"Girl with the hot rod heart tonight
(Keep runnin')
With the hot rod hearts
Out on the boulevard tonight"
Robbie Dupree - "Hot Rod Hearts"
Joy
Friday, July 15, 1988
Richburg Road
9:38 PM
Flynn and I were in my black ’79 Pontiac
Trans Am, heading home from a back woods two lane meet and run down in Purvis,
and we were hauling ass along Highway 11 north which was itself a rough, old
county two lane full of bad pavement and lots of twisties. The T-tops were off, stored in their
protective covers in the trunk, the windows were rolled down, the stars were
out, it was humid, the Kenwood was pouring out Heretic’s “Impulse” from the Metal Massacre VI cassette and I was sipping warm
Pepsi from a glass bottle. Flynn was
smoking a Winston from a pack with only a couple of cigarettes left and
sipping whiskey from his almost empty flask meaning that we would be making a
smoke and whiskey run sooner than later.
Other than that, life was good and the night was still young, two things
that were decidedly in the favor of a pair of high speed hooligans like we were.
“I’m hungrier than an Ethiopian.” Flynn growled, blowing smoke
out his nostrils like a dragon with a third lung.
“Yeah, I could go for something myself.”
“IHOP.” Flynn said.
“Yeah?
Hell. Why not?” I answered, even
though Flynn hadn’t really asked.
It was no secret between us that Flynn had
taken a soft spot to Margaret, one of the older waitresses that worked at IHOP
and one that seemed to serve us more often than not whenever we ate there. Flynn had met Margaret while I was away at Hinds and something between them had just hit off. Lately I’d seen Flynn’s ’69 GTO parked at
IHOP on more than a few occasions when I cruised by that way and I know it
wasn’t the food that was bringing him back night after night, especially around
closing time. Hell, if Flynn was jackhammering an IHOP waitress on a regular basis then I had no problem with that …
in fact, I was happy for him to have someone, especially after all that he’d
been through in his life. Margaret wasn’t
hard on the eyes for a chain smoking, career waitress who was in her late
forties and hadn’t done anything but wait tables all of her life. That’s a hard life in and of itself and it
usually takes its toll sooner or later; in this case it looked to be later for
Margaret as she still had most of her youthful appearance and a figure of a woman half her age. At least she was in better looking shape than
Flynn was most days so while I was happy that Flynn was getting some I kind of
felt sorry for Margaret that it was Flynn she was getting it from … and it was
comments like that which usually got me punched in the arm by Flynn.
Hard.
Bruise hard.
When he could catch me.
Which wasn't often because I was pretty quick on my feet.
I steered the Pontiac off of Highway 11 onto
Sullivan Kilrain road, sending the Trans Am roaring down the two lane road at a
way better than legal clip. Sullivan Kilrain
road was an long winding two lane, a country road overgrown on each side by
pine trees and wild vegetation, a real serpentine stretch of old, tired,
cracked asphalt that you could have a lot of fun on putting the TA through all
the twisties and tighties at speed.
“Scenic route?” Flynn asked.
I
shrugged ... not really sure why I had turned off like I had other than
I hadn't been down this road in a while and I was just kind of wanting
to take this road again. Sullivan Kilrain road eventually turned into
Richburg Hill road which dumped off onto 40th extension which dumped
into Lincoln Road which dumped into South 28th which took us almost all the way to IHOP on Hardy Street so …
Yeah, it was the scenic route but it was also the most direct route to
IHOP, at least in my book and I was the one who was belted in the driver’s seat
tonight spinning the steering wheel.
And
Sullivan Kilrain road was a lot of fun to
drive on, especially at night, unless a deer jumped out in front of you
and tore the front of your car off then it wasn't a lot of fun.
I was enjoying the dull roar of the 403cid V8
pulling duty under the hood, the hiss of the Rochester Quadrajet four barrel
carburetor through the open shaker hood scoop and the loud caress of the warm night
wind whipping at me through the open topped Pontiac. As the quad high beam Halogen headlights cut
through the late night darkness, the road under me became a long winding, gray
mottled, black scar patched snake tattooed in alternating yellow lines down the
middle and occasional white lines on the side.
The road was apparently maintained in an ad hoc fashion with no rhyme or
reason to one section or the other.
Some
sections were good, other sections
weren’t, and some were just bone jarring, kidney bruising, suspension
wrecking
bad. Patches of fresh asphalt were applied like a doctor using
Band-Aids to stop the bleeding of a victim who had been hit by buckshot
at long range. The road was old, mottled and rocky ... the WS6
suspension of the TA didn't like it very much and the TA showed its
displeasure in the quality of the road surface by constantly reminding
me of how bad the road was through the vibration carried through the
driver's seat and floor boards. I just gritted my teeth and
accepted it ... the TA was hell on curves but on rough roads it drove
and rode like a Sherman tank and that was the price you paid for having
the underpinnings that I had on a car that could take any curve around
at twice the listed speed limit posted.
It was 8:38pm by the green display on the Kenwood stereo in the dash and Fate, fickle as always, had already made our evening plans up well in advance for Flynn and me whether we liked it or not. My only gripe in this arrangement is that I really would have liked to have known what Fate had planned for us before she sprang it on us but then that would have taken the fun out of most of the good times that Flynn and I seemed to share when we were out raising hell together.
We had just passed the trailer park on the
right on Richburg Hill Road and I could see the big curve up ahead arcing off
to the right. The speedometer needle was
held steady at 80 miles an hour and, according to Fate's fickle will, this is how the next three minutes of our
lives played out …
The ’79 black and gold Trans Am swept around
the sharp curve and my foot never let off the gas … didn’t have to with the WS6
underpinnings of the TA and the big, fat and sticky Firestone rubber that she
wore on all four corners on 15x8 "snowflake" aluminum wheels. The Pontiac
was so sure footed that I could easily take curves at twice their rated limit
and I could do it one handed which is exactly what I was doing right then. My half-finger gloved left hand was on the thick padded
Formula steering wheel and my half-finger gloved right hand was resting on the console
mounted gear shift, the top mounted shifter button slightly depressed, unlocked,
and ready to downshift the three speed THM350 automatic from Drive to Super to move
the engine speed higher for extra power or extra braking if need be.
And there she
was just walking down the middle of the dark two lane ...
