It's All Business

After church I rode out to Chef's. He had been cooking I heard. Shrimp gumbo and cornbread and greens, only the way he can do it. He was pure coon-ass and good.

I bought a vat to take away. Dancer was there, in one of his 'moods'.

After a small bowl and piece of cornbread I sat out on the backporch with them. Chef was smoking and playing with a sharp pairing knife that he had been drying off with a towel as he came out.

Dancer was leaning far back in a rough wooden chair. His drink smelt strong. He had gotten a hold of some redneck-blue-mirrored-fishing-wrap-a-rounds. He was wearing them proudly and drinking whiskey and handling a small .22 pistol, a Ruger I believe. He was sighting out into Chef's remote back yard.

I nodded at the pistol. Dancer seemed to focus down on something in the grass and indicated with his shoulder to ask Chef, quietly.

I asked, quietly. Chef, spinning the knife around while looking up at the sky, answered, "Da cotton mouvs are coming up from the low spots, the water, ya know?, to find someplace for the winter. Dair moving around erreywhere. Dancer thinks he'll shoot one. Not likely." He spat off the porch.

We talked lazily about the election. No one's got their minds properly around it yet. Its a lot to digest. And then the economy and falling land values.


Dancer set the pistol on his lap and took a sip. "I'd watch the real estate market right now. Keep your powder dry until we bottom out. There could be significant gains. Could be. We're dealing with a very volatile environment. I'm watching day to day..." He set his drink down slowly and picked up the pistol and sighted it out into the yard. Then he went on, "I'm tentatively planning to drive to Savannah and visit and take the train up the coast, to Norfolk-- stop here and there along the way. Maybe take a couple of weeks.

"Anyone interested in taking a trip; some time in the Spring, if the ground under us doesn't change too terrible. Might be fun. Business trip. Of course, you know, wild Irish blood and all, could never tell the difference between 'business' and 'pleasure' to begin with."

He squeezed off a round. There was the sharp little pop of a .22. Something, about thirty feet away, jumped up into the November twilight and then fell back down into the grass slashing about wildly, something about the size and shape of a bicycle innertube. Dancer quickly released a volley of about four shots, at least two of them hitting, and then the thing was still.

"It's all business to me." He said putting the gun down and picking up his drink.

Chef yelled, "Bravo!" and clapped.

Savannah in the Spring? I wonder how they are with flooding?


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mike edwards