What can YOU say in six sentences?
I couldn’t say whether it was Old Spice, Brut or something Avon sold in a colored bottle the shape of a car or boot, but whatever cologne Sheriff-for-life Claude Stephens favored had permeated the foam under the cheap vinyl-covered seats of his unmarked cruiser. He pulled up beside me on the courthouse square one day, powered down his window and beckoned.
My eyes burned as I leaned on the Ford’s passenger door, and I was thankful to be done with the conversation, polite and strange as it was. With the longest string of words I’d ever heard him utter outside of the occasional arrest details, he grinned and announced, “Y’all are playing poker at my house Thursday.”
“Oh, he doesn’t want to play ... doesn’t know how, and doesn’t want to learn,” the district attorney told me and the mayor on the way to Claude’s split-level home in the country.
The sheriff, who wouldn’t know a jack from a king, simply wanted to fry catfish for us, to be a part of our gang for one night, and he broke out some of the best (confiscated) moonshine I’ve ever tasted, pulled up a chair and watched us get royally flushed.