It was an almost-autumn day. Huge thunderheads formed over the river and adjoining swamp. Afternoons were still sweltering, but morning and evening times grew cooler. Hawks glided overhead, winding through towering pines. Dog fennel spiraled upward and ragweed formed green chandeliers along roadsides. Skies seemed sad, as if sensing that summer was fading away.
My neighbors burned trash this evening, smoke adding to swamp mist that rose to envelope nightfall.
It was quiet, except for cicadas and the distant barking of a dog. An old man came limping down the road, half-empty quart of beer in hand. He spotted me right away. “Got a light?” he asked. I got up and got one from the house and walked back out to light his cigarette. He was a curious fellow.
I held out the flame so he could light up, but he did not seem able to focus enough to get it done. His head wobbled from side to side, and he seemed about to lose his balance. I grabbed his arm to steady him and he suddenly began to cackle. “Took me ten minutes last time!” he laughed. His amusement was contagious and I started to giggle.
He had long white hair and a beard to match. His light blue eyes were bloodshot and watery and he had brown snaggled teeth. I noticed that he wore a striped shirt and large, plaid shorts. The whole outfit was set off by a pair of hot pink flip flops. Said his name was Tock and that he came from Panama City. I invited him to sit down in the swing with me and smoke his cigarette.
“Used to oyster here, a long time ago," he reminisced.
“What do you do now?” I asked.
“Smoke and drink,” he answered.
“Smoke and drink?” I questioned incredulously.
“Yeah," he replied. Upon further questioning, I found out that he got a check every month and stayed at a friend’s house.
“Do you make enough to pay your bills?” I wanted to know.
“Ain’t got no bills. No rent, no water, no lights. Cigarettes and beer is my ‘bills’," he responded, happily.
It seemed unlikely to me that a person could do nothing but smoke and drink. Surely there was something else. “Go fishing a lot?” I queried.
“Nope,” he answered as he lit another cigarette and finished off his beer.
I tried another tack. “How about family? Do you spend time with family members?” I probed.
“They all in Texas,” he explained.
There it was - simple and true. Still, I searched for something else - something besides beer and cigarettes. Maybe he liked to read. But before I got to ask him, he spoke up.
“Well - gotta go," he announced as he stubbed out his cigarette in the grass.
“I’ll give you a ride. No sense walking,” I offered.
So here we went. He immediately turned up the radio full blast and stuck his head out the window to feel the breeze. “Turn here,” he said.
“But the store is up ahead,” I protested.
“Just take a minute,” he mumbled. We went down a little two-rut road that eventually led to a dilapidated trailer with a yard full of chickens. An elderly woman was sitting on her porch and appeared to be shelling peas. She looked up and grinned.
“Tock, where you been?” she smiled.
“Here and there,” he told her, which piqued my curiosity even more.
She went inside and came back with a quart jar of clear liquid. “Made from pure chicken feed,” she cackled. This did not look good. He gave her some money and we got back in the car.
“What the hell was that?” I asked angrily.
“Medicine for my joints,” he explained after taking a long pull on the jar.
Whatever, I thought.
We got to the store and I helped him carry out a case of Natural Light. He also bought a carton of cigarettes and a couple of cigars. Taking him home was the good part. First, we ended up halfway to Carrabelle before he told me he was lost. “Where do you live, actually?” I asked in frustration.
“Kinda here and kinda there,” he murmured in between snores. Great - he was asleep!
I pulled into the gas station/ convenience store in Carrabelle and got out to fill the tank. Asked a couple of folks if they knew who Tock was and if they knew where he belonged. Nothing.
I decided to take him back to where I first saw him - the road in front of my house. Surely he lived close by. It was almost night and this seemed logical. Suddenly, he came to! “Stop!” he commanded, so I did, hoping he was close to home. “Gotta pee,” he said as my hopes flew out the window. He took an inordinately long time to accomplish this task and I have to admit I thought about driving off and leaving him there, but didn’t.
Then, we were back on the road to somewhere. At last, we reached my house, Tock asleep once again. l tried to wake him with no success, so I left him there with a pillow and a blanket and a bottle of water. Locked my doors and conked out. In the morning he was gone, beer and cigarettes, too.
I never saw Tock again. Asked around, just to make sure he was alright and had made it “home,” but no one seemed to know. Once, I thought I saw him walking along the side of the road, but he got a ride before I reached him. Too bad. He had inadvertently left something wedged between the seats of my car that I wanted to return to him. It was a handful of coins, a pocket knife, his Vietnam-era military medal, and a faded library card.
