Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Les Combs

Pants on Fire

I was in high spirits that spring morning. Sun so bright it nearly blinded me, fields green with lush grass. Texas Panhandle after April rains. I’d been walking an hour or more, rides being scarce in these parts. Hitchhiking is a poor man’s transportation and tiresome, but that day I didn’t mind. I whistled a nameless tune while I walked.

Up ahead a man sat on a low bridge rail. He lifted an apple to his mouth and took a bite. When I came closer I saw it wasn’t a man but a boy. And he wasn’t eating an apple. It was a big onion. I stopped a few feet away, staring, before he looked at me for the first time.

“What? You never seen no onion before?” Mouthy kid. I’d guess him at no more than twelve or maybe thirteen. Barefoot. Dirty jeans and blue shirt with the tail hanging out. Hair the color of dried foxtail stuck out under a frayed straw hat. He’d shoved the hat to the back of his head, cocky like.

I sat down on the rail leaving a yard of space between us. “I’ve seen onions before, but I don’t make a habit of eating them like apples. Is that all you have to eat?”

He swallowed and gave me a hard glance. “Why? You writin’ a book?”

I sighed and shook my head. “Don’t act so tough. There’s a town a couple of miles ahead—thought I’d offer to buy you a meal if you’re hungry.”

He scooted away from me a foot or so. “You ain’t one of them pre-verts are you? ‘Cause if you are I don’t want nothin’ to do with you.”

I laughed. “No, I’m not a ‘pre-vert’. What’s your name, tough guy?”

He hesitated, eyed me over good before he answered. “Name’s Durwood, if it’s anything to you.”

I stood and headed up the highway. “I’m going to have me some ham and eggs, Durwood,” I called over my shoulder. “If you want some you can come with me.” I heard his bare feet slapping the pavement as he trotted to catch up with me. He reeked with onion.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Custis,” I told him, “if it’s anything to you.” He didn’t respond. “Where you from, Durwood?”

“Oh, uh, from Dallas. I live in Dallas.” He barely came up to my shoulder, and he had to stretch his legs to keep up the pace.

“You’re a long way from home. What brings you out this way?"

“Well, I’ll tell you. See, my daddy’s a rich man, richer than Ross Perot. We live in a great big old house, so big it hangs over the lot lines all around. Has a twelve-car garage to hold all the automobiles my daddy owns. Maids and butlers and such all over the place. I just wanted to get away from all that for a while. You know what I mean?”

He looked serious, like he expected me to believe him. “Yeah, I know what you mean, Durwood. Wealth can be a real burden on a fella.” I couldn’t help laughing at the little liar. “If your daddy’s so rich how come you don’t have money for food?”

He didn’t bat an eye. “A gang of thieves jumped me. Took everything I own, even my shoes. I tried to fight ‘em off, but there was just too many of ‘em.” He glanced at me to see if I was paying attention. “That’s why I’m wearin’ these here old clothes. At home I don’t wear nothin’ but silk suits.”

The town of Grateful spread like impetigo on the face of the prairie, its development arrested decades ago. Several pickups occupied the hard-packed dirt parking area in front of Sip and Ovella’s Café. “How about we wash-up first, Durwood?” I suggested. He cast a withering glance at me like the concept was foreign to him. But he followed me into the men’s room and reluctantly dashed water over his face and arms.

We claimed a booth by the front window and ordered breakfast from a plump and chirpy waitress. Nametag read, Polly. “Here you go, gents,” she gushed a few minutes later. “Enjoy yourselfs.”

Durwood’s hands shook, could hardly find his mouth with his fork. Never lifted his face from the plate for five minutes. He gorged himself, egg-yolk trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Um-um, that sure was good,” he said while mopping up the last traces with a biscuit.

I couldn’t resist prodding him a bit. “Better than onion, I’ll bet.”

“You got that right.” He sat back against the booth. “A man hadn’t ought to face the day without a little hog grease in him.”

I finished eating and paid the check. “Well, Durwood, I guess this is where you and me part company.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Alarm, like an animal startled, widened his eyes.

I gave him my most serious look. “I can’t afford to take care of you, Durwood. You need to go home.” I laid a dollar bill in front of him. “Here’s money for a phone call. Ring up your daddy and have him send the chauffeur for you.” His gaze dropped and his body slumped, defeated.

I stepped out of the booth. “It’s been nice meeting you, Durwood. Take care.” I went out the door and headed for the highway.

Thirty minutes later the slap-slap of bare feet sounded behind me. He came even with me, matched my gait and walked in silence. I was tempted to throw rocks and chase him off like a stray dog, but I didn’t.

Before noon the sky darkened. Thunder growled, and lightning flashed to the west of us. “We’re about to get wet if we don’t find shelter somewhere.” A few big drops made dark spatters on the blacktop.

Somebody up there must have liked us, because right about then I spotted a vacant barn in a field up ahead. The rain came down, serious like. “Let’s go.” The two of us ran like the devil himself was after us and entered the barn just partly wet. We lay on musty straw and listened to hail and rain rattle the sheet metal roof.

Durwood moved closer to me. “This here old barn won’t last a minute in a tornado,” he said, eyes wide and face pale. “My family has a history with tornados, they’re always looking for us.” He sat upright. “One hit our house one time and left Mama setting on a tree limb with a 40-pound shoat in her lap. We never did figure where the pig came from, but he followed Mama around like a pup after that.” Talking, lying, seemed to defeat his fear. He continued. “One hit our chicken house, and it snowed feathers for a week after.” He grew quiet as the storm lessened and became a steady rain.

He turned to face me. “Custis.” It was the first time he’d spoke my name. “Custis, I ain’t been altogether truthful with you.” No kidding. “I don’t really live in Dallas and my daddy ain’t rich. I don’t even have a daddy.” His hands fidgeted like the truth was hard for him to deal with. “I run away from home day before yesterday. Now I’m on my way back. I live in Stokes, the next town up the road. My mama’s going to be worried about me.”

Stokes, Texas looked a lot like Grateful, Texas, forlorn under the vast expanse of sky. We walked together down a muddy street to a modest house with flower boxes full of geranium blooms. A woman with disheveled hair and drawn face rushed out to meet us. She cuffed Durwood’s head affectionately before embracing him. I stood awkwardly as silent tears wet her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with her apron before asking me, “Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I need to be on my way.” I turned toward the highway.

I heard Durwood excitedly tell her, “Mama, me and Custis was caught in a tornado, right in the middle of it. You should’ve seen it. Limbs flyin’ everywhere, lightnin’ hittin’ all around us, it was a sight.”

The truth shall set you free.

Copyright © 2004 Les Combs

About the Author
A retiree living in Arkansas, Les grew up in California during the Great Depression. His experiences with farm workers of the time inspired him to write about have-not people in rural settings.