Jake And The Hawgleg

If there’s one thing I’m a proud possessor of, it’s a smeller. Especially considering the fact that I once almost lost it.

If you’ll take a close look at the Back Page’s top right tiny photo—I wanted it larger but editors thought your chillun may run screaming in terror should they get a glimpse—you can see that my nose is, indeed, offset. Now, turn the page sideways. Smeller’s perfectly straight, right?

I’ll tell you the rest of the story some time hence, but for now, let’s get back to how it works…

The scent was vaguely familiar, yet too faint to identify. Standing in the middle of a very large outdoor show watching folks stroll past in their hundreds, there were, to be sure, scents aplenty. But every now and again, it would come drifting…

At the risk of resembling my bulldog, who constantly uses his nose sniffing and snorting worse than a boar hog, I just HAD to know. And  particle by molecule, it came together.

Ever smelled a high school football locker room after August practice? With all the players having been dressed out in overalls? 

That was the first clue.

How about twist tobacco, chewed, re-chewed, spat into a 40-year-old shirt pocket and later re-re-chewed?

Number two. But that third tiny trace… 

It was sweet—almost to gagging status—and seemed to drift up from my earliest memories. Hadn’t caught a whiff in years, nor could I seem to place just where or what. And then it hit me: VITALIS!

Which could only mean one thing. And having watched me all the while, as always, that thing popped up like a bear from under a bush: Jake The Hermit!

I must admit that Flabbergasted is not a good look on me.

“Smelt me dintja? I seed that smeller all wrinkled up, and knew you’d work the scent out like a good coon hound. Figgered I might as well come out a’hidin. But I’d’a been downwind yet if that thar wormern hadn’t kept that hand fan going. Cold in here. Why’s she fannin’ anyways?”

No use explaining. Or asking how he got here. Or why he was here. That part was simple: I was here. I could dig a hidden tunnel from Atlanta into the Amazon  and Jake would be at the other end when I popped up!

“Been watchin’ you watchin’ this herd of folk. Ain’t never seen the beat for peoples. Got me one picked out.”

Does the word “Panic” mean anything to you? “Hysteria?” “Stampede?”

My BP, certainly not resting now, shot up to 400 over 300 as I queried, “And just what does that mean, and just who is it?”

Rather than answer, he sauntered into the crowd and tapped a totally innocent—well, almost—passerby on the shoulder.

“Gimme a look at that hawgleg,” he grunted, thumbing his overalls galluses. I’m thinking the guy would have been wearing the same look had he just been Tazed.

And while we’re on the subject of wearing, you have my permission to allow your imagination to run totally and completely wild…

His 350, at least, pounds were decked out in a sleeveless T-shirt which managed to cover most of his belly. Shorts? They did the same for most of his legs, and his laced-up-forever snake boots took care of the rest.

But what had garnered Jake’s attention was the huge holstered revolver snaking down one of those stubby appendages.

“Mister,” the tap-ee stammered, “I can’t unholster it in here; we’d have a riot!”

Jake, in his inimitable way, asked simply, “Why’d ya wear it den?”

“Self-defense. Protection.”

I tried to stop it. Honest I did. But short of running the hermit over with a dump truck, there was no hope.

“Lookee here, Sonny, now I’m a’knowin’ you got one of them carryin’ cards from the revenooers and such, but why ya got that thang all out in the wide open for everybody to look at and not touch?

“Protection? Say we’s in one of them armed robberies; know who’s going to be the first one to get it? YOU. Because of THAT!”

Pointing smugly to the holster, the hermit rested his case. Or so I thought.

“Mister, I don’t know you, but you’re mighty bold to be talking to me like that while you’re unarmed,” the stranger retorted, reddening a little. But he didn’t know Jake like I did, so I jumped quickly in.

“How many, Jake?”

“Hand,” he replied, not missing a beat nor removing his eyes from the hawgleg. In case you’re wondering, Jake’s numerical system—taught by me—runs roughly like this: Fanger is one; Fangers can be anything from two through four; Hand is five. We never got past Hands plural because I was rendered unconscious the first time he took his brogan off…

Hurriedly stepping between the two, I smilingly introduced myself then whispered, “Sir, Jake’s never been unarmed a second in his life. He has five handguns on him, one in every pocket of his overalls. Too, there are probably enough knives to cape out a Cape buffalo herd. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d tote a grenade in each brogan.

“But he’s harmless, and good as gold. He just loves guns, and wants a look at yours…”

So then he pulled it out. And Jake started pulling his out. And then they started talking trade. And then I rushed them both behind that big black curtain…