WHO SHOT THE SHERIFF

The truth is like sugar in a cookie.  The other ingredients fill you up.

Transcript

WHO SHOT THE SHERIFF?

By James R. von Feldt

All rights reserved

Been a calm week in our town this week.  Calm because it’s warmed up nice, then we had about half an inch of rain overnight every two days or so; perfect for planting corn.  Sometimes, after a harsh winter, the wait until the soil warms enough to plant becomes unbearable for our farmers and everybody feels it.  Then, once the seed is in the ground, there is another wait until it rains and the seed sprouts.

Down at the barbershop in Bloomfield, Max Heck was saying it looked like we could be having a bumper crop of corn this year—and he should know.  He farmed 160 acres his dad and uncle handed down to him sixty-five years ago. Been in the family for years.  It’s a historic farm.  Goes back to when Iowa became a state.  His boy Troy and his son Abe farm the homestead and a thousand more acres south of town.

The barber shop is just off the square half a block in a small space carved out of Marvin Rollins auto repair shop.  A barber pole outside the door announces the presence but everybody in town knows it’s there.  Fred Meeks, the barber has one barber chair in the room and 8 old assorted hand-me-down chairs along the walls.  The room appears to be just barely large enough with the barber chair and Fred the center point.  

When you go in the shop you immediately see a large stuffed rabbit with fake deer horns on one wall.  A plaque under it claims to be a Jack-a-lope.  On the other wall, a large picture of an American Indian in full headdress with chicken feathers sticking out for emphasis captures your eye.  There is a long narrow mirror with a shelf full of Fred’s barber equipment and just below that Fred’s famous bright red wall phone.

Needless to say, getting a haircut at Fred’s is more than getting rid of shaggy hair.  Though the atmosphere at first appears to be dingy, old and run down – a throw-back to ”man-cave”, the anticipation you have when you open the door brightens with adventure, challenge and entertainment.  Some say this is the place in town young boys go to, to learn to talk like men.

In other ways it’s like the Gas and Grill in our town, but with unique promise.  You never go away disappointed.

Fred’s been cutting hair for thirty years or so they say.  He’s a permanent fixture in town and a known character.  Cousin Ben says he should be a comedian for his phone routine -- that’s different every time.  

When conversation gets slow or boring the red wall phone rings.  Fred quits barbering and he has everybody’s attention.  Depending on the hot topic of the day, Fred carries on a hilarious conversation with the president.  Yes, the president of the United States is calling Fred for advice, and he gives it with gusto.  

When Max finished his comments on farming, Riley, one of the Hilbert boys, launched a rant about the broken Immigration system.  Larry and Fred immediately challenged him.

No topic is off limits at Fred’s and there is no such thing as political correctness.  Also, everyone has the right to call you stupid for a half-baked idea or insensitive comment.  You have the right to re-butt that comment. 

In a small town, in a county which has a population of 8,000 people, and at least half a million chickens, where everybody knows everybody, where they all have gone to school with each other; the discussion will become animated, informative and entertaining.  

Just when Chris and Larry were yelling expletives at each other Max raised his voice.

“Enough” he yelled.  

Max, at 90 years of age has seniority, everyone knows that.  After two or three seconds of silence Max in his gruff voice grumbled; 

“What I want to know is Who shot the Sheriff”?

That stopped everything.  Max had completely changed the topic.  The place roared with laughter.  Laughter because Max had cut off the haranguing discussion and because the topic was an old saw that everyone was familiar with -- a story that had so many versions that the true story no longer had meaning.

All of sudden several people were competing for attention but Max prevailed.  

“As I heard it”, he continued, “it all started with an anonymous call to the sheriff’s office”.  

“It was his wife” Larry shouted back instantly.  

Several voices commented at the same time – it was unintelligible. 

“Who’s wife, Max said loudly. 

“The guy that was shot – his wife”, Fred put forth

“The Sherriff was shot, the deputy did it”, Larry yelled then bent over laughing and slapped his thigh.  That got a laugh from everybody.

“I saw it in the Ottumwa paper”, someone commented.  

That was followed by a long laugh.

“Where …”, Max interrupted.

“At the Ritz Park”, Fred yelled back before he could complete his sentence.

The Ritz Park is about half an acre right at the south edge of town.  Kevin Ritz, a local boy, rose to the ranks of major league pitcher years ago.  He played MLB for the Detroit Tigers.  His reward back home was a sign and a pavilion just north of the Southfork Dinner.

The banter was swift and back and forth like an Abbot and Costello routine – WHO’s On First -- Bang, bang, bang, no time between one-liners.

Someone yelled, “NO, NO, the Sheriff shot…”.  

This was cut off by Riley yelling “Marty was sheriff, he wasn’t even there.  He told me so”.  

Fred added: “It was in the Ottumwa paper”, again laughter followed.  The local joke was that the Ottumwa Currier got the facts wrong and printed “Sheriff Shoots Deputy” as a headline.

“Goetz was Police Chief”.  Fred said, “He got the call at the office”

“Sheriff Deputy Chickering was with him”, another chimed in. 

“They were at Molly’s having coffee when the call came in and they went to the park to investigate”. Larry said.

“But who got shot”? Max yelled

“Chickering got shot”.

“Hinton got shot”. 

These statements were made at the same time.

Who?” Max yelled again

.

The words came like a blizzard and were undiscernible.  Then Fred said “Deputy Chickering got shot in the hand by Goetz”.

Riley countered immediately, “No Hinton shot Chickering”.

Bruce was just sitting there taking it all in and laughing with the punch lines as they came.  When things died down a bit Fred called out to Bruce; “Tell us your version”.

Bruce waited until there was silence then told his version.

“This guy Hinton came to town pulling a travel-trailer with his truck.  Parked it at the Ritz Park.  Someone called the police office and said a fugitive was at the Park.  No one knows who that was.  Goetz and Chickering were having coffee when Goetz got the call.  They went to investigate”.

“When they got to the park Goetz and Chickering went to the trailer with guns out ready to shoot if necessary.  When Hinton came to the door of the trailer, Goetz said he pulled a gun on them”. 

“The facts are Chickering got hit in the hand.  Hinton took two slugs to the abdomen. The paper said Goetz’s gun was empty.  From here on it’s a mystery”.

“Goetz says Hinton shot first and hit Chickering then he returned fire.  Hinton said that he never fired a shot.  Chickering was sent to the Bloomfield hospital emergency.  It wasn’t a major deal -- wound in the hand.  Hinton was sent to University of Iowa medical emergency an hour or so away.  That was strange.  Two shots in the abdomen is major”.

“It turned out that Hinton had a warrant for his arrest in Arizona.  The Sheriff in Iowa City took over from there.  

Somehow the Ottumwa paper got it wrong but the headline “Sherriff Shoots Deputy” sells papers – you know, with Andy Griffith and Barney Fife on TV.  Chickering and Goetz won’t talk about it”.

Bruce finished his story and looked around.  Larry and Riley already had their haircuts and were just hanging around for the fun of it.  They got up to leave.  The fun was over.  When Fred announced “Next” I got out of the barber chair and Bruce stood up to get in.

“That’s a great story”, I commented. 

“If you think that’s a good one, you ought to hear the one about the “Great Cat Trial”, right here at the court house; but bring your cousin Ben with you, his wife Helen was on the jury”, Fred said with a sly grin.

I guess I’ll have to wait until I get another haircut to hear that story.

All my love 

Grampa Jim