“Hi,” he says. “You fellers new in these parts?”
We tole him we was from Mobile, Alabama, an that we was just passin through, but he says we gotta come up an look at some property he is tryin to sell on the river. He says it is the best property in the whole state of Arkansas, an will give it to us real cheap.
Now, I tole him we was not in the property buyin bidness just yet, but he is so persistent that I figgered it wouldn’t hurt to foller him to his property, so as not to hurt his feelins. Well, when we got there, I gotta admit, I was somewhat disappointed. I mean, it was nice land an all, but they was a lot of sort of shabby buildins aroun, an people with car gardens an rubber tires in they yards, painted white. It kinda looked like a place I might of lived in mysef—at least till a year or so ago.
Anyhow, he says to just call him Bill, an not to worry about how the “outstructures” looked, account of in a week or so they would all be torn down an replaced by million-dollar houses, an so if we signed up now, we would be the first to get in on this good deal.
“Let me tell you fellers somethin,” Bill says, “I am a politician in these parts, but politician don’t pay enough, an so I have made the investment of my lifetime in the Whitewash River enterprise, an I guarantee it can’t bring none of us nothin but satisfaction and success. You know what I mean?”
Well, ole Bill looked like sort of a nice guy. I mean, he seemed pretty genuine an had a husky down-to- earth voice, white woolly hair, a big ole reddish nose look like Santa Claus’s, an a nice laugh—an he even introduced us to his wife, Hillary, who come out of a trailer wearin a granny dress an a hairdo look like a Beatle wig an brung us some Kool-Aid.
“Listen,” Bill says in almost a whisper, “I ain’t sposed to say anythin to anybody about this, but the truth is, this Whitewash River property is right over the Smackover Awl Formation, an even if you don’t build you a house here, if you buy it now, afore anybody else finds out, you will be millionaires a hundrit times over, account of the awl.”
Just about then, a ole feller shows up on the scene, an when I seen him, I like to of fainted dead away.
“Fellers,” Bill says, “I want you to meet my partner.”
It was Mister Tribble, my ole chess championship mentor, who everbody says was the one that stole all the money from me in the srimp bidness way back when.
When he seen me, Mister Tribble jumped back an looked sort of like he’s gonna run off, but then he got hissef together an come up an shakes my hand.
“Well, it’s good to see you again, Forrest,” he says.
“Yeah,” I says. “What you doin here?”
“It is a long story,” he says. “But after your srimp bidness went bust, I needed a job. So I heard the governor, here, needed an adviser, an he took me on.”
“Governor?” I ast.
“Why, yes, Bill is the governor of this state.”
“Then how come you out sellin real estate?” I ast him.
“Cause it’s the steal of a lifetime,” Bill says. “Why, all you gotta do is sign here an the deal is done. An ole Mr. Tribble here, he will make his commission an profits, an we will all get rich.”
“We is already rich,” somebody says. It was little Forrest done piped up at last an said that.
“Well, then, you can get even richer,” Bill says. “Why, it is rich people makes the world go around. I love rich people. Rich people are my friends.”
Kinda sounded to me like he was runnin for president, but then, I am just a poor ole idiot. What in the world do I know?
“Now, I guess, Forrest,” says Mister Tribble, “you are wonderin what happened to all your money from the srimp bidness?”
“Well, it crosses my mind, from time to time,” I answered.
“Frankly, I took it,” Mister Tribble says. “I mean, you were away assin around in New Orleans, an when the srimp begun to run out, I figgered I’d better put it in safekeepin for you.”
“Yeah? How’d you do that?” I ast.
“Why, I purchased this lovely tract here on the Whitewash River. It is the investment of a lifetime,” Mister Tribble says.
“That’s bullshit,” says little Forrest. “This land ain’t worth a peehole in the snow.”
“Ah, now, who are you, son?” Mister Tribble ast.
“Name’s Forrest—An I ain’t your son.”
“Oh, I see. Well…”
“An what you’re sayin is, we own this dump?”
“Ah, well, not exactly. You see, I used the srimp company money just for a down payment. I mean, a man has to live on somethin. So with the exception of the one-point-seven-million-dollar loan I had to take out, you own every square inch of this place.”
“Yeah,” Bill says, “but don’t worry about the debt or anythin. After all, you know how federal savins and loan bidnesses are. They don’t care if you pay it back or not.”
“Issat so?” I ast.
“Never will, if I ever get to be president,” Bill says.
Well, after that, we took our leaves from Bill an Mister Tribble, an little Forrest is hoppin mad.
“You oughta sue them bastids,” he says.
“For what?”
“For stealin your money an puttin it in that hole of dirt, damnit! Can’t you see that place is one of them scam real estate deals? Who the hell would want to live there?”
“I thought you liked this river. You could go campin out on it ever night.”
“Not anymore, I don’t,” he says. An so we paddled down the Whitewash River the rest of the day, an little Forrest, he ain’t sayin much. It look like I am in the doghouse again.
Well, like it will happen, spring turned to summer an the summer to autumn, an the Gump & Company bidness is still goin great guns. It almost seems like we can do no wrong, an sometimes I just can’t believe it, you know? But me an Gretchen is doin fine together, an little Forrest seems to be happy as a clam—or a oyster. One day I ast Gretchen an little Forrest if they wanted to go see a football game. Actually, I first thought about astin just little Forrest, account I remember all Gretchen used to say about football was “
“I have been reading about your football now, Forrest, and I’m looking forward to the game” was how she put it.
Well, it wasn’t exactly a game I took them to, it was more like a
The University of Miami players was runnin all over town before the game braggin about how they was gonna whup the Crimson Tide an make us ashamed to show our faces anyplace. Kind of sounded like them cornshucker jackoffs from the University of Nebraska that we had to play in the Orange Bowl when I was on the team. But that was a long, long time ago, an gettin longer.
Anyhow, we gone on to the game, an let me say this: It was a sight! They play the game these days inside a big ole dome on fake grass an all, but they ain’t nothin fake about the game. In fact, it was a war. I had me a private box an invited some of the rinky dinks I had assed around with over the years, includin good ole Wanda from the strip joint down in the quarter. She an Gretchen got on just fine, especially when Gretchen tole her she’d been a barmaid back in Germany.
“They all just want one thing, honey—but it ain’t a bad deal” was how Wanda handled the situation.
Well, not to get to describin things too far, let me just say that the Crimson Tide of Alabama whupped them Hurricanes from the University of Miami so bad they left town with they tails between they legs, an so I finally got to see my ole alma mater win a national championship—an so did Gretchen.
Little Forrest was beside hissef—especially when they announced my name at halftime as bein one of the
