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Ahh. New car smell. Mr. Christian was so nice to give me an advance on my inheritance so I could make the trek to cow town in style. I’m loving being behind the wheel of my new sporty white convertible. In the past two days, I have driven through big cities, then small towns, then back to big cities. I cried when I reached Atlanta because I knew it was the last of real civilization that I would see for a long time.
Frustration replaces the tears when a traffic snarl post-Atlanta has me at a standstill on Interstate 75. At times like this, I sure could use a cold beer on such a hot day.
For the last leg of my journey, I pop in the new CD I bought before I left and try to read the language guide while I steer with my knees. I should be able to rip right through How to Speak Southern in two shakes. It’s already coming back to me.
“Hey, y’all,” the lady on the tape says. I like to call her Daisy Duke.
“Hey, y’all,” I say back to her. I smirk. Not bad.
“Hello, everyone,” the tape interprets. Duh. I’ve seen enough episodes of Nashville to figure that one out on my own.
“Hey, y’all,” I say as twangy as I can make it. “It’s like riding a bike. I can do this.”
“I’m fixin’ to go to the store,” Daisy Duke says.
“Fixin’, fixin’...” I glance down at the manual, looking for a clue to what fixin’ means, when I swerve and almost hit a semitruck in the next lane. He blares his horn.
“Hey, y’all,” I yell at him. “I’m learnin’ here.”
“I will be leaving for the store soon.”
“Huh? Oh yeah.”
“I’ll have a Coke,” Daisy Duke tells me.
“I got this one. Pretty straightforward. I’d like a Coke.”
“I would like any cold beverage,” Daisy’s monotone voice says.
I crinkle my sunburned nose. “That’s stupid.”
As the hours creep by, I pass homes with yards doubling for automobile graveyards and one church after another taunting me. I fumble with the cooler I’ve cleverly placed in the floorboard of the passenger seat, underneath a Bible and a Duck Dynasty T-shirt I bought at the last gas station. Driving with one hand, I unzip the cooler with the other to reveal a lovely six-pack of my favorite summertime beverage—Sam Adams beer. Got to pay homage to my town, Boston.
I pop the top, but before I can take the first foamy sip, images of me at five, snuggling with my grandmother, filter through my mind. I almost hear her say, “Sober up, Andie.” The last thing I need is to get a DUI on the way to fulfill her wishes. Ugh. I pull over to the side of the road, pour out the contents, and wedge the open container back into the cooler.
“Granny, are you happy now?”
As soon as I’m back on the road, a big, monster-sized sign welcomes me to Smithville, Georgia, the Colony City. Home of Claire Stevenson, Miss Gum Spirits, and Turpentine. I cringe. Somebody wants to be known for that? At least the terms of my agreement don’t include beauty pageants, thank God. Although I didn’t read the fine print of the legal agreement regarding “fitting in.” Even small-town South Georgia doesn’t want to witness that.
Right when I cross the city limits, a bug splats on my car window, then another, and another. Then one lands right on my sunglasses. I squeal and flip them into the back seat. It’s obvious I’ve reached downtown because there’s a beehive of activity. The drivers of all five cars on the road wave to me. Then everyone on the sidewalk waves to me. I pass by the First Baptist Bank and Trust... I mean Church. The marquee in front of the church reads “Thou shalt not speed.” Clever.
Not able to drive one more mile before my bladder bursts, I turn into the first gas station I find. I park under a shade tree so I don’t burn my ass on the leather seats when I get back in, a lesson I learned two states ago.
I open the door to the gas station, and a frog croaks, making me jump about three feet into the air.
“Howdy,” a man in greasy overalls says to me from behind the counter.
“Hello. Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure thang, ma’am.” He reaches under the counter and pulls out a baseball bat with a leather strap threaded through a hole in the small end. There’s a key dangling off the leather strap. He swings the bat in my direction, and I duck. He chuckles then spits tobacco into a McDonald’s cup on the counter. I throw up in my mouth.
“Wow. You don’t want anyone to leave with the key, do you?” I take the bat from him, doing my best not to touch his grimy hands.
“I’ve durn near lost a dozen of ‘em to kids. Crazy rug rats. It’s always on a scavenger hunt list.”
I scan the convenience store, but all I see are cans of oil, every tobacco product on the market, and so many bags of chips that I’m getting cholesterol gawking at them. The lottery scratch-off selection is impressive, but I don’t see a bathroom.
The man points toward the door. “Bathroom is outside. Hang a left, and the first door on your left. Can’t miss it.”
I need to pee fast and get the heck out of here while I still have all my teeth. “Thanks. I’ll be right back with your bat-key thingy.”
Two teenagers enter while I leave for the bathroom. Ha. I have the bat key. You can’t have it! I stop to stare at this big-ass, jacked-up truck that is parked way too close to my new, shiny baby. I better pee fast before they ding my car door. With one hand, I hold my nose closed, and with the other, I fumble with the bat-key. The typical pungent odor hits me, and I feel as if a muggy funk hovers over me. I tiptoe to the toilet and squat-pee. A loud bang and tires screeching outside cause me to jump and pee on my leg.
“Dang it.”
When I finish my business, I drag the bat-key back to the gas station dude. He already has his hand out, waiting for it.
“Thanks. What was that noise?” I might cry if someone ran into my brand-new car.
“Beats me,” he says, putting the bat-key back under the counter. “Somebody shootin’ something or... someone.”
“Comforting.” I cannot get away from this Gomer Pyle look-alike fast enough.
“Have a nice day,” he says.
“You too,” I say over my shoulder as I head out of the store. The big-ass truck is gone, but there is red icky stuff splattered all over my car. I let out a bloodcurdling scream before I can stop myself. I rush back into the gas station.
“Someone’s been shot,” I yell to Gomer Pyle.
“Huh?”
I rush behind the counter. He’s got to have a phone, even if it’s only a party line.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing, Missy?” He picks up the bat and cocks it back.
“If you’re not going to call the police, then I will.”
“Sugar, you don’t have to call the po-lice. The fuzz is right there.” He points the bat toward the magazine rack.
And holy moly, damn. Standing before me, with his head buried in a Muscle and Fitness magazine, is the hottest specimen of a man I have ever seen. In fact, he should be on the cover of that mag. Rock-hard muscles poke out of the sleeves of his police shirt and stress every seam. His dark, super-short military hairdo looks as though it would feel real nice curled around my fingers if he let it grow out a half inch. He peeks over the magazine, and his face lights up. Bam, those soft-green eyes compliment his tan skin, and he has a dimple too. Have mercy. I am in heaven. They sure know how to grow them down here.
“Oh, thank God. I’d never get this kind of service in Boston.” I’m impressed with this town’s emergency response time. It is very, very satisfactory.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” His words slide off his tongue, slow and sweet, like George Clooney with a twang.
Yes. Yes, he can.