He was a long-legged old man, full of mischief and surprises. He lived in a rundown trailer with a yard full of boats and cats. There was a large sycamore tree in front with chairs set out under it and a burn barrel for warmth during the cold months. In the afternoons, he would sit out there with his friends and drink beer and tell stories that were mostly true.
Everyone called him Sarge for reasons unknown or long forgotten. He’d spent his life working on the water, oystering, shrimping, and fishing and still did occasionally, when he needed extra cash. Although Sarge lived alone, he had several girlfriends that were always hanging around and vying for his attention. This vexed his neighbors, Amos and Rosalee, to no end.
Amos was nosey and obnoxious, a neighbor Sarge put up with simply because of his close proximity. Whenever Amos would come over to sit with everyone under the sycamore, he would inevitably get into an argument with someone. Amos’s wife was just as bad or worse, although she refused to socialize with Sarge’s regular visitors, claiming they were no-good sinners and drunks.
In fact, when Amos would take a notion to sit with Sarge’s friends, she’d purposely burn his supper and once put bleach in with his favorite red shirt, turning it a ghastly shade of pink. Amos never seemed to catch on to the connection and just had to eat burnt spaghetti or wear pink shirts. This just added to his disagreeable personality and propensity to start arguments. Sarge would roll his eyes and inwardly groan when he saw Amos starting to cross the yard. But, being a friendly sort, he just kept on putting up with it and hoping it would get better.
One day when he was outside feeding his cats, his latest girlfriend, a buxom redhead, drove up with a freshly baked broccoli casserole, biscuits, and a jar of homemade grape jelly, two of Sarge’s favorite foods. Amos just happened to be outside, working on his boat motor when she arrived. He looked up jealously, infuriated that Sarge could attract such pretty women that were also good cooks. Memories of burnt cornbread filled his head so that he could hardly concentrate on what he was doing and ended up breaking the wrench he was using.
Pretty soon, Sarge and the redhead were laughing and sitting at the picnic table under the tree, plates piled with fresh casserole and biscuits with jelly. How Amos longed to join them! But his wife came stomping out of the house, hands on hips and eyes flashing. “The sink is clogged up again. How am I gonna fix supper when I can’t clean the greens?” she demanded. Amos just hung his head and went to get the plunger.
Later on that evening, Sarge made a fire in the burn barrel and dragged his beer cooler into the yard. The redhead had turned on the radio in her truck and was dancing around, singing along with the music. “What a hussy!” remarked Rosalee as she turned up the heat under the greens. At this point, Amos was trying to think up an excuse to walk over to Sarge’s place where he was sure to get some of that casserole and biscuits and jelly.
Some more friends dropped by Sarge’s and were popping beers under the tree. Someone had lit the grill and put fresh mullet on to smoke. Amos said he had to go get his wrenches and slipped out the door, headed for Sarge’s place. His wife narrowed her eyes and turned the greens up on ‘high’.
“Oh Lord, here comes Amos,” said the redhead in a low whisper.
“Don’t worry - Rosalee won’t let him stay long,” Sarge reassured her.
Sure enough, here he came with a scowl on his face and a broken wrench in his hand. “I think you broke my wrench last time you borrowed it,” he lied.
Sarge just fooled around in his toolbox for a minute and handed Amos another one. This placated him for the time being.
The mullet were smelling so good that Amos kept on hanging around while Rosalee fumed next door. Eventually someone offered him a beer, which he gratefully accepted. He could feel a tension headache coming on and his stomach was beginning to growl. And whenever he thought no one was looking, he grabbed a biscuit out of the basket and gobbled it down. The redhead sat on Sarge’s knee and smoothed his frazzled hair, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by poor Amos who never enjoyed affection like this.
Pretty soon, someone yelled “Fire!” and Amos looked up to see smoke billowing from his kitchen window.
“Should I call the Fire Department?” asked Sarge. “
No - don’t bother,” sighed Amos, “Looks like Rosalee’s got supper ready!”
