The Month of July
14 years ago
Friday, June 26, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Chapter One - Eddie
If Eddie had known where he was going he never would have left where he was at. Half slumped down in the driver’s seat, he was leaning a little to the right, elbow deep in the armrest, left hand draped on the wheel, left foot planted on the edge of the seat where he kept it for highway driving. The heel of his boot had worn a spot to the warp and weft of the velvet, but that didn’t bother Eddie none. He knew the old heap would be ready for scrap long before that seat wore through and the way he drove that Cadillac car he might have been on to something.
His boots were custom made from horsehide, black with silver toe caps on them, initials cut from lizard skin. He’d kept them up with polish and spit, but just like everything else about Eddie, they were starting to show their age. They’d cost him eight thousand dollars once when he was out on a tear, spending the money his forebears made from years in the widget making trade. Half a billion some said it was, after the brokers had churned the account. But Eddie went through it in less than a year after his parents died, on slow dogs and fast women, losing poker hands and spread bets he couldn’t cover. If he had hung on to the money he’d be rich man today, but all that was left of his forebears' sweat was the worn out boots and the beat up car and the clothes he’d packed in the trunk.
A song came up on the radio that Eddie used to like. He tapped out the beat on the steering wheel, shifted his weight in the seat a few times, then KO’d the FM band. He grabbed his CB radio mic, shoved both feet to the floor, and launched into some of that CB chatter in a version of Texas Twang he’d learned from nowhere anyone could place. This is Gopher Anus talkin, headin west on Highway Ten, anyone out there? Over.
His accent might have sounded like something, even to Texan ears, were it not for the riffs off Gomer Pyle, and bits of North Carolina cracker he’d picked up some years back. It wasn’t that Eddie was phony, or nothing, he was just purebred Yankee, see, and it didn’t take much, to his way of thinking, to know that Connecticut lockjaw wasn’t the way to appeal to truckers working the deep south routes.
This is Gopher Anus talkin, headin west on Highway Ten anyone out there? Over.
Eddie put down the mic and sighed. The romance of the open road was not living up to his expectations, given that he was alone and lonely, and his sole means of companionship had only a one mile radius. The handle he owed to his songwriter buddy, a one hit wonder from the 1960s, whose only composition had won the Grammy before fading along with its author into the obscurity of booze, drugs, and sex addiction. He was a surgeon when Eddie met him, the kind who trims the trees, but he sure did have some tales to tell about the leading lights of the counterculture, and the underaged groupies who serviced them.
A flashing light on the dashboard demanded Eddie's attention. But he wondered how he'd fill his tank when he had no money for gas. Suddenly, the scanner squawked. This is Tango Tyler, over.
Eddie grabbed his microphone.
Whaddaya say there Tango Tyler? This is Gopher Anus talking, heading west on Highway Ten.
Whatchya hauling? Prairie dog shit?
Seat of your pants, there, Tango Tyler, think you’re some kinda comedian do ya? Rig full of laughing hyenas here be much obliged for your jokes an' all but you wouldn’t want to mess with 'em none. They ain’t been fed a spell.
Don’t be givin me lip now, boy. Running a handle like Gopher Anus, you take what’s coming to you.
Got your attention didn’t I?
Don’t be letting it go to your head. Been trying to raise some chat all day.
Eddie was pleased as he could be. He’d been a full day on the road already, up through the swamps on Route 19, where mile after mile of mangrove shrubs were a man’s sole travel companions. Unless you count the Florida heat, which felt like being smothered up in a marathoner’s jockstrap. He’d jabbered into that microphone every half hour or so and this was the first bit of conversation he’d had in all that time.
Looking for that good old boy they calls Ophelia’s Darling. Ain’t heard tell of him lately, have ya?
Sound’s like a live one, Good Buddy, you two doing the hanky panky?
Hell I am. But your wife might be. Might be doing her myself, that is if she’s woman enough, but married to a fellow like you, I don’t see how she could be.
Hoo wee? Don’t be talking about my Mama. I’m half a mind to shove your teeth right down your lying throat.
Just squarin up the put downs, partner. Heard that handle round these parts?
Can’t say I have there, Gopher.
