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by D. Grant DeMan
Late in the cool of a misty forties January evening when the business of DeMan's Government Street Emporium had dwindled down to the regular Cracker Barrel whittlin' crowd, I'd watch the men survey the room for ladies and children of a tender mercy before jawing the latest jokes and yarns. From Dynomite Dan we might hear: "I'm an incurable romantic, didja know? Every time a pretty young thing came down the road I 'spected a clap of thunder. Reckon most of the time I'd failed to hear that thunder, but I often wound up with the clap!" Leaning over the cooler in back, I was pleased nobody paid me no nevermind whatsoever. And Daddy often took the floor, for in his salad days he'd seen and done more than most.
"Seems in my neighborhood long ago lived this tetched old coot - a Red River vet, it's rumored - who acquired the moniker of Java Jack Blow after his affinity for the strong coffee he brewed up in his enamel pot, and the great number of brimming tin cups of the same at at his disposal, there being no war that year. Remember, a fella could get all he wanted fer about a nickel a pound or fourbits a sack. Tar it was in that coffee pot. Now every day, cup in hand, Old Java'd go wandering out in the yard around his shanty in his red long johns a-chopping firewood and a-sorting things, and while so doing he'd naturally lay down a half-full cup on a stump, and absentminedly leave it set for days, until he'd need one for a refill. Next day he'd fill more and do 'zactly the same, mebbe twenty or thirty cups per day. Naturally he came up as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room fulla rocking chairs and, suffering from the inso-manias, seldom slept good.
"And jest to pile aggravation on the situation, come spring the chirping birds, the cackling magpies crows and ravens and Canada Jays drove him up at five amen. We could hear Jack loonitickin' around the lot blasting away with his big old double-barreled hog leg. Kapow! Kapow! 'Take that, you damn Whiskey Jacks!' And we'd all hunker down pillow-stuffing our heads waiting for breakfast.
"Well bye-the-bye Java's ammo diminished and run dry, while them rascally birds came on bolder 'n a spring Grizzly. Being naturally thirsty they peckered the dregs in the cups that littered the yard. The results was that everyone of those damn fool birds developed addiction, the same identical case of coffee nerves that afflicted poor old Jack, and they commenced to scream and cackle all the night long, week in and week out.
"It need not be indelibled what kinda buzz saw teeth bit into Jack's poor old worn out bones and skull. The results was, the bigger his eyes bugged open, the more coffee he downed, and subsequently the more gargantchewan the portion remained for those turmoiled birds. In all that caco-phony something had to crack adventurely.
"And sure as God made little green apples, one quietitudanal evening when you could still hear gandys strumming down in the freight yard, and the mayflies were a-waiting on the June bug, the whole valley seemed to quake to its rockies in a blood-freezing, canyon-echoing avalanchin' scream. We all scrambled on down to old Java's and there found him sprawled out jerky-like among a hundred rusty old cups, and the blackbirds setting around gawking like baseball fans at a rhubarb set-to. Most thought at first he'd caught the slobbering fits from some stray varmint. Somebody threw a blanket over him, but he paled up sweaty cold mighty quick. It weren't no use. His soul scooted to where there ain't no more coffee, and fer sure, no squawking birds. His grave marker - believe me, it's right up there for all to see - reads: Here lies Java Jack Blow - Jacked high on Java. Blowed low by Jacks. RIP 1894.
"Yep. Ol' Java Jack was the first time anyone experienced a call to Glory from a episood of inso-mania. Fact is I never did hear of such another case in these fifty years since."
The room fell silent for a few pregnant moments, after which Bay Street Bob remarked, "Well Joe, neither them birds nor Jack would acquire an addiction such as you relate from this here weak-knee coffee you serve."
"No sir!" Agreed Dynomite. "Whatcha use to adult-rate it, Joe?"
"Chicory. Can't hardly get no coffee now, even with ration stamps."
"Reckon a sack of chicory mighta saved poor Java's life."
"That. And if he took to dumpin' his cups after he'd used 'em."
"Good night gentlemen. I'm sure you'll sleep mighty good. Just leave yer cups here for the birds."
"Like yer story, Joe. Fer the birds? Same time, same barrel, tomorrow. Good night."
"Talk to ya later boys!"
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