Down and Out in Bugtussle (26 page)

“She can’t help it, Logan,” I say. “It’s her first year teaching, remember?”

He picks up the coffeepot and sniffs it. “I’m sorry—did I pour you a cup of crazy just now?” He puts the pot back down. “I thought you wanted your job back. I want you to want your job back. She gets on my nerves. She gets on everyone’s nerves. She screams at those poor kids all day every day.” I watch him place frozen biscuits on a cookie sheet. “How many of these do you want?” he asks.

“Two, please,” I say.

“Two for you, six for me.” He looks up. “Just kidding.” He looks at Buster Loo, who is sitting next to his foot like a Coke bottle. “How many for you, little buddy?” Buster Loo waves his paws up and down in response. “Six for you, too? Great.”

“He wishes,” I say, and Logan chuckles.

“Yeah, so she screams all day every day and everyone in the hallway is tired of her. Even Mrs. Spencer said something about it, and she hasn’t uttered a bad word about anyone since she started teaching there back in the 1800s.” I giggle and he continues. “I don’t know how she does it, seriously. How does her voice not give out on a daily basis?”

“Logan, that job is kicking her ass,” I say. “I feel sorry for her.”

“Yeah, you feel sorry for her because you’re palling around with her BFF, Freddie Dublin.” He puts the biscuits into the oven and turns around. “That guy’s hair looks so good. Every day. How does
he do that? Is it some kind of gel? If it is, then you need to find out what kind and go buy me some.”

“I’ll start an investigation immediately.”

“Thanks,” he says. “There’s just something about him.”

“There’s nothing about him. He’s a very nice person.”

“Someone’s fallen under his spell.”

“He’s not like that, Logan. I’m telling you. He’s not.”

“If he’s sweet-talked you out of trying to run Cameron Becker off and get your job back, then he is like that, Ace.”

“He’s very charming and charismatic. Don’t hate him because of his pizazz.”

“Oh-kay,” he says. “Well, if Little Miss Becker fails her last evaluation, that’ll be two in a row, and she’ll be outta there anyway. Then you’ll have to come back.”

“Yeah, she really blew that last one.”

“She can blow me,” he says. “I can’t stand that crazy bitch.”

I don’t know if I’ve really fallen under Freddie’s spell or if I’m just getting soft in my old age, but I feel sorry for Cameron Becker. “Don’t call her that,” I say. “I think she’s trying as hard as she can.”

Logan shakes his head. “Well, she needs to try a little harder.”

We have a pleasant breakfast after which he cleans up the kitchen as promised. I sit down on the couch and he takes a seat in the recliner and we watch television until well after lunchtime, which is not the normal protocol for a booty-call.

“So, what are you doing tonight?” he asks, and the question actually makes me nervous.

“Well, Stacey has been hounding me for weeks about going out with her,” I say, watching his expression carefully. “So I finally agreed to go honky-tonkin’ with her.”

“Honky-tonkin’ with Stacey Dewberry?” He laughs. “Yee haw, girl!”

“Right,” I say. “You wanna come?”

“Well, I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” he says, and his elusiveness bugs me more than it should. “Might see y’all out.”

“Maybe,” I say. “If you’re lucky.”

“If I’m lucky, I’ll get to come back here tonight.” Okay, now I really don’t know what’s going on. I immediately start to worry that I’m his backup booty—the one he calls if he doesn’t find anyone else. I’m too old for this silly shit! Don’t ask, don’t tell—that is our relationship.

“You’re a pretty lucky guy,” I say.

“Am I?” He gets up and starts walking down the hallway. Without looking back he says, “I’m just gonna go back here and see how lucky I really am.”

Buster Loo makes a run for the doggie door, and I get up and follow Logan Hatter back to my bedroom.

S
aturday afternoon, I call Lilly and she actually answers her phone.

“Hey, sister,” I say, trying not to get too excited. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she says. We talk about this and that, but when I bring up Chloe’s wedding shower, she gets in a hurry to get off the phone. I wonder for a minute if she might have wanted an engagement ring from Dax before he left. I hadn’t thought of that before now. I change the subject so we can stay on the phone a bit longer.

