The Amazing Jumping Frog of Inyo County

(This short story is an adapation of “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” by Mark Twain)

A buddy of mine who lives in New York called me at my place in Lone Pine, California. He requested that I get in touch with his friend Matthew Weber to see if he had any updates on Algernon W. Hayward. This is the outcome.

I have a sneaking feeling that this Algernon character was made up. He may have reasoned that if I questioned Weber about him, it would trigger memories of old Jim Hayward, a different Hayward, and he may then begin telling one of his tedious tales that simultaneously give me headache and foot pain. If this was his complex strategy, it was successful.

In a dusty set of trailers outside of Lone Pine I found Matthew Weber in the back room of an old, dilapidated, make-shift saloon. He had a nice grin and an aura of simplicity about him despite being big and bald. He greeted me while standing up.

I was forced into a corner by Matthew Weber, who then blocked me in with his chair, sat me down, and started the horrific story that follows. In addition to never smiling or frowning, he also never altered the easy flow of his voice that he used to start each phrase. He never even offered the least hint of enthusiasm, but he narrated this narrative with an unbelievable sincerity and seriousness, which informed me that regardless of whether he thought the story was humorous or absurd, he took it very seriously and revered the two protagonists as men of brilliance.

To me, it seemed impossible and downright ludicrous that a man could be floating serenely along this extraordinarily lengthy narrative without once cracking a smile. As I’ve already stated, when I asked him what he knew about Reverend Algernon W. Hayward, he responded as follows. He didn’t stop talking until he finished, so I let him go like you would a top you were started to spin on the floor:

Jim Hayward, a man, lived here for a while in the winter of 1989 or, if I’m being completely honest, the spring of 1990. The big construction area wasn’t finished when he first arrived at the trailers, which leads me to believe it was one of the two, but regardless, he was the most curious person because he was constantly placing bets on whatever surfaced. He would try to convince you to go to bet on the other side of just about anything, and if he failed, he would switch sides and request that you accept the wager on the initial side.

If he noticed a bug moving, he would wager with you on how long it would take the insect to get where he was headed. If you accepted the wager, he would follow the bug to Mexico in order to determine his destination and length of travel. Many of the people in this area have seen that Hayward—we dubbed him “Big Betting Hayward”—and they can tell you about him and validate what I’m saying right now.

The opinions of others meant absolutely nothing to him. He was a total risk-taker. He was the most incredible person. When Minister Holden’s wife was ill once, it appeared for a time that there was nothing they could do to save her and that she wouldn’t survive, but when he arrived one morning, Hayward asked around about her condition.

The minister said that she was significantly better, and with the help of the man upstairs, she would recover. Hayward interrupted before he could continue, “Well, I’ll wager $50 that she doesn’t get better.”

Hayward used to win money with his old horse, which the boys affectionately referred to as “The 20-minute sad nag” because of how long it took her to cross the finish line, or any line for that matter. However, she was actually faster than she looked, so it didn’t matter that she was so slow or that she frequently suffered from asthma, distemper, and other challenges.

They would send her out a long way and gradually overtake her as she ran, but at the finish line of every race, she would become enthusiastic and channel her desperation. She always arrived at the finish line a little bit ahead — by a nose, as they say, and you could bet on that happening every time. She would come up shaking her head all around, and her legs would be sort of spinning in a cycle motion, sometimes airborne, sometimes kicking out like she was trying to trip someone, kicking up dirt and noisier than a second grade class on the last day of school.

You couldn’t get any rest from Hayward until you made a wager. On every wager you put out, he would join you in betting. Every wager. Anything. He would take the action.

He once captured a frog, brought him home, and declared that he would teach him. He trained the frog to hop while sitting in the backyard for three months. When he prodded his friend’s rear, the toad would catapult in the air, maybe perform one or two somersaults, and then land on his feet purring. He honed his fly-catching skills to the point that the frog could consistently snare his meal out of the air without moving his body or cocking his head.

With the right instruction, a frog, according to Hayward, can achieve anything. And I trust him. He used to sit Freddie Fennimore, which was his name, on this little kid’s chair. Then he yelled, “Git ’em now, Freddie!”

Freddie leapt up and grabbed an unaware fly off the counter. Then, as if it were a stroll in the park, he hopped back down and land like a bag of marbles and scratched his head with his rear foot. He was the Michael Jordan of flies in terms of talent, but like Radar O’Reilly on the M*A*S*H sitcom, he remained modest and unpretentious. He had a superpower that allowed him to leap higher in a single bound than any frog that had ever existed, and Hayward was aware of it.

Hayward would place the largest wager conceivable if the race was held on perfectly level terrain. In those circumstances, Mr. Fennimore was invincible, in his opinion. He was pleased with their efforts and the amazing outcomes. People who had seen this athlete in action had circulated the rumor that he could defeat any frog at any moment, so he had good reason to be chuffed about it. Freddie Fennimore’s mythology quickly gained traction.

