Chapter 21
Skeeter frantically knocked on the back door of Flood’s Place. He waited a few seconds and then knocked again louder this time and yelled, “Theb, Theb, wake up, wake up, wake up!” Then he nervously paced back and forth as though he expected Oats to pop out of the door immediately at this hour. He knocked again, harder and louder this time, all within a couple of minutes, “Theb, Theb, get up, get up!” By this time Patrick who was fast asleep in the trailer about 50 feet away was aroused. He put on his pants, stuck his head out the trailer door, and in the dim night light saw Skeeter pacing around at Oats’ door.
“What’s going on Skeeter,” he yelled.
Skeeter ran over to Patrick and said, “Goddamn it! Al’s gone crathy up at the club houth. I need thum help getting him under control. I gotta get Theb up and get him up there.”
Finally, Oats was awake by all the commotion and opened the back door. Still in his shorts and wearing no shirt, he said, “what the hell is going on out here. It must be 3:00 O’clock in the morning, don’t you people every sleep?”
Skeeter now more agitated than ever, ran the 50 feet back to Oats and said, “me and Al wuz down at th’ club houth having thum drinths and all of a thud’un the thun-of-a-bitch went crazthy. He started screaming and ranting. I got out of there when he started thooting and custhing at everything in thite and thaying he was gonna kill him another Geechee. You gotta thum up there and straighten him out Theb.”
“OK, give me a minute to get my clothes on.”
“Hurry up!”
At the clubhouse, Al had in fact seemed to have lost his mind. He and Skeeter, and a couple others had been drinking since around11:00 PM. Well after midnight, the only ones still around were Skeeter and Al. The drink of preference tonight was two cases of Budweiser, but that ran out quickly. Then someone broke out two separate Mason jars of white lightning. After the beer was gone, Al’s mind was spinning, but he started in hard on the liquor. When the two jars were broken out, he immediately grabbed one of the jars and said, “This one’s mine. Nobody gets a drink of it.”
No one challenged him since the other jar was plenty for the rest of them.
After Al had consumed over half of the jar, his imagination went rampant. He was certain that Fuzz had placed a voodoo hex on him. Even when he was sober he had the illusion, but now with the amount of alcohol he had consumed the illusion was more vivid. As usual, it started when he saw the face of “Fuzz” at the top of a swirling cone of fog. As always, Fuzz wagged his finger at Al. He heard Fuzz’s voice, “you are a bad man. You will rot in hell. You must confess to trying to run over that boy with your motorcycle.”
This time Al was determined to take care of Fuzz. With Fuzz still swirling over his head, he went outside to his motorcycle and hysterically fumbled for the pistol in his saddlebag. As he ran back into the house, he started shooting at Fuzz. All the time Skeeter was yelling to him to settle down, but Al didn’t see or hear him. Fuzz was the only thing he saw. Of course, Fuzz was not affected by the shots and just made an eerie laugh when Al pulled the trigger over and over until the pistol was empty. Then in a last ditch effort, he threw the pistol at Fuzz. Al was so confused that he just screamed at Fuzz. Then he went to the floor on his knees, holding his hands over his ears, he screamed again, “Stop, stop. Leave me alone. Get away from me.” It was obvious that Al was in a state of schizophrenia and Fuzz as controlling his mind.
Then he rolled beneath the pool table to get away from Fuzz. He was lying face up on the floor. Eventually, he passed out and unconsciously he began to vomit. At first, the foul bile spewed out of his mouth and all over his face and the floor. Fuzz was gone, but the hex was still there. Al’s gagging and coughing were so severe that his head violently smashed against the bottom of the pool table. Whether from the blow to his head, or from the effects of the alcohol, or maybe the combination of both, he didn’t wake up. The vomit and bile were bubbling up from his mouth cutting off his breathing. He had no awareness or ability to response to his potentially fatal predicament.
Oats rolled up to the clubhouse in his familiar green pickup with Patrick just behind him on his motorcycle. As they pulled to a stop, Oats got out and stood by the pickup listening to see if Al was screaming or shooting as Skeeter had reported. Everything was silent.
“Probably passed out,” said Oats.
Standing inside the open door, the two men looked around, as Skeeter stumbled up the steps behind them. Al was not to be seen. Then they heard a gurgle come from under the pool table. They each took one leg and pulled Al into the open room. The entire top part of his body was covered with vomit. Oats had heard stories of drunks being suffocated on their own vomit and was alert to Al’s condition. It took both him and Patrick to roll the big man onto his stomach. Then Oats grabbed Al by his hair, pulled his head straight back and gave him a violent blow to the back. As he did a stream of bile spewed out of Al’s mouth. Al started coughing and gagging again. Within a few minutes, Al was conscious, but almost immediately bobbed his head and went out again. Oats just pushed him back down on the floor.
Having sobered up somewhat after Al’s rampage, Skeeter was just watching the machinations. He was now beginning to feel as if would better, so he plopped on the couch behind the door, from where Oats had only a few nights before shot Bubba. Not aware of the couch’s history, Skeeter was fast asleep within a few minutes. Oats and Patrick walked out of the house. Oats closed the door and remarked, “Let them ass-holes sleep it off.”
As Patrick turned his motorcycle west behind the green pickup, the door on the house settled to his low arc displaying its usual six-inch gap and the rustic old house under the gigantic orbicular live oak tree was temporarily peaceful again.