“Okay, wait a minute before you hang up,” I say. “I’m going barhopping tonight with Stacey and, remember, you said you wanted to go if I went….” I pause, hoping.

“Not tonight, Ace,” she says. “I’m not in the mood.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“I’m going to sit here on the couch and watch
Love Actually
again.”

“I’ll come over and watch it with you. I love that movie.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she says. “Besides, Saturday night is the only time Dax has a chance to call, which makes no sense because, I mean, they’re in freakin’ Nevada. Why can’t he just use his cell phone whenever he wants?”

“I have no idea,” I say because I don’t. “How’s he doing?”

“Well, when he called last week, he was sick as a dog and could hardly talk. Then he fell asleep while we were on the phone,” she says. I can tell she’s about to start crying.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? I’d really like to hang out. I’ll bring Buster Loo.”

“It’s okay, Ace,” she says. “I wouldn’t be good company. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say. “I hope you get your phone call.”

“Me, too.”

I hang up the phone and look down at Buster Loo. “Little fellow, if Auntie Lilly doesn’t get to feeling better soon, you may have to go friend-sit for a little-bitty while.” He whimpers and looks at me as if he truly understands what I’m saying.

An hour later, I’m standing in my closet, flipping hangers back and forth and getting pissed off because I can’t find anything to wear. I still have Stacey’s pink shirt and zebra pants, but I think that’d be a little much for a night of mere barhopping. Outfits like that should be reserved only for hard partying.

“I have got to have something in here that I can wear,” I say to Buster Loo, who is doing a fine job of looking concerned about my problem. I push all the school clothes to the side and notice a few boxes I must’ve forgotten to unpack. “Really?” I say. “More boxes? I can’t believe I’m still finding crap I haven’t put away yet.” I open the
box and find a bunch of new clothes that I bought on a shopping trip last year with Jalena. “Dang!” I say, suddenly happy to have found the wayward box. “I forgot all about these!”

I empty the contents onto the bed and dig through the pile until I find a denim skirt and a red-checkered top, which I promptly try on. “Shit,” I say to my reflection. “I’m not auditioning for
Hee Haw
for Fatties
.” I take off the shirt. I go through the pile again, this time hanging, folding, and sorting, and eventually I come up with a nice white top. “Perfect!” I say, then start digging through my closet for some shoes because Stacey told me not to wear my moccasins. She claimed it was because someone wearing boots might step on my toe and possibly break it. I think she just doesn’t like my moccasins. I call her to see if she has a pair of boots that I can borrow—in case I want to do some toe-stepping of my own.

“Flat-heeled,” I say. “Or very low-heeled.”

She says she has just the thing and when she shows up at my door thirty minutes later, she hands me a pair of brown cowboy boots with turquoise inlay. She’s wearing a very short miniskirt and a hot pink and black checked top that falls off her shoulder, revealing the strap of a glistening pink tank. Her hair looks like it does every day. Only maybe with a little more hair spray.

“Eight and a half,” she says, handing me the boots. “You can have ’em if they fit, ’cause they’re too small for me.”

“These are beautiful!” I look at the bottom of the boot and see the name, Johnny Ringo. “They look really expensive.”

“Got ’em at a yard sale in Birmingham for three bucks,” she explains. “I love to hit up those community garage sales in the nice parts of town.”

“Me, too!” I tell her. “Let’s go to some sometime.” Neither Lilly nor Chloe would be caught dead at a yard sale.

“Ain’t nothin’ to it but to do it!”

“I guess not,” I say, slipping on a very thin pair of socks. Buster Loo scurries over and starts sniffing Stacey’s go-go boots. She picks him up and baby talks him for few minutes, which he loves. Then he jumps down and scowls at me as if to say, “Why don’t you treat me like this?” I tell Stacey that Freddie has finally broken his silence and, of course, she already knows this.

“Well, I’m ready if you are. Let’s rock and roll, sister,” I say.

“Let’s go.”