Flynn had been looking out the passenger side so he was completely oblivious to what I had seen suddenly appear in the high beam headlights.
She wore a tan cowboy hat, black t-shirt and blue jeans shoved down into dark boots. She had what looked like a guitar and a large dark tan purse cross slung over her left shoulder. She had her thumb in her pocket, her head down, and she had a denim jacket draped in the crook of her left arm as she walked. She must have heard the ’79 TA bearing down on her because she stopped in the middle of the road, raised her head, lifted the rim of her hat to get a better look and stared at the rapidly approaching Pontiac. The high beams and quad headlights of the Pontiac illuminated her fully as my heart jumped to fast idle.
I gripped the steering wheel and the
shifter tighter.
“Fuck!” I said out loud and that was all the
time I had to say for anything because the world just went and got a whole lot
busy right then.
I grabbed the center console mounted gear
shifter and dropped the THM350 three speed automatic transmission from Drive
down into Super. The 403 cubic inch V8
under the hood bucked on its mounts and growled loudly as the tach needle
jumped a thousand RPM higher on the face of the gage. My left foot went to the brake pedal and
started to press down steadily, trying to bleed off 80 miles an hour worth of speed
as fast as I could without losing control and sliding us sideways off the curve
or worse … flipping us around and going off the road backwards, uncontrolled, at speed, into a
bunch of pine trees which I can promise you were not going to move out of our
way.
I felt the ’79 Pontiac Trans Am start to slow hard, the nose dipping and the tail lifting, as we entered the curve. If I didn’t manage to pull this off then the Pontiac would have a new hood ornament … the long legged brunette kind. We powered through the sharp curve with the engine growling loudly as we continued to decelerate. I blasphemed again as the woman turned sideways in the middle of the road and took two quick steps backwards into the oncoming lane of traffic, watching us fly past her with less than three feet separating her from getting clipped by my driver’s side mirror. Her cowboy hat blew off of her head in our wake letting her long brunette hair blow softly in our passage.
She had stood there close enough that I could have reached out and touched her if I had wanted to and she had watched us roar past her. We were thunder and light and screaming rubber and wailing engine.
The Pontiac cleared the curve
almost on the right edge of the shoulder of the road. I
had pulled the Pontiac down into the curve, hard and tight, so hard and
tight that the right side tires just barely started to kiss gravel on
the shoulder. The seat belt had locked solid on the sudden
deceleration; the TA was hugging me tight as my left foot went all the way to
the floor on the brake pedal, leg locking straight.
The four wheel power disc brakes reached the
point of lock up.
The factory aluminum snowflake wheels stopped
spinning, locking hard, and the heavy Pontiac slid out of the curve on the
other side as all four tires fought for traction and battled friction on the
pavement, protesting, leaving dark marks of rubber on the asphalt and plenty of
tire smoke behind. The Trans Am finally
came to a tire blistering, rubber screaming stop on the far side of the curve,
idling loudly, rocking once on its suspension and slewed partly sideways in the
middle of the right lane, brake lights lit bright red.
A thick veil of burnt rubber smoke slowly
wafted around us, past us, and off into the night illuminated by the four
horizontal shafts of bright light from the Pontiac’s high beam halogens. The smell was caustic and wholly familiar to
my nostrils. I slapped the dual gate
factory gear shifter back up from Super into Drive and then into Neutral … one
slow ratchet stop at the time.
Click.
Stop.
Click.
Stop.
I felt the TA go slack as the drive train
dropped into neutral, taking the power load off of the chassis and frame. Flynn recovered from the wild ride, using his
hand to flick his long salt and pepper hair back out of his face as he turned
to me, confusion mixed with anger flashing on his face.
“And just what the fucking hell was all that bunch of
monkey shines for?!” he asked loudly, confused, trying to figure out what was
happening.
I looked in the rear view mirror at the woman
we had just almost run over.
“Her.” I said flatly.
“Huh?” Flynn asked, quickly turning his head to look out the passenger side and then turned in his seat to look over his left shoulder behind us.
“Who?”
“Her.” I said flatly, jerking a gloved right
thumb back over my right shoulder in the direction behind us.
“What the …?"
"Yeah." I said.
"Her?" Flynn asked.
"Yeah." I said, again.
"Where the hell did she come from?!” Flynn asked, finally spotting who I was talking about.
I
shrugged my shoulders, thinking about just how close I'd come to
smearing some strange woman across the nose, hood and front windshield
of my TA.
“Hell if I know. One second she wasn’t there, the next she
was.”
“In the middle of the road?” Flynn asked,
still staring at the woman.
“Hell, yes ... in the middle of the road! She stepped out into the middle of the damn
road in front of me!” I said flatly, finally feeling my heart start to slow
down.
“Do you know her?” Flynn asked.
“Never seen her before.”
“Did you hit her?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Good.” He said, taking a drink from his flask.
“Good?” I asked.
“Yeah, good.
We’re okay. She’s okay. I’m hungry.
Fuck her. Let’s go.” He said,
using both hands to pat the dash in front of him and gesture in a motion to indicate that we should be getting on our way
and the sooner the better.
The woman was illuminated in the red glow of
the brake lights, standing there two hundred or so feet behind the rear bumper
of the Pontiac ... just standing in the middle of the oncoming lane of the road. She turned looking off
into the distance where the Pontiac had entered the curve then back towards
us. I saw her shrug her shoulders. She walked over to where her cowboy hat had
landed, picked it up, looked at it, dusted it off with her hand then put it
back on her head, adjusting it as she started walking towards where we sat in
the Pontiac. She pulled her guitar strap
tight along with her purse and took the denim jacket in her hands as she
walked towards us. Flynn, realizing that we weren’t moving,
turned to look again at the woman behind us.
He stared at her as she walked towards us then he turned to look at
me. I shifted the TA from neutral up
into reverse, looked over my right shoulder, his and my foreheads almost
touching, then started slowly backing us up.
Flynn realized what I was doing and probably what I had in mind.
“Oh, no!
Dream on! Dream the hell on!” Flynn said, looking from me to
over his shoulder and then back to me.
The TA’s exhaust burbled and the rear
differential whined as we slowly backed up.
Flynn and I were both turned around now, looking over our shoulders, out
the curved glass rear window at the woman standing there in the middle of the
road.
