Soda Bottles for Candy

Not that it matters much, but the first thing you'd probably want to know is I'm not a hero; heck, I'm not even a decent fighter. I mean, my Dad taught us how to fight and all in the backyard. He'd wrap a rope around four pine trees to make a boxing ring and force my brothers and me to duke it out. His real intent was to allow us to let off steam. Things could get a little tense when four boys lived together, and I had the charley horse bruises to prove it.

Sixteen-ounce gloves got heavy very fast for a twelve-year-old boy, so I didn't do well, and most times got pummeled by my two older brothers. I could have blamed my runty weight of ninety pounds, but I didn't like to hurt anyone much. I guess I would fight if I had a reason.

****

Anyway, where I wanted to start is, I tried to mind my own business. That's an important thing around here. "Mind your own business and never stick your nose where it doesn't belong," they'd say.

Soda bottles were my business, and I collected them off the side of the road. They were like cash at Mr. Sweat's Grocery, a half-mile away from our house. People would just throw money out of their car windows for me to find. Five cents a glass bottle would buy five pieces of penny candy or bubble gum.

I loved this country grocery with its old plank wood floor, an array of penny candy, and a cold counter where you could get a slab of cheese or bologna for lunch. Traces of old men’s aftershave, fresh produce, and boiled peanuts wafted through the air to make the place feel cozy, unique. A half-dozen old-timers sat in mismatched chairs around a potbelly stove. They solved the town's problems every day while they played checkers and never paid me no mind being a bottle rat and all.

If you liked to smoke, Mr. Sweat would sell you a cigarette for a nickel. I didn't smoke because I wanted to play football, and no one played for the high school coach if they smoked.

They say that two boys from Ohio, outstanding football players, moved to town all arrogant like their stuff didn't stink. The brothers stood in front of the Ole Town Pool Hall downtown and smoked. Coach drove by the Hall and watched them puff away. They say he pulled to the curb and told them that they might as well move because they would never play for him, and they didn't. They were stupid.

****

I got up early on a rainy August Saturday morning and skipped breakfast to get on my bottle hunt. Saturdays were my best day because of Friday night football games. I guess people got their thrills and tossed bottles at signs on a dare or to relive the winning touchdown pass they'd seen at the game. The bottles proved they missed a lot.

The four Conrad brothers lived down the street from our house and were my business competitors. I discovered their weakness when I slept over there one Friday night. They were okay bottle collectors, but they liked to watch Bugs Bunny cartoons before hunting. Yes, I spied, but business is business, and if I got to the bottles first, I didn't care.

Most everyone avoided the cow pasture behind our house, a shortcut to the highway because a crazy Brahman bull we called Harvey guarded his six-cow harem. I cut through the field anyway. Time was money, and I had the advantage over the competition today, so I ran across the pasture to the outer gate. So did Harvey.

I was fast, but when you trip over a pile of cow dung, things turn shitty mighty quick. (Please excuse my language, and don't tell my Mom; she gets a kick out of the "wash your mouth out with soap" routine. If soap was the fountain of youth, I'd live forever.)

Startled by my fall, Harvey had some incredible brake power and stopped ten feet from me. I reckon he was surprised he caught me and didn't know what to do, that made two of us. His nostrils flared, and he stared me in the eye. I thought I was dead. Maybe the stench of the cow patty smeared on my jeans was a familiar scent, I don't know.

I guess a bull could feel sorry for me, maybe he did, or the snort was him laughing his ass off. He nodded his head up and down and flicked his tail. Some would probably say a fly or two annoyed him, but I believe we came to some kind of mutual understanding, and I turned my back on him and walked away. At the gate, I took stock, and Harvey stood in the same spot, nodded again and turned back to his herd.

The gray sky, the wet ground, not to mention the cow shit, had made me grumpy. I'd have to wash the dirty bottles before I cashed them in. Mr. Sweat was picky.

I had found six sellable bottles and one chipped one. The chipped ones were worthless, but good community service led me to dispose of them. My burlap bag held thirty cents worth. Money enough to buy a Coca-Cola, and ten pieces each of candy and bubble gum. I loved the sweet taste of sugar and could blow the biggest bubbles you've ever seen.

****

By noon, bottles cleaned and done for the day, I walked to Mr. Sweat's Grocery and passed by a wooded lot beside his parking lot.

I heard a girl scream from the woods. Then I heard her terrified pleas,

"Stop," she cried, "No."

I stopped. Someone was in trouble.

"Shut up bitch," an older voice slurred.

The heavy slap of a fist on skin punched through the air. I knew the sound from boxing in our backyard. Without thinking, I charged into the forest. My Dad always said I had a problem with that, not thinking.

Twenty yards into the woods, I spotted a man atop a young girl. One hand pinned her arms, and the other tore her dress open and exposed her pink undergarments. I guess he didn't hear me over her whimpers.

Like a bull, I ran full speed through the brush, swung my bottle bag in an upward arch, and clobbered him on the side of the head. The dull crack from his skull competed with the sharp explosion of shattered glass, and he collapsed onto the wet leaves of the forest floor, unconscious.

There went my sugar money, I thought and helped the girl up, gave her my coat, and we escaped to Mr. Sweat's store.

It turned out, the girl named Candy, short for Candice, was twelve years old like me and had been visiting her grand-dad, Mr. Sweat. She liked to hunt butterflies in the woods. The man, a known pervert, had stalked and attacked her. He went to jail, and she went home with her parents to Savannah. The old-timers at the store let me sit in one of their chairs and praised me for my quick thinking. Maybe they could convince my Dad.

As I said, I'm no hero; but when you know there's something wrong, you do have to stick your nose where it doesn't belong. Mr. Sweat, forever grateful, takes care of my sugar addiction for free.

I strutted home and passed the cow pasture. Harvey stood at the gate near the road instead of his usual corner. I stopped, and we locked eyes like we had that morning. I swear, if a bull could salute, he did. He backed up and tipped his horns in a slow bow and bellowed. It might have been the familiar stench of the pasture on my jeans that attracted him. Still, deep down, I think he honored me as a token of respect of one bull to another. For sure, something inside me had changed.

I watched television in the family den when my Dad came home from work. He stepped into the room and stared at me for a second, with a look much like Harvey's.

"Son, I heard what you did today, and I'm proud of you," he said and patted me on the shoulder. Oddly, after that, my older brothers didn't beat on me much anymore, if ever.

Candy wrote me a sweet letter a few weeks later to thank me for saving her. It started with, Dear Henry. I'd never gotten a sweet letter from anyone, and I liked it. Maybe I will write her back. Soda bottles could pay for the stamp.