Slim and the Hyattville Mafia

Jack had ducked around the corner in into “Fat Jack’s Saloon”, the fine (?) establishment next door. It was fine if you were looking for a western themed inebriation station.

The exterior is rustic with a capital “R” and the interior not much better. The bar is a very large slab of tree laid on its side covering some old, recycled cabinets. The floor is hundred year old planking with a few old weeds poking through in places that don’t get much foot traffic.

The Saloon is connected to the Café by way of the old garage running between them – dirt floor and all. Old car parts and abandoned junk littered the ground with a pathway just big enough for a couple of farmers to walk side-by-side and not trip on something.

Connie, Jack’s wife, runs the café. It is really a nice and very pleasant place to sit and sip a cup of coffee or lemonade while eating some really fine cooking. The morning we were in town, the local “Women’s Club” was having their monthly meeting and celebrating one of their member’s 90-something birthday. Lot’s of happy sounds were coming from within their midst.

At one point while we were cutting in the door, the young school teacher (whom the local preacher was courting) brought her kindergarten class over from the one-size-fits-all school across Main Street for their school district supplied hot breakfast. Luckily for us, they went back to school before the “crash” happened. At least all we did was spook a bunch of old ladies when the wall fell in.

Connie helped to get things straightened out with Jim. She gently reminded him that he knew it was Jack who had done what was done with the stealing of his Suburban and battery. I’m not sure if it was her sweet threat of bodily harm whilst waving that iron skillet around or if it was her soft stern voice the convinced Jim to cool down and reassess the conclusions he had made. Which ever it was we three city boys were grateful.

We went looking for Fat Jack and found him in the Saloon talking to a guy who was loading the old refrigerator in the back corner with beer. Now it’s cold outside, somewhere in the upper 30’s had they’re loading beer for the 5 o’clock rush. It really struck us as funny.

Connie called us over to the Café for some dinner. Pork chops and mashed potatoes with a really yummy pork chop gravy. A meal fit for Kings after a day of cold fishing. After we were done we went back to the Saloon to say our goodbyes to Jack. He introduced us to Slim, the guy we saw earlier stocking the refrigerator. Slim is 6’-4” tall. Thin as a rail with a handlebar mustache that just drooped off his face. He is a soft spoken man with a southern Texas drawl that completely mesmerized us.

The place was full of farmers! Well, full is 6 or 7 guys all around one table. They were all playing some sort of game and having a lot of fun shouting and poking fun at each other all the wile drinking beer and other poured drinks. Being friendly friends of Jack’s they, with some coaching form Jack, invited us to join them.

The game they were playing is called Ship-Captain-Crew. It has a leather cup loaded with 5 dice. No board, cards or any other instruments are needed. We noticed that each farmer had a pile of loose change in front of them and so we agreed to join.

John was the first to roll. The object of the game was to roll one four, one five and one six and then your score was the total of the remaining two dice. Each player enters the game by placing a predetermined amount in the pot. It our case they started out at 5 cents.

You get three rolls and you can leave any four, five or six on the table while rolling the remaining dice to better you chances. It didn’t look too difficult. Little did we know hat a lesson we were in for.

It wasn’t the nickel pot that got us in trouble it was being egged into side bets that got us. One farmer would bet that Loren could not roll a run and he would put down a quarter to back his bet. I would take his bet and put down my quarter and Loren would roll with only his nickel in the pot at stake and he would bomb out and I would be 25 cents poorer while Loren only lost his nickel if in the end he lost the round. This went on for some time all the while everyone is drinking what ever Slim passed around.

Before the night was too old all three of us city slickers had no more cash left. Those farmers cleaned us out and got a real good laugh doing it. I’m not sure if they felt better at beating us at their game or if it was the spandex under wader outfits we still had on after a day of fishing that gave them the real laughs.

We placed our last few remaining dollars on the bar in front of Slim as a gratuity for a fun night and the good southern service he had provided us with all evening. Slim kept trying to give it back and we would put it down again. This went on for a couple of rounds and finally Fat Jack jumped up and told Slim to keep the money. Slim started to make a fuss and said that we had paid for all our drinks and that we didn’t owe any more to the till. Jack amusingly told Slim that the money was meant for him. When he balked Jack told him it was a tip. I still don’t think Slim understood.

As we were leaving we suggested a new name for their group. In our eyes they, Fat Jack and the farmers, could only be named “The Hyattville Mafia.”

A Soft Sweet Voice

“What in the Hell are you doing with my truck!” Huh? “What in the Hell are you doing with my truck , can’t you city boys hear?” “Who gave you permission to “steal’ my truck, and what’s with stealing the battery out of my car? I had things to do today and you guys screwed my day from here to there and back.”

“Who are you guys, anyway?”

This old farmer was really pissed off and John, Loren and I just looked at each other wondering what was going on. Buford knew that it was time to hide and he took off around the corner following Fat Jack.

John stuttered some unintelligible grunting sounds and I thought the farmer was going to have a coronary right there. The veins in his neck were bulging and ready to burst. His eyes were white with fury and it was all directed at us.

There was a long silence while we tried to compose ourselves and come up with an answer that we thought would be acceptable to him. None of us had much to say.

There was a distinct odor in the air as everyone’s sense of imminent calamity began to flood their being. Fear, it turns out, causes your skin to smell or in this case, to stink. We were tired from the bouncing and being thrown back and forth, up and down while riding in the back of the suburban and none of us had much in the way of patience left to deal with this irate farmer.

“OK boys” said a sweet voice behind us, “what’s all this yell’n and holler’n about?” My, were those words comforting. I’m not sure if it was the words or the soft sweet voice but the situation immediately changed and everyone’s guard was lowered some.

“Jim, what are you so worked up about and why are you yell’n and carrying on like a cat who’s tail is on fire anyway” she said to the farmer. “You know it was Jack and not these fine fellas that messed with your stuff. Now, get on with it.”

“JACK!” she yelled. “Where in blazes is that husband of mine. He’s always caus’n me some kind of trouble.”