Ever the Unpopular One
“YOOT--STAY PUT,” the devil’s second-in-command bellowed my way, you know, just in case I was purposely trying to ignore him.
Red's voice rumbled deep in his chest like a jacked up, big block 'Cuda running open headers. That was his normal speaking voice, by the way, because Dodges do not do quiet, not unless we are about, hunting something. His words came straight from his roots...well, the hills actually; it's unique twang and creative use of the English language, reserved for this little round up of woods, gladly hidden from the rest of the world. Thank God for small favors.
Not missing a beat, I gave Red a stink eye I happened to find on reserve.
It fizzled, naturally.
Red turned back to the toady looking front desk officer Connelly, unimpressed.
Swell. Just swell.
Someone (and I am not naming any names, Gladys) must have put out an all-points bulletin about my probable arrest and unlikely incarceration. This means, the whole county now knows about my run in with the law. Therefore, I should not have been surprised to see Red here. However, I was surprised (and a teensy-bit embarrassed) so I covered my face with one hand and bowed my head. If I could figure out a way to reset this day, I would have done it by now.
I heard Red shuffle his size twenty boots in the opposite direction of the exit so I snuck a peek. I saw him march right on up to the front desk officer. Sweet, maybe he was here to chew out someone else other than me so I inched closer to the exit.
“Whelp, you all gonna git-em or do I need a round-em up meselp?”
Then again, maybe not, I thought feeling the need to demand a recount.
“Mister Dodge,” the voice I had found myself unable to flee, rang out. Detective Pine tugged at his right earlobe while he shot the front desk officer (someone who owes me a box of zingers) a supportive nod. He then turned to Red and asked, “What can I do ya for, Red?”
Just. Lock. Me. Up...please.
I glanced to the wall clock behind the front desk officer and all of me sagged. Swell. It was a little after one and I was never getting out of the pokey this side of Sunday. So, being the Dodge that I am I sucked it up, crossed my arms and slouched to a seat in the three-chair waiting area, furthest from Red, wishing I were instead, across state lines.
Detective Pine was unknowingly asking for an early funeral: death by boredom. Never should you ask a Booleeite "What can I do ya for" (Air-quotes--sweet!) because you will never get them to shut up. Instead, you will find yourself with, socket wrench in one hand, canned beer in the other, dully watching a bunch of other Booleeites drinking and jawing about who has the bigger four-barrel carburetor, while the actual work never gets accomplished and forgotten entirely. Well, that is just what the men that I grew up with do. The Boolee women however, have better things to discuss, like recipes for squirrel or butter spread, trading shotgun-shell-macramé patterns or swapping the latest gossip like clipped coupons during black Friday. Regardless, asking someone, "What can I do ya for?" is death itself. I would rather poke a sleeping bear.
Being a Detective, I guess he cannot let well enough alone, either.
Aaaand, Red was off faster (and louder) than a muzzleloader fired during Turkey season.
“Summin done thunk it reckless diggin' up me back-acre lot. Dips bigger than-them-thar gofers!” he said with a straight-laced face. No, really, he thought what he said made sense as if he were saying ‘mornin’ or ‘piss off’ with as much sincerity. "I ain't standin’ fer it needer!"
Unfortunately, I understood him and spoke up like the adult that I am, hoping to join in their conversation. I was after all, in search of some juicy gossip (thanks Gladys), or possibly, a way of diverting attention away from me (thanks again, Gladys). “Again,” I asked, nervously fiddling with my key/necklace.
Red ignored me. I should have expected that. Okay, maybe I was a tad presumptuous to think otherwise and felt as though transported back to the Principle’s’ office, my point of view unnecessary on the matter per usual. I slouched down further on my chair and puckered my lips downward while the grownups continued discussing Red's wackadoo dilemma.
“You all talkin' ‘bout the lot where the crick bed runs adjacent between yours and them-thar Smuckers?” asked Detective Pine, equally understanding. Sorry bastard.
“Hells-bells, that’d be the one, I know tizem Sucker Brudders doin' harm! They’d done-did crossed me line. I ain’t ‘bout standin’ fer it needer,” Red bellowed, unable to let this eighteen-some-year feud between them die out.
