Augie's Story

Angus McQuill awoke with a nasty hangover. He didn't need his eyes open to know where he was, or at least what sort of place he might be in and the raw soreness on his left hand's bony knuckles was a good clue as to why he was where he was, although he couldn't remember last night or perhaps even the last several days. He knew he had landed in one more jail.

The painful noises across the room of someone settling onto the hard plank irritated Angus. He kept his eyes closed so he wouldn't have to talk. Probably the clank of keys had awakened him. He could smell burnt coffee and spam. The other inmate began to slurp and chew noisily. Angus was cramped on his own plank. He was a full seven feet and four inches tall. That was one of the reasons he seemed always to have to fight. This particular moment's contest between solitude and coffee made acute also by the need to relieve himself was won by the physical rather than the mental needs of the tall prisoner. He opened his eyes and reached out to defend his coffee at the same time. The other man, a fat but muscular red-faced joe with a battle-scarred face, dropped his mouth open in awe and drew himself away from Angus' tray.

Angus slowly and stiffly unfolded himself, stood up and stretched. He knew he was impressing respect on the other prisoner. If he didn't get respect, Angus knew he would get a brawl. "My, my," the fat man mumbled, "but you re a long drink of water, Buddy!" He stuffed the bulk of his sandwich into his mouth and his eyes bulged as he tried to chew.

Angus cracked his knuckles. They made too much noise. It sounded like the machine-guns he had repaired until his discharge in November last year, 1949. He circled his shoulders and neck to loosen up the crick he had from the jail bench. Angus had been a mechanic, machinist, engineer, radio repairman, an expert good at his work and happy. He could repair or make almost anything for the army or navy. But the wars were over. They had even pulled out of Korea. They kicked him out before he could make twenty years, on the excuse he fought too much. What irony. Angus was sour on them. He grimaced and sat down carefully on the plank. It creaked.

The fat man swallowed with difficulty then choked as he poured water from the enameled pitcher into his mouth. The man coughed and spit in pain. Angus clapped him on the back and relieved the red-faced man of the pitcher. While the fellow recovered Angus sipped his coffee and called up memories of fiddling on the green, pretty lassies dancing and red-faced men tossing the caber. Was it wanderlust that had taken him all over half the world? He had left his village so that he wouldn't be the local exhibit. He became a mechanic in the service because he was too big to be in the regular troops or to ride in the cavalry. They never could find a uniform to fit him and he stood out in the ranks. That first war, he had still been eager but uncoordinated. But he had a knack with engines and lathes and guns and the little flying machines.

"Thanks, Bud. What s your name? I'm Billy," the fat man had recovered. He still gasped slightly when he breathed, but was a less purple shade of red in the face and neck.

"Angus. Ye looked as if'n ye would be exploding." Angus squinted at Billy. The hangover was clouding the vision of memories.

"Figured you for a foreigner. Where you from, Angus?" Billy looked inquiringly at the spam sandwich still on Angus' tray.

"Ye figure wrong. I ha' been a citizen of the U.S. of A. for about twenty year, most of that in the army." Angus' brogue thickened and his 'r's rolled more as his temper ignited.

"That so? No offense, Angus. Where'd you serve?"

"We'el, these eyes ha seen near every front there was. I do believe I ha' worked on every machine used in both wars, and the ones I worked on don't fail, lad, ye can take book." Angus was proud of his abilities. That was another reason he tended to attract belligerent hooligans.

"You don't say?" Billy s face twisted thoughtfully, and he pointed at Angus' breakfast. "Uh, you gonna eat that?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

Angus' stomach was turned by the smell of the food. It reminded him too much of canned rations and sweltering nights working on tanks, jeeps and airplanes.

"Take it and welcome, Billy. It smells like dog's meat to me." Angus stretched his legs out to the opposite wall of the cell. It was plaster over sandstone blocks. If they kept him here long, they would have to drug him or tie him and gag him. The wall was too simple of a problem to solve.

But he couldn't remember doing anything more than getting drunk, and laying about with his fists. Even drunk, he knew how to down his opponents without doing serious damage. He didn't think he could have done too much injury. Billy ate somewhat more cautiously this time. Then he licked his fingers and belched. He settled back and studied Angus. Billy had no tact whatsoever.

"Say, Angus?" Billy couldn't be quiet, it seemed.

"Yep?" Angus replied, hoping he would be called out to see a judge soon, just to get away from Billy.

"You ain't in for nothin' serious, are you?" Billy had a look of comically polite concern. One eyebrow was up, the other was down. He scratched himself.

"Nope." Angus didn't know, but it didn't matter a whit.

"Well if you ain't got a job we might use you." Billy grinned. "If you can do what you say you can do."

"Augh. An' ye doubt me, lad, best defend yourself." Angus was accustomed to challenges, but he had no feeling of apprehension from Billy, so he held off from knocking the sandwiches out of the fat slob.

"Didn't mean nothin'. You want a job?" Billy knitted his fingers protectively over his belly, and he leaned into the corner where the bars and the wall met.

"Depends, lad. Who do ye work for?" Angus smelled the fresh spring air drifting down from the high window and he breathed deeply. Honeysuckle he smelled. It relaxed some of the lines of tension on his forehead.

"I'm with a Circus. Bump's Circus. I'm one of the roughs." Billy spoke with pride, and he cocked one side of his grin high enough to show where some teeth used to b.

"A Circus, now." Angus smiled. His stomach rumbled. "I ha' seen a mite of circuses, Billy lad. Which one, tell?" Wherever he had been stationed, he had always searched out any Circus or carnival he could find. He knew how to laugh at oddities, and he appreciated a bit of daring in any well-done feat.

"Bump's Circus. Have you seen it?" Billy let his grin spread wide across his face, and he wiggled his ears.

"Nope. Never heard tell of that one. Is it a wee one, then?" Angus searched his memories. He loved to recall his experiences at the glittering rings. Clowns, acrobats, animals doing human things or parading their natural abilities in precise timing imposed by a trainer. But he could not recall any Circus...