How long you been driving, Tango?
Darn near half my lifetime, and I’m well over fifty.
And you ain’t heard of…damn! All his cookin and womanizin… boy’s a legend near’s I can tell.
The traffic ahead was slowing down over the crest of the hill. Trouble ahead there, Tango Tyler.
You got that right, boy, I’m already up to my backside in it.
Another half a mile on, Interstate 10 was a parking lot, and a truck stop parking lot at that, filled with scores and dozens of trucks, all within range of his radio, and all at a dead stop. Eddie looked down at his gas gauge. He turned his vapor fueled car to the shoulder in order to save on gas.
Just like I was saying, Tango, that boy makes the best damn gumbo, heard tell it won prizes too, down in New Orleans and pot roast chili, hoot dee dang! Made with brisket, stewed in beer, with garden herbs and chili peppers, couple of secret ingredients just to round the hot stuff out, served with a long neck Dixie Beer. Worked cafes from here to Abeline long as I been driving rigs, last I heard he’d be in these parts. I always like to taste his cookin whenever I pass through, but that boy never stays put nowhere. Gets himself in woman trouble everywhere he goes, has to hotfoot out of town once they get that way about him. Says them gals want saddle ponies they shouldn’t be ridin rodeo.
Where you from, boy? Tango said.
Why do you ask me that?
Cuz yew shur dew tawk funny…
People been saying that all my life, never had a notion why. Must be on account my pa, him being in the service an all, an me being raised all over like. Boy picks up all kinds of notions, gettin run all around like that.
What did you say that handle was?
Ophelia’s Darling.
Can’t say I’ve heard it none. You say that boy’s a living legend? Sound’s to me like an ol’ fish story.
Damn, Eddie said to himself. He’d never known his racetrack friends to give him any trouble whenever he got into character and launched into one of his spiels. He’d livened up parties for years that way, ever since he could remember, and no one ever second guessed him. He’d always thought the point was to make people believe the lies, even when they knew he was lying.
Is that a fact? Eddie said. Maybe you’d know Ophelia then…
Eddie paused for a second, trying to picture Ophelia. He figured if he were to sell the story she would be the key.
…used to be a truck stop waitress outside Tuscaloosa, ugly as an old sow she was, wen coming out left side of her nose, eyes like flea bit hound, had the hots for this Denver boy, used to come in regular, making a run to Jacksonville…
Break 19, Gopher Anus, why would he go through Tuscaloosa?
How should I know? Eddie said. Maybe he had business there.
Eddie scanned his map a second. Reading how the Interstates go he saw he’d taken his man off route. He’d said Tuscaloosa just for the rhythm of it but figured Chattanooga might sound more convincing.
Now where was I? Eddie said, just to stall for time. He needed a place to take the story or he’d be in even greater trouble than he was in Tuscaloosa.
Just like I was saying, partner, that old Denver boy, he always took Ophelia’s spot whenever he come through and when she come to pour his coffee he’d start flirting in on her like she was a Playboy bunny or something. She’d be saying, you don’t mean it, stop giving me such sass, and such, but she’d be creamin herself deep down. It always shown in the light in her eyes, and how she primped when he come in, way she dropped that huckleberry pie the time he’d pinched her butt, peeled right off her fingertips cause she was giving him the eye rather’n what she was doing. Said he’d help her clean it up, so they go down on hands and knees and she gives him this come-on smile and he winks back at her, and she grabs him and squeezes him, plum near took the life out of him…
Break 19, Rodent's Rump, I thought you said this feller cooked?
I’ll be getting to that, don’t fret. So anyway, some of the regular boys, they didn’t like that trucker much, ‘count of him being so cocky and all, and getting the eye of the local girls. So being the practical joking sort, they done wrote a letter up, addressed it to Ophelia, signed it lover boy, an' mailed it down the road apiece, said they’d go out dancing next time he come through. That was always Thursday night, first and third week of each month, round about nine o’clock.