“Yeah, you can just dream the hell on because
what you’re thinking isn’t going to happen.
We are not picking up another of your strays … not tonight …” Flynn
said, his voice almost monotone.
“Let’s just see if she’s okay.” I said.
“Aw, damn, Shields! This is not happening!” Flynn huffed but kept looking over his shoulder as I backed the Pontiac up.
"Maybe she needs help." I said.
"They always need help when you stop to ask them ..." Flynn muttered.
There came the sound of loose gravel being
crunched under the tires of the Pontiac as I slowed the TA about twenty feet
from her and dropped the transmission back into neutral. Gravel crunched under her boots as she walked
on the old asphalt and then she was there, standing beside us. Flynn turned in his seat to look at her as
she stood there beside the passenger side door, one hand on her hip, one hand
on the strap of her guitar, looking at us expectantly and a concerned, maybe
even angry look on her face. I tapped
the gear selector switch with my gloved hand.
There was an overall surreal feeling to the moment.
She was an Amazon, not fat, but tall and big
boned, built more like a roller derby girl than a cheerleader. I had been wrong about the T-shirt. She wore a sleeveless shirt and had a large
tattoo on her right arm. Another tattoo
peeked out just above where her shirt ended and her ample breasts began. I’m sure she had others as well because the
general rule was once you committed your body to that amount of ink you didn’t
stop with just one or two. Everything about her was decidedly feminine
just a bit larger than what I was used to and stacked in an inviting way. Her breasts stretched the material of her
sleeveless black shirt. Thirty-six? Thirty-eight?
D cup at least. As for height I’d
say that she was an easy six feet tall, maybe six two and maybe one
seventy-five, give or take.
Amazon.
A long curly haired brunette Amazon was now
standing next to the TA, wearing her cowboy hat, with her denim jacket draped
over her arm, her hand on her hip and a guitar and a big purse slung over her
shoulder. Even Flynn had to force
himself to keep his mouth from spontaneously dropping open and saying something
stupid because at that moment the look on the Amazon’s face said that she
really wasn’t in the mood for any kind of sass, especially from two guys who almost
just ran her over in an old black and gold Trans Am. She looked like she could hurt you bad if she
wanted to, if she was in the mood to hurt you and right then and there I was
thinking she might just be in that kind of mood.
If her name turned out to be Candy or
something like that I really wouldn’t be surprised and the first song that
popped into my mind was “Candy’s going
bad” by The Godz, itself a damn
good cover of the older Golden Earring
song.
Her long lashes.
Her eyes, heavy with makeup and that makeup
wet with sadness.
But it was her eyes that really drew your attention ...
She had witchy eyes,
absolutely bewitching eyes, dark, haughty … unearthly eyes with long eyelashes
to match … pair all of that with her long curly black hair and the effect was
almost hypnotic. She folded her arms
across her chest, her denim jacket draped across her forearms yet her
expression didn’t change. Flynn looked
at me expectantly but if he was thinking that I was going to change my mind, he
was mistaken. A shallow look of
disbelief crossed his face as I shrugged my shoulders and nodded at her, motioning
towards the back seat.
“No.” Flynn said flatly.
“Yes.” I said.
“No.
Not happening, man.” Flynn said, chuckling to himself. “Just not happening.”
I looked at Flynn again. He turned from me back to her, noticing both
of our expressions were nearly the same.
It took him all of fifteen seconds to realize that he wasn’t going to
win this one.
“Fine.” Flynn said at last, throwing his arms
forward in frustration then stepping out of the TA and holding the door open
for her.
“Fine!” he said again louder, for emphasis.
She took her purse and guitar off, pushed
them into the back seat then crawled in and pulled the passenger seat back to
lock. She smelled like cigarettes, beer
and the strong flowery kind of perfume that depended on intensity and an
inexpensive price to both work and meet its target market niche.
Flynn angrily tapped out his next cigarette
from his crumpled pack, cupped his hand as he lit up the Winston with his Zippo, took a deep
puff and blew smoke out of his nostrils, shaking his head slowly in utter
disbelief. He slid back down into the
Pontiac and shut the door with a slam, not even bothering with his seat belt.
“Got another smoke?” she asked from the
backseat, her voice was deep and rough, sure and confident.
“Just.” Flynn said looking at his smokes.
“The kind of night that I’ve had … I could
really use one of those.” She said.
Flynn paused for a second, regarded his
crumpled up pack of Winstons then handed it back to her. He didn’t let go of his pack as she took a
cigarette from the three smokes remaining.
Flynn passed her back his Zippo lighter and I saw the flare of her
lighting up there behind me, her features illuminated in the flash of the flame
there under the brim of her cowboy hat.
Witchy, bewitching eyes that flicked up to stare at me. She took a long pull on the Winston and handed
the lighter back to him.
“Thanks.” She said, breathing out her smoke.
Flynn’s reply was a monosyllabic grunt but
maybe there had been some common ground gained there.
The woman in the back seat looked from me to
Flynn and back again. She held her
cigarette in an almost guarded pose, knees up and turned sideways there in the
backseat. I sat there in the driver’s
seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear selector, and my left
foot still on the brake pedal. I could
still smell the caustic scent of hot brakes and friction heated rubber mixed
with the smells that her presence had brought and now a pair of Winstons
burning inside my Pontiac. We all sat
there in silence for a minute before she tipped her cowboy hat up and back then
spoke.
“Thanks for stopping.” She said flatly,
reaching her cigarette out the driver’s side behind me and tapping the ash off
of it.
Her voice was feminine, but strongly so …
nothing dainty about it. I couldn’t help
myself, I let go with a short, sharp laugh.
She looked at me, concerned at first then her expression became
soft. A few seconds later, she giggled
then laughed too. I whistled at the
strangeness of the situation, looked her over once and turned back to face the
road. I dropped the gear selector back
down from Neutral to Drive. The
powertrain of the Pontiac reengaged with a dull thud from the transmission and
drive line to the ten bolt limited slip pumpkin in the back.
“So … Where are you guys headed?” she asked.
"Maybe you should have asked that before you just got in the car." I said.
"Maybe I should have." she said.
“We were going to IHOP.” Flynn said.
“Still are.” I added.
“Good.
I’m hungry.” She said flatly, apparently inviting herself along.
