| General Fiction posted August 18, 2017 |
  |
A story
Jumpstart
by LIJ Red
I parked my 350 stakebed in front of the Choonchoke diner, and the late-morning sun slapped me as I stepped out of the cab, with all the heat and brilliance of July.
I heard the click-click-clunk of a starter solenoid switch in the old green Buick two spaces away in the parking lot. Someone had a dead battery.
The Buick belonged to old Pastor Penamon. I had not seen the car around the county seat for years, since the eighty-year-old reverend pulled out in front of the kid on the motorscooter and wisely grounded himself.
I grinned. The local radio station had said the kid had "A broken rib and several broken legs."
I strolled over to the Buick and the strange redheaded woman behind the wheel glared at me. Her face was shiny with budding sweat. That dull, dark car was an oven in the Georgia sun.
The preacher had not finally managed to sell his old Buick. The woman was his daughter Mary Lynn.
"Pop the hood latch, we'll jump that critter off," I said, tipping my ball cap.
"No, thank you!" she snapped.
"Won't cost nothin', won't take a minnit. Pull the button."
"Get away. Leave me alone."
"Well, yes, ma'am," I said, and started for the front door of the diner.
"You don't even know who I am, do you?" she called after me in a voice that was screechy with self- pity and fury.
"Nope. Another rude loudmouth yankee woman is all. Though you do look like the old preacher's daughter that went off to work on the casting couch. That kinda looks like his old junkyass Buick, zamatterafact."
She tried to roll up the window-in the hundred degree heat. Mercifully, it only twitched and grunted.
I walked to my truck, yelling, "Pop the damn hood."
I left the truck idling, nose to nose with the Buick, and clamped on the jumper cables. There was a rat's nest behind the Buick battery.
"Crank it," I said.
The engine turned and fired, with a rusty dry squeal. I stepped to the window and looked inside the car. That woman had long, pretty legs, and in the heat, she smelled better than a french ho'house.
"Hear the squeaking and see that little light picture of a batt'ry? The belt's all crackly, but still working, so you need an alternator," I said. "Shut it off, and let's go eat. It won't run five minutes after we disconnect my truck."
"You go to Hell!" she cried. "Close my hood."
I took in the jumper cables and slammed her hood. The Buick roared away.
I went to lunch. Charlotte, the waitress in the diner, brought my usual drink and said, "Guess who is back in town?"
"Mary Lynn Penamon. Star of stage and screen," I said. Charlotte and Mary Lynn had been buds two decades ago in Gilroy High.
"You two were so serious, for a little while. Did she call you?"
"Not exactly."
I squirted a foil pack of tartar sauce on my catfish nuggets,when they arrived.
Mary Lynn marched into the diner and glared around the room. I beckoned to her.
She accused me of cadliness. "It died as I was waiting to enter the highway. I had to get some construction workers to push me out of the parking lot entrance."
The pressure of years shoved the words through the catfish, "You remarked off handedly that your folks were so relieved that I didn't give you a ring for Christmas. Then you commented later that we were not going anywhere. So I said to the divvil with the lot of you, and pounced on Rosie Mae."
She really put the icy fisheye on me at that. "Where did that come from?" she demanded. "Hello, Charlotte. Nothing for me, thanks. Put away the smirk. There is nothing going on."
Charlotte took her smirk away to the kitchen. The diner was filling up, and getting noisy, and a lot of regular patrons were squinting at the well-dressed yankee at my table.
Mary Lynn was not through. "My daddy said, quote,'That young jerk wouldn't yell sooey if a hog was eating his foot.'"
"What's your latest big-screen hit, Marylyn?" I asked.
"What's your latest best-seller, Papa Disearnest?"
"I gave up writing after just a year or two, and turned my attention to my yarn mill job. Too late. Rosie Mae was fed up with my nose-in-the-typwriter drill. Then I proved unable to control rowdy mill hands and they fired me. Now I raise veggies and haul stuff for other people."
"See? I knew you were a winner."
"You know, I thought you were. You were so dadblamed beautiful."
"I know. My total waste of my entire youth was all your fault, redneck worm. I was the next Sharon Stone, in my fancy, and you let me believe it."
Charlotte overheard her peevish remark. She was back with an unordered plate identical to mine. She placed it in front of her old pal, and we all laughed.
I watched the gal work with knife and fork, and asked, "Have you been eating regular?"
"Not in years. A hillbilly lard ass is the kiss of death in show biz."
"When will you go back?"
"When Tartarus freezes solid. You know what they say; home is where when you have to go there, they have to let you in."
"We'll jump the old Buick over and over until we get you to Bo's G'rage, then I'll take you home. Make your highborn kinfolks cry. Lucky coincidence that I run into you when you needed help."
