Sweet Melon Revenge

While turning the other cheek may be virtuous, revenge is often more satisfying. Such was the case when we outsmarted Gravy Chin. His real name was Chester Kestler, and he grew produce, including watermelons, for local markets. Every feature about this tall, gangly, long-necked, slope-shouldered, ill-tempered farmer was asymmetrical, especially his chin. Like a sockeye salmon’s lower jaw, it projected out and up. We called him Gravy Chin because the prominent protuberance perpetually glistened with a patina of paste not unlike gravy grease.

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One August day, my brother and I, hoes a-shoulder, were trudging toward a cotton field adjoining his truck patch. Late season weeds poked through the crop’s canopy, and Boss, our dad, wanted them chopped out. Chester 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 come to mah field last night and eat dis melon, deen’t ye?” he said. Ignoring him, we trooped by. Someone else had stolen that melon. Later in the day, Boss checked on us. As he was driving off, Kestler flagged him down. Like a giant crane, he flapped his arms and whooped in Boss’ face, pointing first at the rinds and then at us. Boss handed him a few bills and drove off. “I’m taking $6 out of y’all’s wages,” Dad said that night. “Kestler said you boys not only stole a melon, but had the nerve to eat it in his truck patch!” Despite our claims of innocence, Boss believed Gravy Chin, and even threatened to give us a good belting for lying about it. The next day, a sign in the truck patch warned, “Croton oil in one melon. Only I know which. Steal at your own risk.” C. Kestler. Croton oil is a cathartic far too violent for human use. A melon injected with a dram of it would purge a small community. All day, as we sweated our way through the chest-high cotton, my brother and I speculated about the sign. Kestler probably lied, but we weren’t sure. However, we were sure of one thing: Revenge. Even though we wouldn’t inject croton oil in a melon, we’d make Chin think we did. The next day, we inscribed these words on his sign: Wrong! Croton oil in two melons. At day’s end, Gravy Chin glared at us as we trudged by, but for once didn’t say a word. As we passed his patch the next day, he said, “Good morning. How y’all doin’ today?” That was the first time he had ever spoken to us in a civil manner. We were stunned. “Fellows, I have got take these melons to market today. Tell you what. Remove the one y’all put croton oil in, and I’ll give back the $6.” Many years have passed since the day my brother and I ate that delicious, free watermelon, and got our money back to boot. We call it the day of sweet melon revenge.