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Soul Sandals Old Winston Suggs didn’t hear Bunk sneaking up behind him with that sock full of batteries. But he sure felt it. He was putting a record on the turntable when Bunk let him have it. Old Winston dropped like a sack of rocks and didn’t move. “Check his pulse,” Bunk said. I shook my head. I didn’t want to go anywhere near that geezer if he was dead. “Damn it, Elmo!” Bunk yelled. “Check his goddamn pulse!” Reluctantly, I knelt down and lifted Winston’s limp wrist. I pressed my thumb against it and felt for the thumping of his heart beat, but there wasn’t one. I dropped his arm and scooted away. I looked up at Bunk and said, “He’s dead, man.” I guess Bunk didn’t believe me because he bent down and felt the old man’s wrist himself. He repositioned his thumbs several times before dropping Winston’s arm and moving on to his neck. He put his fingertips just under the old man’s scruffy jaw line and waited. “Shit,” he said. He stood up and ran a shaky hand through his bushy brown hair. “I told you we should have used pennies,” I said. “Batteries are too hard. Pennies have some give to ‘em.” “If it was up to you, we’da hit him with a sock full of cotton balls,” Bunk said. “At least this way we know he ain’t gonna wake up and catch us robbing him. Now let’s get what we came here for.” “We can’t just leave him like this,” I said. “We’ll take care of him in a minute. First thing’s first.” We plundered through the kitchen cupboards, but all we found were canned goods and jars of pickled redhots and such. I opened the fridge to see if the old fart had any beer and I hit the jackpot: a whole carton of Pall Malls. “Check it out!” I hollered to Bunk and held up the carton. “Cool,” he said. I tore the carton open and handed Bunk a pack. We lit ourselves a smoke and stood there looking at Winston’s lifeless body sprawled out on the floor. “Now I can think clearly,” Bunk said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. I knew what he meant. I go more than an hour without a smoke and I feel like I’m going plum fool– can’t concentrate for shit. That Pall Mall was the first cigarette I had all day. Damn, it tasted good, even better than pussy. “So what are we gonna do with him?” I asked. I was starting to get nervous. “We’ll put him in his soul sandals,” Bunk said. “I ain’t never seen Winston Suggs wear no sandals,” I said. “They ain’t real sandals, dipshit. That’s just what people call them.” “Well, what are they?” “Most folks say it’s a superstition, but I seen it happen. Back when I was a boy, I went with my mama to a funeral up in Chesterfield. It was one of them kind they have right there at the house. They took the dead woman out of her coffin and put her house slippers on. They said a prayer and a few seconds later, her legs started twitching. They stood her up and turned her loose and she headed right over to the sink and started doing dishes.” “Her slippers brought her back to life?” I asked. “No, she was still dead, but the slippers put her soul back in her body.” “To do the dishes?” “That’s just what she was used to doing every day,” Bunk explained. “Didn’t have nothin’ to do with the dishes. Look, if you put the soul sandals on a dead NASCAR driver, he’d probably get in his car and drive around the track a few times. His shoes are so used to working those gas and break pedals that they don’t know nothin’ else. You put the soul sandals on the deceased so they can walk the last mile.” “How long does it last?” “It’s always different. Sometimes it lasts a few minutes, sometimes a few days.” “How long did the old lady stay alive?” “Long enough to wash the silverware. She was starting on the pots and pans when she keeled over.” “How does it work?” “First we gotta get his shoes off,” Bunk said. Winston Suggs wore cheap black dress shoes, the kind you get at the Wal-Mart for ten bucks. The toe of his right shoe was all scuffed up, probably from kicking his dog, Martin Luther King. “What now?” I asked after we had his shoes off. “Now they gotta be kissed by a loved one.” “Shit,” I said. “His wife’s the only loved one he’s got and she’s at bingo.” Bunk thought for a second, then said, “What about that old, mangy mutt he keeps in the back yard?” “Martin Luther King?” I said. “I doubt if he’d qualify as a loved one. He beats the shit out of that dog worse than his old lady.” “Well, it’s worth a try,” Bunk said. “Come on.” I followed Bunk through the house to the back door. He turned on the back porch light and we spotted Martin Luther King laying there on the steps. “There he is,” Bunk said. “Let’s get him.” We opened the door and Martin Luther King sat up. He must have thought it was Winston because he started wagging his mangy tail and barking his fool head off. But when he saw me and Bunk, that tail went down between his legs and he started backing away. “Grab him!” Bunk hollered. I reached out and snagged the dog by his collar and dragged him toward me. He slid across the porch leaving a trail of piss behind. I shoved