Mary Lynn chomped a boiled cabbage leaf and looked me in the eye. "What coincidence?"
I parked my 350 stakebed in front of the Choonchoke diner, and the late-morning sun slapped me as I stepped out of the cab, with all the heat and brilliance of July.
I heard the click-click-clunk of a starter solenoid switch in the old green Buick two spaces away in the parking lot. Someone had a dead battery.
The Buick belonged to old Pastor Penamon. I had not seen the car around the county seat for years, since the eighty-year-old reverend pulled out in front of the kid on the motorscooter and wisely grounded himself.
I grinned. The local radio station had said the kid had "A broken rib and several broken legs."
I strolled over to the Buick and the strange redheaded woman behind the wheel glared at me. Her face was shiny with budding sweat. That dull, dark car was an oven in the Georgia sun.
The preacher had not finally managed to sell his old Buick. The woman was his daughter Mary Lynn.
"Pop the hood latch, we'll jump that critter off," I said, tipping my ball cap.
"No, thank you!" she snapped.
"Won't cost nothin', won't take a minnit. Pull the button."
"Get away. Leave me alone."
"Well, yes, ma'am," I said, and started for the front door of the diner.
"You don't even know who I am, do you?" she called after me in a voice that was screechy with self- pity and fury.
"Nope. Another rude loudmouth yankee woman is all. Though you do look like the old preacher's daughter that went off to work on the casting couch. That kinda looks like his old junkyass Buick, zamatterafact."
She tried to roll up the window-in the hundred degree heat. Mercifully, it only twitched and grunted.
I walked to my truck, yelling, "Pop the damn hood."
I left the truck idling, nose to nose with the Buick, and clamped on the jumper cables. There was a rat's nest behind the Buick battery.
"Crank it," I said.
The engine turned and fired, with a rusty dry squeal. I stepped to the window and looked inside the car. That woman had long, pretty legs, and in the heat, she smelled better than a french ho'house.
"Hear the squeaking and see that little light picture of a batt'ry? The belt's all crackly, but still working, so you need an alternator," I said. "Shut it off, and let's go eat. It won't run five minutes after we disconnect my truck."
"You go to Hell!" she cried. "Close my hood."
I took in the jumper cables and slammed her hood. The Buick roared away.
I went to lunch. Charlotte, the waitress in the diner, brought my usual drink and said, "Guess who is back in town?"
"Mary Lynn Penamon. Star of stage and screen," I said. Charlotte and Mary Lynn had been buds two decades ago in Gilroy High.
"You two were so serious, for a little while. Did she call you?"
"Not exactly."
I squirted a foil pack of tartar sauce on my catfish nuggets,when they arrived.
Mary Lynn marched into the diner and glared around the room. I beckoned to her.
She accused me of cadliness. "It died as I was waiting to enter the highway. I had to get some construction workers to push me out of the parking lot entrance."
The pressure of years shoved the words through the catfish, "You remarked off handedly that your folks were so relieved that I didn't give you a ring for Christmas. Then you commented later that we were not going anywhere. So I said to the divvil with the lot of you, and pounced on Rosie Mae."
She really put the icy fisheye on me at that. "Where did that come from?" she demanded. "Hello, Charlotte. Nothing for me, thanks. Put away the smirk. There is nothing going on."
Charlotte took her smirk away to the kitchen. The diner was filling up, and getting noisy, and a lot of regular patrons were squinting at the well-dressed yankee at my table.
Mary Lynn was not through. "My daddy said, quote,'That young jerk wouldn't yell sooey if a hog was eating his foot.'"
"What's your latest big-screen hit, Marylyn?" I asked.
"What's your latest best-seller, Papa Disearnest?"
"I gave up writing after just a year or two, and turned my attention to my yarn mill job. Too late. Rosie Mae was fed up with my nose-in-the-typwriter drill. Then I proved unable to control rowdy mill hands and they fired me. Now I raise veggies and haul stuff for other people."
"See? I knew you were a winner."
"You know, I thought you were. You were so dadblamed beautiful."
"I know. My total waste of my entire youth was all your fault, redneck worm. I was the next Sharon Stone, in my fancy, and you let me believe it."
Charlotte overheard her peevish remark. She was back with an unordered plate identical to mine. She placed it in front of her old pal, and we all laughed.
I watched the gal work with knife and fork, and asked, "Have you been eating regular?"
"Not in years. A hillbilly lard ass is the kiss of death in show biz."
"When will you go back?"
"When Tartarus freezes solid. You know what they say; home is where when you have to go there, they have to let you in."
"We'll jump the old Buick over and over until we get you to Bo's G'rage, then I'll take you home. Make your highborn kinfolks cry. Lucky coincidence that I run into you when you needed help."
