Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [29]
After signing my name with a flourish, I smiled, and handed Doc the tablet. He read the note and frowned.
“Don't you have any faith in Licarbo, Frank?”
I looked at him expressionlessly and nodded slowly.
“Then why are you pulling out?”
I got to my feet, leaned over the desk and underlined “ten-year supply” on the note I had written.
A knowing smile widened Doc's tiny mouth, and he nodded sagely.
“You're a mighty shrewd businessman, Frank. Why, if you ever expand your farms you'll double your eight hundred dollars in five years easily! But damn your eyes, anyway!” He laughed gleefully. “I'm just going to take you up on this proposition! Whether Licarbo hits big or not, I'll either have my own lab or work in a pharmacy someplace where I can get wholesale prices on drugs. So on a deal like this, neither one of us can lose!”
We shook hands, and I turned to go. Doc stopped me at the door by putting his hand on my arm. “Just a minute, Frank. As soon as I can afford it, I'm moving to a better office. And, of course, when I get enough capital, I'm going to build my own laboratories. But meanwhile, here's the address of the drugstore where I work.” He handed me a card and I slipped it into my wallet. “I'm on duty there every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night from six to midnight. And almost every Wednesday from noon till midnight. I relieve the owner, you see. So when you need anything, drop me a line there, or come by and see me yourself.”
I opened the door, and returned my wallet to my hip pocket.
“You going to put an entry in the Orlando tourney, Frank?”
I shook my head and pointed north.
“Southern Conference then?”
I nodded.
“Well, I'll probably see you in Milledgeville, then. I haven't missed an S.C.T in ten years and I don't intend to now. And when you see any of the boys on the road, say hello for me, and tell them I still send out a few things when they write.”
I winked, clapped him on the shoulder, and we shook hands again. I started down the hallway toward the stairwell and Doc watched me all the way. When I reached the stairs, he called good-bye to me again. I waved an arm and descended the stairs. At the drugstore on the corner I had a cup of coffee at the counter and then returned to my room at the Jeff Davis Hotel. Fortunately, I had kept my morning newspaper.
I turned to the classified ads and looked under the Help Wanted, Male section to see what I could do about getting a job.
6
It is a funny thing. A man can make a promise to his God, break it five minutes later and never think anything about it. With an idle shrug of his shoulders, a man can also break solemn promises to his mother, wife or sweetheart, and, except for a slight, momentary twinge of conscience, he still won't be bothered very much. But if a man ever breaks a promise he has made to himself he disintegrates. His entire personality and character crumble into tiny pieces, and he is never the same man again.
I remember very well a sergeant I knew in the army. Before a group of five men he swore off smoking forever. An hour later he sheepishly lit a cigarette and broke his vow to the five of us and to himself. He was never quite the same man again, not to me, and not to himself.
My vow of silence was much harder to maintain than a vow to quit smoking. It was a definite handicap in everything I did. I read through the want ads three times, studying them carefully, and there wasn't a single thing I could find to do. A man who can't, or won't, talk is in a difficult situation when it comes to finding a job in the city. Besides, I had never had a job in my life—except for my two years in the service.
Of course, during my year of college at Valdosta State I had waited tables in the co-op for my meals, but I didn't consider that as a job. Growing up in Georgia, I had done farm work for my father when I couldn't get out of it, such things as chopping