BIBBS

When I was growing up, I was told that Bibbs Coogler was “slow,” a usage common in the South if your family was of a certain social standing. In the lower classes, you were just crazy. The essential element of Bibbs’ idiosyncrasy was an incredible and constant ability to stretch the truth. When I described him to a doctor friend in later years, he suggested Bibbs was simply a congenital liar. Of course, in our town one could never have used that medical term to refer to Bibbs, as it might suggest there was a flaw in the Coogler genes, an established and respected family noted for its doctors, lawyers, and gentlemen farmers.

Bibbs lied about everything. Mendacity was as normal to him as breathing, and as easy as blinking, and yet so creative as to spellbind any new audience. He cited celebrities among his acquaintances, distant places among his destinations, and feats of daring among his accomplishments. Yet, as far as I was ever able to learn, he had never been outside Hernando County.

Bibbs was a legend in his own mind. Beyond the confines of that marvelous machine, however, he was capable of only the simplest tasks. And yet, because of his family and a community with a generous heart, he seemed always to have a job, or at least a place to go where he could spend the working day out of harm’s way, and from which receive a modest pay envelope at the end of the week. He was not a threat to hurt anyone but himself, and there was always someone around to monitor his movements and to insure his safety.

He was a little guy, our Bibbs, but wiry and surprisingly strong. The only sport I ever saw him participate in was arm wrestling, at which he was an admirable competitor, at least in his weight class. He was also seemingly fearless, prepared to accept any dare. His minders had to be alert to that proclivity and warn off anyone seeking to lure Bibbs into attempting anything actually dangerous. Fun at his expense had its limits.

When Fuller Warren was elected Governor of Florida in 1949, one of his first official acts was to reward Hernando County for its unblemished support (i.e. no one else got any votes) by appointing Alfred McKethan as Chairman of the State Road Department, probably the best position in the state from which to dispense political pork. Before Warren and his appointees left office eight years later, some said there was not a cow path in Hernando County that had not been paved. The constant presence of road construction companies meant a job for anyone who wanted one, including Bibbs Coogler.

He and I worked on the same survey team one summer. The project was to build a road to connect two small fishing villages on the west coast of the county, Bayport and Aripeka. (It was no small coincidence that Alfred McKethan owned a fishing cabin in the former and also kept a boat at the latter.) The new road was to be a simple straight line from one to the other that would shorten the driving distance between them from 18 miles to 5. That direct route cut through some of the densest, dankest swamp land in the county, most of which had never been disturbed by man and his machines.

Our survey team’s job was to define the line of the road and to mark if for the construction crew that followed, clearing the brush and trees and laying the initial roadbed. The manual labor necessary to do the work the machines couldn’t handle was performed by convicts from one of the prison camp chain gangs still prevalent in Florida at the time.

While the rest of the survey team was out slogging through marsh, mud and mosquitoes, Bibbs remained out of harm’s way at that day’s base camp, where he was usually occupied telling his tales to a new audience of prisoners and their guards.

He was the first to spot the escape attempt. One of the convicts had received permission to leave the working party to relieve himself a few feet away in the brush, an undertaking so routine that it was accompanied by only cursory surveillance by the guards. On this occasion, the prisoner waited until his guard lowered his head to light a cigarette and then bolted. The various vehicles used to transport the work crew to and from the site were parked where the new roadbed ended. He made directly for the nearest one, which happened to be the pick-up truck driven by the chief of our survey team to transport us and our tools.

It was simpler to leave the keys to these vehicles in the ignition than it was to worry about loosing them in the mud and muck of the camp, a fact obviously considered in the plans of the fleeing convict. He was nearly to the truck when Bibbs spotted him and sounded the alarm. To everyone’s surprise, he also started chasing the escapee. Bibbs was not only wiry and strong, he was fast. The two arrived at the truck only seconds apart, and as the convict was starting the motor, Bibbs jumped into the back. The guards had no chance to get off a shot, as their guns were loaded with buckshot and it would have been impossible not to include Bibbs among things hit by their spray.

As the driver maneuvered frantically to turn the truck to head back down the roadbed, Bibbs got to his feet and began pounding furiously on the roof, shouting at the top of his voice, “Stop, you sumbitch, stop this fuckin’ truck!”

They managed to go only a few yards before a front tire plunged into deep mud, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt stop and sending Bibbs flying over the cabin, onto the hood, and then rolling onto the ground in front of the truck.

As the guards raced to recapture their prisoner, others went just as quickly to Bibbs, who had gotten immediately to his feet and was gesticulating wildly, mumbling to himself, and striding purposefully back to the truck. He jerked open the passenger side door, reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a brown paper bag. The source of his concern and consonant conduct was revealed. “That sumbitch was driving off with my lunch!”