Pure as Gold

...On what was arguably the slowest, most sweltering day of Summer, a few of us stood around watching amusingly as Billy Joe staggered back with a half-spin on his heels, arms like a windmill, nearly going end over end, miraculously catching himself before face-planting. Now, it wasn't all solely on account of the square punch he just took to the jaw, although Frank had landed it clean- but I figured this was more because of being drunk off some cheap Mexican wine we'd swiped out of Pop's truck. None of us rushed to steady him. We all knew Billy could take a hit like a bull and easily whip any one of us at any time,  even all of us at the same time if he wanted to. 

 

Billy, though, didn't even pretend to try and fight back, he just tilted his face up to the sun, blood tricking from his lip, he closed his eyes and laughed so hard it shook his whole body. Billy wobbled and teetered, the crimson red against his dark skin, but kept from toppling by grabbing his knees, that belly laugh of his echoing like church bells and raining glass in a ghost town. We all couldn't help but laugh by now. Whatever madness or joy he felt at that moment, be it the wine, the sunshine, or just Billy being Billy, it was downright contagious. I grinned ear to ear-figured it was some kind of fun, if you could call it that. 

Frank and Billy were just horsing around, same as always, although Frank was obviously pulling no punches. Frank would watch boxing and wrestling all day on TV and then try to show us the moves he picked up. He got pretty dang good over time, and he always got mad when I told him wrestling was fake. I couldn't even tell ya how this particular scrap got started. Fights broke out every time we managed to sneak some booze. We always had boxing matches, but it was all good fun, or so we told it. I  didn't care too much for fighting and didn't ever find fun in getting punched for no good reason. But today, I kind of enjoyed seeing Billy feeling no pain, or whatever you want to call this horse sense of delightful madness he was dancing in, and be it because he was drunk or not, I just leaned back on a fender. I watched both perplexed and amused as a dog chasing its tail, pure slapstick and nonsense, and no one gets hurt.

Just as I decided it was time to break the show up, I took a glance through the trees, hoping to see Frank's sister Katrina out on the porch where they had the washing machine. Instead of beautiful Katrina in her denim cutoffs, I saw that dang rodent of a boy, Junebug, and his stupid self, come out of nowhere, sliding up beside me, clutching a damn rooster that looked as miserable as he did. I stretched my neck to see around my view he was blocking. He limped up all fidgety and annoyed and stood there shuffling and pouting while stroking this ugly bird he had half buried under his arm. He started mumbling and whining, stompin' left and right, "Y'all come on now! Y'all all said we were gonna fight roosters today! Y'all just left without telling me!" his derelict voice was as grating as his buckteeth on a chalkboard. To be fair, we had left him back at the house and told him to catch his rooster, though we had no intention of waiting around for him.

It wasn't uncommon around here to have cock fights. You would hear of them, but mostly on the weekend, late afternoon on Sundays.

June bug toted that rooster wherever he went, and for the life of me, it seems we could never shake this dumb kid, he always shows up out of nowhere, buzzing around like an ugly mosquito. I thought my cousin Mike was about to swat him and, instead, thumped his cigarette at him.

 I gave him a sideways glance and instantly regretted it. He was standing so close I could smell the sourness of him. I winced at how pathetic he was, and the fact that he was standing way too close to me almost got my temper to flair. I bit back my words, I didn't even answer and just shook my head.

That scrawny bones and feathers of a rooster he was carrying were not even worth boiling. It was missing half its feathers and its leathery red chopped-off comb, probably done with a rusty blade or lid to a tin can. One of its eyes was clearly infected and tearing up and oozing.  Junebug himself was just as pitifully unsightly. I was close enough to see lice in his matted hair, snot dried and smeared across his face, spittle and skoal juice dripping from the corner of his mouth, and his own crusty pinkeye, which I would bet a dollar he got from that damn bird. Didn't even ask why he was wearing a corduroy jacket in a hundred degrees. If you didn't know better, you could be sure he was dropped on his head or something. I might have slapped him upside his head myself, except for the crusty scab and yellow wax in plain sight on his ear.

At that exact moment, I heard a loud smack that cracked through the air as Frank delivered a solid blow to Billy's right cheek. I turned just in time to see him fall in slow motion, dropping to his knees while still gazing at the sun and smiling ear to ear as wide as a watermelon slice. It was as golden as the hint of his shiny,  gold tooth glistening in the bright sun. The last words he must have heard were, "Come on now, y'all! Quit foolin' around, let's fight these roosters!"...