“Hey Buddy, whatta ya say,” he said walking toward me. “It looks to me like you’ve lost your way.”

“Yeah,” was all I could mutter, but was instantly curious. The first thing that struck me about Abe was his size, lumberjack thick through his shoulders and chest; he was easily six inches taller than my six foot height. The thought crossed my mind that he could be Buckington’s big brother. His arms were as big as my legs, and the right one had a huge scar, like he was bitten by a shark. Abe was the only person in the place who wasn’t sweating like a pig, and he had teeth… white ones. “Was that you I heard singing back there?”

“That was me doin’ the croonin’, my man,” Abe said. “The music was played by the Mudflaps Band.”

I sensed a pattern developing here. “By the way, my name is Dick Hare,” I said, extending my hand. “Let me ask you, do you always speak in verse?”

His huge hand enveloped mine, he said, “Mr. Hare, if I don’t speak in words that rhyme, my conversations would be one line. Let’s head on over to the bar. I’ll show you which way to point your car.”

I followed this hulk of a man across the sawdust floor, avoiding the piles of peanut shells lying near each table, and sidled up to the plywood bar. “Can I get you a beer?” I asked Abe, laying a ten on the knothole-covered bar.

“Mama John don’t allow me to drink,” Abe said, brushing the long black hair out of his eyes. “I better just have a soda I think.”

I found this odd; as I was sure Abe was of legal drinking age, so I asked how old he was.

“In a month and a half I’ll be twenty five,” he said. “That’s over nine thousand days that I’ve been alive.”

The bartender served our drinks, and gave me directions back to the interstate, as I intended to go home that night. I talked to Abe another twenty minutes or so, and I asked about his father, who he had yet to mention.

“He’s been dead ‘bout seven years or so,” he said. “It don’t hardly seem like that long ago. I’ve always had a feeling I never could shake, that my Daddy’s death was not a mistake.”

“Do you mind if I ask what happened to him?” I asked, fascinated by this giant of a man, with his childlike innocence.

“He and Mama John got into a fight, and it lasted deep into the night. He never raised a hand, but in the ass he kicked her. The next day he was crushed to death, by a great big boa constrictor.”

“A snake?” I gasped, picking my jaw up off the bar. “Where did he run into a snake?”

“In our backyard, with the crocs and gators,” he said, “but I’ll tell you more about that later. It’s time to go and do my last set. Relax, Mr. Hare, and don’t you leave just yet.”

Go Back to The Village of Butt: Number Two Excerpts