I stood in the middle of Junebug Myers' junkyard in the pallid heat of sun and humidity that mark a typical day in August in the deep South. Why anyone of Germanic origins, with a body built for an arctic climate, would find his way to the southern United States, I had no idea. But apparently my grandfather had. “You would be better off running booze for me," Junebug yelled from the drunken shade. I gave him the finger. The trouble with Junebug’s junkyard was there was absolutely nothing of value anywhere on the three acres. But I thought somewhere in the mess of twisted iron, bolts and nuts and plastic pink swans there might be a piece of steel I could twist, weld or manipulate into an upper wheel assembly for my 1969 Jaguar XJ. There was a Jaguar dealership in Little Rock but it was three hours away and I had no money anyway. “Fuck you," I yelled at Junebug and turned over a city manhole cover, only to find rotten organic matter and three snails. At least they were cool.
Junebug’s place of business was ideally located at a junction of the highway that led south to the heart of the Ozark Mountains. Tourists stopped in hopes of finding an original mountain treasure, but usually walked away in disgust at the sight of rusty bedsprings and 1950’s era appliances. Junebug wasn’t really in the junk business. He made enough money selling bootleg beer brought down from the Missouri State line to the dry county we inhabited to keep him fed and intoxicated. Junebug’s treasure palace was an eyesore to the new Baptist Church built on the hill across the creek and to the north, but since many of the prominent Baptists were regular customers of Junebug’s, any complaint usually got quashed at the congregation level.
“Why and when did you steal the city’s manhole covers?" I asked Junebug as I leaned against the wall in the shade of his office. “Mind your own business, but I would steal the shirt off a god damned Baptist’s back if I had half a chance.” He remarked. “If you would just go to the line and bring back a load of beer to the county fair tonight, you would have enough money to send to bloody god damned England for that part.” My stomach rumbled. “I’m hungry. You got anything to eat, Bug.” “No, but I have some green that will buy you something to eat if you want to make a beer run tonight.” “Oh for Christ sakes, give me the keys.” Junebug handed me the keys to his old Ford pickup and a ten-dollar bill.
I stopped at the Snack Shack on the way out of town and spent half of Junebug’s ten dollars on the blue plate special. Ham and lima beans tasted better than usual. It was thirty miles through the Ozark countryside to the Missouri state line and the Last Chance/First Chance (depending on which direction you were going) Liquor Store. The sun had sunk low on the horizon and some of the heat had been sapped out of the day. The drive was reasonably pleasant and by the time I had the beer in the truck and covered with a tarp, the sun was gone. I didn’t have to pay; Junebug’s credit was good.
It was dark when I drove the truck to the darkest portion of the gravel parking lot of the county fairgrounds and set up shop. One by one, single or in pairs, Baptists, Methodists, Pentecostals and general miscreants carried away six packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon, discretely wrapped in brown paper bags pilfered from the Piggly Wiggly. I had one six pack left when the midway lights of the carnival went off and the parking lot was deserted. Julie the Carny Girl walked out of the midway and toward me. I had met her the week before. She operated the Duck Ring Toss in the carnival midway. Three for a dollar, I never came close. “You got any weed?” she asked, “Sure” I lied. We had been a pair ever since. She was short, chubby and blonde with big tits and the face of a camel, and a heart warmer than your average Carny girl. The only negative was the large tattoo of Bob Marley’s face planted on her left butt cheek. The thought of Bob Marley winking at me during intercourse wasn’t pleasant and the tattoo limited our sex life to the missionary position. She took a bottle of the beer and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck. I hadn’t driven a quarter mile when blue and red lights begin to flash behind us and I pulled over to the side of the road.
I saw the cartoonish figure of Sheriff Tommy Dutch in my rear view mirror as he stepped out of his patrol car and waddled up to the driver’s side of the truck. “I know this is Junebug’s truck. Did you steal it?” “Hell no Tommy, he loaned it to me.” “Well we got him down at the house, I spose I can ask him myself.” Tommy stuck his thumb in the belt that supported his ample stomach over his short legs and said “You got any dope or excess alcohol in this truck?” “For Christ sakes Tommy, I don’t drink and I don’t have any money for weed.” Tommy rubbed his round chin and said “Well, the lady has an open container; I’m going to take you both in.”
A short time later I found myself in one of six cells at the city jail. Naked, bent over with my ass cheeks spread and an unfortunate junior officer staring at my ass end with a flashlight. Surely they didn’t think I had shoved a bottle of beer up my ass. I just chalked it up to general humiliation for general purposes. Junebug was in the cell across the corridor from me. Apparently brought in for public intoxication or public revulsion, one or the other. “Watch out Kevin, he is probably a god damned Baptist or queer or maybe both” Junebug hollered from across the way. I wanted to help the cops throw Junebug down the stairs.
Junebug snored through the night while I stared at the ceiling. Tommy came to let us out of his six-suite hotel in person in the morning. Early, so they wouldn’t have to make breakfast for us. Tommy handed me my personal belongings and motioned toward the restroom. “I took your girlfriend up to the state line and kicked her out beside the road. If she ever comes back to this town I will lock her up good. When I went to pat her down, the god damn low life bitch came at me with a knife.” “I’m not surprised Tommy, it was probably just self preservation.” “Shut up wise ass,” Tommy replied.
Junebug and I drove to my house and I found the proceeds of the night’s sale under the seat cover. I knew Tommy was to fat and lazy to do anything other than look in the glove box and the ashtray. We divvied up the money and I went in the house and called the J.C. Whitney Catalog and ordered a Ford Thunderbird upper wheel assembly. It wouldn’t fit the Jaguar out of the box, but I could cut the end off of it and weld the Jaguar ball joint to it. Maybe Junebug could sell the manhole covers back to the city.
© Kevin D. Burgess 03/12/2007
(click here for the second installment in the Junebug epic)