Fiction by Howard Marsee

Howard Marsee is a graduate of the University of Florida Law School where he was a law review editor and wrote news copy for his college radio station. He is now a Florida attorney, arbitrator, special magistrate, and mediator. He’s published three novels: Write Sorrow on the Bosom of the Earth; Bridge at Mission Springs; and Dead Girl Waving, authored an unpublished screen play, Resurrection Mountain, and written numerous articles for historical society publications.

Waddling Man

You probably don’t want to know me. Me and Augie done some pretty shitty things. But anyhow, just in case you got to know, they call me Buddy. Real name’s Buford. Momma says my daddy got drunk before I was born and watched this redneck movie, one where this sheriff beats up bad guys with a baseball bat. Sheriff in the movie is named Buford. So, I get stuck with his name. My aunt Martha says it’s a pitiful name to hang on me and starts calling me Buddy. Momma likes it better than Buford. Daddy don’t give a shit. So, I guess that’s just what everybody starts calling me.

Course, Buford ain’t near as bad as Augustus. That’s what Augie’s daddy did to him. Says it was an old family name. Augie says that’s a lie. Was the name of one of his daddy’s drinking buddies. Kids in third grade made fun of him. Called him Gustie or Goosie. So, one of Augie’s teachers just up and changes his name. Starts calling him Augie. Takes near a year before the name sticks. Augie ain’t too unhappy with it. Says it’s better than Augustus.

Now, I don’t want you to think me and Augie are bad guys. It’s just that some fun things don’t turn out the way we plan. Like the time we pour turpentine on one of old lady Milford’s cats. I guess we was about fifteen. Guess some of the turpentine gets in its eyes, and if you never saw a blind cat run around and scream, then you don’t know how that upsets me and Augie. We tie a rope around its neck, and I hold it while Augie pours water on it, but the rope gets hung up on old lady Milford’s porch railing, and it dies deader than a mackerel. Kicks and howls like you never heard. Old lady Milford takes it pretty hard. You’d of thought we’d killed one of her kids. Me and Augie offer to bury it, but that just makes her madder, sort of foams at the mouth. She lets out a scream that makes old man Larisy next door stick his head out the door and call the police.

Me and Augie spend a month in juvie for the cat, and it was awful. All the people preaching at you all the time, telling you when you can eat, and making you sit in meetings with other kids—and some of them kids was real bad. Worst thing was momma. Her and old lady Milford used to drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and watch soap operas together. Old lady Milford quits talking to momma, and momma gets pretty upset. Daddy just says that boys make mistakes and tells me to stay away from old lady Milford’s cats. Me and Augie already figured that out.

Augie’s daddy gets drunk and beats Augie with a belt so hard that his back bleeds. Shirt sticks to his back for a week. Augie’s daddy was like that. Augie is real mad at his daddy and says he’s going to run away from home. Going to steal his daddy’s car and go to California.

I says, “You don’t even have a driver’s license. And what you going to do for money? Takes money to go to California.”

Augie says he don’t give a shit. Wants me to go with him. Sounds wacky to me. I tell him I don’t know.

Well, anyway, Augie shows up at my house late one night in his daddy’s car. Says he stole the keys while his daddy was passed out drunk. I says, “Oh, what the hell,” and I climb in the car with him. My momma’s crying, and my daddy just gives me a dirty look and takes her back inside the house. Dirty looks are my daddy’s specialty.

We stop for gas at this little convenience store just outside Pine Creek, one where bums hang out to buy cheap wine, right next to the unemployment office. Augie’s daddy always runs the car damn near empty between paydays. Augie asks how much money I got, and I tell him about six dollars. He says, “Damn, that’s all you got?” I ask him how much he’s got, and he says about nine dollars.

“That’ll just about fill up the tank,” I says, “but what we going to do when we run out of gas?”

“Maybe we can rob a 7-11,” says Augie.

“No way,” I says.

“They do it on TV ,” says Augie.

“We ain’t on TV .”

“Just funning you, dummy.” Augie drives through a redlight and almost hits a Mexican in an old Chevrolet. The guy gives us the finger.

“You the dummy wants to go to California with no money,” I says.

“We’ll figure out something,” says Augie.

