c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-26)
Grafton, West Virginia was not a city generally known for tourist attractions or natural wonders. It had evolved as a population center, only to become stuck in the limbo of stalled progress. Yet for inhabitants like Bodean Pringle, there was no better community in which to raise a family and enhance the authenticity of Mountaineer culture. He knew every memorable spot in the city. Along with historical facts that could be recited at will. But most important of all was his knowledge of local watering holes. Juke joints, restaurants, bars and taverns, where fellowship and good conversation could be had with a well-mixed drink. His favorite of these was a dingy, dilapidated roadhouse, situated right down by the riverbank. Tucked neatly in between an IGA Foodliner, a laundromat, a closed fuel station, and a crummy Dollar General site that predated the ubiquity of that chain across America.
Poole’s Stumble Inn was cramped and dirty. The walls were lined with framed photos from years of customer traffic. Autographed portraits of Don Knotts, a native of Morgantown, and Ted Cassidy, who grew up in Philippi. Along with Terry Bradshaw, the Steelers hero, and Governor Joe Manchin, astride his custom, Harley-Davidson motorcycle. There were signs and advertisements for an assortment of brands, many of which were no longer produced. The front window was a narrow slot in the brick façade. With a neon sign fashioned by a local builder, which depicted a long rifle, and a moonshine still.
Bodean knew every patron by name. He visited almost daily. So, when his cousin came to call, it was the first venue to pop into his mind. But when they mounted stools at the hand-carved, wooden slab that served as a counter, his relative stiffened. Something in the atmosphere seemed to trigger this response, but the cause was not obvious.
“C’mon Feesh, let’s drink a toast ta old memories and good times. And yer pappy, Podmore. He was a good dude, everybody in the bloodline respected him as a man of the cloth! That ought ta count fer somethin’ I reckon! It damn sure counts with me!”
Parker Redman sighed heavily before lifting his whiskey glass.
“I don’t figure he’d appreciate any alcohol being downed in his honor. But, here’s to him, anyway. Cheers...”
The crowd of patrons was somewhat subdued at first. But with draft beer and liquor flowing freely, and the small dance floor reverberating from a live-band performance, body heat soon raised the temperature. A raucous version of the Garth Brooks standard, ‘Friends in Low Places’ got everyone moving and milling around. Eventually, a pair of young cowboys forced their way to the bar, and demanded service. Both were clean-cut, visually correct examples of the cartoon outlaw breed. In broad-brimmed, white hats and faux chaps. Clean, manicured, and photogenic for the lovely, booted ladies who were present.
The taller of this duo reached over shoulders at the bar, as everyone sat dribbling suds and Evan Williams bourbon. Then, the counterfeit ranch-hand jostled a frosted mug from its place, spilling brew everywhere. Bodean stood up reflexively, wiped foam from his denim trousers, and cursed.
“What the frig, boy? Watch yerself, dammit! I’m tryin’ ta have a drink with my cousin here!”
A look of surprise and amusement blossomed over the young buck’s face. He grabbed hold of the countertop, and swung himself squarely into position. Taking the stool away from its rightful sitter.
“I NEED SOME ROOM HERE, DIRTBAG! THIS SCENE IS MAKIN’ME THIRSTY. COMPRENDE?”
The cowpoke gestured for attention from those waiting on customers. But with the crush of patrons arriving for an evening libation, their response was undeniably slow.
Parker pushed his own mug across the wood, because it had run empty. He turned around on his pedestal perch, and came eye-to-eye with the offending interloper.
“Friend, if you’re parched, I get that vibe. But wait your turn. My cuz was sitting there. Don’t be rude about things, show a little respect. He’s an Army veteran. Three tours of duty in Iraq...”
The wannabe western star laughed out loud at this warning. He did not heed the caveat, and instead, settled himself on the leather-topped stool. With a glance of indifference, and a tilt of his head indicating a cocky mood of confidence.
“LOOK, ASSWIPE, I DON’T TRAFFIC IN BULLSHIT! NO PIECE OF MULLET-HAIRED, BIKER TRASH IS GONNA GIVE ORDERS TO ME! UNDERSTAND? I WANT SERVICE HERE! I WANT SERVICE FROM THE BARMAIDS! SO SHUT THE EFF UP AND STAND ASIDE, OKAY?”
With a hard shove, the youngster knocked Bodean off his feet. This caused a commotion of sorts, as other revelers were also tipped off balance. A scrum erupted on the worn linoleum. Grunts and groans echoed, as the live music paused. Then fists began to fly.
Parker raised his right hand, as if to still the chaos with a silent incantation. Yet instead of preaching or praying, he put his paw onto one shoulder blade of the primary offender. He twisted on the circular seat, leveraging his body mass for use as a cudgel of brute force. The greenhorn cowboy slammed, face-first, into a plate of nachos and wings. This feast scattered everywhere, as the other young provocateur watched in disbelief, while his partner slouched, and slid to the floor.
Bodean righted himself, and took both of the tenderfoot cowpokes by their ears.
“Y’all are leavin’ right now, gentlemen! This establishment is over capacity, I reckon! It’s time ta thin the herd! Yer skinny asses are outta here! Have a yerselves a good night, and don’t bother comin’ back now, ya hear?”
As if on cue, the band resumed its popular set list. A rousing version of the Travis Tritt classic, ‘Country Club’ immediately put everyone in better spirits.
Parker ordered another round of whiskey, and a fresh pour of Miller High Life. Then moved to a distant corner of the room. He shunned everyone else at the tavern, even his cousin. In the morning, his exit would be swift and sure. But for the moment, he wanted only two things.
To be drunk, and left alone.
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