“Jeezus, Red, you all dint--”
“Now hold yer britchers son, I ain’t no jackel--kep’ Agnus on da stoop--but I done-did do me sump hollerin’!”
Oh brother, my I.Q. was dropping faster than a paint-filled balloon from the tops of Boolee’s water tower.
The Agnus in question is Red’s trusty shotgun, not the 93-year-old greeter over at the Piggly Wiggly. Never leaves home without it, except when visiting the pokey this side of locked bars. Everyone--and I do mean everyone--carries a gun around here. Hell, most Texans toted a peashooter but there is one teeny-tiny difference between Texans and Booleeites: size does matter. Although Texans pride themselves on all things ginormous, Boolee prides itself on "whatcha packin'?" No, I don’t mean meat. I mean the double barrel kind. Yeah, Boolee aims to please, pun intended.
The Brother’s in question--minus one whom at present, is still incarcerated--has to do with a previously mentioned little dead girl and one finger-pointing locket, Dodge.
“That’s good, to hear, Red,” said Detective Pine.
Wait--what? Did he just give Red a compliment? Better yet, why isn't Brent warning Red to keep his cool?
I sat up ramrod straight and glanced around flummoxed. No one startled; no one came running out to see what the stink was. I stared at the glass doors, took in the faded grey painted, cinder block walls, and noticed several black scuffmarks along the well-worn and yellowing linoleum floor beneath the call box to the left of Red's boots. Sure enough, I was still inside the pokey and not but ten minutes ago, was certain it bustled with several armed and confused looking Wannabes over my alleged carjacking and vandalism. So why are they not paying Red a second glance?
I noticed Detective Pine was nodding but his face was disagreeing; he looked unconvinced with brows and mustache furrowing in unison. Okay, maybe Brent just figured out his fallacy.
“Look, Red,” he began cautiously, carefully choosing his words to say, “I’ll send a load a boys ‘round later, that’d be okay with you all?”
Brent sounds like he is doing Red a favor. Sheesh, why couldn’t he have been that cordial with me?
Sucks to me, I guess.
“And make it snappy. Gotta ‘nuf stuff ta worrah ‘bout than them all scatterin’ der ding-dang vermits,” said Red shifting his weight to turn his Mack truck sized face my way. He jutted a callused thumb in my vicinity before saying to Brent, “That one all squared off?”
“All yours,” said Detective Pine a bit too spritely, spring to his wide-shoe step.
Swell. Just Swell.
“Yoot. Truck. Now,” Red ordered as if I were ten years old and not the plump old age of thirty-three.
“But-but-but...”
Red flashed me a double-barreled stink eye.
Double swell.
“Red... Harley...” said Detective Pine with a parting nod toward each of us. He saved a crinkly-eyed look of glee just for me, however. Bummer, I was hoping for rocky road ice cream, instead.
Bite me, I thought and reluctantly followed Red from the pokey with now dragging feet.
The air smacked me in the face at once, threatening to choke off my breathing, permanently and weigh down on me like a mountain troll. Man, it’s muggy outside. I should not be surprised though, having lived through the past fifteen years of Texas heat. Nevertheless, I had forgotten what summers were like here in the hills. Mostly I just blocked it from memory, purposely. The air so thick it felt like I had to swim past the throng of rubberneckers to get to Red’s infamous ’72, rust-flaked, holy and faded cherry-red Dodge truck that looked like an abandoned refrigerator on wheels. Drove like one too. What, you think he would honor his name caught dead driving anything less?
To make matters worse, my hair frizzed and swelled as if I had just stuck my finger in a light socket. I bet that bird poop has hardened to cement by now.
I wish the Wannabe’s had not impounded my only set of wheels. Not that I was planning to keep Beauty much longer, but having it now, to drive, would have saved me the awkward, unconditioned air of silence between, me and my biggest speed bump in the world. Besides, Aunt Bertie's Victorian was a good ten miles away. No way I was hoofing it that far in this unnatural, sweltering heat. My boots would melt before I reached the Dilly-Q (Boolee’s version of the Dairy Queen).
