If Dobe hadn't walked down to the post office that morning - if he hadn't heard his uncle Ben shouting to him from his outdoor auto shop - if he hadn't gone over to help pull a transmission - if he hadn't accepted the offer of a drink -
But Dobe had walked to the post office, he did hear his uncle call, did help pull the transmission, did accept the offer of a drink -
It was a bottle of Jake and it tasted rough even for that beverage. Dobe only took a couple of swallows. His uncle drank the rest and he was dead in a couple of days.
Dobe got sick but he recovered slowly and found himself partly paralyzed.
He wasn't alone. In Missouri and Kansas, Oklahoma and Arkansas the reports came in. Jamaica Ginger was killing people. The people it was killing were of no account, so the papers didn't make too much of it. The victims were mostly poor and unskilled working men, both black and white. They got what they had coming, people said.
Dobe could never hold down a real job again, never help pull a tranny. He dragged his right leg behind him. His head lolled to one side and his arms had little strength. If that was all it wouldn't have been so bad, but the Jake Leg Blues did not refer to either of the bilaterally symmetrical lower limbs. It was the third lower limb that the blues singers mourned.
Dobe had never had a problem in that line before. Far from it. But now not only did his wife Annamae have to tolerate a husband incapable of holding down a decent job, she also had to share a bed with a man who couldn't get an erection no matter how hard he tried. They had their alternatives, but there was nothing like the real thing. She stayed loyal for a couple of years, but after that the rumors started to fly. In the end she left town with a sewing machine salesman. She kissed him tenderly before she left. He'd always remember that.
Mostly he sat around outside the hardware store. There was stuff he could still do and get paid. People knew where he was. When the war started the town began to shrink. There was good work in the munition plants and ship yards.
By the time he was old the town had changed. Rich commuters were buying the old wooden houses and renovating them. Dobe sat outside the hardware store and puzzled over it all. Then he had an idea. When the store owner came out on the porch for a cigarette Dobe greeted him.
``So there's a WalMart coming?''
``Yep.''
``You ever think of a coffee stand here on the porch? I could run it for you.''
The owner didn't think much of the idea but his wife did.
Dobe's coffee stand didn't look much like Starbucks. There were old wooden chairs all along the porch. He sold home made bread and honey and corn bread instead of scones and muffins. He sold more brewed coffee than espresso and more Dr Pepper than either. Some days he made a few bucks.
Each time he walked to the post office he re-lived that day when he drank the poisoned Jake. He'd mouth the remembered words.
``Dobe - can you all help me here?''
Then the old hardware store collapsed without warning in the night.
Dobe moved to an assisted living center after that, which had a television, but he didn't last long there.