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One
"Forget her. Let's leave."
The heat of the day was getting to us now, wrapping us like a mohair sweater, leaving splinters in our senses. The old brown 76 Cutlass, so dependable usually, was starting to let us down too, emitting the sweet burn of radiator fluid and coughing out a chuggling sound at 65 mph like it was having heart arrhythmia.
And, the biggest indicator that the Southern heat was finally getting under our scalps was that Mike was beginning to talk crazy.
"You hear me?" Mike said, his eyes clamped shut, the sweat on his forehead glowing dully like bacon grease. "I don't even know why we brought her. Leave her here. We need to get going."
We were at a homegrown, falling-over gas station in Tennessee, somewhere outside of Jackson. The place looked like it hadn't had a makeover since the Truman administration.
The air wasn't moving, and neither were we. Pinky was in the bathroom, and had been there for ten minutes now. The gas station propietor, a skinny redneck with a bad rash on his arms, had twice peered out of the window of the station and eyed us. I swear that he was fingering a pistol just under the counter. He'd come out only once, and that was to grudgingly fill up our tank. He sneered at us the whole time. Mike's hair, I figured, was just too long for his comfort. The redneck's eyes said "faggot" and his wormy lips moved back and forth across his mouth as he chewed his tobacco. He spit a couple of times right on our tires. I didn't say anything. I didn't want to get shot.
"Come on, Mike," I said. "You know we can't leave Pinky here." I slid my palms over the steering wheel, spreading my sweat over the leather cover. I looked in the rear view mirror at the bathroom. I noticed a trash can with a Confederate flag bumper sticker slapped prominently on its hard plastic hide sitting next to the bathroom door.
"Well," Mike said, "just be damn glad I ain't driving. I'd have left already. And have been over the damn horizon." He settled further into his seat, his eyes staying closed. "That Deliverance reject is still looking at us isn't he? I can feel his dumb eyes."
"Yep," I said. "And, you want to leave Pinky with him."
Mike shrugged. "It'd be like a sacrifice, like the Aztecs" he said.
"I'm going to tell her you said that," I said.
Just then, she came out of the bathroom, her face glowing in the sun, her red hair ablaze on her head, her big, zebra-striped purse hanging off her arm. She'd put on makeup.
"There she is," I told Mike. "And, looking good."
Mike opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. "What? She powdered up? It's freaking 200 degrees out here and she puts on makeup? Is that what she was doing all this time?"
"Well," I said. "Part of the time, at least."
"Damn," said Mike.
Pinky was doll enough without makeup. Her pale skin looked nearly translucent in the sun and she already had the reddest lips, the color of red that Revlon still hasn't come up with. She was probably my best friend, so I couldn't think of her as a lover, though I wish she was. That would make both of our lives less complicated.
I started the car, anticipating her getting in. She had the whole back seat to herself for the next 100 miles, as we had bargained. It was my turn to drive, Mike's turn to navigate, and Pinky's turn to "tune out," as we called it. I thought she would spend her time sleeping, but, apparently, she was going to just look pretty instead. She was unpredictable that way.
I reached back to unlock the door. I looked in the side view and I saw her paused at the trash can, looking at it, touching it. Then, she grabbed her mouth, turned and ran toward the redneck.
"What the hell is she doing?" I said.
Mike looked at her again. He cursed and jerked toward the door handle. "Okay, I'm going to go drag her ass..."
"Wait," I said. "She's up to something."
"I hope she's up to getting her world rocked..." said Mike.
"Mike! Hold up, man. Check her out."
She looked over to us and nodded nearly inconspicuously. Then, she ran into the small service station cave and she stood in front of the redneck. She pointed to the bathroom and shook her hands. The redneck craned to hear her then he walked around the counter. She was stomping her legs, and putting her hand over her eyes. She pointed back to the bathroom. The redneck scratched his head and came outside. She pointed at the bathroom again and put her hand over her mouth. Tears rolled from her eyes.
"What the holy hell is she doing?" said Mike.
I grinned. "Acting," I said.
The redneck hiked his dirty jeans up and he walked determinately to the bathroom. She followed him.
The white sun made them look almost like mirages as they walked in it, drifting slowly across the lot. When they got to the bathroom, the redneck took a breath and then went in.
Pinky held the door open for a second, then she pushed it shut quickly, the redneck still inside. She then grabbed the trash can, threw off its flap top, and wedged the can between the doorknob and the concrete sidewalk. She gave it a good kick to solidify the wedging. The Confederate flag bumper sticker on the trash can still faced forward.
She sprinted back inside the service station, and came out about 20 seconds later with an armful of potato chip bags in one arm and a twelve pack of beer dangling from the other.
"Holy crap!" said Mike.
I leaned back and opened the door for her. She flung herself in the back seat and I screeched off, the door still flapping. We didn't go below 70 until we were fifteen minutes from the station.
When Pinky stopped laughing, Mike cursed her out and threatened to throw her out onto the freeway.
"Have a goddammned beer," she said. "And, shut up."
He snatched the beer from her hand.
"That was so freaking stupid! What if he calls the police when he gets out? He can ID us easy." Mike said.
"Well," she said, "there's no pay phone and I also got a present from behind the counter." She reached into her purse and pulled out a phone handset. She put it to her ear. "Hello, police?" she said, speaking into the detached reciever.
"We'll be so gone by the time he gets out, if he gets out," she said.
"Jesus," said Mike, almost smiling. "Jesus! Why didn't you just take the money out of the register while you were back there. Just do the Bonnie and Clyde thing all the way?"
She shrugged. "We would've just bought beer and chips anyway," she said. "I cut out a step."
"So, what'd you tell him to even get him in there?" I asked.
She giggled. "I told him there a was a snake in the toilet! Good, huh?"
Mike cursed as he opened his beer. "Stupid. And, I'm just fucking curious, but why the hell did you even do all that?" Mike said.
"He spit on my car," she said. "Didn't you see him? Twice! He had to pay for that shit."
I grinned. "See, that's why we brought her along," I said.
© 2006 by Elliot
2 Comments:
wonderful!!! looking forward to the next installment....
6:59 AM
Aw yeah! What a great way to start a novel! I love the heat!
9:35 AM
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About the Author
Name: Elliot
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Our Dream of Louie
Our Dream of Louie is a Blovel, or Blog Novel, that I'm going to update every now and then as I’m inspired. It's the story of three people who journey to visit an old college friend who they all considered an angel--a real angel. I'll try to make each entry read like a short story so you can at least get something out of it even if you haven't been following the big story. The entries will be prose, poetry, audio, video, or photo, whatever fancies me. Thanks for your time.
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
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