Red glanced my way once when we slipped to the interior chokehold of the rusted truck, forever referred to as Rusty. I kept my gaze trained on the view ahead, my lips pressed tight, not wanting for a death wish. It was only a matter of blood pressure points before he got around to asking what I had done this time, so why speed it along by talking. It was just my luck we caught all five red lights along Main Street on the way out of town. All it did was drag out my uncomfortable ride toward Dodge country.
After nine miles of gut-wrenching silence and the fact, the turn toward Aunt Bertie’s Victorian was in sight, I decided it was okay to move and I swiped at the moisture beading down the back of my neck. Huge sigh of relief here; I was almost back to Aunt Bertie’s and out of Red’s crosshairs. Then Red had to go and implode my thoughts and raise the hairs on my arms. I was unprepared as he jerked the fraying, leather worn steering wheel of his infamous, pick-em-up truck to his left. My head smacked and bounced off the passenger side doorframe. The truck rumbled and shook, the wheels bouncing for purchase of the uneven and unpaved road. My heart began to race. I sucked air and nearly choked on it. I couldn’t believe it--Red took the bend to the left!
After I had managed to right myself upon the grease-and-carryout-food-stained, cracked vinyl bench seat, I glanced wildly about, praying for an escape or possibly, a mudslide. I would never expect Red to go straight at the fork, but he should have turned right instead of left, headed along the dirt and graveled road that snaked upward toward Aunt Bertie’s, old Victorian by now. Beatrice is his older sister by five years. I did mention Laney and I were staying there, right?
Even if I had, Red was a one-man, hurricane of willpower; nothing I did or said mattered, especially if his mind got set like a steel trap. And by the looks of his locked jaw and his grizzly paws white-knuckling the steering wheel, I’d bet my last two dollars that he had other plans in store for my unannounced and unreceptive return, besides taking me back to Bertie’s protective custody. He was taking me to the second reason I could not leave Boolee fast enough: my childhood home and the nightmares it housed, or, as I prefer to think of it as: Hell Central.
I could almost smell the grease pit and depilated funk of the two-story, three-bedroom log cabin all the way back here from the point of no return. My mind spiraled backward in a moment of insanity when I was happy to be blissfully unaware of the outside world. No grand plans to ever leave and see it firsthand unless of course, I had found the brick road to Emerald City. Back then, mom was still alive. Back then, my quirk did not rear its ugly, ghostly hindrance. Back then, reality was somewhat, tolerable because back then, Red ignored me.
I shook that thought away as if I was trying to shake off a layer of road tar. Just like that sticky licorice is known to cling for dear life, so did those memories as they came flooding back the moment that I spotted the crooked mailbox, acutely referred to as the point of no return.
When mom got sick, it fell upon my sixteen-year-old shoulders to do the cooking, the shopping, the cleaning and whatever else those male bozos could think up to have me do. Just because, I was the only other female living there did not mean I automatically knew how to fill mom’s shoes. I blamed my brothers and twenty-some cousins for the junkyard state of destruction. Red blamed me (partly) for my lack of domesticated abilities but (mostly) for my inexplicable need to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, (namely, fingering a Smucker as a murderer). Besides, I had classmates to help with, cheating their way through High School (not really). I had no time to be angelic, let alone, learn how to heat a box of fish sticks without burning down hell.
I kept my neck craned back in the opposite direction with longing. “Uh, Red,” I said, fumbling around with something to say that would not endanger my life. “Aunt Bertie’s was back that way.”
“Humph,” he grunted.
I guess he knew. I guess he didn’t care.
Shadows loomed and the sky fell away as Red drove on. I got instant chills and not from the ten-degree downshift that this shady and wooded spot provides. The road narrowed and the curve brought the cabin of damnation to view. It peeked out from a veil of clumping, spindly pine probably older than my lineage. I’m not talking the Christmas kind of pine; I’m talking the kind where the trunks are thicker around then Red’s belly after Thanksgiving dinner, and soar hundreds of feet in the air like crowded skyscrapers, with pine cones as big as footballs, bark all cracked and flaking like Bertie’s much older companion, Mr. Willoughby.