We drive to Tupelo and hit up three different bars before she finds one with an “atmosphere” that she digs. I order my fourth beer of the night and she orders her fifth fuzzy navel. We order appetizers and when we finish those, Stacey is ready to socialize. She hits the dance floor, but I claim that I need to stay put so we don’t lose our seats at the bar. After she dances a few jigs, she wants to go check out the men in the pool room. I reluctantly leave my bar stool and follow her into the smoke-filled area where I see eight pool tables. Each table has two players. Some tables have fans standing around watching; some don’t. I blink against the haze and wonder how I ever smoked, because I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes.

She stops to watch a pair of guys start a new game and I stand beside her, wishing I were at home on the sofa. Of the two pool players, the one without the mullet notices us first. He gives Stacey the old once-over and then nods at his friend. The friend looks up at Stacey and smiles. How does she find so many men with mullets?

“Well, hello, Miss Pretty Thang,” the mullet man says. I wonder if he’s joking, or maybe making fun of her, but then he sidles up beside her and I see that he’s genuinely interested. He flirts up a storm while the short-haired friend looks up from time to time to check me out. I smile. He smiles. I’m not interested. I don’t think he is, either.

When they finish their game, Mullet Man asks Stacey to dance and she quickly accepts. I sit down on the bench next to the pool table, and Mullet’s pal sits next to me.

“Cal,” he says, holding out a hand.

“Ace,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Two peas in a pod.” He nods toward Stacey and Mullet Man on the dance floor.

“I guess,” I say. I look at him. He looks at me.

“You need a drink?” he asks.

“No, thank you.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he says. “You play pool?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Hmm.”

We sit and watch as Stacey and Mullet Man dance through three more songs.

“How ’bout some water?” Cal asks. “Or a Coke?”

“I’d actually love a Coke.” He gets up and returns what seems like six hours later with two very small glasses of Coke. Two people have just started a pool game on their table.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Lost our table. Guess we won’t be playing any more for a while.” He looks over at the lounge area. “Wanna go have a seat? Booths are slightly more comfortable.”

“That would be great.” I like Cal. He’s nice. Not pushy at all. I
follow him over and sit across from him in a circular booth where we talk about everything from dogs to water skis to funny old movies. Several songs later, Stacey and Mullet Man join us. I scoot around and sit next to Cal.

“Ace, this is Skeeter. Skeeter, Ace,” Stacey says. Despite the mullet, Skeeter is almost kind of handsome. Almost, but not quite.

“What are y’all drinkin’?” Skeeter asks. “Let’s get another round.”

“Coke,” Cal says.

“Sissies,” Skeeter says with a harmless smile. He looks around for a waitress. “Stacey, you wanna beer?”

“I’d like a fuzzy navel and a shot of Jack Daniel’s,” she says, smiling at Skeeter.

“I like a lady who likes her whiskey,” he says. Skeeter finally flags down a waitress and places his order. “Sure y’all don’t want a real drink?” he asks. Cal and I are sure. Skeeter and Cal start talking about someone who just walked in and Stacey elbows me, nodding toward Cal with her eyebrows raised.

“No,” I whisper. “Very nice, but no.”

Stacey looks disappointed.

“Aw, hell, here they come,” Cal says.

“And look who they’ve got with ’em,” Skeeter says. “Hellfire.” And “fire” comes out “far.” This guy could be Stacey’s soul mate.

I look up and see two couples coming our way. The person in front raises a hand and yells, “Well, lookie who’s here! Ol’ Skeet-dog and Cal-e-forn-ya! Y’all scoot over and let us sit down.”

I find out two things relatively quickly. Number one, they all work together—the two guys work in a plant with Cal and Skeeter and the girls work in the office. And number two, our four new friends are all sloppy, stinking drunk. I try not to stare at the girls,
but I can’t help it. One is wearing a skintight gold dress. The other a silky gray tank top and short shorts. Has it warmed up that much outside?

“I’m Angel,” the gold-clad girl says after she catches me looking at her. She points to the tits of the girl next to her. “This is Leta.” I glance at Stacey and she scoots over right next to me. I scoot over right next to Cal, and four more people stuff themselves into our six-person booth.