I looked at Flynn who looked from me back to
her and then back to me. He shrugged his
shoulders, faced forward in his seat, took another deep drag and blew smoke out
the passenger side. It was his way of
saying that not only had he accepted the situation that we were in but he that
he was completely indifferent to it as well.
Flynn, having known me possibly the longest out of any of the people
that I spent time with fully knew how my life was and how it could be … or rather
how my life could become, at a moment’s chance.
“Okay.
Food it is.” I said, easing the rumbling TA on back up to speed. “But
first we’ve got to stop for gas, whiskey and smokes.”
“Hallelujah.”
Flynn said sarcastically and he remained silent for the rest of the ride
even though I could tell that he was fuming.
After a short detour to our favorite liquor
store on South 27th for some more whiskey (Flynn topped his flask
off in the parking lot from a fifth of Jack Daniels that he had bought inside) we
all piled back into the TA and drove a few blocks over to the Junior Food Mart
/ Eagle’s Nest on Hardy Street (across from the Elam Arms dormitory) for smokes
and gum. I put ten bucks worth of
premium in the TA while our passenger went inside.
The guitar slinging, purse carrying Amazon had
gone on in to the store and Flynn stopped next to the pump to ask me if I
wanted anything from inside. I gave
Flynn a five spot to buy the Amazon a pack of smokes with it, a lighter if she
didn’t have one and that he could keep the change. He looked at the five dollar
bill in his hand, then to me, then to the Amazon already inside the store, and then
back to me. His look said he understood
what I was doing but that he just didn’t understand why.
“Sometimes life kicks you in the nuts.” I
said.
“I don’t think she has any nuts for life to
kick her in.” Flynn said flatly.
“Well, sometimes life can kick you in the
girly parts as well and she looks like she’s been kicked, hard, in the girly
parts.”
“And you think that buying her a pack of
smokes is going to make it all better?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“It’s
certainly not going to make it any
worse. Say you were having a bad time in life and someone bought
you a pack of smokes. Would it make you feel better?”
Flynn shrugged his shoulders this time.
“I mean, come on, man! Did you see how she took that smoke off of
you? Sometimes we just need the little
things. Comfort stuff. Keeps life worth living.”
“Spoils of war?” Flynn asked.
“You take what you can, fight your battles,
pick up the pieces afterwards and maybe you get lucky, that sort of thing I
guess. That’s
the way I see it. It's the small stuff that makes life worth
living, moment to moment, day to day. She bummed a smoke off of
you because she probably doesn't have a pack left to her name.
Get her a pack of smokes ... buy her a little bit of hope.” I
said and
went back to filling the Pontiac.
Flynn started to say something, thought about it then cocked his head and
turned to walk towards the store.
Once everyone was back in the TA I drove us the
quarter mile back down Hardy Street to IHOP right across from the University
campus. Margaret wasn’t working that
night but Flynn had her number and after a quick phone call to her house she
joined us fifteen minutes later. I don’t
think that I had ever seen Margaret in non-IHOP attire so it was a bit strange
to see her in what I considered “regular people clothes.” I had to give it to Flynn; Margaret could
really fill out a pair of jeans and she really wasn’t hard on the eyes when she
took the time to fix herself up, especially since she had to be as old as Flynn
was.
The difference was that she actually tried to
take care of herself and, when time permitted, Flynn as well, that is, when he
would let her because Flynn could be one hell of a stubborn jackass about his
health. In fact, the longer I had known
Flynn the rougher he had started to look.
I blamed the smoking and drinking and drugs for his decline but the truth
was that Flynn looked a lot worse today than he had when I had first met him
just a few short years ago. I hoped that
Margaret was going to turn that around … put a soft edge on some of that hard
living, maybe finally give him something or someone to pull him out of his slow
downward spiral that he had committed himself to.
Shelly, another IHOP waitress we were
familiar with, recognized us and greeted us as soon as we all piled in the narrow
entrance. We took our usual booth back
in the corner, in the smoking section and Shelly took our drink orders; sweet
tea for me, Coke for the Amazon, and black coffee for Flynn and Margaret (with
a liberal splash of whiskey from Flynn’s refilled flask after Shelly was
gone). Shelly left us to look over the
menus even though I knew the menu by heart; Flynn and I had become regulars
years before he had started to see Margaret mainly because a place like IHOP
was the kind of place that catered to people like Flynn and I, especially late
at night. I closed my menu, put it down,
leaned back and looked at the Amazon.
She was reading the menu, a small narrow space existed between the top
of the menu and the brim of her cowboy hat and through that space I could see
her eyes moving back and forth, reading the menu, glancing up at me and then
back to reading the menu.
“Order what you want, I’m buying.” I said
digging out five ones, a five and a ten then putting the rest back in my pocket
… just some of the cash that I had won earlier that night at the meet and run down
in Purvis.
She put her menu down, leaned back, got
comfortable in the booth next to me, used a finger to raise the rim of her
cowboy hat backwards and stared at me.
“Don’t think buying me some pancakes is going
to let you get lucky tonight.” She said softly.
Flynn blew bubbles into his coffee as he chuckled
at that comment and rocked in the booth.
Seeing a challenge was being made I immediately retorted.
“If you’re the kind of woman who puts out for
an order of pancakes then I don’t think that I’m all that much interested in
getting in your pants anytime soon … if at all.”
The Amazon made a haughty smile in turn and
went back to looking at the menu. She
had a pretty face but it was her eyes which really gave her a witchy
demeanor. She would turn heads, especially
if you had a few drinks onboard and I think that even Flynn could see that physical
quality in her. There was just something
about her … something that grabbed you and wouldn’t let go, like walking
through a spider web in the dark.
“So.
Are you two in the habit of picking up women walking down the middle of
the road at night and taking them out to eat?”
“What are you doing picking up other women?”
Margaret accused Flynn good naturedly and Flynn merely pointed a stabbing
finger over at me, passing the blame fully back to its rightful source.
“I wouldn’t call it a habit.” I said. “You’re the first woman with a guitar that
I’ve picked up in that curve this week.” I said flatly.
“The first woman with a guitar this week?” she asked.
“Yeah.
The woman I picked up last night in that very same curve had a
cello. I tell you what, that thing was a
real bitch to try and fit in the back seat because even if the T-tops hadn’t
been off there is no way something like that was going in the trunk.”