My childhood nightmare came to view and I could not help but gawk about to see that Spanky and the Gang (my two, older brothers and twenty-some cousins) had finally removed that 1920 rust bucket of a refrigerator from the front porch, replaced with a small, circular table and two, crisp white wicker chairs. Besides, that stupid refrigerator only held two treasures: beer and fishing bait. Yeah, my thoughts overcome with joy to see that gone.
I pitched forward on the vinyl bench seat and gripped the cracked and faded dashboard, mouth, hanging open to catch flies. I couldn’t believe what my widened eyes were showing me, such as the sparkly, showroom-condition vehicles. Red pulled Rusty alongside a recently washed and waxed white, Dodge SUV, to park behind a bigger, polished and glittery newer version of his trusted rusted pal. Bet that truck had comfortable seats and working air conditioning. I hated to admit it, the SUV looked nice, but that big boy truck was gorgeous.
As I dazedly climbed from Rusty and lingered about the graveled, half-circled drive, I noticed even more changes; changes that had me feeling as if I had just swallowed a Popsicle in one gulp: the front yard was...cleaned?
I perched hands to hips, stunned, for a lack of a better expression. Rather than seeing a scattering of junk car parts drowning in a tangle of wild brush or overgrown weeds, scattered beer cans or truck tires peeking from beneath mounds of decaying pine needles and leaves, I saw carefully planted and well tendered plots of fern, bleeding hearts, ivy, bluebells, irises and azaleas, most past their blooming season but pretty, nonetheless. There were baskets overflowing with petunias hanging from the porch with several squirrel, deer and bird feeders scattered throughout. I shivered. I think Red drove us down the wrong road.
Hang on--there was something else different about what I once called home.
Glancing skyward, I saw the source of the smell. Smoke was curling up in ghostly trails from the chimney. This wasn’t unusual. That is what a chimney does. Nevertheless, it was unusual during July weather to be lighting up the fireplace unless you have a bone to pick with an ex Trollop. The more the smoke wafted above the cabin though, the more I realized it did not smell like plastic or leather or even hickory or cherry. It was the smell of something heavenly. My stomach let out a primal growl. I only knew two people in this grouping of woods who knew how to make fritters. I choked back a jungle cry.
Is, is mom still...alive?
I rounded my shock on Red. That is when I noticed something even more harrowing: his clothes. My hands fell to my sides as I realized that for the first time (and probably the only time) in his life, his clothes were neat. They were not their usual wrinkled, grease-beer-barbequed-stained state or torn at the armpits. A set of newly polished work boots peeked out from a pair of belted and neatly pressed denim blue jeans. When did Red learn how to use an iron? The bigger question is: why?
“Quit yer poutin' and git-on in here ta say yer all respects,” Red snapped.
Some things never change.
Ah...no thanks... “Red, I told you...oh, never mind,” I said, pulling myself together to yank my cell phone from my back pocket. “I’ll just give Aunt Bertie a call. She can give me a ride back.”
If I did not know any better, I would say I just saw hell freeze over. Red was laughing at me (sounding more like a grizzly getting ready to attack) as if I had said there was a panda bear standing right behind him.
“Put-er away, pun’kin,” he said.
Gawh! I wrinkled my nose. I hated that nickname, almost as much as called Harley or related to a Dodge.
“Those-thar gizmo’s done-don’t, work ‘round these here all parts,” he said with a grunt.
NO CELL SERVICE? BUT HOW CAN I CHECK MY...Ut-oh, I was in danger of emanating Laney’s earlier rant. Okay, Harley...deep breaths...
Begrudgingly--because my day wasn’t lousy enough and I’m glutton for punishment--I shivered in Red’s wake and followed him up the front porch and into the bowls of Hell itself. It felt like a death march. No lie.
What I would give to be back at the pokey right now...
The moment I entered that unforgettable hell, a wash of chilled air instantly bathed me. It felt heavenly, even though in about three minutes I would be begging for a pair of earmuffs and gloves. Hey, when did Red get central air? My eyes rounded as I took in the inexplicable view of a spit polished and recently renovated log cabin, all traces of my past scrubbed and stripped away. I swear, it was so clean, organized and newly decorated that it deserved a coveted photographed spot on the cover of Architectural Digest for hillbillies.
