The Feet of God
72 - AN ITCH YOU CAN’T SCRATCH
The miles passed the way miles
do. We got off the double rut track on
to a gravel road then on to a paved road and on and on. Me ’n Pulito laid up close together scratchin’
and lookin’ at the scenery. The ol’
hound’s ears flapped around in the wind, mile after mile, as we passed farm and
field. While Pulito scratched, I
scratched my own itches. Damn, them
fleas was driving me nuts.
Finally I had to give the mutt a push away.
Fucking dog was a monster from hell come to make my life a misery. My arms begun to itch something fierce, and
my face was on fire. I rubbed my back on
the cab, I scooted my butt across the rusty bed of the pickup, and I scratched
at my face until my cheeks begun to swell.
About then we turned up another dirt road into the woods. We hadn’t gone all that far when we pulled to
a stop. Pulito bounded out the back of
the truck and started making deep woofing barks. I turned around to see where we was, and
there sat the most beautiful doublewide mobile home this side of
Bakersfield. The two-tone, forest
green-and-cream colored siding sat back into the lush greenery of the
trees. Blackberry bushes twined up over
the rusted hulk of a car chassis near the back, and a great satellite dish set
right out proud in front of the hand-crank aluminum bay windows. I actually gasped at this magnificent beauty.
The kid climbed out of the cab and seemed to float around to the side of the
truck. I heard him yell, “Dad, you
better check this out.”
The man came up on the other side of the pickup. “Damn,” he looked me over, “you got it bad.”
I scratched my swollen right hand with my swollen left. “Your dog’s got fleas.”
“Jimmy-Bob, come here look at this,” the guy hollered toward the trailer.
The door opened and out stepped a good ol’ boy with shoulder-length hair and a Foghat
T-shirt that didn’t quite cover his gut.
Jimmy-Bob hooted out, “Whooo-eee, what have you got there, Slim?”
“Wanderer we found stranded by the side of the road, hitchin’ a ride. Says he was dumped by his friends down by the
creek.”
The longhaired one looked me over for a silent moment then spoke to me
direct. “Mister, I don’t know you from
Adam, but I do know this much, Pulito may be infested with fleas but what you
got is a full-blown case of poison sumac.”
I heard the kid pipe up, “We could’a told him that, Uncle Jimmy-Bob. When we found him he was naked and covered in
it.” No one paid him no attention.
“Poison sumac?” I shouted as I itched my ass.
“What the fuck’s poison sumac?”
“Like poison ivy, only worse,” Jimmy-Bob looked me over some more. “Surprised you ain’t covered in wood
lice. How come your friends did this to
you?”
I rubbed my feet on the rough bed of the truck and clawed at my neck and
chin. “It’s a long story.”
Jimmy-Bob hollered at the house, “Maybelline, darlin’, bring me a couple’a
six-packs.”
From inside the trailer a sound of shuffling drifted out, then the back door
swung open so violently it bounced off the siding. In the doorway the pale white folds of
Maybelline filled the opening. Flat
blonde hair strung around a bloated face, a tube-top and too much exposed flesh
mapped out in stretch marks and blue veins.
Arm flab flapped and jiggled as she dangled two six-packs in the
air. Jimmy-Bob walked over to retrieve
the beers.
“Thanks, darlin’,” Jimmy-Bob smiled up at her.
The trailer door slammed shut.
One six-pack he handed to Slim, who pulled off a single beer for himself
before the kid ran away with the rest. Jimmy-Bob
yanked off a frosty cold one from the other six-pack and handed it to me. “Now drink this down real fast, it’ll help
relieve the itch before you get the blisters.”
I grabbed the can and followed directions.
I sucked down the golden suds in one long swill. It seemed like ages since I’d had the chance
to do that. When I pulled the empty can
from my lips there was another prescription waiting. I took that can too, and without being told,
I applied another dose.
After I’d finished a fourth can I was beginning to feel the benefit of the
treatment.