BULL-DURHAM
The Mischievous Sprite
by
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THE ORIGIN: The 12-year old sprinkled his pilfered Bull Durham tobacco onto the thin paper and casually rolled the rough semblance of a cigarette. He fumbled out a match from his pocket, expertly struck the match head with his thumbnail and touched the blaze to the end of the distortion protruding from his puckered lips. Leaning back against the giant live oak, he blew a series of smoke rings out over the head of his older companion as he carefully listened to the endless sexual conquests of the young teenager. Jett had only a smattering of appreciation of these tales, but looked forward to high school next year where all these enticing things had their beginning.
Jett Durham was the third and
youngest son of John and Maude Durham, farmers scratching out a living on their
80 acres in rural
As Jett and his 15-year old friend, Tom Fisher, sat chewing the fat on this sweltering day in 1920, the level of humidity pushed the heat index above 110 degrees.
Young Fisher commented, “The word’s all over that you messed up Brown’s watermelon patch, all 40 acres, by slipping a poison into some of his melons. At least that’s what the note said that was found at the grocery store. I understand that ol’ man Brown has been raisin’ hell with the Sheriff ‘cause once the word got to the Sheriff he won’t let Brown sell any of his melons. Mr. Brown says it must have been you and he wants you picked up.”
“Yeah, the Sheriff came out to the house and ask’ me ‘bout it. My ol’ man told the Sheriff to shove off ‘less he could prove I did somethin’ wrong. But, boy, did he grill me after Sheriff Comer left. I surely denied even bein’ near that ol’ watermelon patch. Besides, where would I get any poison or one of them injecting needles?
“I ain’t tellin’ you I writ the note, but ol’ man Brown has been askin’ for trouble ever since he blamed me and Joey for stealin’ a couple of his melons. Hell, he ain’t never been able to raise melons sweet ‘nough to eat without sugar. Trouble was, Joey bragged about it and my ol’ man blistered my butt.”
The two boys sat quietly in the shade for awhile, deeply dragging on the nicotine laced smoke, succumbing to the humidity induced stupor only occasionally interrupted by an indifferent swat at a yellow fly looking for a quick meal.
“Hey Jett, let’s mosey over to Fowl River, you know, up by Coden Road where the water is clear and shallow with no hidin’ places for gators,” suggested Tom. “We can just lie in that cold water until the sun goes down. Just think, Sally Lundon might be there with her sisters.”
The mention of Sally Lundon, the blue-eyed blonde that had been in his class all through six years of primary school, was enough to catch Jett’s interest, arousing the enticing thought of what she may look like in a bathing suit this year. What a difference the last year had made in the way her clothes fit.
Sally was a member of a big
family that lived in
George was Sally’s twin brother and someone to whom he was truly obligated. “I wonder if George will be there. Boy, he ain’t ‘fraid of nothin’. ”
Jett keenly remembered the time
his dive off the
Suddenly, a hurdling body split the water between the reptile and Jett, startling the gator into a splashing turn away from the unexpected threat. It was George Lundon, who quickly grabbed Jett by the hair and towed him to the safety of the bank. Jett still had terrifying nightmares of the alligator tearing chunks of meat from his pitiful body and his churning blood turning the murky water a dark red.
“A cool swim’s a keen idea, but it sure is a long walk in this heat,” Jett finally agreeing to Tom’s suggestion.
“Don’t worry ‘bout that. We’ll take the train”, Tom said, pointing toward the Bayshore Line serving rural
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About the Book
“The body lay face up, with an expression of unbelievable horror frozen around the mouth. The blood-splattered head was tilted backward with the slice on the throat, gaping widely from ear to ear, framed by the coagulated blood that had gushed from the severed carotid arteries. The eyelids were fixed open in the nature of death. Each eye sprouted a flower, with yellow petals surrounding a dark brown center, precisely inserted through the opening designed for the pupil.” A psychopathic killer stalks the streets of this southern city, leaving in his wake a string of mutilated young women selected for their beauty and vitality, their bloodless bodies discarded like garbage to nature’s scavengers. A young but astute lawman works against time and compounding evidence to prove the innocence of his childhood friend, the chief suspect, who has become a fugitive from both the law and an inflamed mob seeking vigilante justice. The search for the serial murderer is complicated by local corruption, intrusion of big city racketeers seeking that big score in the waning days of Prohibition, and racial dichotomy of thought and practices in this time and place. Throughout, the young Deputy is surreptitiously aided and abetted by a mysterious and sometimes mischievous energy source -- Bull-Durham.
About the Author
Fred Carley was born in a two-room log cabin in rural Mobile County, ‘one for sleepin and the other for eatin’. He grew up living in the City of Mobile during the school year and in the Fowl River community during the summer months. Many of the scenes and events included in the novel, Bull-Durham, were first hand experiences, or gleaned from stories related by older family members and acquaintances. Fred sandwiched among two active duty tours sufficient credit to earn three degrees from Auburn University and a notable athletic career. He is an engineer by profession, singularly recognized for both his innovative achievements in military logistics and as a Physical Fitness Leader of America, one of 12 selected each year, for his successes in developing track and field athletes and programs. Fred is a retired USAF Lt. Col., now living in Niceville, Florida.