Sheesh, this was nothing like the home I once knew.
The smell of apple fritters continued to assault my nose, the only connection to my past. My stomach roared like a prisoner on death row. I looked around for the source and caught sight of something pink flash in my peripherals instead.
Unt-uh, no way, my eyes are playing a cruel joke on me due to a lack of chocolaty nourishment; my heart nearly flat-lined after catching sight of the pink blur taking on an undesirable form that I forgot to breathe. It couldn’t be...is that--?
“Welcome, welcome,” chirped a frilly-dressed woman named Barbie Bublouskie.
To the rest of the forewarned: Barbarilla. She is not to be confused with the character, Barbarella, played by the actor, Jane Fonda. No seriously, her name really is Barbie but to me, she’s the button eyed monster dressed head to toe in fancy labeled, department store end, cotton candy pink. She was teetering on three-inch heels, clacking her way across the heavily polished, hardwood, oak floor looking totally out of place, headed straight for me. Gulp.
My only instinct was to bolt for the door, keep running until I reached the county line. Foolishly, I kept very still, as if I was a deer caught in headlights while I endured a clammy and limp hug from the she-devil herself. Obviously, she did not know about Dodge etiquette during a meet and greet: we simply don't. Period. We don’t hug and we don’t show any kind of touchy-feely affection that might bring unto ourselves undo attention. Unless that attention has to do with anger, frustration or snark, that is.
“Harley,” Red grunted me out of my reason for meeting the Angels on potty break sooner than expected.
“You all recall Barb?” he asked after she-devil finished feeling me up with a perfumed stank that could wilt flowers. I gave an involuntary shudder and realized I was going to have to burn my clothes when I escaped to the Victorian.
I narrowed my peepers his way. How could I forget? Barbie was difficult to erase from one’s mind, what with her expression in a constant state of 'pissed-off', even when smiling. Not only that, but her signature people repellant of near-white bleached-blonde frou-frou fluff of what passed for hair these days, teased five inches above scalp level was frightening and never moved. She has been wearing it that way since the seventies. No doubt, that ghostly beehive held lacquered in place by a can of Aqua Net. Wait--do they still make that cancer-inducing carcinogen? Regardless, I had a bigger, much more humiliating reason never to forget the woman I would love to pull a wedgie on during Christmas morning. She was the third reason I high tailed it for the lone star state.
Barbarilla giggled--which sounded more like a throaty chuckle than what she was hoping for it to come off sounding like a teenager on a sugar high. She looked like she had tacked on an additional forty pounds--mostly around the middle--since I last remembered seeing her. Now, she looked like a recently stuffed casing of sausage, lacking of anything substantial or nutritional. I could not help it and started to snicker. Some women oozed charm, grace and style. She looked more like a barbarian’s sibling: all pooped out of charm or style, bloated on bragging rights.
I wondered what the blazes of Red’s hell that she found herself here of all places and polluting the log cabin when I instantly clamped my mouth shut. Barbarilla just tottered off next to Red. Rather than shove her beyond the oak door (as I longed to do) Red looped an arm about her rather plump waist, as naturally as if he were cradling his trusted shotgun, Agnus.
I nearly choked on an intake of breath while my thoughts spun out of control.
Bells clanged, the sky parted, and the seven angels of hell started Armageddon.
Mental cringe...
Dry heave...
Oh, the horror...Red and Barbie... (Together)?
Barbarilla was practically my age for criminy sake! Okay, she is about five or six years older but this just cements my theory that the older a man gets the younger their partners become.
My case in point...
She and Red were looking at me with stupid looks and goofy grins (Barbarilla was, Red’s face looked more like a bowl-blocking scowl). Something is up. I can smell the outhouse from here. I wish they would quit staring and just get on with it so I can flee the coop with what little sanity I have left.
