Soapstick

William Faulkner observed, “A mule will labor willingly and patiently for you for ten years for the privilege of kicking you once.”

The great writer theorized that vindictiveness is as common among these unmannered ungulates as their derisive bray. One fine spring day, my pal Earl and I got a full dose of both vindictiveness and bray. “Y’all don’t fool with Soapstick while I’m gone,” one-eyed Deacon said. He had a glass eye that slid up and down when he blinked, making people he looked at feel uncomfortable, as if they were being sized up for caskets. “That mule hates everybody ’cept me. He’s meaner than a run-over rattlesnake and will be ’til the rendering company boils him into soap.”

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No sooner had his ancient Packard left the barn than we grabbed the bridle. The giant hee-haw hybrid took the bit without complaint. “Let’s ride to Mr. Guido’s and chunk rocks at turtles in the dredge ditch,” Earl suggested, as he slapped leather on withers. “Git up, dumb jackass … this ain’t Deacon riding you now.” Soapstick’s laid-back ears signified he was in mule murder mode. As Earl slapped and kicked, our mount slowly shifted gears, clippity-clopping from walk to trot to canter to all-out gallop. Together we didn’t weigh 150 pounds – no burden at all for Soapstick – as his pace steadily increased. The wind in our faces and cotton fields zipping by had us whooping with glee. But there was one problem. Riding bare-backed, we were slowly inching forward and had nothing to grab hold of, Soap’s mane being neatly trimmed. Suddenly, Earl’s legs slipped over the mule’s shoulders and down the long neck he slid. We came to a sudden stop and Earl’s weight drove Soapstick’s nose into the ground, which smarted mightily, instantly turning his thickly muscled neck into a catapult that flung Earl into the troposphere. As he rocketed upward, I caught a glimpse of the wavy pattern on the soles of his Converse tennis shoes. Immediately, Soapstick squatted and flexed his massive haunches, volleying me like a rock from a slingshot. Earl reached zenith and entered perigee as I levitated higher and higher in apogee. From opposing flight paths, we exchanged terrified glances. Bruised and stunned, we lay moaning in the dust, listening to the fading rhythm of Soapstick’s hooves. Several miles lay ahead as we helped each other along, everything between toenails and towheads, pride included, aching with each step. Old Soap was grazing peacefully when we hobbled up. He stared balefully at us, pointed his ears forward, rolled back his lips, bared domino-sized yellow teeth, and set to braying so loud we never even heard the Packard behind us. Taking one look at two bruised, abraded, battered, bleeding boys and another at his vindicated mule, Deacon knew what happened. Pointing at the mule, pursing his lips to one side and spewing a stream of tobacco juice while fixing that up-down eye on us, he said, “Told y’all, that thar’s one mean mule — Soapstick.”