His name was Richard Mortis, but folks called him “Rigor” Mortis because, like a two-day-old corpse, he walked with robot stiffness, and when he stopped, nothing moved, except his Adam’s apple, which cycled constantly up and down his long, thin, bony neck.
My boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird and I called him Gravy Chin because that part of his face protruded out and up, like a sockeye salmon’s lower jaw, and always glistened with the sheen of gravy grease.
Mortis grew produce on land next to my father’s Mississippi Delta farm, and sold it in town. One day, Jaybird and I were preparing to chop weeds out of cotton in a field adjoining Gravy Chin’s truck patch.
He was waiting. Synchronized with his Adam’s apple, his chin cycled up and down for several wheezing breaths before he spoke. At his feet were watermelon rinds.
“Y’all eat dis melon, deen’t ye?” he said. “The Lord blessed me with an abundant crop, and you heathens stole some o’ it.”
“Nope,” Jaybird said. “I grow my own, and they’re a whole lot bigger than yours.”
Later that day, Dad checked on us. As he was driving off, Mortis flagged him down. Like a giant crane, he flapped his arms and whooped in my father’s face, pointing first at the rinds and then at us. Boss handed him a few bills and drove off.
“I’m taking a day’s pay out of y’all’s wages,” Dad said that night. “Mortis claims y’all not only stole one of his watermelons, but also had the nerve to eat it and leave the rinds right there in his field!”
The next day, when Jaybird and I returned, a sign in the truck patch read: “Croton oil in one melon. Only I know which. Steal at your own risk.” — R. Mortis.
Croton oil is a purgative far too potent for human use. A melon injected with it would purge a small community.
Jaybird and I figured Gravy Chin was lying, but weren’t sure. However, we were sure of one thing: Revenge. Nobody outsmarted Jaybird, and the old black man had a plan that would even the score with the melon peddler.
“We won’t inject croton oil in one of that old fool’s melons, but we’ll make him think we did,” he said.
The next day, Gravy Chin saw these words inscribed on his sign: “Wrong! Croton oil in two melons.”
At day’s end, Gravy Chin glared at us as we trudged by, but said nothing.
When we returned the next morning, Chin chirped, “Good morning. How y’all doin’? Fellows, I’m fixin’ to take these melons to town. Tell y’all what. Remove the one y’all put croton oil in, and I’ll give back the money Mr. Jimmy took from y’all.”
As we gorged on free watermelon, Jaybird pointed at Gravy Chin, who was loading his truck with melons, and said, “We got a free melon, we got our money back, and best of all, we outsmarted that man: Gravy Chin.
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)).
His name was Richard Mortis, but folks called him “Rigor” Mortis because, like a two-day-old corpse, he walked with robot stiffness, and when he stopped, nothing moved, except his Adam’s apple, which cycled constantly up and down his long, thin, bony neck.
My boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird and I called him Gravy Chin because that part of his face protruded out and up, like a sockeye salmon’s lower jaw, and always glistened with the sheen of gravy grease.
Mortis grew produce on land next to my father’s Mississippi Delta farm, and sold it in town. One day, Jaybird and I were preparing to chop weeds out of cotton in a field adjoining Gravy Chin’s truck patch. 