So, we put ten dollars of gas in the car and head north on highway 29, nothin’ but cornfields and pepper patches on both sides of the road for five miles.

“What we going to do in California?” I says.

“They got fishing boats we can work on. I saw it on YouTube.”

“I don’t know how to swim,” I says. “Boats sink.”

“Damn, your daddy didn’t teach you how to swim?”

“No.”

“My daddy just throwed me in the water and told me to sink or swim,” says Augie.

“What happened?”

“Lifeguard pulled me out. Daddy cussed him a blue streak. My uncle taught me to swim later.”

“Maybe we can get a job at Disney Land,” I says.

“Maybe you can be Daffy Duck,” says Augie.

“Daffy Duck ain’t Disney,” I says. “It’s Donald Duck, and I ain’t going to be no duck.”

Twenty miles and we see this hitchhiker on the road with his thumb out. Augie says we ought to pick him up. See if he can help with gas money. We pull over, and this guy smells awful. Like my daddy when he gets drunk and pukes. Guy gets in the back seat and don’t say nothing. Got a bottle of wine in his coat pocket. Just sits there, sipping on the wine til we get to the interstate.

Augie asks how far he’s going, and the guy says, “Right about here.” He pulls a pistol, makes Augie give him the car keys, and tells us to get out of the car. We get out, and guy just drives away.

“What we going to do now?” I says.

“We’ll think of something,” says Augie.”

“Like when?” I says. Augie tells me I got no faith.

We walk with our thumbs out for about five miles. Get no rides. I guess most folks knowed better than to pick up hitchhikers. My feet get sore, and skeeters start biting something awful. We stop and sit down at this bus stop.

“You bring any water?” I ask.

“It’s in the car,” says Augie.

“Are we going to walk to California?” I says.

“If we got to,” says Augie. “You got to have faith.”

Well, anyway, I’m not too sure what faith’s got to do with it. Augie been listening too much to his momma, always running around the house with a Bible in her hands. I says, “You gone batty.”

Augie just shrugs and keeps walking.

Bout then, a police car stops and takes us to the police station. Momma picks me up, and I go back home. Daddy starts with the dirty looks again, preaching, telling me how bad I hurt momma and that I’m a good-for-nothing dummy.

Audie’s daddy gets so mad, he kicks Augie out of the house. Augie drops out of school and goes to work sorting cucumbers at the packing plant. Lives in a broke-down trailer near the railroad tracks—with this ugly girl who works with him, got a big wart on her chin. Finally, he gets a driver’s license and buys an old pickup truck. Old Ford don’t even have headlights that work all the time. Fuse blows at night after ten miles, and we got to stop and put in new one. Got to keep extra fuses and a flashlight in the truck.

I guess it’s about a year later that things go bad wrong with Waddling Man. Me and Augie didn’t know his name, just called him Waddling Man. Augie is working part time at Mr. Johnson’s auto service and repair. That’s after Augie loses his job at the packing plant, cucumber season being over and all. They tell him he can come back for eggplant season. Augie tells them he ain’t going to sort no eggplants.

Garage ain’t exactly much of a place. Just a dumpy garage on Highway 574 in Pine Creek. Only got one grease rack, and half the time that don’t work. Augie got to crawl under car to change oil. I hang out in the garage after school, and me and Augie drink Coca Colas. Augie says Mr. Johnson don’t mind if we take one or two outta the ice chest. I guess we sometimes take more than that. We figure Mr. Johnson ain’t keeping count. If he is, he don’t say nothing, leastways not to me.

Anyhow, about every other day we see Waddling Man coming down the shoulder of highway 574. He’s always holding a paper bag up to his chest, you know, real tight, with both hands, like he’s afraid he’s gonna drop it. And he’s short and fat and walks just like a penguin, you know, just waddles side to side. He’s got one of those straw hats too little for his head, and he’s got one shoe with a loose sole that flips up dust when he waddles. Folks in Pine Creek say he’s a retard, and I guess they’re right. Seemed like it to me anyway.

Mr. Johnson says Waddling Man walks to the IGA Grocery about a mile down the road to buy groceries for his momma. Says him and his momma live in one of the shacks behind the vegetable processing plant across the street. Says his momma is a cripple, and they live on social security. I guess he’s right. Me and Augie never seen her come by the garage.

