’s gwine git revenge.”
That evening, Jaybird and I were sitting on his porch enjoying cold buttermilk with cornbread chunks in it, when he explained his plan. Occasionally, Vinnie fueled up at the store’s pump. The next time he did, we would put the plan into action.
A few days later, Vinnie pulled up to the pump. “Dem wuz mighty unkind words you spoke ’bout Matilda,” Jaybird said. “She gits at least 20 miles to de gallon. I bet dat ugly little ole doodlebug don’t git neah ’bout dat much.”
Vinnie boasted that it got at least 30 miles per gallon. “I just filled the tank. Let’s read the odometer. In a week, I’ll refill ’er at this pump, read the odometer again, and divide the difference by the number of gallons it took. I’ll bet y’all a soda pop and a snack against nothing that it gets way better mileage than Matilda.”
A few days later, while Vinnie was inside the store, Jaybird topped off the Volkswagen’s tank. As promised, a week after the previous odometer reading, Vinnie read the odometer again, and did the arithmetic.
“Whoo-whee!” he exulted. “Beulah’s gas mileage is a whole lot better than I estimated — 50 miles per gallon!”
“Sumpin’ ain’t right,” Jaybird snorted. “Let’s test it again, and if’n hit’s de same, I’ll pay fuh yo’ tank o’ gas. If ‘n hit ain’t, you buy me a tank.”
“Deal, old timer,” Vinnie said, strutting into the store. Quickly, Jaybird siphoned a few gallons from the Vokswagen’s tank.
A week later, Vinnie refueled at the store’s pump and gave me the odometer readings. When I announced that it barely got 15 miles per gallon, Vinnie said, “Boy, you can’t divide. Lemme see them figgers.” After scribbling a moment, his face turned chalk white. His computations had come out the same as mine!
Jaybird parked Matilda beside the gas pump. “What wuz dat you said, Vinnie?” Jaybird asked, winking at me. “Oh, yeah, now I remembuh: “Deal, old timer.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
