THE RIVER SHARK

Uncle Zeke had only three rules if us boys were going to hang out at his place during the summer. One, always keep your word; two, always be on time; and three, never throw the first punch unless you intend for it to be the last. So long as we followed those three rules, we could hang out at his river cabin, a three story shack on stilts he called “Boggy Gut”. He built it himself along the banks of the Big Muddy on some land left to him by his father. Our time with Uncle Zeke were some of the best summers of my life. When us boys were at the cabin, we could cuss, drink, smoke, and even fight so long as we followed those rules, though most time we just fished, did some swimming, played on his pool table, or watch rasslin on his old back and white TV. Many times he’d make us lunch from the fish we’d caught earlier in the day, and he only permitted us one beer a visit if we were fifteen years and older, so he kept plenty of coke in ice filled coolers. Many times he’d join us in billiards. He was the best pool player this side of the Mississip, and he never let us forget it; not because he was a braggart or anythang like that, but because none of us never won a match against him. When it got dark, he’d watch rasslin and other shows with us while he sat in his old recliner. We called it the throne, though it looked as though he bought it used from some thrift store, cause it had holes all over it that he’d patched up with electrical tape. He sure sat in it like a king though, that’s for sure. Uncle Zeke always said, I might not have much, but what I do have I take pride in and so should you.

He wasn’t our real uncle of course, it’s just something we started to call him. I often wondered why he never got married or had any children so one day, while we were all out on his boat fishing, I just asked him. He said,

"Well… Ernest… the fact is I do gotta kid. A girl named Gwen. She and her momma live out in Missouri."

“Well, why aren’t they here Uncle Zeke?”

“Well shit Ernest, it ain’t like I didn’t wan-em here, but… Her momma… well... she said she was bored.”

“Bored?”

“Yep, she said it wasn’t like she thought it be… you know marriage and all, so she took my baby when she was only three and went to Missouri. And to tell ya the truth Ernest, I’m still tryin to figure out what’s so excitin bout Missouri.”

“Well do you ever see your daughter?”

“Ever so often… when her Momma lets me or she need somethin. One thang is for sure, she’ll let me know if I’m behind on those child payments.” He laughed, but even as a child I could perceive a certain sorrow behind the chuckling.

“Let me tell you somethin Ernest,” he said as he let his fishing pole rest, “in fact the rest of you boys listen up too. This here is important. When you’re ready to settle down with a woman, make sure she likes you for you. And I don’t mean the you others might see you as, but this you.” He said as he pointed towards his heart. “And make sure, the words ‘till death do us part’ actually means somethin to her. It’ll save you a lot of heartache, I can guarandamntee you that!”

Uncle Zeke was a man of few words, but when he spoke his words carried weight. He was a fairly tall man, about six feet or so. Naturally muscular and black of skin, he could be an intimidating and imposing figure if desired, but he preferred humility and kindness. A thick black mustache lined his upper lip, and he often wore a trucker’s hat that I presumed covered up a bald spot. The hair he did show was graying. He was about in his mid forties, and he worked at a lumber plant out in Port Gibson where the rest of us boys were from. Even though we called him uncle, there is a good chance we were all cousins. My pa, when he was alive, knew old Uncle Zeke. They served in Vietnam together where Uncle Zeke lost his left eye. My father was less fortunate cause he lost his life. I wanted to know more about him and their relationship, but Uncle Zeke would never talk about that part of his life. He would just say,

“Just know, yer pa was a good man, and war ain’t no fun… don’t join that white man’s army unless you got some education. Then at least you won’t be no scrub.”

One thing I noticed about old Uncle Zeke was just how intelligent he was. Of course he had that good old southern practical smarts country folk often possess, but I think he would have been capable of much more if he grew up differently or had more resources. From what I heard he dropped out of school in the eighth grade to help his pa on his farm, so for a while he was practically illiterate though functionally literate enough to be drafted in the army. He taught himself to become a better reader after seeing some Popular Mechanic magazines in a store. As he flipped through the magazines, he couldn’t make out most of the words within despite wanting to know about all the new fangled inventions and discoveries that were being made so he taught himself to read by asking for old textbooks the schools no longer needed. Eventually he got to the point where he consumed so many books, his down stairs den, where the pool table was, was lined with bookshelves along the walls. He insisted that all us boys read at least one book a month if we wanted to continue hanging out. He’d quiz us on it too, because he’d read the same books. So... I guess that was sort a like a fourth rule now that I think about it. He was also quite good with his hands. He built and wired his River House himself, and was a mean mechanic also. After seeing Bob Ross on the television, he took up painting despite his old TV being black and white. He had to listen to what colors Bob used instead. He’d always been a good musician, for some of his family were blues and Jazz folk like many families from Port Gibson. He was indeed a real polymath, and even though we all did a lot of joking and shooting the dozens, we all respected him a great deal.

