The Gentler Gamester

One

Rodger and Loutrell

Rodger And Loutrell were best friends, but they didn’t always communicate too well. This was the case in spite of all the talking Loutrell did, or maybe because of it. Loutrell came from a family of talkers. Getting a word in at family gatherings was not easy. It was said that if you lost your breath, you lost your place. It had gotten so extreme with Loutrell, that he was now one of those sorts who really didn’t need a conversation. He could talk to any quiet object that stayed still long enough. It was better if the object could listen, but in a pinch any object would do, moving or otherwise. He sort of talked inside his head, kind of addressing himself and not even looking outside at anyone or anything, but you could hear him rattling on. People always joked and said you couldn’t get inside his brain because it was so small, there wasn’t room enough in it for himself.

This talkativeness was not the case with Rodger and his family. They hardly said a word at all. Charlie-T, Rodger’s young cousin, whom the two tried to help out when the poor fellow needed it (and he always usually did) was just as silent as Rodger. The adjective taciturn wouldn’t quite cover the situation with either of them.

Loutrell’s wife had left him when the nest got empty (no wonder). The children were gone off to jobs in Columbia. About his only social life was church on Sunday. He envied Reverend Walker the more than an hour he had to talk uninterrupted save the occasional amen.

Because Loutrell was alone now, when he did meet someone, he was driven to talk even more than he would have ordinarily. Get him on a little caffeine, and he was like a runaway train. No need to try and stop him. Rodger was the perfect companion because he didn’t say absolutely anything. Rodger was like that around everybody, even Charlie-T, but doubly so around Loutrell. He was very patient too and could sit for hours watching the proverbial paint peel. Rodger and Loutrell. It was a match made in heaven.

Loutrell had a beat-up old Glassmaster and a homemade boat trailer he and Rodger had welded together from a thrown-away hundred-year-old truck body. They’d done a right competent job considering the throw-away parts they’d used. This fine summer day, Loutrell had picked Rodger up to go bass and crappie fishing on Lake Moultrie. He’d tied his and Rodger’s cane poles neatly under the boat seats. Loutrell as usual talked all the way and Rodger listened, his eyes half shut in that customary squint of his, and answering only in grunts and monosyllables to show he was at least still half awake. He was practicing that fine gift of his to go trance-like, eyes glazed, and with absolutely nothing on his mind and not a care in the world.

The lake was as smooth as glass and a grey haze made the distant moss-draped cypress and tupelo look like dark watercolour blurs blending into mist. Loutrell had packed two snap-top tins of sardines and a sleeve of saltines, so they could spend the whole day.

The fishing was ordinary. They caught several nice crappies and a couple of small rock bass and put them in a spackling bucket to take home. The sound of them occasionally splashing around and the lapping of the water against the boat’s sides were about all you could hear—other than Loutrell. Only a few outboards were on the lake today. Their corks bobbed without being bothered by another boat’s aggravating wake. The worms Loutrell had dug for bait were doing their duty. All in all, it was a picture perfect day.

I met Loutrell in front of the Piggly Wiggly about 4:30 that afternoon. We called it the Social Pig. It was where everybody gathered in town. He was just back the fourteen miles from the lake with the boat trailer behind him. He’d just pulled up to the Pig parking lot and hailed me with his usual loud greeting and cascade of talk.

Afternoon. You fine? Me too, but a little tired. Looks like you finally washed that truck. Mr. John’s finally got mine fixed. Took him enough time and after three tries to get it right. But finally. His wife’s in the hospital with gall stones and a kidney infection. Says he needs more work to pay bills. You got you a good mechanic? Bet you have. You ever need engine work and you don’t have to have it done right away, then Mr. John’s your man. What you been doing? How come I aint seen you in awhile? Me and Rodger been fishing. Sunny all day. Good fishing weather. Not a whole pack of folks on the lake. Caught us a nice mess of fish. You ever get to fish anymore? I know you use to like to. But life goes on whether you want it to or not. Would you believe, Rodger drowsed off and likened to fall out of the boat one time. Don’t know what I’m gonna do with him. You ever done that? Bet you have. Almost lost our fish. Nearly turned the boat over. Just dozed off to sleep sitting there. He sure did, though he claims on a stack of bibles that he aint done it. Told him he better swear on a stack of telephone books or he was sure gonna go to hell. Should have seen him today! He gets so excited when he catches a fish that you’d swear it was his first time. Well, you know Rodger. Don’t need to say no more. Had us a good ol’ time.

This went on a full five minutes with me not answering except to nod and be pleasant. Loutrell said he’d wanted to stay longer on the lake but Rodger had a few chores to do before dark, so they’d come on home. And that’s why they were pulling in so early this afternoon. He was taking Rodger to his pickup there in the parking lot. He said Rodger needed a good talking to on the way home because he’d heard Rodger had been doing some things last week he hadn’t ought to be. Never you mind what. Loutrell said he’d given Rodger pure down home.

Finally, I just had to override Loutrell with a question. It took some doing. But where’s Rodger? I asked.

Loutrell craned his neck and checked the truck’s muddy side mirror, then jerked half way around and looked through the truck’s mud-splattered back window to find no Rodger, and no boat either. Seems he’d forgotten to fasten the boat down when they’d got it on the trailer and it had stayed in the lake when the trailer pulled out from under it.

Rodger had been helping from inside the boat and just stayed there because he always liked to ride back home in the boat on a pretty day. No doubt he preferred the relative peace and quiet and could doze and daydream at ease, despite the fact that Loutrell would now and then talk loud to him anyway from inside the cab, head craning around so as to endanger both their lives. And Loutrell was surprised Rodger wasn’t there because, as he said, he’d talked to him all the way home.

When Loutrell retraced his route, he found Rodger still in the boat at the lake’s edge where he’d pulled off and left him over an hour ago. Rodger hadn’t moved and was looking straight ahead, eyes half open in that squint of his. In fact, with the warm sun on his back, he’d taken the opportunity to have another late afternoon snooze. He didn’t relish the farm chores he had to do when he got home anyway.

When he got the chance, Rodger expressed himself not in the least concerned that Loutrell had left him. As he said, he didn’t worry. He reckoned that when Loutrell missed his boat, he’d miss him too and at least come back after his boat. Loutrell wouldn’t leave that boat to chance, no sirree, me in it to protect it or not. No big deal. Besides, he still had half a sleeve of saltines and he and the fish in the bucket had been keeping themselves company. They were all just taking advantage of a little quiet time.

Two

Never You Just Mind What!

The Further Adventures of Rodger and Loutrell

Rodger had gotten in real trouble this time with Mr. Chance Stately. Mr. Chance owned the Big House of the neighborhood complete with startling white columns, lush dark camellias, and magnolia trees you could smell a mile away in May and June. It wasn’t for the smell of magnolias, however, that Rodger and his cousin Charlie-T lingered around. To keep Rodger’s Charlie-T Gilyard from being confused with Charlie-T Seabrook, they all called Rodger’s cousin Charlie-T from Elloree. It had a kind of poetic ring, a kind of ironic Byronic appellation in keeping with Charlie-T’s amatory misadventures with members of the female kind.

For truth to tell, Charlie-T was too bashful around women to ever look one in the eye. His tongue would get tangled up, his face would burn red and he’d stumble off, his eyes fixed on the ground. Bashful wasn’t an adequate word to describe what he was. There was no wonder he hadn’t any friends.

With behavior like that, he was a puzzle