Finally, Barbarilla took the lead and tottered off to one of the polished end tables, flanking the leather sectional and pulled out a small pink box, wrapped with one slender, tiny glittering pink bow. She tottered back up to me. I swear, if she hugs me a second time, I’ll refuse responsibility for involuntarily handing her a knuckle sandwich. Thankfully, she stopped short of my personal bubble, flashed me a mischievous grin that did nothing flattering for her well-worn, overly fake tanned features and then handed the box to me.
I stood there dumbfounded. I was so looking forward to backhanding her. Red and Barbarilla stared back eagerly.
Gawd I hate awkward situations. This is one of those times ten thousand. I was so certain I was going to hate her gift that it would spread across my face like the pox, unable to hide the disappointment, let alone, manage a convincingly enough reply of “Oh, thank you!”.
Barbarilla was nibbling her bottom lip, eyes wide, fingers clenched, dying with constipation--oh wait--I mean anticipation. Love it! The way Barbarilla’s eyes zeroed in on the unopened box made me suspicious. I just know this gift is going to make me choke...or run and hide...or slap the shit out of her. That's the only upside to this dandy, wish-I-was-anywhere-else-but-here-reunion that I never care to repeat.
Red came to my rescue...sort of. “Don’t be insultin' and open the damn thang!”
“Red,” cooed Barbie.
He nodded once and his face downgraded from junkyard dog to saber-tooth. It was his version of calm. I dubbed it his, the 'less he says, the better off he’ll be' look. What can I say? It is his look of happiness, second to rubbing down Agnus, his shotgun, not the 93-year-old greeter at the Piggly Wiggly.
I had no choice now but to open the box, really. Barbarilla had reached over and snatched the ribbon free.
I looked to Red, brows raised, heartbeat pounding at my eardrums, looking for an escape clause. He just hugs she-devil closer.
Ugh. Here goes nothing...
I took my time picking at the clear piece of tape. Who in their right mind tapes a small box shut? It took me five tries to pry up a corner then managed to pull it free. Barbarilla is practically vibrating, so I take a step back just in case her head exploded. I might be able to explain to Detective Pine what caused it, but I would never be able to talk my way out of how I got hair sprayed fuzz mingled in with bird doodoo plastered about my head and face.
Whoa, déjà vu....
No time to reminisce about high school, so I did a mental inventory and removed that thought while I lifted the lid and braced for a surprise attack. My heart did a thump in my chest. I had to do a double take. Nestled to the lining of pink satin, was a shiny, silver key; not just any key, a truck key; more precise, a Dodge key.
Barbarilla is grinning wildly now, stretching her pink lipstick covered lips horrifically thin. She is bouncing on her stilettos like a five-year-old in search of the potty. Oh joy, her heels are clicking like rattling teeth. Better put the fuse out before the blonde bomb goes off.
“You’re giving me a truck,” I asked, stupidly, wide-eyed, mouth yawning while I plucked the key from the box as if it was the Holy Grail itself then I tossed the box aside, forgotten.
“A loaner, but yes, I talked your father into it,” Barbie replied with a smile that looked more like a frown as she bent down and picked up the discarded box.
Okay, what’s the catch? “Okay, what’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch,” began Barbie, flashing Red a curious look. “It’s just that we overheard about your rather unfortunate meeting with the department and discovered you were without a means of transportation. I know--we know--you’re staying at Beatrice’s, but she needs her own truck just as much.” She flashed me one more smile that left me speechless. Okay, she had a rather nicer way of saying that I had recently found myself surrounded by Boolee’s flunkies, tasered and arrested with my car impounded. But hey, either way takes you to the finish line of my troubles. “You’re all welcome, Harley.”
I just stared back, blinking once. Naturally, I was hesitant to believe my good fortune. I was surprised word got out faster than I dreaded; surprised, because Red was being cordial towards me and Christmas was five months away; surprised because I hadn't woken up to find this all one big lousy prank of a dream and was still happily living in Texas with Dickie and my Bentley and still Laney's supermom.
I glanced at Red. Nope, this isn’t a dream. Why then am I not surprised?
Sensing my ever-popular brain drain, Red took the lead on this one and nodded toward the door. I sprang from my stupor, opened the front door and gaped across the graveled drive. Holey-freaking-jalapeños...Red is giving me the big boy truck?
