"YOU DON'T GOTTA BE SMART"
by Allen McGill

Maynard ain't too bright, but he has a big heart of gold and a smile so broad that he's one of the most popular good ol' boys in town.

The ladies never seem to think of him in serious romantic terms, but they do enjoy being in his company and practically line up to dance with him at our regular Saturday night hoe-downs.

He's long and lean and mean in the hay, according to some of our looser, more modern, single ladies who make up most of his following. (They practically line up for that, too.)

All this is in the way of saying that Maynard is not a lonely person. Especially when he's playing his guitar, drawing a crowd around him. Seems to me as if he could forego people without much noticing, as long as he had his instrument in hand.

But, one day it went missing.

You never seen a more changed person. Maynard grumped and growled and near-on spit through his teeth whenever anybody dared come near him. Some say he practiced giving the evil eye.

"Sheriff, you've got to do something," I said, a few days after the robbery. I'm one of his deputies. "This town can't go on like this."You gotta find that durned guitar. We miss the old Maynard."

The sheriff nodded, the six-star badge pinned to his suspenders nodding along with him. "I been tryin', but nobody's ownin' up to the criminal act. Cain't believe that local folk would do such a thing." He continued rocking in his favorite chair, puffing on his corn cob.

Did I mention that the sheriff ain't too bright either? Nor is he a bundle of energy.

Local folk? Ain't nobody else here. We ain't exactly a tourist magnet. Haven't seen an outsider for nigh on to--a long time.

I figured that somebody with a grudge against Maynard must of up and swiped his instrument. Or, much more likely, some damned jackasses playin' a foolin' on him. Maybe so he wouldn't be so popular with the ladies.

If that were the case, maybe I could get the thief to return the guitar willingly. All I needed was the right bait.

"Why, I'd do just about anything for Maynard," Lavinia told me. She was and is the most gorgeous, honey-blond jumper-stuffer this side of Memphis, and then some. "You go ahead and make up those notice papers and I'll spread the word for the other girls to spread the word too."

Did I mention--oh, never mind.

The flyers went out with the word of mouth that Lavinia would date anyone who showed up at her door with Maynard's 'instrument.' No questions asked.

No time a'tall it was before Lavinia telephone calls me. "It's here," she says. "Filbert Cane just come by with the guitar and wants to date me right here and now on my couch. Can you believe it? Won't even wait until I offer him a cold refreshment, or anything. You better get on over here right quick."

"I'll get Maynard lickety-split."

It took a bit longer than expected, cause I had to look for Maynard. I finally found him in the main park, hiding a ball from a bunch of little kids. As I approached, he barked at me.

"I think we got your guitar back, Maynard," I called from a safe distance. "But you have to identify it to make sure."

He glared uncertainly at me from under lowered brows.

"I'm going to Lavinia's house," I called again, turning away. "Come if you want to."

I didn't look back, but I knew he wouldn't be too far behind me.

Lavinia answered my ringing of the cowbell at her front door, looking decidedly disheveled. Filbert was close behind her, his clothes not near properly closed. The look on his face when he saw me and Maynard was nigh onto the high comedy level of the Ritz Brothers. His eyes rolled back under his red eyebrows the likes of which--well, you know.

Lavinia smiled her brightest, then held Maynard's guitar out toward him. He sauntered and swayed, shunted his shoulders forward and back and scuffled his feet as if he were going to church for the very first time.

At that moment, Filbert shot through the door with such speed you'd think some pappy was after him with a shotgun. And he never did get the reward he'd come for, come to think on it. Did I mention--oh, well. Ain't a lot of bright ones in this neck of the woods.

The door closed, leaving me alone outside. Never a word was ever spoken about the incident after that. No thanks, no nothin'. But whatever Maynard and Lavinia did speak about, it must of been something real good. They and their instrument have been inseparable from that day to this. Which I think is real nice.

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Originally from NYC, Allen lives, writes, acts and directs theatre in Mexico. His published fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays, photos, etc., have appeared in print as well as on line: NY Times, The Writer, Newsday, Literary Potpourri, Flashquake, Poetry Midwest, Yellow Moon, Herons Nest, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, many others. He is haibun editor for Simply Haiku.

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