the shoes in his face, but he wouldn’t lick them. I guess he didn’t like the smell. Now that I think back on it, they were kinda rank, like vinegar. “Give him here,” Bunk said. He reached over and grabbed Martin Luther King by the scruff of the neck. The dog yelped and shot a stream of piss onto the shoes. Bunk dropped the dog and we watched him haul buggy down the porch steps and into the darkness of the back yard. “That fucker pissed on my arm!” Bunk cussed. “He got the shoes, too,” I said. “Well maybe that’ll be good enough,” Bunk said. “Spit, piss–what’s the difference.” “What now?” I asked. "Now we gotta pray over the shoes and that’ll turn them into soul sandals.” “You go ahead and do it,” I told him. “Why me?” “‘Cause I ain’t no good at stuff like that,” I said. “Hell, I can’t even say grace at the dinner table.” “I guess I’ll do in then,” Bunk grumbled. “But don’t you laugh.” “I won’t,” I said. We bowed our heads and Bunk began: “Dear Lord, bless these shoes we are about to put on Winston Suggs’ feet. We know they got dog piss on them, but Lord, it ain’t our fault. We hope you can find it in your heart to see past that, and let us borrow Winston’s soul for a while, just long enough for his wife to get home from bingo and go to bed so she won’t know he’s been killed. Lord, if you grant us this wish, I swear I’ll stop smoking and drinking, and I’ll even start going to church on Sundays, but not Wednesdays ‘cause that’s the day I watch raslin’. Amen.” “Amen,” I said. We went back inside and stood there, staring down at Winston Suggs’ old pale, body. Bunk lit a smoke. I did, too. “Well,” he said. “You ready?” “Yeah,” I said. “You?” “Yeah,” he said and handed me one of the shoes. We slipped them back onto Winston’s feet and stepped back, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. “Maybe it’s the dog piss,” I said. “Give it a minute,” Bunk said. We waited, puffing on our Pall Malls until they were burned right down to the filters. “I got an idea,” Bunk said. He went over to the turntable where the 78 was still spinning. He dropped the needle to the vinyl and Jerry Lee Lewis started howling Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On. Sure enough, the old man’s legs started to twitch. “Well, shit fire and save matches,” Bunk said. “It worked.” To tell you the truth, I actually pissed myself some. I ain’t never seen a dead body come back to life before. "What now?” I asked, hoping Bunk would say we could get the hell outta there. “Let’s get him to his feet.” We grabbed old Winston under the armpits and lifted him to a standing position. When we let go of him, he started to dance. He was hopping all over that living room like he had a hot coal in his britches. A couple of times he tried to go outside and we had to pull him back in by his suspender straps. We were having a heap of fun until headlights flashed through the front windows. “Shit!” Bunk said. “His wife’s home!” If I hadn’t already pissed myself earlier, I would have done it then, too. “What about Winston?” “He should be alright as long as that record’s playing,” Bunk said. “Let’s haul ass.” I followed him out the back door and through the yard. We ran through Winston’s garden and hopped a fence. We crouched down behind a tree and watched through the window as Beulla Suggs went in the house. Old Winston was still dancing around the living room when his wife brushed past him and turned the record off. Me and Bunk were waiting for old Winston to drop dead again, but he stayed on his feet. He walked over to Beulla and punched her square in the mouth. She fell over and Winston climbed on top of her, wailing on her head. “We gotta do something,” I said. “He’s gonna kill her.” “Take it easy, Elmo,” Bunk said, lighting another Pall Mall. “He beats her ass every night. His body’s just doing what it normally does. Remember what I told you about the NASCAR driver?” I tried to relax, but it wasn’t easy watching old man Suggs beating the hell out of his wife like that. It didn’t seem to bother Bunk none. He just laughed the whole time. Just when I didn’t think I could watch no more, there was a loud crack, like a firecracker had gone off, and we seen the old man’s body drop. Then we seen Beulla Suggs standing over him with a pistol in her hand. “Well , I’ll be damned,” Bunk said. “Guess the old bag finally got tired of being knocked around.” I didn’t know what to say, so I just lit a Pall Mall and watched Beulla as she picked up the phone, probably to call the law and turn herself in. Bunk stood up and said, “Let’s get out of here before they find a way to connect us to all this.” I followed Bunk out into the empty street. It felt good to walk. My ass was hurting from sitting behind that tree. “I’m parched,” Bunk said. “Let’s find some liquor.” “That sounds like a mighty good plan,” I said. As we walked, I tried to think
about something pleasant, like liquor or women, but I couldn’t get the sight
of Winston Suggs dancing around the living room out of my head. That old
cuss sure knew how to cut a rug. |