|
I
was in the Co-op not long ago picking up some dog food when somebody mentioned
being called for jury duty. After a discussion about different excuses to use
to get out of it, I told them about being called but not having to serve
because I knew the defendant.
The
accused was notorious petty criminal, Jesse Jones, AKA "Dink" Jones.
He was nineteen years old…half of which had been spent in the fifth grade.
Back
then, school systems didn’t offer much help for people like Dink and
eventually one fall, he wasn’t allowed back.
Depending
on what season it was, Dink spent his time making a little pocket change doing
odd jobs like raking yards, picking dewberries on the railroad tracks or
gathering pecans at the cemetery to sell to ladies in town. He also chopped
cotton.
Jeff
Macon had a gold 1964, four-fin Buick Electra 225, 4-door hard-top with a 445
Wildcat engine. He referred to it as his "duce na quarter." He
afforded gas for this behemoth, in part, by working as a salaried employee on
the farm Dink’s family lived on. He also hauled people, for a couple of
dollars a head, to town and back on the weekends and, as an agent for the
plantation owner, delivered cotton choppers to and from the fields. With the
use of a little baling twine, Jeff discovered that fishing rod holders
attached to either side of the car above the windows could be modified to
double as cotton hoe brackets.
One
Saturday morning, Dink had walked the half mile or so to Jeff’s to catch a
ride with him to town. While he waited he noticed a color TV playing that Jeff
had just bought with his tax refund check.
Dink
wanted it. He wanted it bad. Even though the only electricity at his house
came from some batteries in a flashlight the family used to make it to the
outhouse at night, he had to have that TV.
He
thought to himself that something that large probably weighed more than he
wanted to tote for any distance. A dim bulb lit up in his head; "I’ll
need something to haul it in." All the pieces of the puzzle were coming
together now. "That’s it! While I’m taking Jeff’s TV, I’ll just
take Jeff’s car!" Then he remembered that he didn’t know how to drive…he’d
need a get-a-way driver!
Sadly
enough, where I’m from there are a lot of other people like Dink, who have
the I.Q. of a mayonnaise sandwich. He had little trouble finding his
accomplice in crime; a dried-up nervous fellow named "Shake" Pilders. Shake came with the bonus of having a house with electricity.
Their
chance for the TV heist came, not in the secrecy of night, but, as is expected
from those a half bubble off plumb, during the wide open daylight.
Jeff
was the consummate entrepreneur. If he could make a dime at something, he was
all over it. He had a small "pawn shop" business he ran out of his
house. The understanding was that if you "hocked" something with
him, you could have it back if you brought him back what he paid you for it
plus a little interest. Someone in town had recently "pawned" a
10-speed bike with him.
By
chance, after lunch one day, our two aspiring hoodlums watched Jeff leave on
the bike, peddling off into the distance, disappearing around a curve. They
stayed hunkered in the bushes for the longest while pondering on whether to
snatch the T.V. or spend the rest of their lives listening to others talking
about what had happened on the network programing the night before. A decision
was made; the world of Dragnet, Gunsmoke and Petticoat Junction would be
theirs!
Speed
was of essence. They didn’t know how long Jeff would be gone. They bounded
from the bushes to the porch and through the unlocked front door. Just as
planned, Shake immediately began going through drawers and cabinets looking
for car keys. Dink took out his pocket knife, cut the antenna cord, unplugged
the television, lifted it up and ran out to the car. There he managed, with
some difficulty, to open a rear door and place the set on the back seat.
He
tromped back inside to see what was taking so long just as the keys were
found. He grinned as he grabbed a TV Guide from the end table and jumped in
behind Shake out onto the porch. Just then, Jeff flew in toward them, half
crashing his bike, and lunged toward Shake! Dink instinctively backhanded Jeff
with the fist that held the furled TV Guide, knocking him cold. Panicking, the
two dumped his limp body into the trunk and drove off as fast as that big
dinosaur car would go.
Only
a huge plume of dust chased them as they sped along for miles on the back
roads. Dink ordered Shake to turn around and go back to the canal bridge they
had just crossed. Once on the bridge, Shake stayed inside while Dink opened
the trunk, pulled Jeff’s body onto the ledge, popped him on the head with
the Buick’s tire tool and tossed him over the side.
Now,
I don’t know if Jeff had been faking unconsciousness all that time or if the
water woke him up. All I’ve heard is that the next thing Dink knew, Jeff was
bear-hugging an old Styrofoam minnow bucket and kicking as fast as he could
down stream.
Dink
couldn’t swim. All he could do was chunk the tire tool then throw a few
rocks and holler at Jeff as he watched him float further and further away
toward the big orange sinking sun.
About
then, Shake lost his nerve and showered Dink with gravel from the back tires
of the Electra. He drove as fast as he could back to Jeff’s where he parked
the car as he had found it then hurriedly hoofed it back home.
Dink
had run after the car for a little while, tossing a few rocks. He then slowly
walked toward the farm, dejected, staring at the ground, mumbling to himself,
swatting mosquitoes. The Sherriff’s Deputy picked him up that night without
incident.
Word
has it that if he just hadn’t hit Jeff with that tire tool, Dink would be a
free man today. But he did, and he’s not.
Disclaimer:
The story you just read is based on reality. The names have been changed to
protect the innocent. Any likeness any character in this story has to you,
your family or anybody you know or have known is completely coincidental.
|
