Nowheresville, MS

I wrote this short story a very long time ago as part of my undergraduate degree. In it, I wanted to experiment with writing in dialect, mainly based on the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou?. Can you tell?

There was a man sitting behind the counter at the general store. He was leaning back in his chair—way back—and digging the grime from under his fingernails with a large, wicked-looking knife. All you could see under his battered broad-brimmed hat was his jaw, which was covered in stubble and rhythmically chomping up and down on a wad of tobacco.

“Wutchoo waunt, boy?”

I jumped slightly. The voice was deep and rich, like molasses, and it surprised me. I didn’t think he’d seen me standing in front of him so awkwardly for the past few minutes.

“I, uh, do you know where I can find a, um, a mechanic?” I spoke quietly, all the while giving a cautious look to the knife. It was stained—with blood, perhaps?

“Yew ain’t from ‘round here.”

Chomp. Chomp. It was mesmerising to watch the practised flicking at his fingers keep in time with his chewing.

“Um, no. No, I’m not. I’m from—“

“Ah doun’ waun’ hear it. Yew’s from Up Nauf, Ah kin teell.” He snuffled a bit, then spat into a big can by his feet, like the ones coffee comes in. Plunk. I didn’t think Colorado exactly qualified as “Up North,” but I figured as long as he had that knife it’d be safer not to contradict him.

“Yes, I am. But what about that—“

“Mah daddy shot him some Yanks when he was jes’ a li’l feller.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” It wasn’t, at all. I wouldn’t have been surprised if this guy had shot some Yanks himself. I scanned the cluttered shelves, certain that somewhere there had to be a sawn-off shotgun or a couple of pistols or… something. There was a lot of junk hidden amongst the shadows and the cobwebs; who knew what kind of skeletons lurked back there?

For a few moments neither of us said anything, and the only sounds were the moist chomping of the tobacco, and the quiet scraping of knife-blade against nail.

“Yew still here?” It was more of a statement than a question, really. Maybe it was a rhetorical question. I answered anyway.

“I still need a mechanic.”

The store manager looked up at me for the first time. I’d half-expected his eyes to be demon-red, or soulless black pits of despair. Instead, they were small and glittery, like pigs’ eyes.

“Mmm, Ah ‘spose yew do.” He grunted and sat himself up, at which the spindly wooden chair beneath him protested mightily. “We’d best go see ‘Zekiel Hawdge, then.”

“Don’t you have a number for Mr, uh, Hodge that I could call?”

The other man stood up, and he was big. He was easily half a foot taller than me—and I wasn’t exactly short, mind—and at least twice as big around.

“Doun’ gawt a phone.”

“I have a cell.”

“He doun’ gawt a phone.”

“Oh.”

He lumbered past me through the door and, not wanting to be left behind, I followed after. I didn’t follow very far, though, before I halted. The store manager was climbing into the rusted old shell of a pickup that I’d assumed was just some pitiful derelict on the side of the road. Considering the weight of the man and the amount of rust on the machine, I was surprised he didn’t just fall out the bottom. He stuck his head out the door.

“Yew waun’ a mechanic, o’ douncha?” Well, I did. So I made my cautious way around the side of the truck, and gingerly hopped in. There was hardly room for the both of us, and to be honest, the other man reeked. He spat out the door, shut it, and turned the key in the ignition a few times. Eventually, the engine coughed, spluttered and roared itself into life, and off we went. The smell in the cab was a bit much for me, so I tried to roll down the window.

“Th’ windas stick.”

“I noticed.” I wondered how far we had to go. Could I hold my breath? Not likely. Besides, there was the issue of the knife. Much to my dismay, it had not remained in the store, but had come along for the ride by way of a sheath on its master’s hip. I was eager to avoid crossing or insulting the man at all costs, lest it find itself sheathed in me.

The rest of the journey was a quiet affair. We passed field after field, a never-ending sea of corn. Finally, we pulled into a long, dusty driveway leading up to a rickety farmhouse. We drove around the back, and stopped in front of a tractor which had half-swallowed a man—presumably the mechanic I was looking for. The storekeeper got out of the truck, and so did I. The tractor disgorged the man, and you could hardly see him for oil and grime.

“How do, Pete?”

“’Zekiel. This here Yank’s gawt hisself a spawt o’ trouble, needs him a mechanic.”

“Oh, duzzee now?” Ezekiel Hodge moved towards me, wiping the gunk off of his hands as he did so. Very much unlike my new friend Pete, Ezekiel was small and scrawny, with a tough leather skin. He may not have had the bulk of the storekeeper, but I swear I caught a malicious gleam in his eye as he approached.

He sniffed. “What seems t’ be yer proub’m, young mayan?”

“Uh, knocking noises in the engine, lots of steam…”

“Mmhmm. Ah’ll take a look. Where’bouts yew leave it?”

I gestured vaguely North-ish. Ezekiel looked at Pete. Pete shrugged a shoulder and spat again.

“Yew’d best g’ back wi’ Pete. Ah’ll folla ‘lawng soon ‘nuff.” Back… with Pete? I thought I’d rather take my chances with the smaller man. I hadn’t seen a weapon on him, anyway.

