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Another version of "A Dead Convict Don't Cost Nothing," entitled "Jim Lauderdale: River Wreck," can be found on pages 369-372.
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Jim Lauderdale, Talladega Springs. Ala.
Jack Kytle
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AL-47
Approx. 5,453 words
"A DEAD CONVICT DON'T COST NOTHIN' "
"All my life I slaved an' made a good livin' fer her. I giver 'er a place to live fer goin' on 45 year, an' she didn't never hurt for nothin' to eat. I slunk aroun' like a hound, takin' things off'n her, when I ought'er 've busted her with a hick'ry limb. Now look what it got me. I'm here by myself, dyin' by the graduals, an' she's gone."
Jim Lauderdale slouched there on the front porch of his pine-board shanty, in the straw-bottomed chair. His thick, knotty fingers trembled as he placed his hands on thin, denim-covered knees. His bald head glistened in the bright morning sunlight, but his skin was a puffy, pasty yellow, seared by deep furrows.
He said, "Th' Ol' Man'll be comin' fer me any day now, an' I couldn't tell you who'll bury me. Doc Grimes says my heart's cuttin' up sump'un terrible. I'm a ol' man--I'm 76--an' I ain't of no use to nobody. That woman took ever'- thing I had, an' now she's gone to Sylacaugy to live with our girl. They work in th' mill up thar. They make $22 a week between 'em, but they don't help me with none of it. They don't never come to see me."
He raised a shaking hand to his stubbled cheek, as if shielding a secret. "Ora turned my girl an' my boy ag'in me. She done it. She told 'em a pack
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Alabama
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of dirty lies 'bout what I done, an' I ain't done half the things she said. She has throwed up to 'em a million times 'bout me bein' sent to Kilby, an' she told 'em that I allus did run atter sorry women. How, I ain't got nothin' to say 'bout Kilby--ever'body knows I had to go down thar--but th' other is a passel of goddamn lies. She knows it is. She started p'isenin' their minds when they was little things.
"If it was a shame fer me to be in prison, she can thank herself fer it. I'd a never done it if it hadn't a been fer her. They's ways I coulda got by, but it's diff'runt whar thar's somebody else. I was pushed to it. When I quit work at th'mines, I had enough to come off down here an' live by careful savin'. My heart was bad, an' I knowed I couldn't do no heavy work ag'in.
"When I got here I had a little better'n $3,000 in cold cash, an' I wanted to find a place to put it. I allus did think that Ol' Man Mitchum was a good friend of mine; he had a head full of sense, so I knowed he was keepin' his money whar it was safe. I went an' asked him whar to put mine, an' he told me th' safest place he knowed of was th' bank at Sylacaugy. I trusted him, an' I done what he told me. He oughta knowed 'bout th' bank, fer he was mixed up with runnin' it in some sort of way.
"Well, it seemed I hadn't no mor'n got my money in thar than it went busted.
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Course, th' first thing I done was to go to Ol' Mitchum; I don't know why. I should've knowed he didn't give a damn 'bout what become of me, but when I seen him, he looked all down in th' dumps. He said he'd lost most of his money, too, an' that he was worse s'prised than anybody in th' world could be. He said he wasn't up on what was goin' on at th' bank, an' that he didn't know they was a thing wrong.
"He was a goddamn liar. He knowed that bank was goin' under, an' I bet he didn't lose one red penny in it. I thought he was my friend, but I tell you, they ain't nobody yo'r friend when it comes to money. Anybody'll beat you. What happened was that Ol' Mitchum an' th' other big wigs in that bank took th' folks money an' then lived high an' wide on it. They ain't a way to prove it, but that's what they done. Atter I was busted flat, I'd see that ol' man sittin' on th' porch up thar at th' Springs in his big brick house, livin' on some of my $3,000; an' it was all I could do to keep from goin' up thar an' stompin' him. I never did speak to him ag'in, an' I wasn't sorry when he died. It was good riddance.
"If you ain't lost no money in a bank, you don't know what it does to you. They wasn't nothin' I could do 'bout it but r'ar an' cuss, but I knowed I had to make some more to live on, an' I couldn't do no hard work. It all ended up
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with me goin' to Jess Stone an' j'inin' up sorter as partners with him. He was makin' popskull down on Peckerwood Creek, an' we fixed it so I'd sell it at th' Springs. I gived him what little money I had left to buy sugar an' shorts, an' th' way we had things worked out, I stood to make a little profit.
"I oughter've knowed they was trouble comin'. Ora is one of these damn holy roller kind--crazy religion, an' 'fore th' third customer had come by th' house she was raisin' hell. She said so help her God that she was go'nter report me. I knowed she was th' meanest woman that ever lived, but I didn't think she'd take bread out'n her own mouth. Well, I's wrong.
"I was sittin' on my front porch one Sunday evenin' when a automobile driv up, an' out hopped a bunch of depitys from Talladega. They come runnin' in th' yard like they was somebody bein' killed, an' some of 'em started pokin' aroun' in th' weeds out at th' side of th' house. Bob Burke, th' chief depity, was with 'em, an' he come up to whar I was sittin' on th' porch. He says, 'We're sorry 'bout this, Jim, but we got a report you're sellin' likker.'
"It was all as clear as water to me. I didn't move one inch, but I looked out t'ward th' weeds whar th' others was searchin', an' they was makin' out like they was havin' trouble findin' th' stuff. I told Bob, 'Go on an' git it; you know whar it is. They ain't no use makin' out you don't know 'bout it when you done
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