Anyway, one day Waddling Man stops by the garage for a drink of water. Mr. Johnson says he’s always got one for him in the cooler. Mr. Johnson was sort of like that. This day, Mr. Johnson is gone to see his sister in the hospital, something about her having consumption or something.

Waddling Man comes into the garage. He’s so hot he’s got sweat dripping off the tip of his nose. Augie points and gives me a little grin.

“Mr. Johnson got water?” asks Waddling Man. First thing Augie and me ever heard him say. He’s got this round face and little eyes look like they peeping at you.

Augie, just funning you know, says, “We don’t know nothing about any water.”

“Mr. Johnson says he’s always got water,” says Waddling Man. “Always good water.”

He looks like we just killed his brother or something. Me, I think he’s going to cry. So, I says, “You can look in the cooler.”

Well, he sets his bag of groceries down on the workbench, and I point to the cooler. On the way to the cooler, he sort of waddles back and forth. Got his straw hat on the back of his head and is wiping sweat with a dirty rag. While he’s gone, Augie takes a big sack of Oreo cookies out of Waddling Man’s bag and hides it inside an old tire. I figure what the hell, I like Oreo cookies.

So, I don’t say nothing. Waddling Man comes back with his bottle of water, gets his bag, hugs it up tight and, last time we see him, he’s waddling toward the processing plant, his shoe sole kicking up dust.

I says to Augie, “I bet those cookies were for his momma.”

“She’ll just think he forgot them,” says Augie. “Hell, he probably don’t remember buying them anyway.”

So, we open the Oreo’s, get two cokes from the cooler and eat the whole bag. First time I ever eat a whole half bag of Oreos. Didn’t even make me sick.

Next time we see Waddling Man is in the IGA grocery store. Me and Augie buy two giant size Icee’s, you know the ones all so froze they give you a headache if you sip too fast. Augie gets a red one. I get blue.

“You don’t even know what blue tastes like,” says Augie. “Ain’t got no taste at all.”

“It tastes blue to me.” I take a big sip, and my head hurts.

We see Waddling Man going up and down the aisles putting stuff in his buggy. One of them is another bag of Oreos, and Augie punches me in the ribs and points, like I didn’t see it.

Augie sneaks past his buggy and slips in an extra bag of Oreos. We both grin and go to the produce section. Augie says the redheaded girl there puts out, and he wants to see if she wants to go to the drive-in movie.

The redheaded girl says she’s already seen the movie and wouldn’t go with Augie anyway. Says her daddy told her he was trouble. Just walks away from Augie. I can tell Augie’s mad, and whatever he says to her makes her throw an apple at him. The manager asks us to leave, and by the time we get out of the store, Waddling Man is already way down the highway, just hugging his grocery bag and waddling along on the shoulder of the road. It’s so hot I start sweating when we leave the store.

We get in Augie’s old pickup and head down the road toward Mr. Johnson’s garage.

Augie says, “Let’s cool off Waddling Man.”

“What’d you mean?” I says.

“We go by him, you throw your Icee on him.”

Sounds like a good idea to me. Anyway, I figure Waddling man would like gettin cooled off. So, Augie speeds up to about forty, and I throw the Icee out the window. It hits Waddling Man smack on the back of his head. Problem is, the Icee is froze solid, and it hits him sort of hard. He falls right on his face, and his groceries get dumped all over the highway. I look back, and he’s just laying there on the road, not moving. Straw hat’s in the middle of the road.

I says to Augie, “Maybe we ought to go back and help him.”

Augie says, “You crazy man? What if you killed him? You want to go back to juvie?”

“I says, “No.” I hated juvie the first time.

“Somebody will come along and help him. Don’t sweat it.”

Well, we go on to the garage. About thirty minutes later this ambulance comes blazing by, siren going and lights flashing.

“I bet they taking Waddling man to the hospital in Tampa,” says Augie.

“You think he’ll be okay?”

“Course he will. He’s just knocked out. But we’d better not talk to folks about it.”

“I’m scared,” I says.

“Too late to be scared. Time to hush up about it.” Augie was still sipping on his Icee.

“Give me some of that Icee,” I says.

