Henry Hatcher was the most arrogant, tight-fisted, miserly man who ever lived. By comparison, Ebenezer Scrooge was a philanthropist. He’d bought a lot of Mississippi Delta land after the Great Depression and rented it to small farmers trying to eke out a living growing cotton.
One look at Hatcher confirmed that he’d never done anything more physical than counting his money. His hands were small and effeminate, he had a bulging belly, stick-like legs, fat cheeks, a pencil moustache, and wore pince-nez spectacles, attached to his lapel by a gold chain, through which he peered with pig-like eyes.
One fall day, Luke Mason and his wife Hattie came to his office. “Mr. Hatcher, we want to rent that hunnerd acres you got down past Sligo Curve.”
“Sho’,” Hatcher said. “Hit’s made some fine crops, but the feller who uz workin’ it tuck sick and let hit go.”
“We’d also be innerested in living in that house on the land,” said Luke, “but hit don’t have no screens, and the mosquitoes’ll git awful bad come sprang.”
“Sign this rental agreement, and I’ll screen the house.” Luke signed his name.
When Hattie opened the front door and peered inside, she said, “Luke, you done got us in a helluva mess. Hit’ll take a heap o’ work to git this house fitten to live in, and a sho’ nuff heap o’ work to make this farming venture pay off.”
“They’s mo’ in the man then they is in the land,” Luke said. “You just ’tend to the house and let me worry about making the land pay.”
“Mind who you’re orderin’ around,” Hattie said. “I’ll worry about what I please. You jes’ make dern sho’ that little fat man gits them screens on ’fore sprang, or the skeeters’ll tote us off.”
And they almost did, so the Masons drove their old pickup to town to see their landlord. He was standing in front of his office, and Luke got out to speak to him, while Hattie waited. Soon, she tired of watching Hatcher doing all the talking, while Luke merely nodded, and got out of the truck.
“Mr. Hatcher, they ain’t nothin’ to discuss … you promised to put screens on that house ’fore the skeeters got bad and you ain’t kept yo’ word.”
“Madam, you jes’ git back in that pickup and let us men folk ’tend to this matter.” Never underestimate the power of a woman. Hatcher just did.
The woman reached out, grabbed hold of his tie, jerked his face close to hers, and said, “Why you pussel-gutted, parsimonious, money-grubbing son of a (expletive) — I’ll teach you a lesson about addressing ladies properly.”
With that, she drew back her fist and cold-cocked him squarely between the eyes — so hard that his glasses broke and blood squirted from his nose. Horrified, he took off down the street with Hattie right behind him, and Luke chasing after her.
The screens were installed the next day. Hatcher wanted no more of Hattie’s haymaker.
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)).
