Thomas McGuane - The Bushwacked Piano

He had too a tremor of agony that some child would come up and tell him he hoped these bats would do the job because his baby sister was dying of encephalitis. Here, son, here’s all the grimy loot we chiseled out of your dad and his neighbors and here are the keys to my Hudson Hornet and that Dodge Motor Home over there. Wire me collect, Leavenworth, if you have motor trouble. I’m cashing in. My soul is all shot to shit and I don’t know where I get off next. I am penitent , Payne thought, I have brought this upon myself .

Dexter Fibb, at fifty-three, had never had a moving violation. He had never declined a luncheon speech at the Lions and he had never hesitated to dry the dishes or take out the garbage when he was asked to do so by his wife, Bambi.

Dexter Fibb loved symmetry. He loved the bat tower because it was symmetrical and he loved Bambi because her whopping bust was the same size as her gibbous backside. Dexter Fibb often grew upset with himself when he tried to cut his sideburns to the same length, and would advance them millimeter by millimeter until they were small indentations above his ears. He could never get his sleeves right when he rolled them up either; one would always be somewhat farther down on his elbow than the other and on those unfortunate mornings that he would button his shirt out of line, he would rip it from his body with a shriek and fish another heavily starched white-on-white see-thru from his top drawer.

Fibb believed in many things that verged upon superstition but which helped him through a world in which he seemed to lack some essential spiritual coordination. He read Consumer’s Digest and evaluated his friends’ cars by looking at the color of the exhaust pipe. His favorite automobile was that old model Studebaker that seemed to go backward and forward all at once.

The pilot committee of the Mid-Keys Boosters bought the bat tower mainly because Fibb made so much of its looking the same from any angle. And it is to his love of symmetry that we must ascribe his instantaneous horror at the sight of C. J. Clovis.

On the sound truck next to the door, leaking wires into the hands of the electric petty officer, this sign:

OUR GOD IS NOT DEAD.

SORRY ABOUT YOURS.

“How’s she goin, Don?” Fibb asked the CPO.

“Real good, Dexter. I had this oscillator givin me a fit but I isolated the sumbitch with a circuit tester.”

Fibb went inconspicuously to the microphone, still disconnected and, half-preoccupied, tried to warm it up. He did a couple of licks from old Arthur Godfrey and Paul Harvey shows. He did a quick Lipton Noodle Soup take and smiled to remember the old applause-meter. A couple of the muscular hula ladies wandered by and Fibb got randy.

He sat on the platform, waving mosquitoes away with the want-ads from the Key West Citizen , and tried to think what he would say. Another hula lady went by and Fibb thought how he would like to slip it to her, right in the old flange, where it counted, by God.

The chief pulled a plastic ukulele out of his truck and strummed at her wildly without effect. “You’re a damn lightnin fingers,” Fibb told him.

“I own every record Les Paul and Mary Ford ever cut. My wife’s got all the Hugo Winterhalters. And have I got the Hi-fi. Crackerjack little sumbitch I grabbed cheap on my last tour. Diamond needle, sumbitchin speakers waist-high, AM, FM, the whole shootin match.”

Dexter Fibb spotted C. J. Clovis looking just especially grotesque, all by himself, with that aluminum understructure sticking out of everywhere. He winced.

“Kind of pathetic, ain’t he?” inquired the chief.

“Some people just don’t draw lucky,” said Dexter Fibb with some strain, watching Clovis hitch across the field.

“I don’t know, Dexter. I think he come up with a handful on this go-round.”

“Oh, God, who’s to say, who’s to say,” said Fibb, eyes askew.

The chief said with craft, “Would you just want me to estimate the rake-off for you? I have a little background in econ, Dex. I could show you …”

The generosity of the Navy was considerable. A parking problem which had begun to look acute was quickly alleviated by the arrival of four MPs whose training showed immediately. The incoming mass of automobiles magically became rows of parked cars with walking lanes in-between that permitted people to move directly to the stage and tower.

Clovis met Payne at the bat wagon. Payne talked to a booster who was handing out ice-cream parlor fans. He limped over to Clovis, gesturing to him with his head.

“They want you to speak,” said Clovis. “I told them you were a lawyer.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want any loose legal questioning. I wanted them to figure you as an expert.”

“Oh, God, I don’t think I can make a speech.”

“You plain have to. You make one before they open the tower and I’ll do the wind-up. Hell, that’ll give you a chance to get to your car before I do.”

“No,” said Payne the sport, “I’d wait for you.” He couldn’t think of a thing he could tell these people, except possibly that they’d been had.

But when the time came for him to speak, he climbed up on the platform not only ready but with a sense of mission. At his very appearance, a shimmer of antagonism passed through the crowd; and when, in his introductory remarks, he referred to beer as “the nectar of the gobs,” he was actually booed, if only a little. He began to wonder exactly how he would handle himself if the crowd decided to work him over. “Beer then,” he said after his joke was badly received. “Have some beer.” Silence. You bastards, he thought: very well. I will win them over.

“Let me be quite frank with you,” he lied. “I’d like to say that even though I don’t recognize a face out here except that of my partner, I feel as if I’ve known you all. Everything here has reminded me of you folks. Not so much the tower as the potato salad you folks been eatin out chere.” He thought he’d try a little Delta gumbo-mouth on them. “Do you know what I mean? Last night I listened to a nigra militant on TV, talking about what he called blapp people and gee as I look around I see this community is entirely short of blapp people. Not only blapp people but weirdos.” The sympathetic chuckle that ensued put him entirely out of reach of hecklers. “Why God, you’re the secret honky underground network of America!” Applause. “And I don’t see any backs up against any walls!” More applause. “Why it’s solid potato salad out there!” The applause this time was uncertain.

“Well, now. Next time you’re recollecting this day, as you will , just remember that you bought yourselves a bat tower and all the freaks and weirdos and agitators and blapp people didn’t!” Wild, bewildered applause.

“I’m just awful afraid the aforementioned citizens didn’t buy a bat tower at all!”

“NO!” from the crowd.

“But you doozies with your prickly heads and hush-puppy shoes sure bought one!”

“Hurray!”

“I was just telling this chief petty officer a few minutes ago. You people have been taken to the cleaners!” A good-natured, superior murmur passed over the potato salad. “You’ve been fleeced!”

“HURRAY! HURRAY! HURRAY!”

Clovis, ashen, passed Payne on his way to the microphone. “You’ve got moxie,” he offered, “I’ll say that.” Then he added: “In another hour, A1A will be a fugitive’s bottleneck.” Payne limped off, patting his pocket. The wad of money was as big as a pistol.

Dexter Fibb received Clovis on the podium, unable to touch him or shake his hand or really take in with his eyes Clovis’ implausible lack of symmetry. Moreover, Fibb was miffed that he had not himself been asked to speak.