Christian was known as ‘Cottonmouth’ (Cotton for short) to anyone who had seen the day pass over him. We met one dawn in June underneath the trestle where he would later lay on top to watch the trains coming in. We didn’t speak that first meeting, me with my bag of rocks and him with his jug of wine. He would drink like a fever and sing like a canary, usually standing on his tiptoes with his nose angled just so under the empty clothesline. He was a scarecrow of sorts with his broom-face hidden underneath a calf skin top hat sporting dyed crow feathers. He wore a dangly earring that resembled a sugar-skull and he jingled when he walked though I never figured out why.
He never knew what time it was and he was always beaten to the punch. It wasn’t uncommon to hear him say, “If it’s true that the world is revolvin’ , then it’s cause it’s trying to lose me! And that sun, he’s a son of a bitch! He’s got no heart, I chase him over the horizon ever’ damn day!”
He had twelve kids, most lived somewhere out west and a couple were in southern Mexico. I think one died of influenza or a tree fell on him or something. Cottonmouth was born and still lived just outside of town there in an old cedar-shake shack covered in kudzu in the last holler before you crossed the state line. No closer than two miles from another living soul. He only came to town once a year, usually sometime around the hunter’s moon.
At night his house looked like a chapel at an asylum, all ash grey and full of screams. He had books stacked in a maze outside leading from the woods to a side window all busted out and covered with nature’s palette and equations. He kept around a lot of animal feed, but I never saw any animals there.
The last time I went to see him was a frozen November night. He was digging holes in his yard with a trowel type of tool crudely made from a fox’s skull. These holes weren’t deep mind you, just a half foot down or so. Then he’d move to the right one step, forward two, and dig again. But before he would start a new hole, he danced like a bald-headed buzzard and took a pull of Wild Turkey that he drank out of a rusty old oil can.
When he had dug enough holes to match the number of years he’d lived there, we started a fire in the upstairs bedroom. The flames danced on the windows and followed the kerosene line. We pulled the doors to as we laughed and sat in greasy bathtubs in the middle of it all. We started singing ancient ballads while we covered our ears. Sometimes it just helps to sing like it’s your last night on this crazy tilted earth. Our voices quit when the dawn came. And the sun came out from his hiding to remind us that he’ll always win again.
He never knew what time it was and he was always beaten to the punch. It wasn’t uncommon to hear him say, “If it’s true that the world is revolvin’ , then it’s cause it’s trying to lose me! And that sun, he’s a son of a bitch! He’s got no heart, I chase him over the horizon ever’ damn day!”
He had twelve kids, most lived somewhere out west and a couple were in southern Mexico. I think one died of influenza or a tree fell on him or something. Cottonmouth was born and still lived just outside of town there in an old cedar-shake shack covered in kudzu in the last holler before you crossed the state line. No closer than two miles from another living soul. He only came to town once a year, usually sometime around the hunter’s moon.
At night his house looked like a chapel at an asylum, all ash grey and full of screams. He had books stacked in a maze outside leading from the woods to a side window all busted out and covered with nature’s palette and equations. He kept around a lot of animal feed, but I never saw any animals there.
The last time I went to see him was a frozen November night. He was digging holes in his yard with a trowel type of tool crudely made from a fox’s skull. These holes weren’t deep mind you, just a half foot down or so. Then he’d move to the right one step, forward two, and dig again. But before he would start a new hole, he danced like a bald-headed buzzard and took a pull of Wild Turkey that he drank out of a rusty old oil can.
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