Folks who believe that money can do anything don’t have any. One day, many years ago, on Uptown Avenue, the main thoroughfare of Pace, Mississippi, a friend of mine didn’t have a cent, and was certain money could do anything … especially buy him an All-Day Sucker at Peach-Eye’s Grocery.
My friend’s name is John Bassie. Today, he’s an upstanding citizen of his hometown, but back then he had a streak in him that didn’t always run parallel to the straight and narrow.
About nine years old at the time, John and his pals were meandering up and down Uptown when Billy Clyde Rakestraw, known by all as Mr. B.C., blared his truck horn, scattering them from a spot near the bank where he intended to park.
Rakestraw was a scowling, ill-tempered old farmer. Rumor had it he once was a happy, fun-loving guy until Billie Beth, his raven-haired, blue-eyed bride ran off with a city slicker.
“Bet y’all won’t let the air out of one of Mr. B.C.’s tires,” some older boys dared.
Instantly John shot back, “Put yo’ loot where yo’ lips is.” Twenty-five cents sealed the wicked wager.
John peeked in the bank, saw Mr. B.C. haggling with a teller and calculated he had enough time to do the deed. The old rattletrap truck was easing down when John heard what sounded like Judgment Day thunder.
“Gotcha, you little rat!” Mr. B.C.’s vitriolic visage was so close that John could smell his chew tobacco. The quarter in his pocket weighed a ton.
As luck would have it, John’s aunt Murleen happened by and, seeing her nephew dangling from the handful of shirt collar Rakestraw had hold of, screeched, “B.C., put that boy down rat now!” The old reprobate obeyed.
A small crowd materialized, gawking and whispering, and the pint-sized perpetrator agonized as Murleen and Billy Clyde stepped off a little ways to discuss his fate, their heads nodding vigorously as they came to an agreement. When the adults parted, Rakestraw did something no one had seen him do in years: He laughed.
“John, B.C.’s got a few errands to run … says you better have that tire blown back up before he returns,” Auntie said.
“But I ain’t got no pump,” John moaned.
“Don’t need one, boy,” she replied, struggling to maintain her composure. “Don’t you know you can blow tires up with yo’ mouth?”
Directly, Rakestraw ambled back and looked down at John, on his all fours, blue in the face, puffing with all his might.
A toothless grin broke across the old man’s unshaven, leathery face as he reached behind the truck seat and fetched a hand pump.
“Here, boy,” he guffawed, “I ain’t got time to wait all day while you blow up that tire with yo’ mouth.”
Sitting on Peach-Eye’s front porch, John studied the ill-gotten piece of candy.
“Shoot, I can’t eat this,” he mumbled, handing it to one of his pals. “Reminds me of what I am … an all-day sucker.”
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)).
