Corrigan L. McMaster

The shamble leg man met Porgies and Bess at the conch bazaar, the church had rented space to shell-collectors that day, beside the harridan’s table next to the fat woman’s table across from the men’s lavatory. Elba D. Morales, who the shamble leg man had never before met, had a table laid out with tridents and nautilus shells and beaded wax figurines of all sizes and shapes, some of which were formed in the shape of bee’s heads and yellowjackets. Corrigan L. McMaster, a coalmen by trade, recently retired and living off a meager coalmen’s pension, upended Elba D. Morales’ table, sending her wares caroming to the church-wood floor, a ball of bee’s wax attaching itself to the end of her nose. Mister L. McMaster, as he referred to himself, given-names being far too common and childish, broke out in a sweat, his feet shuffling like hen’s legs. ‘I implore your pardon, madam, I had no idea I was so close to your things. Please forgive my clumsiness and bad manners, please do.’ Elba D. Morales collected her things from the floor, figurines and yellowjackets, some missing beads and gobbets, others clumped together into misshapen heads and tiny grotesque torsos, and sighed, ‘you silly incorrigible man, you silly, silly man.’ The shamble leg man, having witnessed the hubbub, said under his breath, ‘silly idiots, not a brain between ‘em.’