“Then what you shinin shoes for?” I say.
“To shame the imperialist lackeys,” he answers. “The way I got it figured, nobody with shined shoes is worth a shit, so the more shoes I shine, the more I’ll send to hell in a handbasket.”
“Well, if you say so,” I says, an then Dan thowed down his rag an wheel himself back under the awnin to git outta the rain.
“Awe hell, Forrest, I ain’t no damned Communist,” he say. “They wouldn’t want nobody like me anyhow, way I am.”
“Sure they would, Dan,” I says. “You always tole me I could be anythin I wanted to be an do anythin I want to do—an so can you.”
“You still believin that shit?” he axed.
“I got to see Raquel Welch butt neckit,” I says.
“Really?” Dan say, “what was it like?”
Well, after that, Dan an Sue an me kinda teamed up. Dan didn’t want to stay in the boardin house, so he slep outside at night under his garbage bag. “Builds character,” was how he put it. He tole bout what he’d been doin since he left Indianapolis. First, he’d lost all the money from the rasslin business at the dog track an what was lef he drank up. Then he got a job at a auto shop working under cars cause it was easy for him with the little dolly-wagon an all, but he said he got tired of oil an grease bein dripped on him all the time. “I may be a no-legged, no-good, drunken bum,” he say, “but I ain’t never been no greaseball.”
Nex, he gone back to Washington where they’s havin a big dedication for some monument for us what went to the Vietnam War, an when they seen him, an foun out who he was, they axed him to make a speech. But he got good an drunk at some reception, an forgot what he was gonna say. So he stole a Bible from the hotel they put him up in, an when it come his time to speak, he read them the entire book of Genesis an was fixin to do some excerpts from Numbers when they turned off his mike an hauled his ass away. After that, he tried beggin for a wile, but quit because it was “undignified.”
I tole him about playin chess with Mister Tribble an about the srimp bidness bein so successful an all, an about runnin for the United States Senate, but he seemed more interested in Raquel Welch.
“You think them tits of hers are real?” he axed.
We had been in Savannah about a month, I guess, an was doin pretty good. I done my one-man band act an Sue collected the money an Dan shined people’s shoes in the crowd. One day a guy come from the newspaper an took our pitchers an ran them on the front page.
“Derelicts Loitering in Public Park,” says the caption.
One afternoon I’m settin there playin an thinkin maybe we outta go on up to Charleston when I notice a little boy standin right in front of the drums, jus starin at me.
I was playin “Ridin on the City of New Orleans,” but the little feller kep lookin at me, not smilin or nothin, but they was somethin in his eyes that kinda shined an glowed an in a wierd way reminded me of somethin. An then I look up, an standin there at the edge of the crowd was a lady, an when I saw her, I like to fainted.
Lo an behole, it was Jenny Curran.
She done got her hair up in rollers an she looked a bit older, too, an sort of tired, but it is Jenny all right. I am so surprised, I blowed a sour note on my harmonica by mistake, but I finished the song, an Jenny come up an take the little boy by the han.
Her eyes was beamin, an she say, “Oh, Forrest, I knew it was you when I heard the harmonica. Nobody plays the harmonica like you do.”
“What you doin here?” I axed.
“We live here now,” she say. “Donald is assistant sales manager with some people make roofin tiles. We been here bout three years now.”
Cause I quit playin, the crowd done drifted off an Jenny set down on the bench nex to me. The little boy be foolin aroun with Sue, an Sue, he done started turnin cartwheels so’s the boy would laugh.
“How come you playin in a one-man band?” Jenny axed. “Mama wrote me you had started a great big ole srimp bidness down at Bayou La Batre an was a millionaire.”
“It’s a long story,” I says.
“You didn’t get in trouble again, did you, Forrest?” she say.
“Nope, not this time,” I says. “How bout you? You doin okay?”
“Oh, I reckon I am,” she say. “I spose I got what I wanted.”
“That your little boy?” I axed.
“Yep,” she say, “ain’t he cute?”
“Shore is—what you call him?”
“Forrest.”
“Forrest?” I say. “You name him after me?”
“I ought to,” she say sort of quietly. “After all, he’s haf yours.”
“Hafwhat!”
“He’s your son, Forrest.”
“My what!”
“Your son. Little Forrest.” I looked over an there he was, gigglin an clappin cause Sue was now doin han- stands.
“I guess I should of tole you,” Jenny say, “but when I lef Indianapolis, you see, I was pregnant. I didn’t want to say anything, I don’t know just why. I felt like, well, there you was, callin yourself ‘The Dunce’ an all, an I was gonna have this baby. An I was worried, sort of, bout how he’d turn out.”
“You mean, was he gonna be a idiot?”
“Yeah, sort of,” she say. “But look, Forrest, can’t you see! He ain’t no idiot at all! He’s smart as a whip— gonna go into second grade this year. He made all ‘A’s’ last year. Can you believe it!”
“You sure he’s mine?” I axed.
“Ain’t no question of it,” she say. “He wants to be a football player when he grows up—or a astronaut.”
I look over at the little feller again an he is a strong, fine-lookin boy. His eyes is clear an he don’t look like he afraid of nothin. Him an Sue is playin tic-tac-toe in the dirt.
“Well,” I says, “now what about, ah, your…”
“Donald?” Jenny says. “Well, he don’t know bout you. You see, I met him just after I left Indianapolis. An I was bout to start showin an all, an I didn’t know what to do. He’s a nice, kind man. He takes good care of me an little Forrest. We got us a house an two cars an ever Saturday he takes us someplace like the beach or out in the country. We go to church on Sunday, an Donald is savin up to send little Forrest to college an all.”
“Coud I see him—I mean, jus for a minute or two?” I axed.
“Sure,” Jenny say, an she call the little feller over.
“Forrest,” she says, “I want you to meet another Forrest. He’s a ole friend of mine—an he is who you are named after.”
The little guy come an set down by me an say, “What a funny monkey you got.”
“That is a orangutang,” I say. “His name is Sue.”
“How come you call him Sue, if it’s a
I knowed right then that I didn’t have no idiot for a son. “Your mama say you want to grow up to be a football player, or a astronaut,” I says.
“I sure would,” he say. “You know anything about football or astronauts?”
“Yep,” I say, “a little bit, but maybe you ought to axe your daddy bout that. I’m sure he knows a lot more than me.”
Then he give me a hug. It weren’t a big hug, but it was enough. “I want to play with Sue some more,” he say, an jump down from the bench, an ole Sue, he done organized a game where little Forrest could thow a coin into the tin cup an Sue would catch it in the air.
Jenny come over an set nex to me an sighed, an she pat me on the leg.
“I can’t believe it sometimes,” she say. “We’ve knowed each other nearly thirty years now—ever since
