Wilson Koewing, Donnie

Donnie wore cargo pants with polos tucked in and showed up when he pleased because he was the boss. Every morning he roared to a stop in front of Ice Wizard and hopped out with a little white yapping poodle trailing him.

I was Donnie’s salesman. I sold flavors. 

“That’s the cash cow,” Donnie said. “Re-peat business. Keep ‘em coming back, Clyde. All I ask.”

And it was. 

We rarely spoke. 

The Ice Wizard facility was the office, which was me and Donnie and Lois, who did the books, and Ruth who did the books. Donnie had Lois and Ruth recheck each other’s books. Then there was the warehouse where three muscular guys were hired for the season, February – October. We never had one return, in fact, never had one last a season. That was result of the heat and the tedious job, but mostly Donnie. 

Donnie inherited Ice Wizard; the business having been in the family since 1910. What began as the first snowball stand in New Orleans, (or let Donnie tell it, the world) Ice Wizard sold shaved ice machines, carts, and trailers. They also mixed, bottled, and distributed exclusive syrup flavors like Tiger Blood and Blue Magic across the south. 

Aside from running Ice Wizard, Donnie was a mystery. Unmarried. Parents dead. No friends. A handicapped brother who lived with him and did odd jobs at Ice Wizard like pressure wash the parking lot in a bathing suit and galoshes.

One afternoon, I hung up a sales call and felt Donnie hovering.  

“Clyde,” he said. “Would you accompany me to my ranch in Mississippi this weekend.” 

Donnie went to the ranch often, but never invited employees, big clients occasionally. 

“Mind if I ask my wife?”

Donnie rubbed his moustache, “I do.” 

We stared at each other. 

“All right,” I said. “I’m in.” 

***

The night before leaving, I sat with my wife, Janie.

“You know he’s damn near crazy, Clyde?” she said, handing me a beer. 

“I’ve worked with the man five years, have I not?” 

“What’s he want you to go all the way to Mississippi for?” 

“Couldn’t say.”

“Well, didn’t you ask?” 

  I shook my head.  

“Well, why didn’t ya?” 

“Because he’s damn near crazy,” I laughed.  

“Clyde Richard Landrieu,” she smiled. “I hope something terrible happens to you out there.” 

Donnie arrived early. I rode in the backseat. The poodle rode shotgun. We drove to Mississippi, windows down, Elvis blaring, the poodle barking at the speakers. 

The ranch rested a mile inland from the gulf coast. We drove the property in a Polaris 4x4. Swampy ponds dotted the terrain. Rows of tobacco plants. I sat in back again. Donnie lit a cigar. I hadn’t the faintest he smoked. He didn’t speak as we rode, just pointed and grunted at things. A dilapidated barn. An old tractor that grass grew up through. The rusted gate to an empty cattle field. 

We sped by a small burial ground with a fresh mowed patch of grass that held four tiny headstones. I thought to ask but didn’t. Donnie wasn’t the sort who responded well to asking. Or that you’d want to ask without worrying about the answer. It was beautiful out there, though. Pure Delta. Heavy Skies. So, for a while we found peace and just rode. 

That went alright until the poodle jumped out as we passed a lake. Donnie pulled to a stop and got out. The poodle drank calmly by the shore until Donnie nervously snatched it up. 

When we returned to the ranch, Donnie showed me my room. It was spacious, a living room and a large bathroom, odd thing was, the walls were covered in photos and paintings of the poodle, or other poodles that came before. Like a shrine. 

“Meet me out front in a half hour,” Donnie said, closing the door. “We’ll catch dinner.” 

I took a few minutes, showered, and went outside. Donnie sat in the Polaris with the poodle, fishing tackle in the bed. 

He took off damn near the exact second I sat down. 

“You’ve been with me five years,” Donnie said, wind whipping his hair as we rode. 

“Has it been five years?” 

Donnie almost smiled. 

We stopped at one of the lakes. Donnie grabbed the rods and we tossed out lines. He opened a couple fold outs and set up a camp table and poured martinis from a thermos. 

