The Dog of the South by Charles Portis Page B

couldn’t stop. It was important to me that they know these things and who would tell them if I didn’t?
    They fled my presence, the hippies and vets and cuties alike, and left me sitting alone in the corner. I kept drinking, I refused to leave. They had all turned on me but I wasn’t going to let them run me off. There was a lot of old stuff on the jukebox and I who had never played a jukebox in my life had the waiter take my change after each drink and play “It’s Magic” by Doris Day. She was singing that song, a new one to me, when I first entered the place. I had heard of Doris Day but no one had ever told me what a good singer she was.
    Sometime around midnight the hippie couple from Little Rock got into a squabble. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because his voice was low but I heard her say, “My daddy don’t even talk to me like that and you damn sure ain’t!” The little girl was blazing. He put his hand out to touch her or to make some new point and she pushed it away and got up and left, stepping smartly in her white stockings and brushing past an old man who had appeared in the doorway.
    He was a fat man, older than the Flying Tiger, and he was looking from left to right like an animal questing for food. He wore a white hat and a white shirt and white trousers and a black bow tie. This old-timer, I said to myself, looks very much like a boxing referee, except for the big floppy hat and the army flashlight clipped to his belt.
    He looked around and said, “Where’s the boy who’s going to British Honduras?”
    I said nothing.
    He raised his voice. “I’m looking for the boy who’s going to British Honduras! Is he here?”
    If I had kept my mouth shut for five more seconds, he would have gone his way and I would have gone mine. I said, “Here I am! In the corner! I’m not supposed to talk!” I hadn’t spoken for a long time and my voice croaked and had no authority in it.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œOver here!”
    â€œI can’t see you!”
    â€œIn the corner!”
    He bumped his way across the room and took off his hat and joined me on the bench. His white pants were too long and even when he was seated there was excess cloth piled up on top of his shoes. “I couldn’t see you over all those heads,” he said.
    I was still fuming, a resentful drunk, and I took my anger out on him. “You couldn’t see any normal human being over here from where you were standing. I’m not a giraffe. For your information, sir, a lot of navy pilots are five seven. Why don’t you try calling Audie Murphy a runt? You do and you’ll wake up in St. Vincent’s Infirmary.”
    He paid no attention to this rant. “My bus broke down and I need to get back on the road,” he said. “When are you leaving?”
    â€œThey won’t let me talk in here.”
    â€œWho won’t?”
    â€œAll these juiceheads. You’d think they owned the place. I have just as much right to be here as they do and if they don’t want to hear about the greenhouse they can all kiss my ass! These juiceheads never grew anything in their lives!”
    Neither had I for that matter but it wasn’t the same thing. The old man introduced himself as Dr. Reo Symes. He looked to be in bad health. His belt was about eight inches too long, with the end curling out limp from the buckle. There were dark bags under his eyes and he had long meaty ears. One eye was badly inflamed and this was the thing that made me feel I was talking to Mr. Proctor or Mr. Meigs.
    He said he was from Louisiana and had been making his way to British Honduras when his school-bus camper broke down. He was the owner of The Dog of the South. He asked if he might ride along with me and share the expenses. Overdoing everything like the disgusting drunk that I was, I told him that he would be more than welcome and that there would be