Flynn stifled a laugh into a chortle and had
to look away to keep his composure. The Amazon
looked at me, not sure if I was serious or not.
“A cello?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I said, playing it for all it was
worth. “Just once I wish you women would
carry something … small. Like a
harmonica or a Ukulele. It would make
things a hell of a lot easier.”
She gave a nervous laugh on that and Flynn
chuckled to himself.
“You know … something that I could put in the
center console … something that I didn’t have to think about putting in the
trunk of my TA or strapping it to the roof.”
“You’re serious?” the Amazon asked.
“No.” I said, smiling.
She smiled, realizing I was joking with her.
It was a pretty smile.
Her eyes were haunting.
She smelled of cigarettes, sweat and cheap
perfume.
Shelly returned and after a bit of small talk
with Margaret and prodding of the other three of us she took our food
orders. When she asked if the orders
were going to be on one ticket or two, I said “two” and my passenger said
“one.” When I looked at her for
clarification, she simply shrugged, offered another haughty smile and said “You
offered, remember?”
“Yeah, I did.
Put it all on one ticket.”
“Even their tickets?” Shelly asked, pointing
to Flynn and Margaret.
“Huh?” I asked, not sure what she meant.
Flynn grunted loudly for attention, arched
his eyebrows twice, pursed his lips and blew me a mock kiss.
“If you buy me some pancakes I’ll let you get
in my pants tonight.” He said.
Margaret, shocked at what he had just said,
drew in a deep breath and play punched him in the arm.
“You’d put out for a Pop-tart if you had a
glass of whiskey to dunk it in.” I said as I wagged a finger at him in a no-no
manner and everyone at the table laughed or giggled in some capacity, even
Shelly.
“So … was that one ticket for all of you or
two separate tickets?”
Flynn slicked his hair back and made mock
puppy dog eyes at me. I rolled my eyes
at him and gave in.
“Yeah, might as well. Put it all on one ticket.” I told the
waitress who nodded and left.
“Appreciate that, chief.” Flynn said raising
his cup of coffee splashed with whiskey in a toast to me.
“Your turn next time.”
“Next time.” Flynn said, chuckling, tapping
out a cigarette in the ash tray and lighting up from his new pack of Winstons.
He slid the pack and his Zippo lighter to the
center of the table, tapped it twice in my passenger’s direction and she
accepted, taking a cigarette out as well and firing it up with his
lighter. Soon our booth was wreathed in
cigarette smoke from the two human chimneys, a fact that Margaret and I could
have lived without but we weren't complaining. Smoking wasn’t my
thing but I understood some people had a need for it so I tolerated it even if
most nights spent out with Flynn I went home reeking of Winstons and cigarette smoke.
My passenger sat with her back to the window,
her long legs and boots pulled up into the booth barely giving me room to sit
myself. The toes of her boots were
almost touching the side of my thigh.
She stared off into the rest of IHOP, glancing at the high ceiling, the
décor and occasionally me. Every now and
then she took a long drag off of her cigarette and exhaled from the side of her
lips away from me, up towards the ceiling.
I looked around as well. The
inside of this place always reminded me of some ski chalet in the Swiss
Alps. I don’t know why because I had
never been to Switzerland or in a ski chalet but I could imagine that if I ever
did that the inside of it would probably look pretty much like the inside of an
IHOP for some strange reason. I stared
off as well, just letting my mind go vacant and waiting on my food … remembering
the night, the street racing down in Purvis and trying to figure out what I was
going to have to do in order to get rid of my passenger … this roller derby-esque Amazon that I'd almost run over an hour ago in my Trans Am.
How much was I going to be into her for
before the night was over? Already I was
out pocket cash for her smokes and her food …
My thoughts turned back to the Amazon curled up on the bench next to me
and I glanced at her, taking her in as she in turn stared off out into the
restaurant. I had picked her up because
I felt sorry for almost running her over on a dark road, because the gentleman
in me just didn’t want to leave an attractive woman like her walking alone in
that part of the county and since I did stop and offer her a ride, I knew that
I had to see this whole thing through to the end.
While Flynn and Margaret were engaged in some
half whispered conversation full of innuendos and quiet laughs the Amazon was
quiet … contemplative … as she smoked her cigarette. Her eyes always came back to me, staring
holes in the side of my head. She was
quiet but her witchy eyes kept a wary watch on me. Those long lashes batting every now and then
were mesmerizing when we caught each other looking.
“Do you have a name?” I asked, not even
bothering to look at her, just sipping on my sweet tea and slowly turning the
ice filled Coke logo emblazoned glass in my hands.
“Maybe.” She said, with that same haughty
smile as she blew out smoke from the side of her pursed lips then tapped her
cigarette on the ash tray at the table.
“That’s a really pretty name and not very
common. Don't know many girls named "Maybe".” I said.
She did a little smirk at me.
“You got a name? What do they call you?” she asked.
“Take your pick! They call him lots of things, most of them
not very nice.” Flynn interjected.
Margaret laughed and shook her head.
“You two definitely have chemistry.” The Amazon
noted.
“They do!” Margaret affirmed. “They’re usually the loudest group in here.”
“And the rowdiest.” I added.
"So ... you're regulars?" the Amazon asked.
"Several times a week." Margaret said.
"We're regulars ... going on a year and a half now." I said, nodding towards Flynn.
“Sometimes it gets embarrassing.” Margaret
said. “You don’t know what it’s like to
work a shift when these two come in.
These two will get into some of the dumbest arguments and clear across
the restaurant you can hear Flynn trying to win the argument by shouting cuss
words and insults.”
“It works.” Flynn said.
“No, it just makes all the old people turn
and stare at you like you’re retarded.” I said.
Flynn shrugged and took a long drink of his
coffee.
Margaret smiled.
“I remember the first time I met Flynn. It was late one shift, about like it is
now. I’d worked five hours on my feet
and these two come in arguing. They head
back to this table here, right here, and I have to wait on them. Coffee and sweet tea. I bring them their drinks back and Flynn here
pulls out his flask and pours whiskey in his coffee and that guy there …”
She pointed a finger at me across the table.
“Takes like ten packets of sugar there, tears
them open and puts them all in his tea and starts stirring like he’s trying to
kill the tea or something. I mean, he
was stabbing that tea with his straw and just grinding the sugar and ice in the
cup.”