Mississippi Gulf Coast fancy. 

We watched our bobbers, and I finished my martini, and he finished his and refilled both and we did that a while, nothing biting. The whole time we fished, the poodle kept inching closer to the water and Donnie kept yelling for it to come back. 

“Never had an employee I liked, Clyde,” Donnie said. “I spent a lot of time trying to dislike you.” 

“Not all five years, I hope,” I laughed. 

Donnie stone-faced me. It was getting dark. The bugs were starting their symphony. 

“May be time I stop paying you salary and commission,” Donnie said. “Bring you in on this thing more long—”

The poodle bounded off his lap so fast he fell forward trying to catch the martini knowing the dog was gone. The poodle tiny footed toward the shore. Donnie secured his drink and sprinted after it. The poodle shivered by the shore, like it knew it made a mistake going down there. Just before Donnie got there, the water parted and an alligator surfaced, mouth open wide, and the poodle ran right inside. 

Donnie leapt in after the submerging gator, had hold of the tail momentarily, then lost it. 

He staggered out of the pond soaked and muddy. 

He drove back to the ranch in silence. The stars crazy overhead, visible a hundred eighty-degrees out there, not just straight up. 

Back at the ranch, I tried to sleep but couldn’t. The TV had one channel. A replay of a televangelist in a giant southern church. The sermon was about sacrifice and how if the sacrifice isn’t meaningful to you then the sacrifice doesn’t matter. I eventually dozed off but woke deep in the night. I wandered into the main house, expecting to see sign of Donnie, but found only a roaring fire lighting up a living room that was all gators. Gator busts on the wall. Taxidermy gators by the fireplace. A gator tooth chandelier. 

There were stairs that led somewhere and a bunch of closed doors. 

I went outside and walked in the direction of the pond. The sun barely teased the horizon. It was peaceful, but spooky. Shadows played between the branches of moss hung trees. I could feel the eyes of critters peering out from the darkness. I worried I might not be able to find the pond, but I couldn’t have missed it. Donnie had a dozen spotlights on poles and ladders aimed at the water. It glowed eerie, like war film lighting. 

I hid behind some brush and watched. 

Donnie sat shirtless, a bandana around his forehead, a rifle across his lap. A dozen whole chickens lined the bank. Donnie walked down to the bank and filled a bucket with the chickens. He sat back down and tossed one, trying to land it with a splash right by the shore. He did this over and over. Once they were all out again, he did pushups. Two hundred or more. 

I thought about revealing myself but didn’t. 

Day was beginning to fight the night, creating a thin white line along the horizon. Donnie transitioned to jumping jacks. Eventually he fell to the ground and laid there for a long time. 

Slowly at first, then picking up speed, Donnie crawled up the bank. It was so quiet, I heard the water move. Behind Donnie, the gator surfaced, coming after him like in slow motion, mouth wide open. Donnie reached his rifle, just as the gator reached land. Donnie rolled over, sat up and shot it between the eyes. 

The gator stiffened and laid still. 

Donnie flipped the gator on its back, pulled out a Bowie knife, raised it above his head and buried it in soft white belly. Expertly, he carved. It was slow going, but eventually he plunged his hands inside, retrieved the poodle’s remains and held them up against the creeping morning light. 

Then he wrapped the remains in a blanket and carried them to the little burial ground. A new tombstone was there along with a fresh hole. Donnie placed the blanket inside and covered it with dirt. 

The sun burnt the horizon, but a thick fog rose heavy on the edges. I slipped off, hoping Donnie wouldn’t see me. 

If he did, he didn’t mention it in the morning. 

I sat in the front on the drive back to New Orleans. Donnie blared Elvis, but only sad, warbling songs. Janie ran out to greet me upon arrival. I spun her. Donnie watched us then drove away. 

On the patio, we sat together, and Janie handed me a beer. 

“Well,” she said. “Did you confirm crazy?”