OTIS

When the Nazis were forced to surrender or retreat during the “Battle of the Bulge” of World War II, orders came down to leave no Allied prisoners alive. Otis Rottenbury was one of the captured Americans. He was tied to a tree, a Luger was forced into his mouth, and he was shot.

No one knows how long Otis remained tied to the tree before the advancing Americans found him. He was still alive.

After extensive surgery and a long recuperation, Otis was discharged and returned home. His German executioner had apparently directed the barrel of his gun upward, rather than toward the rear of Otis’ head, and the bullet had taken out a large portion of the upper front of his skull, which had been replaced with a steel plate. The surgeons could not restore that part of the brain that was also blown away.

Otis had been a respected member of the town’s working class before he went away to war, and his fellow citizens would never have stigmatized him with a derogatory label. Nonetheless, if this were a piece of fiction, Otis would be identified as the village idiot.

He lived simply; I never knew where. He was big and he was strong and he was frequently in demand for jobs that called for those attributes. My father often hired Otis to help unload trucks bringing supplies to our hardware store, especially those that came laden with merchandise such as kegs of nails, cases of paint, or quantities of galvanized lead water pipe.

Otis could perform most tasks necessary to sustain himself, such as dressing and buying food that needed no preparation. And in any case, there was usually someone around to help him. Unfortunately, he found no special need to bathe regularly, nor was he shy about where he urinated. But people were tolerant. Otis was a war hero. The town took care of its own.

At some time during my early teen years, people began to notice that Otis had developed a propensity to take out his penis even though he had no need to pee. Moreover, he had developed a fondness for stroking it. The boys of the town soon learned that they could precipitate that action simply by giving Otis a couple of laughing suggestions. “Take it out, Otis!” “Whack it, Otis!”

Those caught indulging in this pastime were quickly dealt with, and a kindly civic leader would take Otis away for a stern lecture. The practice was largely brought under control.

The teenage son of a family that had recently moved into town was told of the sport that could be had with Otis and was warned that he must not be caught goading him into action. But this lad was eager to make his name in our community of boys and daringly approached Otis while he was sitting on a stool in Murphy’s Drug Store sipping on a milk shake. “Take it out, Otis,” he said loudly and with a laugh. And Otis did. “Whack it, Otis.” Otis did. And with encouragement from the instigator, he whacked it until the predictable result occurred, at which point the waitress behind the counter screamed and fainted.

We never saw Otis again. When we asked our parents what had happened to him, we were told simply, “He went away.” I later learned that Otis had been committed to the Florida State Hospital at Chattahoochee (the State’s mental care institution), where he remained for the rest of his life.