Free Coconut Cowboy by Tim Dorsey Page A

sign-­up sheets: work the ticket booths, run the concession stands, judge prize pumpkins, and prevent mishaps at the pig races like last year. One table held rows of identical tote bags.
    Someone ripped a check from a checkbook, and Jabow stuck it in his pocket. “Hundred dollars makes you a platinum circle patron. Here’s your tote bag.”
    Vernon patted the man on the back. “Really appreciate it, Steve. Always nice when newcomers take an active interest in our community.”
    â€œJust want to do what I can.”
    â€œThen stop eating ribs with a knife and fork.”
    They both chuckled at the semi-­joke. Steve left, and the mayor stopped to sign for delivery of the rental dunk tank.
    The Puglieses stood respectfully.
    Vernon handed a pen back to a delivery guy in brown shorts and turned to the ­couple. “So can I talk you into becoming patrons?”
    â€œUh, honey,” said Peter.
    â€œSure.” Mary dug in her purse for the checkbook. “What’s the usual?”
    â€œWell, twenty-­five is silver level, fifty for gold, but I saw you had your eye on a tote bag.”
    â€œI think that’s a hundred,” said Peter.
    Mary handed Vernon the check and stared at the Founders’ Day button pinned to his shirt pocket: S LOW D OWN IN W OBBLY .
    â€œHere’s your bag,” said Vernon. “Two buttons are in there. Why don’t you have a seat? Iced tea?”
    â€œSure.”
    Mary pulled a string of ten complimentary coupons from the bag.
    â€œThose are good for everything,” said Vern. “Kissing booth, fried elephant ears. I’ll get that tea.”
    Peter opened the official program with an event schedule that was subject to change. Ten a.m., pie-­eating contest; eleven, turkey calling; noon, line dancing; one o’clock, pig races, with an asterisk about stronger fences this year.
    â€œHere’s your tea.” Vernon set two dripping mason jars on the table.
    Peter looked up puzzled from a certain item in the program. “Two o’clock, cornholing?”
    â€œKids throw bean bags through a hole in plywood, not the other.” He leaned to read Peter’s program upside down. “But it should just say corn hole . Shit, there’s an i-­n-­g at the end.” Vernon shouted over his shoulder. “Louise, get a Magic Marker. I need you to go through the rest of the tote bags . . .”
    Peter flipped to a page with the pictorial history of Wobbly, Florida, founded 1854 by Thaddeus “Wobbly” Horsepence (1802–1856), who became destitute trying to market unpopular uses for the area’s abundant persimmon trees. Black-­and-­white drawings illustrated a colorful town history. The great fire, the crop failure, cattle rustlers, Indian massacres, mining collapse, the night the levee broke.
    Peter looked up. “Did all this really happen?”
    â€œNot exactly,” said Vernon. “But we did have a crop failure, except it didn’t totally fail. Actually it was pretty good. But nobody checks. All the other towns are doing it.”
    Peter glanced at his program again. “Doesn’t say how the founder got his nickname.”
    Vernon touched the side of his head. “Some kind of bad-­balance sickness.”
    â€œHe got his nickname for falling down a lot?”
    â€œJust once, broke his neck. Died. They found his barn full of persimmon molasses.”
    â€œThey nicknamed him posthumously?”
    â€œLooking back, probably not the most sensitive thing for his kin.”
    Peter reached the last page of the program. “This says Wobbly was founded in 1854, but you didn’t incorporate until 2012?”
    â€œFolks around here don’t like to be rushed,” said Vernon. “But Senator Pratchett told us it was required if we wanted to annex the highway.”
    â€œThat reminds me,” said Peter. “There’s something I wanted to ask