Willy and Dink, Part I

Thud, thud, jingle, thud, one hoof after the other, the old brown mule rhythmically snorted and clomped as it ambled slowly down the narrow dirt road between the darkened bean fields. The damp dust of the already humid morning barely moved in the air as each hoof hit the ground with a shuffling thump. The tiny silver bell on her harness hung in balance mostly throughout the mule’s limping gate and only sounded out when her third step pounded forcefully into the hard ground.

From his saddled perch atop the old mule, the reddened and plump Mister Frederick Samuel Boles could see about a half mile in any direction across the smooth farm land that expanded out from the road around him. Although his accurate navigation was sometimes questioned by his neighbors, he was sure he would reach his destination well before 5:30 in the morning. He lifted the brim of his fine straw hat and wiped the day’s first drop of sweat from his pink brow with the back of his right hand while holding on firmly to the leather reigns with his left. The air smelled thick with the heat of his desperate world but he pushed on toward the stream and prodded the wobbling mule to keep moving. He felt the old mule’s back muscles quiver violently now and then underneath his legs and he expected she wouldn’t go much farther than that once the sun came up anyway.

As the orange-blue sky announced the new sun’s approach, Mister Boles glanced forward to notice muted brothers Willy and Dink in worn overalls and dirty sleeveless shirts, heads down and each carrying a wooden handled shovel on his shoulder, walking barefoot side by side on the dirt road in front of the lumbering mule.

Occasionally Dink, the taller and blacker one on the right, would turn his head while walking ahead and have a nervous look back at the mule’s face. Dink’s distraction greatly disturbed Mister Boles.

“What you lookin’ at, Dink?” asked Boles loudly.

“I’s worried about ol’ Molly,” Dink said in his deep yawning drawl. “She don’t sound so good.”

Boles’ heavy jowls jiggled with irritation as the mule tilted and took an awkward step into a shallow hole in the road. He grimaced with momentary shock until the mule straightened out and then he barked back at Dink. “You keep your ungrateful eyes to the front and let me worry about ol’ Molly,” he said.

“Yessuh,” Dink answered politely.

“We only got a short more ways to go,” Boles explained steadily while squeezing his puffy eyelids toward a line of trees in the dim distance, speaking more to himself rather than addressing Willy and Dink.

Mister Boles stiffened in his saddle as the team was about fifty feet from the line of tall, thin River Birch, each dry limb unbending in the calm of the windless morning.

“Ok, ok, I think we stop … right … about … here,” he said, puffing the word “here” out through his nose as if he was fighting the urge to sneeze.

Willy and Dink stopped and faced the trees but noticed in the corner of their eyes that the old mule continued dragging on a step or two, her slow but steady momentum leaving her broad nose on a line evenly in between their opposite elbows. They shuffled forward silently as the warm, moist exhaust of her panting breath unnerved them both and they turned to face the fat white man in vest, light coat and wrinkled trousers, a dyed white straw hat sitting as uneasily on his rounded bald head as he himself sat uncomfortably atop his shuddering and spent mule.

“Now, we gonna dig,” Boles began to excitedly squeal his instructions while removing a folded piece of paper from his vest pocket, “we’s gonna dig a shallow trench from the side of this avenue on down to the crick, there behind those trees. Once we’ve done that, we’ll be bringin’ Mister Jones’ con-tramp-shun on down to run crick water into that ditch. From there, we’ll be runnin’ some pipin’ on out to try and fortify this God-forsaken spot of dirt on either side of this here road.”

“Now, uh, I knows,” Boles continued while scanning his unfolded paper for clues, “I knows, considerin’ the sad state of this crap for earth, this effort will most likely take you boys a while to complete but I have confidence it will be done. And Mister Jones assures me your efforts will not be in vain. Now, I, uh…”

Boles turned the folded paper to the side and pulled his head back to better see the note.

“Damn,” he said as continued to turn the paper upside down and around again.

“Here is, uh,” he sniffed again, “Damn!”

Willy, the shorter and lighter one on the left, let his shovel slide off his shoulder and allowed the business end of it to sink slightly into the cracked, sun-baked dirt road. He turned to silently look at his brother Dink who now had his lips pursed together, his large brown eyes staring up into the gradually bluing sky. Old Molly the mule then rang her harness bell as she shook her head and sent a thin white rivulet of drool streaming toward him, nearly evaporating before it landed and forming the tiniest darkened spot of spitted mud on the ground that he’d ever seen.

“Damn!” said Boles again as he refolded the paper and slid it back into his vest pocket.

“I’m afraid Mister Jones’ note has omitted one critical detail. His plan does not specify which side of the road is most appropriate for diggin’ the trench. Seems I have no choice now. I must return to his guv’ment office at Fishin’ River immediately and clear up this confusion. I’m afraid, boys, this will set us back a little.”

Boles spoke while turning his stout body to look around him as the sun inched up above the low hills to the east.

“I reckon it’s nearly a three mile ride to Fishin’ River, so I’ll be along as quick as ol’ Molly will allow. You boys can sit here and wait until I git back.”

With that pronouncement complete, Boles began wildly kicking and prodding Old Molly but she refused to move a leg. Willy and Dink dropped their shovels on the road and took up positions on either side of her, pushing and slapping her flanks until she hesitantly turned around to face in the opposite direction she had just walked.

“Yaw, mule!” Boles yelled and her harness bell rang out and then she took one shaky step and then another and then another. Thud … thud … jingle, thud … thud, thud, jingle, thud. When Boles was satisfied that she had built up enough stubborn steam to be headed down the road in the right direction, he turned and yelled back at his two slaves who stood still on the road behind him.

“Willy! I’m talkin’ to you now since you’re the clever one of the litter. Either one of you niggers goes to runnin’ off and you knows what will happen! You stay put until I git back, you hear?”

“Yessuh, don’t you worry none about us,” Willy yelled back at Mister Boles.

End Part I