I nodded, remembering that night well.
“And then I told Flynn to go fuck himself.” I
added. “Rather loudly, if I care to
remember.”
Margaret got this shocked look on her face
but she nodded quickly.
“You did!
At first I thought you had said that to me but it was evident that you
and Flynn were at each other that night and you had forgotten all about me
after I brought you two your drinks so I just stepped back and let you two bash
it out.”
“You walked away. I thought you were going to get the manager
and that we were going to get kicked out.”
“No, honey.
It was dead quiet that night and you two were some much needed
entertainment. Me and the girls and the
cook stood over there near the kitchen and watched you two chew each other out. And it wasn’t two minutes later that Flynn …”
I nodded and Flynn put his hand to his chin,
remembering and smiling. I snapped my
fingers and nodded, shaking my head.
“Yeah.
Yeah! We were arguing about
Pontiac V8s and … and … oh, damn. What
was it that Flynn said …?”
“Said?” Margaret asked, incredulous. “He didn’t just say it, no, he stood up,
slammed his fist into the table top there and shouted it as loud as he could …”
“It’s a goddamn high compression D-port 400!”
I nodded and started laughing at the
memory. Flynn chuckled and shook his
head. Margaret laughed and shook her
head, taking a swig of her whiskey laced coffee then holding the warm mug
between her hands.
“And to this day I still don’t know what a
high compression D-port 400 is or why God would want to damn it.”
Flynn lost it then and I leaned my head back
in the cushion, closed my eyes and smiled.
Good times.
I opened my eyes and turned to look at the
Amazon. She was smiling ever so slightly
and she batted her eyes at me. Slowly,
like a butterfly flicking its wings.
“What?” I asked her.
“Seriously.” The Amazon said. “What’s your name?”
“Christopher.” I said. “Like the patron saint of travelers.”
She thought about that for a second, turning
it over in her head.
“Joy.” She said drinking her Coke through a
straw held between two fingers and leaving lipstick behind on the straw when
she put her glass down. “As in aren’t you just a bundle of ...”
And that was that.
Christopher and Joy.
We knew each other’s name.
Shortly after ten Flynn and Margaret excused
their selves and went back to his place, taking her old Ford LTD and leaving
Joy and I alone at the IHOP; with Flynn gone that gave me an extra seat in the
Pontiac and meant that if I had to take Joy home she wouldn’t have to ride
sideways with her knees to her chest sitting in the back seat of the Trans Am,
a place that had never been designed to accommodate someone of Joy’s build. I’m not sure if it was Flynn or Margaret or
both or the fact that Joy had suddenly found herself spending time around three
complete strangers but once our little dinner meet had thinned down to just the
two of us Joy seemed to visibly relax and became more willing to talk. I didn’t bother to move to the other side of
the table to give her more personal room and she didn’t bother to ask me to do
so once that space was freed up. We just
sat there, together, like we had been since we got here, side by side on the
same side of the booth.
Joy and I talked for about an hour and a half
and from what I could gather her father had been some middle brass in the support
echelons of the Air Force, her family had moved around a lot between air bases
when she was growing up so she hadn’t really made any friends that lasted and she
had a sister who was younger than her (about my age she said which made me
wonder just how old she was). Her mother
had died of some pretty nasty breast cancer in 1979, she had graduated high
school in 1982, she had left Pensacola with a guy her dad really didn’t like
two months after that and she hadn’t been home since. She didn’t talk to her father at all and she
hadn’t talked to her sister in about three years. The guy that she left Pensacola with got into
some trouble with dealing drugs, got arrested in Birmingham and was doing a
whole lot of time somewhere in Alabama.
She spent two years after that making her way west and now here she was,
in Hattiesburg, kind of stuck and just taking it one day at a time, making it as
best as she could.
When I asked her what she did for a living
she told me that she worked as a hair stylist for a beauty shop down town. Her car broke down three days ago and she
didn’t have the money to get it fixed.
One of her friends at work had set her up with a friend of her
boyfriend’s who said he could fix her car this weekend. Well, this afternoon he had asked Joy out,
saying he would come over to look at her car, get an idea of what it would take
to fix it then get the parts tomorrow and fix it. In the mean time, why didn’t they go out to a
bar and have a drink or two, do a little dancing and just have a good time? He had seemed nice enough so she agreed to go
out with him since he was a friend of her friend’s boyfriend.
Big mistake.
The guy had tried to get her drunk at the bar
but she wasn’t having any of that and when she had asked him to take her home
he had taken her on some long drive in the country and gotten kind of
aggressive with his wandering hands. She
had asked him to take her home but he had pulled over on the side of the road
and was determined to have his way with her.
When he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, she had punched him in the
balls as hard as she could right there on the bench seat of his pickup truck,
twice, then beat on him until she felt better.
She had grabbed up her stuff and left him curled up in a moaning,
whimpering fetal position there on the bench seat of his pickup and from what I
could tell from her description of where it had happened she had left him
hurting real bad somewhere there on the side of Sandy Run road.
Of course she didn’t know where she was so
she had just started walking and thinking and fuming and cussing at how life
sucked and she always wound up in those kind of situations with those kind of
guys. She had been walking for about
twenty minutes, not really paying any attention to where she was going, lost in
her thoughts about her life, her broken car, and the guy who just tried to
force himself on her when she nearly got run over by a pair of guys hauling ass
late at night down an old country two lane road in a black and gold Trans Am … which she
thought was a pretty cool car … and here she was.
Here we were.
And that was her life story, pretty much,
like you care, thanks for listening.
She seemed kind of bummed out after telling
me all that so I tried to steer the conversation in another direction.
“Show me your ink.” I said, mainly because I
was interested in her tattoo.
She looked confused at first then understood
and nodded, turning slightly around to show me her right arm, flexing it there
and turning it slowly so I could see the whole tattoo. There was a red heart trimmed in gold there
with a rose behind it. The stem of the
rose was actually a thorny vine that crept down around her arm and ended near
her elbow. A pair of butterflies, one
blue and purple, the other yellow and blue, flew around the vine, chasing each
other. A banner across the rose was big
enough to hold a pretty good sized name in it but was blank.
“Dean.” She said, pointing to the
banner. “I was going to get his name put
there but I ran out of money and then he ran out on me so … you know, fuck him. I’m not wearing his name on my arm. You have to earn that.”