Augie takes a big sip, just let me know how good it is, you know, and says, “Ain’t my fault you threw yours away.” I go to the cooler, and it’s out of cokes. I get a root beer.

Well, the next time I see Waddling man is at the IGA again. His head is all bandaged up, you know, sort of like a mummy, and this lady is helping him walk. He’s got one of those walker things old people use—those metal things with wheels on one end and tennis balls. It looks once or twice like he’s goin to fall down right there in the produce section.

I drive down to Mr. Johnson’s garage, and Augie is under a beat-up Chevy station wagon.

“Augie,” I says, “I just seen Waddling Man at the IGA, and he looks real bad, all bandaged up and everything, like he’s hurt something awful. Can’t hardly stand up.”

Augie slides out from under the Chevy, and he’s got grease and oil all the way down to his elbows. He picks up an old rag and starts wiping his arms. Then he throws it at me. “You think he recognized you?”

“How would I know?”

“He never said anything to you?”

“He never said nothing. Just sort of stumbled around. Had a lady I guess was a nurse helping him on one of those walker contraptions.”

“Then we probably okay,” says Augie. “Dummy don’t know it was you that threw the Icee.”

“You told me to.”

“I didn’t know you’d throw the whole cup. You dumb as Waddling Man.”

“You’re an asshole, Augie. You know that?”

“That’s what my daddy says.” Augie laughs.

I want to punch him, but I just leave the garage and go home. Take a Coca Cola with me.

Next day, Momma is cooking meatloaf, and I think I’m going to gag. “Momma, when we going to have something besides meatloaf?”

“When your lazy daddy gets off his ass and finds a job.” She’s squeezing hamburger into one big ugly lump, oozing between her fingers. Got potatoes boiling on the stove. “Did you hear about Billy Ward?”

“Who’s that,” I says.

“The retarded man who buys groceries at the IGA.”

“What about him?”

“Manager at the IGA says somebody threw a cup of ice on him out on 574. Almost killed him. Some sort of brain damage. Doctors are not sure he’ll live.”

I’m scared and hope momma don’t see. I turn on the radio and pretend to be looking for a country music station. First time I ever knowed Waddling Man’s name.

“Nurse had to move in with them to help him and his momma.”

“That’s nice,” I says, but I don’t want to talk about it. I go to the back yard to play with the dog. Ain’t much of a dog. Just shows up one day and we start feeding him. I hope he likes leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

Next day, momma tells me that Waddling Man died. Says she heard it from the cashier at the IGA. Says she heard they was going to bury him that afternoon at Duck Pond Cemetery. Says the police are looking for whoever killed him. Scares the shit out of me.

I go to the garage, and Augie is changing a flat tire on a ‘55 Plymouth. I tell him Waddling Man is dead, and the police are looking for us. He drops his tire tool and shrugs, “Long as we keep our mouths shut, they’ll never find you.”

“Find me? Screw you Augie. You told me to do it.”

“I didn’t know you’d screw it up.”

I take a swing at Augie, but he ducks, and I fall on the Coca Cola cooler. Augie just laughs. I walk outside to cool off. Augie comes out and says I’m too touchy. Says I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. Gives me a coke and an old pack of Twinkies.

“Momma says they going to bury him today at Duck Pond Cemetery.”

“You think we ought to ride over there?” says Augie.

“I guess so.”

So, we get in Audie’s old Ford pickup and drive to Duck Pond. When we get close, we see one of those green tents they put over graves, you know, and a black Cadillac, one of those station wagons they carry dead people in. Don’t see no coffin. I guess it’s already in the ground.

Only see one bunch of flowers.

“Don’t get too close,” I says. “The police could be watching.”

So, we park under some oak trees about fifty yards away, right next to where somebody’s dumped a bunch of old tires and mattresses. My collar is all wet with sweat. The only people we see at the grave--one old woman in a wheelchair, all bent over, and three men. We figure one of the guys is a preacher cause he’s got a book in his hand, all bent over like he’s praying. Other two guys I guess must be from the funeral home. They had bow ties. Just paid to stand around, I guess, like at my aunt Matha’s funeral.

“Ain’t many people,” I says.

“Hell, Buddy. Nobody knows he’s dead,” says Augie.

“I do.”

Augie gives me a funny look, cranks up the pickup, and drives back out to the highway.