BOOGER

Booger Martin fished. Sometimes he fished by himself for his own purposes and enjoyment, and sometimes he made a little money guiding small fishing parties in the shallow Gulf waters off the coast of Bayport. He also occasionally earned a few dollars by frying fish and making hush puppies for church socials and family reunions. He lived in a simple, one room cabin where the only running water was that produced by the hand pump next to his sink, and the only electricity was in a single bulb hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. I never knew his real name. He was “Booger” to one and all, adults and children alike.

Like many of the county’s residents, Booger only came into town on Saturday, usually in the afternoon. He drove a battered Model A Ford, not an unusual vehicle in central Florida in the 1940’s, which he left in the public parking lot while he walked across the street to drink beer and swap lies for a few hours. Sometime during the afternoon, he bought whatever supplies he needed for the week ahead. He never displayed any signs of consuming too much beer and he always left before dark to drive the 15 miles back to Bayport.

I never ran into Booger when he didn’t stop to pat me on the head and ask about my health and my “schooling”. Sometimes his gnarled and sun-baked hand would descend into a pocket of the overalls he always wore and emerge with a coin, a nickel or a dime, which he handed to me without a word.

I once asked my father to tell me something about Booger, but all I got was, “Don’t worry about it. He’s a good man.”

Some of the well-off families in town kept what were known as “fishing cabins” in Bayport. It is true these were sometimes used in the pursuance of that sport, but they were more often havens for the men to escape to for a Saturday night of serious poker and serious drinking. My best friend’s father owned one of these simple weather-beaten houses. Like most of the other cabins in the little port enclave, it sat alongside a tidal creek fed by the Gulf, on an unkempt piece of clayey dirt with a few clumps of saw grass poking up here and there. An old rowboat was usually tied to the dock, rocking and bobbing in the shallow water.

My friend and I spent many happy summer Saturdays at the camp. There were wonderful ways for two young boys to amuse themselves. No supervision was necessary or wanted. We dug holes in the soft mud of the creek bank to look for fiddler crabs, fished futilely with hand lines and hooks baited with bread for the graceful needle fish that glided through the shallow water, and lay contentedly on our backs to gaze at floating clouds and give names to their endless shapes. We wore only our bathing suits, eschewing any oils or lotions. And on one especially clear, hot day in early summer, we burned to the color of cooked lobsters.

We knew the full force of our folly only after we had joined the men for a supper of Booger’s batter-fried Gulf mullet, hush puppies, and fresh tomatoes from his small garden. There were chilled canned peaches for dessert.

When we were sent to the screened porch to bed down on our cots, sleep was impossible. The burning on our backs and legs was torture. I don’t know how successful we were in holding back the tears. I know we tried. In any case, the men were too drunk and too loud to notice. But Booger knew.

As soon as he finished washing the dishes and making sure the bar was provisioned for the night, he left for a few minutes and then joined us on the porch. He didn’t say anything, but quietly opened a large Mason jar and began gently to spread some of its greasy contents all over us. The stuff reeked--of what, I could not tell. Its medicinal effect was almost instantaneous; the burning began to subside and was soon bearable enough to allow us to relax and shortly to sleep. When we awoke the next morning, our skins were still red and puffy, but the pain was gone.

We asked Booger to tell us what was in his powerful pomade. “A little a this, and a little bit a that,” he said. “They’s a touch a weeds what grows down by the creek and they’s some clayey mud. And it’s got some bacon fat. Oh yea, they’s piss. They’s a whole lotta piss.”