“Dean?
Was that the guy you left Pensacola with?”
Joy nodded.
“Kind of worked out then, didn’t it?”
She shrugged and ran her hand over the tattoo
almost as if she were ashamed of it, almost as if she was trying to hide it.
“Guess I haven’t found anyone better to put
their name there.” She said.
“There’s a fine line between a tattoo and a
scar.” I muttered.
“Got a few of those as well. Good ones.
Deep.”
“More on the inside than on the out?” I asked
her.
"Yes ... an no." She said as she nodded.
“Got any more ink?”
“You sure are curious, aren’t you?” she
asked, somewhat defensive.
“I’m interested. I guess there’s a fine line between the two.”
“I guess there is. Why do you want to see the rest of my ink?”
“I like art … and tattoos are just another
type of art, a counter culture type but art nonetheless. I like the original stuff. I like to see what other people think up and
what other people get to wear … as long as it’s original. I hate the plain stuff. If you’re going to get ink, go original.”
“Do you have any ink?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“No.
I’ve thought about getting ink before but just haven’t made up my mind
to commit to that lifestyle.”
“Why not?”
“There’s good ink and bad ink out there and
it’s kind of there to stay once you get it so you better make sure that what
you get is what you want. Choosing who
puts your ink down is probably just as important as choosing what you want to
ink. There’s a lot of ink parlors around
here because it’s a college town with a military base nearby but there are
probably only about four of them that I’d let do anything to me. Maybe not even that many come to think of
it.”
Joy ran her hand over her arm and the tattoo
found there. I reached slowly out with
my finger, moving towards her tattoo.
She didn’t put up a protest so I touched her ink, traced the vine and
moved her arm where I could get a good look at the artwork. It was quality work, she must have paid good
money for it too and I doubt if it was local as I hadn’t seen this kind of
talent on display around here. It was
really clear work, designed to last as far as ink was concerned. I pulled my finger back from her tattoo.
“I figure if I ever get ink put down it’s
going to be something worth putting ink there for, you know? Ink isn’t fashion; it’s a statement, a
commitment. At least to me it is and
that means it’s not something to be done without a lot of thought going into
it. If you’re going to get inked, make
it count. I just haven’t found anything
that I wanted to carry around with me that long. Nothing is permanent in life, at least not in
mine … especially not in mine … so, why get ink when I’ve got nothing to get
ink about?”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that.” She
said.
“I probably think too much about stuff like
that.” I said, softly laughing still at my situation. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that if I
ever get ink it’s going to be something that no one else has and it’s going to
be put down to stay for a long time.
It’s got to be original and mean something and … I haven’t found that
yet.”
“That’s probably why you don’t have any ink.”
She said, smiling.
“Yet.” I added, shaking my head and taking a
long drink of sweet tea.
“Yet.” She agreed, smiling, and sipping from the
straw in her glass of Coke.
Suddenly, I couldn’t help myself and I gave a
small chuckle because here I was, in a booth at IHOP, with a woman I almost ran
over with my Trans Am and I was discussing tattoos with her after having bought
her dinner. I loved how eccentric my
life could be sometimes.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I replied. “It’s just my life gets strange sometimes.”
“Know the feeling.” She said softly.
No, I thought, you couldn’t possibly know the
feeling. You really couldn’t.
It was late, my watch said it was a quarter
till twelve midnight and I was starting to feel tired. I finished up my sweet tea, got a fresh cup
to-go, settled up the bill which was nearly twenty bucks all said and done,
left a five dollar tip for Shelly then offered to take Joy home. As it turned out I wouldn’t have to go far to
give her a lift home; she lived in a one room efficiency apartment there on
Lincoln Road. I held the passenger side door open for Joy,
shut it after she had gotten situated then hopped into the TA without bothering
to open the driver’s side door. I never
got tired of the freedom that a car with T-tops offered in getting in and out
of it. I dropped into the driver’s seat,
bounced once and threw my seat belt on.
Joy looked at me, smiling, not sure how to take what she had just
witnessed.
“What?” I asked, setting into the driver’s
seat.
“They make doors on cars, you know.” She
said. “You don’t have to jump in this
thing like Bo and Luke Duke.”
“Saves time.” I said, putting the keys in the
ignition and starting up the big cube V8 under the hood.
“Does look kind of cool though, if you can
pull it off.” She said.
“There’s that, too.” I agreed.
I drove a quarter mile down Hardy Street, turned right near the Exxon station and followed South 28th Avenue all the way to the Lincoln Road intersection then turned right on Lincoln. Joy lived within walking distance of my parents’ house.
Go figure.
Small world.
We turned left at her indication into the
apartment parking lot. The quad lit high
beam headlights of the Pontiac illuminated a 1976 blue Chevy Monte Carlo with
white vinyl half top, two door, factory wheels and in better shape than I had
imagined her car would be. In fact, it
looked well taken care of.
“Is that your car?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It won’t start.” She said.
“Well, yeah, you told me that. What I mean is … is it the battery? Do you need me to jumpstart it?”
Joy sighed heavily.
“No. I
don’t think it’s the battery. When you
turn the key all the lights on the dash come on but if you try to start it the
motor just makes a really loud screeching sound and some clicking, like metal
on metal. I tried for a while but then
it got weaker and weaker so I just left it.”
“Starter.” I said.
“That’s what Deake thought, too.”
“Who’s Deake?” I asked.
“Deake’s the guy who’s sitting in his pickup
looking for his nuts on the side of the road.
Remember?”
“Ah.
Yeah. So that was Deake.”
“That was Deake.”
“Spelled D-I-C-K with a long ‘I’, right?”
She laughed at that and nodded. I hopped out through the open roof, walked
around and opened the door for Joy, getting her guitar, purse and denim jacket
from the back seat then carrying them for her while she walked up to the front
door of her apartment and used her key to let herself in. I handed her the guitar and the denim jacket
and she leaned up against the frame of the door, looking me over.
“Thanks for not running me over, thanks for
the lift, thanks for the smokes … and thanks for dinner.” She said at last.
“No problem. You looked like you could use someone being nice to you for a change.”
She smiled.
"Was it that obvious that I was throwing a pity party for myself?"
I nodded.