Before they could stop me, I bolted for the big boy truck and slid behind the wheel of that, fifteen-minute-old, candy apple red, super beauty. After several moments of caressing the buttery-soft, leather wrapped steering wheel, finessing the NASA inspired cockpit panel of buttons and knobs, inhaling that new-car smell, enjoying the plushness of those leather, bucket seats that cradled my weariness like a guardian angel I heard a throat clear.
“Git yer all keister OUTTA thar!”
“Reynold!” cried Barbie, looking on apathetically from the front porch. “She’s your daughter.”
On better days...
Okay, so you heard right. Big Red’s real-real name is Reynold something-or-other-middle-name Dodge. Nevertheless, no one--and I mean if you value eating food off a folk and not sipping it through a straw--ever calls Red by any other name. I cannot believe Barbarilla just got away with that little doozy of a hiccup.
Red readjusted his grunt and said pointing behind me, “That one thar is yer all’s.”
I glanced at the rear-view mirror within the plush cocoon of the super beauty and stared at the desecrated image of the Dodge; the rusty bucket, not Red. My stomach clenched. I wonder if I could hoof it on back to Aunt Bertie’s' from here? Probably not, I reasoned because my boots do not intend for me to go walking great distances, let along, hitch a ride.
Red was turning red in the face now. No joke. Therefore, I reluctantly slid from the cab, pride tucked up under my bra strap and inched my way toward dusty Rusty. I patted her once with equal amounts of apprehension and reassurance before I slid behind the wheel. Somehow, I had managed to block the smell of road kill emanating from somewhere under the faded and cracked dash. Oh yeah, the Angels went on potty break and blessed me with the unlucky end of the shit stick.
I stuck the key into the starter of Rusty and fired that puppy right up. It coughed and sputtered but managed to find a reserve of gas and kicked into a stuttering gear. I sure hope it has enough courage to make the trip back to my Aunt Bertie's Victorian.
Hands clasped, Red and Barbarilla came to Rusty’s driver’s-side door. Ah, lovely, my nightmare just keeps getting better by the second. I cautiously rolled the window the rest of the way down. I wasn’t in the mood for any more parting gifts when I barely heard Red say something about a small ceremony...Barb pregnant...twin girls...twin dogs, yapping--oh, that part I distinctly heard because those two little balls of cotton swabs were nipping at Rusty’s dusty and balding tires; poodles as white as new-fallen snow. Hey, what happened to Barfus--cool name, right? I was five, Rodger-Dodger was eight and Rob-Bob, ten when we got the genius idea to name our dash hound, Barfus. Guess he got sick or old and died.
"...twins...the girls...at practice...meet them..."
Hold the phone, I have two half-sisters?
I was redlining and in danger of passing out when gravel crunched, tires skidded and came to a roaring stop, greeting my blurry and spotty vision with something much, much more destructive than the black plague that is my family. The sparkling midnight blue full-ton Chevy pickup came into view though a cloud of dust. A woman a couple of years younger than me with vibrant eyes greener than emeralds, bottled va-va-voom red hair, a teased whipping like the tornado she is, shot me a cocked grin. My heart leapt through the dented roof. The Angels have come to rescue me from the dangers of living like a Dodge, after all! It was one of my twenty-something cousins, Derby Dodge.
“Spamstastic siscer!” cried Derby from the plush cabin of her pristine looking Chevy full-ton truck, using that beautiful, larger-than-life, hillbilly accent of hers. That five-foot-nothing, firecracker of a woman could bring me to tears sometimes. “Heard you all was back,” she said.
I nodded over my shoulder to my left. She caught sight of Red and Barbarilla and stiffened. Red noticed. I think she-devil pretended otherwise. Yep, that’s Derby, not afraid to wear her emotional thinking on her bedazzled, jean-jacket sleeve.
I jerked my head in the opposite direction and without a parting gift of my own to leave, I spun Rusty’s tires and backed that two-ton brick monster out and away from the gates of Hell.No questions needed, Derby aptly followed in my billowing cloud of rust and dust.
Read more! https://books2read.com/u/4AKRqo