All-Day Sucker

Folks who think money can do anything don’t have much of it. Years ago, on Uptown Avenue, the main thoroughfare of my little hometown in the Mississippi Delta, Andy, 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.

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Now retired, Andy can look back on the good, clean, productive life he’s lived, but back then he had a streak in him that didn’t always run parallel to the straight and narrow. One day, a bunch of us boys were meandering up and down Uptown when Billy Clyde Rakestraw, known by all as Mr. B.C., blared his truck horn, scattering us from a spot near the bank where he wanted 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 girlfriend, 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.

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Instantly Andy shot back, “Put yo’ loot where yo’ lips is.” Twenty-five cents sealed the wicked wager. Andy 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 my pal heard what sounded like Judgment Day thunder. “Gotcha, you little imp!” Mr. B.C.’s vitriolic visage was so close that Andy could smell his chewing tobacco. The quarter in his pocket weighed a ton. As luck would have it, Andy’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. “Andy, 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,” Andy moaned. “Don’t need one, boy,” she replied, struggling to maintain her composure. “Don’t you know you can blow up tires with yo’ mouth?” Directly, Rakestraw ambled back and looked down at Andy, 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, Andy studied the ill-gotten piece of candy. “Shoot, I can’t eat this,” he mumbled, and handed it over to me. “Reminds me of what I am … an all-day sucker.”

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