Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [71]
“I don' know what they is, Mr. Frank,” he said quickly. “The man from the express brought 'em out day before yesterday, and I signed your name. What do you reckon's in there?”
I finished the gin, and handed the empty to Buford. Buford had had his share while I was gone—the man had an unerring instinct for discovering where I hid my bottle. He thought that finding my bottle was some kind of a game.
I took out my knife and slit open the two cardboard boxes. One box contained a speaker, and the long box held an electric guitar. But what a guitar! The instrument was fashioned out of some kind of light metal, painted a bright lemon yellow and trimmed in Chinese red. On the box, above the strings, there were two sets of initials, encircled by an outline of a heart.
If I thought I had made the grand gesture when I sent Bernice a dozen yellow roses, she had certainly topped me. The electric guitar and its matching yellow amplifying speaker must have set her back four or five hundred dollars. I searched through the excelsior in both cartons for a note of some kind, but there wasn't even a receipt for the instrument. The initials inside the heart contained her message.
Buford looked admiringly at the guitar, shaking his head with feigned amazement. As soon as I looked at him he laughed the professional laugh of the American Negro.
“Whooee!” he exploded with false amusement. “You got yourself a guitar now for sure, Mr. Frank!”
I pointed to the door. Out in the yard I gave Buford a ten-dollar bill in payment for looking after the place for three days. Buford had his own farm, a wife and four children, but he spent more time with me than he did with his family. When I happened to think about it, I'd slip him a five or a ten, but I didn't keep him on a regular salary because I didn't need him around in the first place. He knew as much about the raising and handling of gamecocks as any Negro in the United States, if not more. Unfortunately, because of his color, he was barred from almost every white cockpit in the South.. He would have been an invaluable assistant for me on my trips to circuit cockpits, but I couldn't take him along. However, he helped me out around the place, handled opposing cocks in my own training pit and made himself fairly useful during conditioning periods. He loved game-cocks. That much I knew about him. And I believe he would have sacrificed an arm or a leg for the opportunity to fight them. Because I knew this much about the man, I was well aware that his rich and easy laughter was insincere.
What in the hell did Buford have to laugh about?
“I fixed up all them sun coops the way you showed me, Mr. Frank,” Buford said. “And I put some new slats in the cockhouse stalls. But they ain't much else to do, so I won't be back around till Saturday.”
I nodded, and Buford climbed into his car.
“Whooee!” he laughed through his nose. “You got you a git-fiddle now, sure enough! Will you play some for me come Saturday?”
Again I nodded. As Buford made a U-turn onto the gravel road toward the highway, I entered the shack.
The wonderful and unexpected gift had made my heart sing with delight, although I had controlled my inner excitement from Buford. As soon as he was gone, I connected the various electrical cords, following the directions in the illustrated instruction booklet. I plugged the cord into the wall outlet and tuned the strings. The full tones, amplified by the speaker set at full volume, reverberated in the small room and added a new dimension to my playing. After experimenting with several chords, banging them hard and listening to them echo metallically against the iron ceiling, I tried a song.
Halfway through the song I stopped playing and placed the guitar gently on the floor. Unconsciously,