“Yeah, well ... I guess tonight didn’t turn out as bad as I
thought it was going to turn out to be.”
“It could have been worse.” I agreed.
“Yeah.
It could have been worse.” She mused.
A pause and then she turned to go into her
apartment.
“Goodnight, Saint Christopher.” She said whimsically.
“Goodbye, Bundle
of Joy.” I said good naturedly, sticking my gloved hand out.
She took my hand and we squeezed, she
matching my grip exactly and easily.
Amazon.
“Bundle
of Joy?” she asked, slightly amused.
“That’s what you said your name was
like. I think that’s your Indian given
name.”
“I am one quarter Seminole on my great
grandmother’s side.” Joy said.
“Then maybe you should have scalped Deake
while you were at it.” I added.
“Maybe I should have. Guess I forgot to pack my tomahawk in my
purse before I went out.” Joy said, smiling.
I turned and walked over to the Pontiac,
hopped in through the open top, stood in the driver’s seat and turned to face
her, leaning on the center roof T-bar.
She still hadn’t moved from where she had been leaning up against the
front door of her apartment.
“Hey!”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Did you tell me goodbye?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you tell me goodbye? That’s kind of
final, isn’t it?”
“Well, this is it, isn’t it?” I asked. “I mean … you, me … us. Chance meeting. A few hours together. We go our own separate ways. Good memories. A cool story to tell a few years from
now. Nothing else expected.”
“Is it?” she asked, looking pensive.
I hung my head and shook it because just when
I thought I had my life all figured out life itself went and changed the rules on
me.
“Is it?” I asked, finally looking up and
throwing her question back on her.
Joy held up a finger indicating that I should
wait and she took her stuff into her apartment.
A minute later she came back out, leaned up against the threshold again
and held up her right hand in a smoker’s brace.
Between her two fingers was something small and white, it looked like a
business card. She waved it slowly in
the air twice then flicked her eyebrows and nodded her head in a come-hither
motion. Her expression, those long
lashes and her witchy eyes were inviting.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Something you want.” She replied.
“How do you know that?”
“Woman’s intuition.”
She waved the business card again
enticingly. I hopped back out of the TA
and walked slowly over to her, boots crunching on the gravel in the parking
lot. She held the business card out to
me and I took it, looked at it.
A Cut
Above Hair Styling Salon. T. J.
Curtis. Stylist. Business address and business phone
numbers. Downtown Hattiesburg listing,
old part of town.
“T. J. Curtis.” I said. “The “J” stands for “Joy” but what does the
“T” stand for?”
“Tuesday.” She said.
“Tuesday
Joy Curtis?” I asked a little louder than I guess I should have, tilting my
head in surprise.
“Don’t say it.” She chided, a suddenly stern
look coming over her face.
“No.
Wow. Don’t take it wrong! That’s a
pretty unusual name. Unique. I like it.”
“Really?” she asked flatly. “You like my name?”
“Yes. I
like your name. Really. I’m not kidding. That’s a pretty cool name. It damn sure beats being called Harriet or
Susan, doesn’t it?”
“I guess it does at that. People at work just call me TJ.” She said.
“TJ?”
“Yeah, but you don’t get to call me that.”
She said. “Yet.”
“Yet?”
I asked.
“Yet.” She said adamantly. “Some things you get for free and some things
you’re just going to have to earn.”
“Are they worth earning?” I asked, smiling.
“I’d like to think so because those things aren't given away for free.” She said.
She flipped the business card over in my
fingers and there on the back was a phone number that was different than the
one on the front and the words “call me” were written in big letters above that
and underlined.
“Call me, Saint
Christopher.” She said, walking back into her apartment and starting to
close the door.
“Why?”
“Because for not being my date for the night
you managed to show me a pretty damn good time; a lot better time than Deake
showed me so … you get to call me and he doesn’t.”
“When?” I asked, still trying to mull the
situation and her offer over.
“Tomorrow.” She said, closing the door
slowly, watching me with those haunting, witchy eyes. “Late morning because after tonight I think
that I’m going to sleep late. Really
late.”
The door paused in closing, all I could see
was one of her pretty eyes looking at me.
There was a lot of sadness there, mixed with regret and bad luck and a
hundred other things that I wished I could just wipe away and make never have
happened to her.
“Goodnight.” She whispered.
The door stood slightly open, cracked, as if
she was waiting on something.
“Goodnight.”
I told her.
“That’s better. That’s a lot better than goodbye.” She said
and she moved to shut the door all the way.
The door was almost closed when I stuck my
boot toe in and stopped it. Joy looked
up, amusement and … anger … in her expression.
It was difficult to tell with those witchy eyes and long lashes.
“One last
thing …” I said.
“Yeah?”
“You were carrying a guitar tonight. You were walking down the middle of a dark
road, at night, carrying a guitar. Before
I go, you’ve got to tell me what that was all about.”
Joy smiled as her own boot started to slowly
push mine on back out from holding the door open.
“No. No, I
don’t.” she said flatly.
And then she paused.
“Ask me about the guitar some other time,
Christopher.” She said. “It’s worth a
listen, but I don’t feel like telling the story … not tonight … maybe not
anytime soon.”
“Hey!” I whispered.
“What?” she asked, cutting her eyes at me and
smiling a little.
“Things are going to get better.”
“Yeah? Think so?"
"Know so." I said.
"Do you know when things are going to get better?”
I smiled, already making some plans for the next
day.
“Things are going to get better starting
tomorrow morning.” I said.
“Promise?” she asked.
“Promise.” I said, taking my boot out of the
door and letting her slowly close it all the way.
The door shut all the way and I heard a
deadbolt being locked followed by the sound of a chain being put on the door. I stood there for a minute, replaying the
events of the last few hours over in my head.
I had about fifty-three dollars cash and some change left in my pocket
along with a business card that had an Amazon hair stylist’s name, her phone
number and the imperative both written and spoken to call her tomorrow. A woman who was one quarter Seminole on her
great grandmother’s side, who was built like a roller derby girl, who had
bewitching eyes and lashes, who could probably keep up with Flynn for smoking
if not drinking and who was, all in all, a really interesting person to meet
nearly by accident.
I walked back out to the Pontiac, hopped back
in through the open T-tops, fired the 403 up and called it a night as I drove
back home the long way.
In fact I called it a damn good night.