Don’t Bet On Beatrice

Glaring at the Volkswagen Beetle in front of the commissary store on Dad’s Mississippi Delta cotton farm, my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird said, “That ain’t nothing but a coffin with wheels on it.” The car belonged to Bennie, the rural mail carrier who always stopped at the store for the ultimate Southern snack: a Moon Pie and RC Cola.

“Ain’t she a beauty? I call her Beatrice the Bug”

Noticing Jaybird’s disparaging sneer, he boasted, “Ain’t she a beauty? I call her Beatrice the Bug.” “Like all bugs, that one ain’t beautiful,” retorted Jaybird. Peering through the window at the dashboard, he muttered, “Why, shucks, this poor excuse for a car don’t even have a gas gauge.” “Don’t need one,” Bennie 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 a Volkswagen. Then you’d have something you wouldn’t have to work on all the time.” Bristling, Jaybird stomped away. “Did you hear what that smart aleck said about Matilda?” he asked me. “We’ve got to get 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, Bennie fueled up at the store’s gas pump. The next time he did, we would put the plan into action. A few days later, Bennie pulled up to the pump. “Those were mighty unkind words you spoke about Matilda,” Jaybird said. “She gets at least 20 miles to the gallon. I’ll bet that ugly ole doodlebug don’t get nearly that much.”

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I’ll bet y’all a Moon Pie and RC Cola against nothing that she gets way better mileage than Matilda

“She averages 30 miles per gallon and I can prove it,” Bennie said. “I just filled the tank. Let’s read the odometer. In a week, I’ll refill her at this pump, read the odometer again, and divide the difference by the number of gallons it took. I’ll bet y’all a Moon Pie and RC Cola against nothing that she gets way better mileage than Matilda.” A few days later, while Bennie was inside the store, Jaybird topped off the Volkswagen’s tank. As promised, a week after the previous odometer reading, Bennie refilled the tank, read the odometer again, and did the arithmetic. “Whoo-whee!” he exulted. “Beatrice’s gas mileage is a whole lot better than I estimated — 50 miles per gallon!” “Can’t be!” Jaybird snorted. “Let’s test it again — if it’s the same, I’ll pay you $20; if not, you pay me $20.” “Deal!” Bennie said, strutting into the store. Quickly, Jaybird siphoned a few gallons from the Volkswagen’s tank. A week later, Bennie refueled at the store’s pump and gave me the odometer readings. When I announced that it barely got 15 miles per gallon, he said, “Boy, you can’t divide. Lemme see them figgers.” After scribbling a moment, his jaw dropped. His computations came out exactly the same as mine! As Bennie counted out $20, Jaybird said, “In the future, Bennie boy, let that be a lesson to you: Don’t bet on Beatrice.”

This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s upcoming book, entitled The Jaybird Tales. The book will be available before the holiday season. Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (jimmycecilreedjr@gmail.com).