The inside of the grocery was always dusk, no matter the hour. A long slender room with little pig-eye windows at the entrance. The air sogged with smoke and drink-breath and cat-fur and the heat of a half dozen stoves. Along the walls between stoves were a chaos – whiskey makings – busted pieces of barrel – animal hides and broken coffin-bits and news papers and soiled books.
Long galley tables filled the room, dotted with idlers and loafers – some asleep – some at checkers – some simply talking without any listener. They all sat on good Stiles coffin-benches. Between the seething stoves and mumbling drunks and mayowing cats there were a wormy music to the place.
The decorations helped along the wormy feeling. Above the heaps of junk, the walls bristled with violence. Hoes, plows, rakes, scythes. Mattocks and sledges. Pokers and tongs. Mammoth laundry spoons and rusted cleavers. Implements for encouraging people. Pikes, clubs, a spear, war hatchets, aged muskets. At the center of the back wall were the prize, a rheumy sword. Its liverspotted blade would not pierce boiled beef, but it did cut a style.
Under the sword were ancient August Dogstadter, barely two feet from the largest of the stoves, perched on a stick stool. His bare feet kicked before him – Dog often kicked in the middle of talking, like it helped along his point.
—and he busted the gallows They had fed him so much whiskey before hanging at his request that no one known if he were dead or only pissbrained They did not wish to bury him living so they only left him tucked under the broken gallows for a few hours to see
Dog were a considerable success as a whiskey grocer, but his true gift lie in spinning wild stories from between his frightful teeth – jagged and green.
—and then that night, the sheriff said to the doctors Do to his carcass as you like only do not make much noise—
Some was lies on history.
—and John Omic were awfully fat too fat for one man to carry but a drunk Dr Allen took it as a challenge and hoisted him on his back And made way only to trip over a stump—
Some was lies on his own prowess.
—In my summer I were strong enough to hoist fat old Omic and dance a jig under him—
Some was lies for amusement.
—but down gone burly Dr Allen with the fat f_____g dead man on top of him like blankets and the other doctors could not laugh aloud on account of being graverobbers—
Some was lies so strange and dark I could not say what they were for.
—but it turned out Omic weren’t at all dead he coughed and puked and pleaded Dr Allen pissed himself in fright—
I had heard the story of John Omic, the first man hung in Cleveland, many times before.
—and then the doctors had to stab Omic in the heart to keep their graverobbing a secret even if their carcass weren’t even a carcass and Dr Allen stood up covered in piss and puke and Indian blood
Dog’s stories never ended but with him laughing – a sound like beating dust from a rug.
* * *
Job Stiles do you mark how they are f_____g us?
There were no confusing who they was and how they effed Dog. The question of the bridge had termited Dog’s brains since January, when rich Mr Clark had declared his plan to build a crossing at the Columbus road.
I do not consider Clark’s bridge wrongs me any said Mr Job.
That is because you are a sow’s marital parts Job Stiles You was born that way
Dog did not say marital parts. He said a different word that I will not put down. From any but Dog, such talk would have chased Mr Job away. But Dog’s manners was like the smallpox – if you survived, you were cured for life.
I would wager you, Dog a whole penny that Cleveland and Ohio are destined to wed into a single city one day and when it happens, you will wonder why you minded Mr Job said.
I will be ruined long before then with no farmers to pour whiskey into Ruined if I am not already riding in one of your boxes I have set your swap barrel at the door Have a drink to grease your wagon wheels
The hour were just noon but hauling coffins were drying work. Over a sip, Dog and Mr Job lyceumed about Mr Clark’s bridge and just how it were sinning on us, and I read through a news paper.
In this number of the ARGUS there were an account of a sea serpent seen at the coast of Maine. I wished there were a drawing of the serpent. You cannot trust a news paper every time. If that serpent were real and cared to visit Ohio I would pay to see it. I knowed Big would relish a chance to rastle such a monster.
Just as soon as I thunk of Big, my brother thunk himself through the door, bearing Dog’s shoes and a smile like his teeth wanted to bust out and dance.
From Phi He held up the shoes like he had hunted them. Refresh me before you finally drop dead The shoes flown across the grocery and scattered several cats.
Drink up you piece of night soil Dog eagerly tugged on a repaired shoe. I will lose one of these in your ass one sunny day
Dog and Big relished jawing. Big and everyone else used Dog and Dog’s grocery as a sanitary device – letting out words we could never spill elsewhere.
Mr Job Little brother A jug pull – a glance at my news paper – Big were not much for literature. I have brung my own news
A few seconds trickled past before Mr Job obliged him with What news have you got Big?
Mr Clark has promised me work
God’s grand design revealed said Mr Job.
What happiness said I.
Lardhearted f_____ said Dog.
He has promised me a position and I will have a wage and a prospect and a Cloe
* * *
A general congratulations was made and toast raised all around the room. But even as I clapped Big on the back, his mention of Cloe bit me some. We all belonged to each other as brothers and sister. I did not like to imagine Cloe belonging to him alone. He had enough already. I were happy to notice Mr Job’s shroud of silence – of judgment not spoken – was back on him.
Dog did not wear any shroud. He merrily hissed that – wage and prospect and Cloe aside – Big will never come to night soil You are no man only a spirit A chickenpuke fancy This were a kick aimed right for a bruise.
But Big only struck up the churchorgan laugh. They will bury you soon enough, but your charms will live forever A drink to the Dog
* * *
The celebratory loafing did not last long before Mr Job announced we had better get home dry or risk a hiding by mother Tab
The return to day’s light stung our eyes. Cleaner air was welcome though. A hulloa to patient Asa and Agnes, hitched together. A pile of crap behind them told how long we had been at idling. On the ride home the empty wagon clattered merrily.
* * *
At the homeplace Mrs Tab come after us again with the corncakes. She must have found our smell suspicious, but she did not withhold our cakes. As we chewed she shared the town talk.
You just missed Sarahjoe just gone She has want of a burying box
I seen her at Handerson and Panderson’s this very morning She might have had one there