I get a lot of requests for another story about Paul Rotunda, especially from folks who knew him. There’s no exaggerating a Rotunda tale. Fact trumps fiction every time. My earlier entry, WATERLOO, had me bailing him out of jail.

This one took place in the wilds of Wayne County, and involves a horse of questionable ownership. It was a Monday Morning Story. The sort of answer you’d get if you were careless enough to ask, “Paul, how’d your weekend go?”

“Rotten!”

I should have known better than to continue, but what the heck.
“Why? What happened?”

An aside: Paul had a talent for nicknaming people that was Dickensian. Walking Jesus (a guy who paced); Jack Benny (a cheapskate); Turkey Legs (she shouldn’t have worn shorts) Banjo Eyes (round wire-rimmed glasses); Possum Face (hard to describe, but it fit); Dirty Charlie (hygiene not a priority).

Since I can’t remember who, exactly, was his colleague in this scenario, I’ll ascribe it to Cockroach. You could pick him out of a crowd just by that name, even if you’d never seen him before. It was uncanny.

“Me and Cockroach got this horse.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. We just got him. Brought him out to that farm off Swamp Road” (not the real address, readers)

“That’s good, Paul.”

“No, it’s not.” Pause, while he lights a Camel. “It up and died.” Pause, while he puffs the Camel. “And somebody called the sheriff.”

“Because a horse died?” Even in Wayne County, I can’t imagine a dead horse being big news.

“No. Some bullshit about it being stolen.”

“Was it?” Pause, while he smokes some more, followed by no answer.

I halfway hoped this was the end of it, but I had heard enough Monday Morning Stories to know it wasn’t. And the other half of me hoped he’d go on. He did.

“Good thing we had that tractor.” There’s a non sequitur for you. “We scooped out a hole between the barn and the woods, so we could bury it right quick.”

Bury was pronounced Burry, but I got the point.

“We had a tow chain in the truck, wrapped it around the leg and drug it in and dumped it. Then we pushed the dirt back in over it.”

“That’s good, Paul, so it all worked out okay.”

“No. We didn’t make the hole deep enough, and the four legs was stickin’ up in the air.”

He demonstrated this by flinging his arms straight up as if I couldn’t picture it on my own otherwise.

“But I was smart,” he said, tapping his head to make sure I got the point.”I grabbed my pruning saw from the back of the truck, and I went to sawing away for all I was worth on those four legs stickin’ up and I threw ‘em off into the woods just as we heard the sheriff’s car coming down the road.”

He lit another Camel, and blew out a long line of smoke.

“And I real quick kicked the dirt over the stubs just as the sheriff pulled into the yard.”

“Well, Paul, then I guess it worked out okay.” I figured that was the end. Wrong.

“No. Would have, except for that damned hound dog.” Pause.Smoke. “It comes runnin’ out of the woods, with a horse’s hoof in his mouth, and drops it right at the sheriff’s feet.”

And without further ado, or explanation, he headed out to work, puffing on the Camel as he went.