Darn It, Oscar Whiting (Short)

Don't mess with those old hillbilly moonshiners.

“Damn it,” Oscar Whiting bitched as he clattered down darkening and empty late afternoon streets, ignoring or not noticing cruel or amused jibes from a few kids playing in the mud.

If anybody had been moving around the small West Virgina town to notice, Oscar would have easily stood out. They would have seen a small thin man of about eighty wearing a white hospital gown -- open in the back -- pulling a clattering IV stand along the nearly empty street. He was madder than hell. 

"All 'at talkin' bout' gol-danged money an' crap, just'a take that dang thin' out'n me," he complained, angrily while jerking the stand along beside him -- plasma bag threatening to drop off its hook. Having escaped the confines of the hospital, he was making his way back to the hills.

"Here I is, sicker’n a dang dog and 'ey wan' all'a 'at bullshit. All'a bank 'counts an 'insurince." 

Oscar shook his whiskered head around, glaring as though daring anyone to reply. Most of the residents were either working in the mines or napping in heavy muggy summer heat. 

He wanted someone to b***h to, but couldn't see anyone he knew. There was only a parrot in a cage, staring at him from a window-ledge and he wasn't gonna talk to a gol-darn pair of Sunday dinner drumsticks. 

“Screw ‘um,” Oscar bitched to the skies. “I ne'er needed ‘um afore’n I sure as hell don’ need ‘um now. I kin cut that damned thing out myself.”

He had waited until the shift change at St. Mary's Regional Medical Center and then took off. Since there was still half a drip-bag on it, he was taking his IV stand with him.

“I done paid for the damn thing, I’m a keepin’ it,” he shouted at uninterested buildings.

Oscar had no intention of heading home. They would probably send the cops after him, he figured.

“I ain’t gonna give 'em gosh-darn cops no money, neither. I’ll go ta live in that old shed at my still.” He'd made up his mind and once Oscar Whiting had made up his mind, nothing on God's green earth was likely to change it. “They’ll ne’er fin' me there. All I needs is some good ol’ shine an it’ll fix me 'rite up. All'us has afore an’ all'us will.”

Taking many short breaks from feeling weak, it took him most of the day to get to and through the woods to his whiskey still.

“At damn fool Elmer done let' at fire go out.” He saw the still sitting there, nobody attending the fire, now down to nothing but hot coals. “I done gotta do ever’thin myself.” 

Old Oscar lit a lantern -- burning with a low flickering blue flame from the whiskey fueling it -- and checked the IV.

“Damn thin’s out’a juice. Least-ways I gots my money’s worth out’a thet’.” He steeled himself and yanked the needle out of a scrawny arm. “Ouch.”

“I kin use thet’ thingy here somewheres, fer somethin' or t’other.” 

He shoved the useless IV stand into a corner, turning to grab a handful of fresh-cut wood to fire up the burner. The old man had to stop a minute, both hands braced on a rough-plank wall to wait out a pain spasm before continuing. "Danged appenix," he moaned. "Gonna be'a death a me yet." 

Oscar stood, bent over, until the pain settled down a tit-bit, then turned back to the still, his source of income.

“No woner’ Elmer let it go out. He din’ wanna' chop wood fer it, the lazy b*****d.” 

Oscar grabbed an axe and went out to chop enough wood for a day or so. He had to sit on a stump to relax several times, cursing all the way, before finishing.  Bringing it in, he built up the fire, then changed buckets under the condensation coils.

“I dun’ gotta save this afore it ‘vaperates.” 

He poured half a bucket of condensed moonshine whiskey into a barrel and returned the cap. Then, he had to add more corn mash and a little yeast to the bubbling mix, standing on a stool and leaning against a rough plank wall to dip a little out to judge the flavor. 

Finished, Oscar gratefully lay down on a dirty cot in a corner of the makeshift shed, a cracked mug of illegal whiskey in hand.

The moonshiner's side felt like his guts were on fire from the effort of chopping wood. That passed as the 'shine spread a warm glow through Oscar's insides, easing the pain. 

Finishing a second glass, he poured another and, placing it on a shaky orange crate sitting next to the cot, fell asleep.

***

“Damn, Oscar, what you doin' here? The whole danged police force is lookin' fer ya?”

Oscar looked up, to see cousin Elmer standing by the cot.

“Where the hell you been, boy? How I suppos’ to make any money with you gallivantin' ‘round stead’a workin’?” Oscar berated the younger man. He felt more than a little weak when he stood to confront the boy. 

Staggering over to the bucket, Oscar dipped out a pint jar of new moon. Tasting it, he spit it out, onto a packed dirt floor.

“You get yer a*s o’er here. Put a can'na water in theer’. Strong as this is, it’s costin’ me money. Water the damn thin’ down, ya hear?”

After a few swigs, Oscar felt much better. Later, he had Elmer track down a friend -- a farmer that fixed cows and goats up when they were sick -- to come over. While waiting, Oscar sharpened a handful of worn knives, taking an occasional swig as he worked.

***

“Hey Oscar, what the hell you doing? Half the town's looking for you. What you want with me? You know I don’t want to be seen up here in the woods,” the farmer complained when he arrived, dressed in overalls spotted with manure from fixing up a constipated milk cow. That was done by shoving a hand up its anus to pull out the constriction.

“I wants you ta take out my damn 'appenix. I don’ wanna have them quacks downtown a do'in it. They wants a thousan’ dollars or so, jus' to cut me up. And all'a them damn questions. You just go 'head an take the damn thin' out, hear? We be done with it.”

“You ain’t no goat, Oscar. I don’t know how to do people.”

“You jus’ go 'head an do it. Don’ argue. Jus’ ferget’ bout 'at money you owes me.”

“It’s tempting, but what if you die or something?”

“Then you jus’ gotta bury me down below the creek is all. Ain’t no nothin’ to me. Jus’ lem’me get drunk firs' is all.”

It took a while, but Oscar managed to talk his friend into it. They sat, talked, argued and drank until Oscar finally fell over onto the cot, dead drunk. 

The now drunken farmer took Oscar’s knives and checked them over. Using more moonshine for anesthetic -- along with clean rags dipped in even more shine -- he cut in, clattered around in there a while, and cut out Oscar’s appendix. 

Next came tying things back up. Maybe a little rubber-banding, which worked for pigs and should for Whitings? the doctor thought, a burp coming out of Oscar. 

The amateur pig doctor then sewed the incision with fishing line, after pouring more whiskey over it, of course.

A couple of weeks later, Oscar walked back to the hospital, carrying the IV pole and gown over his shoulder, to pay his bill.

“What a hell you mean, three hunerd’ dollars? I was on’y here less'n one damned day. I’ll give you this ten-dollar bill’s all,” he argued with the Administrator. 

The End
Oscar Rat

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Heh, maybe he should've paid the doc with a jug o shine. When he was all disgusted and thought he'd live at the still, I thought of my dad when, about the same age as Oscar, wanted to go live in the woods instead of going in the old folks home. (A few cold beers helped him to change his mind) About that surgery--I do believe it woulda killed Oscar if he hadn't been drunk.

[OscarRat]

Those old hill people are tough. look at Sergeant York and Garfield the Cat.