When they reached the overlook he pulled the truck to a sudden halt, tossing a few empty beer cans into the trash barrel there. “The cops in Jocobo are getting a mite ambitious,” he reflected. “They don’t need much encouragement to open an investigation.” Babe roamed Vinegarroon County like a nervous dog, never able to lie down long.
They could see a good part of the county down below. Every ledge and rocky outcropping had a home, small farm, or small community nestled there.
“Jocobo is down that way,” Babe pointed towards the county seat part way down the side of the old volcano. “It was named for "The Kissing Saint" by the first white man who may or may not have passed through this way over 200 years ago.
“Lake Doofus is over there and you can just see an edge of Clyde’s Fungal Growth Park and below it there is Bone Head and Sleepyville. This place is full of legends and ghosts, artists, writers, wannabees, and just plain folks—like you and me.” Babe slipped the truck back into gear and soon they were once again hurtling down the state highway.
They soon reached Jocobo. “Whataya want to see first? Don’t blink. Ha ha! Hey, there’s old Quink Otis. Street-singer, but he ain’t much appreciated.
There’s Eustice Wigg—don’t look!—the nosiest gal around. What was that? You think calling her a gal is demeaning? Jeez, Louise, get used to it, the ’90s are so over!”
Suddenly Babe stopped the truck.
“Here’s some guys you really ought to talk to,” he said after they stepped onto the sidewalk. They were as far downtown as Jocobo got, by an old brick courthouse in the shade of an immense sycamore tree. There wasn’t much moving, especially on a long bench outside the courthouse where several mostly old men sat peacefully.
“No, they’re not dead,” Babe snorted. “Well, not so’s you’d notice, anyway. Let me introduce you. This is Chas Boatwell, Pops McCreakle’s the one that needs a shave. The fella on the end is Horse Chotely, ’cause he’s so pretty. Harry Whelp, the one-eyed dentist, is over by the Vietnam War plaque and Taney Applegaw is the one coming over here with an ice cream cone and his sweet little crying granddaughter, Tweena.”
“Rawk!”
“Oh, yeah, that’s Nevermore, the Liars Bunch’s raven. Why are they called the Liars Bunch? Guys?”
“It’s because we’re short men with tall tales,” replied Pops McCreakle.
“Some of us are tall men with short tales,” Granpappy Labas immediately contradicted.
“Every small town had its liars’ bench where crotchety old coots set a spell, carefully watching the world go by, careless with their opinion,” Babe said quietly, after looking around to make sure no one was listening to them. He needn’t have worried. They were all listening to themselves. “I blame the tourists, they encourage ’em,” Babe added. “But what can you do?”
Old man Croesus was holding his own conversation at the other end of the bench. “Have you noticed how people say ‘absolutely’ nowadays when they mean yes? Like yes isn’t good enough anymore, it’s too vague or something. I guess yes isn’t definite enough.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” replied the others without cracking a smile except for one young fella who said sincerely, “You know, I never noticed that before.”
“Psst!” Babe hissed. “It’s past time we were moving on.”