There were times when Hayward would put Mr. Fennimore in a wooden box with holes bored into the side and go down the trail to where most of the townies lived to stir up some activity. He would wait for a passerby to inquire, “Hey, brother, if you don’t mind me asking, what do have there in the box?”

Hayward would add, “It may be a parakeet,” while seeming bored as he lowered the hook into the fish. “Maybe a robin with a blue breast plate. Yet it isn’t. It’s this good ‘ol frog.” Mr. Fennimore was removed, and handed to the outsider. “Well, you got that right,” the guy replied as he rotated Mr. Fennimore in various directions. “There is a frog there. What about this frog is so unique that it warrants its own carrying case?”

“Well, he’s unique. That’s accurate. Really great. He is number one in the world at just one thing, one talent — similar to Jim Brown being the king at running the football in his heyday — simply the best. He is able to outjump any frog in Inyo County at any given time.”

Mr. Fennimore was once more taken up by the guy, who gave him a serious look. They exchanged intense stares. “Well, sir, I don’t rightly understand. I think he’s very uninteresting. He resembles all the other frogs I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, maybe you’re an expert on frogs, maybe you’re not, maybe you’ve dealt with them before, maybe you haven’t. Maybe you have a frog hobby at home. I don’t know, but I’ll wager $100 that he can jump higher, further, and longer than any other frog in Inyo County—and by ANY, I mean ANY!”

The fellow stared again at the frog for a crazy long time and finally said slowly, “Well, I’m not from around here, and I don’t have a frog right at hand near me, but if I did, I’d take that bet all dang day!”

Hayward tried not to seem very excited when he answered, “Don’t you worry about that, my buddy,” since he was aware that he had a sucker on the line. Hold onto this box while I grab a frog from that creek over yonder right now. Hayward removed five $20 dollars from the man and added them to the pot as the man held onto the box.

While Hayward went to the marsh to catch a rival, the man sat down. It took some time for Hayward to find a candidate since frogs don’t just appear when you call them. The man sat there contemplating what was happening throughout this time. He removed Freddie Fennimore from the box, propped open his lips with a tiny stick, and then took a small bag of buckshot out of his pocket and emptied its contents down Mr. Fennimore’s gullet. He filled him to the point where the shot was spilling out of his mouth. As Hayward arrived back with a deserving adversary, he set him back down and heeled the spilled shot into the dirt path.

“Alright, I captured your teammate. Let’s get them all squared up on this line so everything’s fair,” Hayward instructed. “One-two-three-GO!”

To prod their player off the line, both frog coaches lightly nudged their toads on the rump. The challenger leapt up as though he had just received a cattle prod to the behind. Meanwhile, Freddie Fennimore was slumped down like a bump on a log. He hunched his shoulders as if he were going to descend and take a huge leap like a basketball player setting a jumpshot, but nothing happened. The same as Hayward, Mr. Fennimore was baffled. What happened to his enchanted leaping abilities? They were both puzzled as to why Fennimore was sitting still like a plastic garden statue.

The stranger took the pot and left after picking it up. He pointed towards Freddie Fennimore as he began down the path while turning around. “I simply had to find out if what you said about him was true because you were so cocky about him here. He’s a fugazi, is he not?”

Hayward was baffled. It probably only took him a minute or two, but he rubbed the top of his head while gazing down at the powerful Freddie Fennimore. “I don’t understand, Freddie, what’s going on with you?” he finally said, breaking out of his trance. You were hopping around all morning, and now you sit there looking like you’re trying to figure out what the meaning of life is or something.”

He lifted Freddie by the back of the neck like a mama cat does to a kitten and said, “Holy heavy heart, Freddie, you are heavier than a gun safe. I can barely hold you up.” He turned him on his side like he was pouring out some whiskey. Buckshot came spilling out in a continuous cascade.

“What the hell?”

Hayward jumped to his feet, mad as a cat, and ran after the scoundrel but it was no use. He had absconded with the pot in his pocket and was quite far up the shady trail.

(At this point someone called for Matthew Weber from the outside the drafty bar and he pushed the screen door open to see what was up.) As he exited the premises, he said, “Don’t go anywhere, friend, sit back and relax, I’ll be right back.”

Even though the story of Freddie Fennimore was interesting, I didn’t believe he could help me discover the correct Reverend Algernon W. Hayward, which was my initial reason for coming here, so I got up to go.

I opened the door, which made a loud squealing noise like it needed some grease, and Weber returned through the gap. With a hard touch on my elbow, he steered me back into the room and then quickly began another yarn.

“Now, Hayward had this blind donkey with a limp that didn’t even have correct ears, just a little stump on one side and the other side that looked like one of those little corn-on-the-cobs you see at the fancy restaurants at a Sunday morning brunch, and…”

I used the momentum of him turning me around to make a complete circle and fling myself out the door.

“I can’t take any more of Freddie Fennimore, sir, or a blind donkey, so this old bull is going to exit the chute!” I said with a big smile and a wave as walked out into the California sunshine.