Mary Lynn chomped a boiled cabbage leaf and looked me in the eye. "What coincidence?"
I heard the click-click-clunk of a starter solenoid switch in the old green Buick two spaces away in the parking lot. Someone had a dead battery.
The Buick belonged to old Pastor Penamon. I had not seen the car around the county seat for years, since the eighty-year-old reverend pulled out in front of the kid on the motorscooter and wisely grounded himself.
I grinned. The local radio station had said the kid had "A broken rib and several broken legs."
I strolled over to the Buick and the strange redheaded woman behind the wheel glared at me. Her face was shiny with budding sweat. That dull, dark car was an oven in the Georgia sun.
The preacher had not finally managed to sell his old Buick. The woman was his daughter Mary Lynn.
"Pop the hood latch, we'll jump that critter off," I said, tipping my ball cap.
"No, thank you!" she snapped.
"Won't cost nothin', won't take a minnit. Pull the button."
"Get away. Leave me alone."
"Well, yes, ma'am," I said, and started for the front door of the diner.
"You don't even know who I am, do you?" she called after me in a voice that was screechy with self- pity and fury.
"Nope. Another rude loudmouth yankee woman is all. Though you do look like the old preacher's daughter that went off to work on the casting couch. That kinda looks like his old junkyass Buick, zamatterafact."
She tried to roll up the window-in the hundred degree heat. Mercifully, it only twitched and grunted.
I walked to my truck, yelling, "Pop the damn hood."
I left the truck idling, nose to nose with the Buick, and clamped on the jumper cables. There was a rat's nest behind the Buick battery.
"Crank it," I said.
The engine turned and fired, with a rusty dry squeal. I stepped to the window and looked inside the car. That woman had long, pretty legs, and in the heat, she smelled better than a french ho'house.
"Hear the squeaking and see that little light picture of a batt'ry? The belt's all crackly, but still working, so you need an alternator," I said. "Shut it off, and let's go eat. It won't run five minutes after we disconnect my truck."
"You go to Hell!" she cried. "Close my hood."
I took in the jumper cables and slammed her hood. The Buick roared away.
I went to lunch. Charlotte, the waitress in the diner, brought my usual drink and said, "Guess who is back in town?"
"Mary Lynn Penamon. Star of stage and screen," I said. Charlotte and Mary Lynn had been buds two decades ago in Gilroy High.
"You two were so serious, for a little while. Did she call you?"
"Not exactly."
I squirted a foil pack of tartar sauce on my catfish nuggets,when they arrived.
Mary Lynn marched into the diner and glared around the room. I beckoned to her.
She accused me of cadliness. "It died as I was waiting to enter the highway. I had to get some construction workers to push me out of the parking lot entrance."
The pressure of years shoved the words through the catfish, "You remarked off handedly that your folks were so relieved that I didn't give you a ring for Christmas. Then you commented later that we were not going anywhere. So I said to the divvil with the lot of you, and pounced on Rosie Mae."
She really put the icy fisheye on me at that. "Where did that come from?" she demanded. "Hello, Charlotte. Nothing for me, thanks. Put away the smirk. There is nothing going on."
Charlotte took her smirk away to the kitchen. The diner was filling up, and getting noisy, and a lot of regular patrons were squinting at the well-dressed yankee at my table.
Mary Lynn was not through. "My daddy said, quote,'That young jerk wouldn't yell sooey if a hog was eating his foot.'"
"What's your latest big-screen hit, Marylyn?" I asked.
"What's your latest best-seller, Papa Disearnest?"
"I gave up writing after just a year or two, and turned my attention to my yarn mill job. Too late. Rosie Mae was fed up with my nose-in-the-typwriter drill. Then I proved unable to control rowdy mill hands and they fired me. Now I raise veggies and haul stuff for other people."
"See? I knew you were a winner."
"You know, I thought you were. You were so dadblamed beautiful."
"I know. My total waste of my entire youth was all your fault, redneck worm. I was the next Sharon Stone, in my fancy, and you let me believe it."
Charlotte overheard her peevish remark. She was back with an unordered plate identical to mine. She placed it in front of her old pal, and we all laughed.
I watched the gal work with knife and fork, and asked, "Have you been eating regular?"
"Not in years. A hillbilly lard ass is the kiss of death in show biz."
"When will you go back?"
"When Tartarus freezes solid. You know what they say; home is where when you have to go there, they have to let you in."
"We'll jump the old Buick over and over until we get you to Bo's G'rage, then I'll take you home. Make your highborn kinfolks cry. Lucky coincidence that I run into you when you needed help."
Mary Lynn chomped a boiled cabbage leaf and looked me in the eye. "What coincidence?"
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