That same day as we were all out fishing on his boat, The Guenevere as he called it, I caught something on my line.

“We gon eat good tonight… reel It in Ernest… watcha waitin for?” Uncle Zeke asked.

Gripping the pole as tightly as I could, I tried to reel my catch in, but the darn thing was so strong it started to pull me and the pole forward, so I stood up and put my foot on the side of the boat to brace myself.

“OooooWeee, It’s a bigun!” One of the other boys exclaimed.

“Jesus!” I said, “this thang is strong!”

Suddenly a large gray mass came torpedoing out of the water, and all I saw was a parade of sharp pearls before I was submerged into the silty waters of the Big Muddy. A pain ached all throughout my right arm as I was pulled further into the depths. I was about to lose consciousness, until the pain in my arm slightly subsided and I felt two strong arms around me. Before you know it, I was back in the boat gasping for air. I don’t know how he did it, but old Uncle Zeke managed to some how rassle me free from whatever it was that snagged me and got me back in the boat safely. Before I could thank him as he tried to heave himself back in the boat with the other boys helping, whatever it was that got me, pulled him back under the water. For a few seconds, me and the other boys sat dumbfounded, but Uncle Zeke was one tough bastard. A large splash broke the water’s surface as two large forms rassled each other.

“It’s a goddamn bull shark!” One of the boys exclaimed.

It was a ferocious display. The shark twisted and turned with Uncle Zeke’s left arm in its jaws. Uncle Zeke was steadily punching it with his other hand as they tumbled in the water, and we all yelled expletives at the shark while a few of us tried to hit it with the oars. We cheered Uncle Zeke on as he beat up the shark and eventually he was able to get hold of his large bowie knife he often kept at his side and started stabbing it. Plunging him into the depths again, the water became still and we stared again at it wondering if we would ever see old Uncle Zeke alive again. Well, I can tell you, it was gonna take more than an old Big Muddy bull shark to take out Uncle Zeke. He barged through the waters again, gasping for air. Hooked under his right arm was that old bull shark, deader than a door nail. We heaved him and the shark in the boat, and all Uncle Zeke could say before losing consciousness was,

“Always keep your word…. I toldya… we gon eat good tonight.”

His left warm was pretty badly mangled, so we tied a tourniquet around it like he taught us and we rowed back to shore. Three of the boys rode their bikes back to town and got help. He made a full recovery, though he lost his left arm.

“Now it matches my eye I reckon.” He said after he learned it had to be amputated.

We didn’t get to eat that old bull shark that very night like he wanted, but we had bits of it dried and salted, and when he was able to return home, we all ate of the spoils. We also had its jaw and teeth mounted on a wooden taxidermy shield with a bronze plate on it that sated.

Here is mounted the victim of the real River Shark, Ezekiel Dewberry

Uncle Zeke liked it so much, he had it mounted above his throne… you know… the one with the electrical tape all over it.

Many of us still hung out at old Uncle Zeke’s place until of course we got to old, graduated high school, met girls, and many of us eventually moved away including myself. Every summer though, I’d bring my kids and wife to visit old Uncle Zeke, and he became like a grandfather to them. He loved them as much as they loved him, and when he got too old I had him come stay with us until he passed away peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of ninety. Me and the other boys decided to put some money together and erected a statue of him in his honor near Big Muddy as a funeral service, not to far from his now dilapidated Boggy Gut Cabin. All the towns folk showed up, and that’s when I realized how many lives this man had touched. Everyone had stories, much of which were summarized on a plaque at the base of the statue that stated,

Here lived the father of many, Vietnam Veteran, Genius of Boggy Gut, Painter, Musician, Hero, and the Slayer of Sharks. The real River Shark of Claiborne County, Ezekiel Dewberry

After the funeral was over, a woman came up to me… one I never seen before. She said,

“It was a nice service and all, but how could you put up a statue of him, you know he was a drunken wife beater right?”

Now, that took me aback. It was the only negative story I’d ever heard anyone have of old Uncle Zeke. I mean, Uncle Zeke did like a cold beer now and then, but I’d never seen him drunk. The most I’d ever seen him do to a woman was shake one violently, but shit, she was trying to stab him cause she was the drunk one.

“Well now ma’am, how could that be? Uncle Zeke was divorced for years, he didn’t even have a wife.”

“I know cause I’m his daughter, and the only sad thing about all of this is that he outlived my mother.” She said with the typical sass one often finds in black women where I’m from, so... I responded,

“Ma’am, that is not the man I knew. The man I knew would never be violent to a woman unless it was in self defense. The man I knew taught us to carry ourselves with honor and dignity, because he had honor and dignity. The man I knew taught us to always keep your word, always be on time, and never throw the first punch unless you intend for it to be the last. So ma’am, even if what you're saying is remotely true, your mother would not have lived to see old age if Uncle Zeke threw the first punch; I can guarandamntee you that.”