“You sure I can’t just go back with you? That way Pete can get back to his—”

“’Tain’t a prob’m. Ah’m goin’ that way anyhow.” Goddammit, was there no way to get out of this?

“Awraht, off y’ go, then.” Guess not. Ezekiel disappeared behind the tractor. Pete got back into his truck.

“Ah doun’ gawt all day, boy.”

Reluctantly, I returned to my squished seat.

The ride back to my car was even quieter than the ride to Ezekiel’s. Once, I tried to see in the mirror whether the mechanic was actually following us, but between the grime on the window and the rust spots and cobwebs on the mirror, it was impossible to see anything. We passed by the store, and I waited for Pete to ask where my car was. He didn’t. But then again, it was the only road running through this area, so I supposed we’d come across it eventually. About five minutes later, we did. It seemed ludicrously short compared to the half hour it took me to walk the distance—I was still covered in a thin layer of dust.

This time, I got out of the truck first. Ah, sweet, fresh air! I stood possessively by my poor little Honda, which was still letting off a pathetic, albeit continuous, wisp of steam. Pete remained inside his old rustbucket, which made me slightly uneasy. Did he know something I didn’t? Images of my car exploding and my brains frying in the sun filled my mind. Pete just sat there, staring at me, and I stood against the car, staring back with wide eyes.

I noticed the sound of a vehicle in the distance, and I broke eye contact to look. As it approached, I could see that it was another pickup—almost as old and rusted as Pete’s, but the engine sounded miles better. Ezekiel pulled over alongside Pete, and both of them dropped out the side of their respective trucks.

“Awraht, lessee what th’ matter is.” The mechanic hauled from the back of his truck a toolbox almost as big as he was, and carried it past me to the other side of the car with surprising ease. As he opened the hood, I stepped back to give him room to work. Pete, it seemed, had no such compunctions; he stood like a stone pillar just between Ezekiel and his box, grunting occasionally in response to the mechanic’s frequent mutterings. Both of them glanced at me from time to time out of the corners of their eyes. Ezekiel was fiddling around with the engine a bit, but he hadn’t taken anything out of his toolbox. The two of them looked suspiciously like they were plotting something.

What had I gotten myself into? Allie said it was a bad idea to try and drive to Florida. She said I should just fly there and get a rental car. She said it’d be safer. Boy, was she right. I didn’t listen to her, and now I was stuck here in… in Hickstown, Mississippi, in absolute Nowheresville, about to get myself shot or stabbed or blown to bits by a couple of rednecks. I vowed to myself that if I ever got out of here alive, I would never doubt my fiancée again.

Ezekiel finally started to look like he was fixing things. He pulled various things out of the toolbox, or if he was too far into the engine he got Pete to hand him something. After a few minutes of tinkering, the steam stopped. After a few more, Ezekiel straightened up and turned to me. He had a great big wrench in his hand, which he held as though it was an extension of his arm. It was a bit imposing.

“Ah’m gon’ neejuh t’ run th’ ignition, awraht?”

“Sure.” I got into my car, shut the door, took a deep breath, and turned the key in the ignition. The car didn’t explode, but the rhythmic knocking that had worried me to begin with started up again. I waited five or six knocks, then Ezekiel hollered at me to shut it off, so I did. There was more muttering, more grunts. A bit of clunking ensued as, presumably, more things were being fixed. Eventually, he slammed down the hood. I jumped.

“There y’are. Trah turnin’ it awn agin.”

I twisted the key in the ignition, my eyes sliding away from the two men outside. There was a grinding splutter, and then a loud bang. My eyes darted from side, searching for bullet holes in the windscreen—or myself. Saucer-sized, they settled on Pete, who wore the shadow of a smirk, and Ezekiel, who was outright laughing.

“Jumpy li’l feller, ain’t ‘e?”

The car had backfired. It was purring like a kitten now, without a knock to be heard. Ezekiel motioned at me to roll the window down. I did.

“Awraht then, b’fore y’ go…”

I gulped. A low cough sounded just behind the mechanic.

“’Zekiel, maht Ah have a word?”

Ezekiel sighed, and turned to Pete. The two men held a quiet conference, of which I could only catch a few snatches.

“Wutchoo waunt, Pete?”

“Ah think yew oughta…”

“Ah cain’t do that, Pete, ‘n yew know it!”

“…No trubble with it…”

“…Jes’ doun’ think it’s raht, ‘sall.”

I silently raised the window; I didn’t think I wanted to hear any more. They glanced at me and continued their muffled conversation. It looked like it was getting intense. Pete was scowling in my direction, and the knife was back in his hand. I decided this was probably a good time to lock the doors. Just in case. Pete crossed his arms and shook his head, looking even more formidable than usual. Ezekiel turned away from him with a resigned mien. He came up to the window and knocked on it. With a great many misgivings, I rolled it back down.

“Me ‘n Pete was havin’ us a tawk. We desahded thayat…” He looked over at Pete, who glowered.

“Yeah?”

“Y’ doun’ needa pay. Jes’ doun’ go gittin’ yesself inta trouble now, awraht?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Oh- okay. If you’re sure…”

“Ah am. Now, git.”

I got.