Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Les Combs

All God's Children

Someday I hope I can afford a better class of transportation. Beggars can't be too choosy, I guess. I rode in a rusted pickup bed on the passenger side. "There ain't enough room in the cab," the skinny old rancher said when he stopped for me ten miles back. I couldn't help noticing there was plenty of room for a saddle in the seat beside him.

In the truck bed opposite me was one of those black-and-gray-mottled Australian cow dogs. Smelled like dead rabbit. Bob-tailed, he was, and standoffish. Every time I shifted position he turned his head toward me and curled an upper lip. What with keeping an eye on the dog and holding my hat on my head, I had my hands full.

I'd hitchhiked my way down from the Oklahoma-Kansas border area after an unfortunate experience with the locals up that way. I needed to find a place to hang my hat for a while, get a job and get back on my feet—financially speaking, that is. Lord knows I'd worn out plenty of shoe leather the last few days. I thought I'd give Texas a try.

The pickup squealed to a stop at a crossroads. "This is far as you go," the rancher informed me. I hopped over the side, not unhappy to part company with that surly dog. The old man turned to the right on a gravel road, a rooster-tail of dust in his wake. A sign pointing the other way read AMICABLE 2. That's the way I went, hoping to find a meal.

A half-hour walk brought me to the outskirts of town. Next to a 20-acre field of portable drilling rigs, racks of drill-stem and steel vats the size of river barges, a fair was in progress. BLIND PETE COUNTY FAIR, the overhead canvas sign read. Behind a multi-colored kiddy merry-go-round I spotted a foot-long hotdog stand. I wasn't used to paying $2 for a hotdog, but they looked filling. Smelled good, too. The man in the booth loaded it up with chopped onion, pickle relish and mustard. I added a line of catsup the length of the bun.

"You want to earn some money?" I'd just taken the first bite when this fella behind me spoke. I turned to be sure he was talking to me. I suppose he could tell from the look of my clothes that I might respond to the mention of money. "My name's Buster Carstairs. I'm the fair manager." He stuck his hand out.

I swallowed, changed hands with the hotdog, licked catsup off my finger and shook with him. "I'm Custis Duckworth. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carstairs."

"I need a judge for one of the fair events." He looked at his watch. "The contest starts in about a half-hour." I guess he noticed me hesitate. "Pays $30," he added.

"Why can't you get somebody local to do it?" I couldn't figure why he'd picked me, a stranger.

Carstairs came up to about my shoulder, round face with sweat running down. He mopped his brow with a dingy handkerchief. "Folks around here don't want the job. Can't pay 'em to do it."

"Why's that, Mr. Carstairs? What kind of a contest is it?"

He chuckled and leaned toward me in a conspiratorial way. "It's a ugly baby contest. We usually try to get a outsider to do the judging." Well, that explained a lot.

A recent divorce had separated me from most of my worldly goods. Shoot, I needed the money, so why not give it a try? "I'll do it, Mr. Carstairs."

I never had much to do with babies. They all demanded a lot of attention without showing much gratitude. A litter of pups had more personality.

Two rows of eight chairs atop a raised platform seated the contestants. With an age limit of one year, each entrant sat on its mother's lap. Some cried, some sucked on bottles, some slept and some just stared goggle-eyed. Mr. Carstairs introduced me then continued. "This year's winner will receive a certificate for $150 worth of merchandise at Grafton's Feed and Grocery. Let the judging begin."

I stepped over and stood in front of contestant #1. What I saw caused my eyes to shut tight, face squeezed up like I'd just drank castor oil. Not the baby—I was looking at its mother. Whew! I'd sure enough earn my money on this job.

I tried to make an honest effort. It wasn't easy because there were several truly unattractive young ones in the group, not to mention the old ones. I finally awarded the certificate to #12, a child who, I kid you not, drew a painfully short straw on looks. I hoped I wasn't expected to kiss the winner.

"Fraud!" a mother yelled. "How much did she pay you?" "It's fixed, it's fixed." The ladies got testier by the minute. Fists were raised, angry threats shouted.

I looked around in a panic for escape. Carstairs stood off to one side of the audience, arms folded over his belly, a smirk across his face. I jumped off the platform and raced toward him. He handed me the $30, like passing a baton in a relay race, as I went past. "Better get out of town, Duckworth," he yelled to my back. The man was laughing at me.

I made it back to the main highway in quick time, out of breath and looking over my shoulder. I held my thumb up to an approaching car. An aging Toyota sedan with a man, a woman and five stair-step kids stopped beside me. "Get in, neighbor," the man invited.

I opened the rear door and looked for a place to sit. "You'll have to hold Grainger on your lap, I expect," the driver offered. "You don't mind, do you?"

I minded a-plenty. "No, I don't mind." I hoisted the two-year-old boy to my lap and felt a lump the size of my fist in his Huggies. I cracked the window to let in fresh air and leaned my head in that direction. Grainger, bless him, groped my face and chin with sticky fingers. I really wished I could afford better transportation.