Woman gets her big night off, wears that new red dress she’d bought just for the occasion, and goes to the stop to meet her man, She sits by the door and waits, he rolls in about eleven, sidles up to the service counter and takes his regular seat. Ophelia weren’t nowhere in sight cause she'd gone off to the ladies' room half worried sick about her man, or so it seemed to me anyway from all the smoking she’d been doing, and half being mad for being stood up. Writ all over her face, it was.
Girl that took Ophelia’s place, she come over to pour his coffee. He says where’s Ophelia, and why ain’t she waiting on me, and she go home already, or she get fired for dropping that pie? Girl points out Ophelia to him, coming out from the ladies' room, hair done up with bows and ringlets, wearing that bright red dress she’d bought just for the occasion, makes her look like a fire truck, and lover boy, he’s sipping coffee, and just then the waitress says, I think she’s waiting on you, lover boy, seein’s how ya’ll had a date tonight. Lover boy chokes and sprays his coffee all over that gal’s uniform, and then he says, the hell we did, and puts his dollar down and walks.
Woman sees him leave, of course, gets all teary-eyed and weepy, pumps that girl that waited on him for every word they’d said. Only makes her cry some more. Fellow hired to do the cookin, he comes over to sympathize, sees her dressed like a Christmas package waiting to be unwrapped, takes her back to the kitchen and makes a happy woman of her right there on the salad counter, bunch of us watching through the door, never did take that dress off of her…
Break 19, there, Gopher Asshole. You some kind of woman hater? Why are you being so mean? Over!
Who you calling a woman hater? I’m just telling what happened is all. Ain’t gonna give it no sugar coating to please no damn feminists. Over.
Sexist fucking pig.
Another voice broke in. Shut up and let him finish, bitch, some of us wants to hear this yarn.
Appreciate that, partner. Can’t imagine I hate women half as much as she hates men and I got plenty o' reason to… But anyway, boys, like I was saying, after that cook was done with her that Denver boy never crossed her mind. Cook, he saw where things was going, her making eyes at him and all, and always calling him darling and such…
Break 19, it’s Tango Tyler, you’re breaking up real bad, there boy, but you sure tell one hell of a yarn for a fellow that might be lying. I wish to hell I’d seen this boy, like to taste that chili too, but it’s the first I’ve heard of him. Tango Tyler over and out.
But Eddie still had an audience so he just kept on talking. …hit the road soon after that, took another job, and ever since that cookin fellow’s been known as Ophelia’s Darling, always seems when I pass through where that old boy’s been cookin the CB’s rattling all about it and all the drivers is making detours just so as they can eat his chili, and you’d have known him if you’d seen him, always dressed in black, he was, unpressed jeans, and a slub silk shirt, red bandanna round his neck, belt made out of rubber, bottle caps around it, fastened with an old seat belt buckle from a General Motors car. I ain’t never seen the like. Boots with silver toe caps on em, initials done in lizard skin. Never wears nothing else that boy, except them cooking whites that is, and all the girls go crazy for him account of his outlaw looks an all.
Eddie sat there jamming until the roadway cleared, talked his way through Tallahassee, kept on telling the same story as well as he could recollect from what he’d said the time before. He didn’t want to keep explaining where he’d gotten his accent from so he cut back on the dialect.
* * *
Eddie cruised the truck stop just to the west of town, one of those big, new-fangled places, all plastic and stainless steel, acres of parking lots out back for staying overnight, truck wash and diesel pumps, convenience store and cafe seating several dozen. Help Wanted signs hung out, so Eddie parked and entered. He was all dressed up in black, just like he’d described, hoping he’d be recognized. But no one paid him any mind, he seemed downright invisible. He asked to see the Manager, who kept him waiting long enough. Turned out he was a cold-looking cuss, with a face as hard as a stone in your shoe. Eddie didn’t speak to him directly, sized him up a bit at first, deciding how to approach him, then stepped up with his hand held out, only to pull it back untouched.
I’m Ed Conover, sir, he said, I saw that sign in the window there and figured you could use some help. Seeing how my car’s broke down, and I’ll be needing travel money once I get it fixed, I thought I’d come in to inquire. I can give you a about a week, until you find some permanent help, and I’ll do just about anything as long as it needs doing well.
The Manager looked him up and down as if he’d done hard time somewhere. Eddie simply didn’t fit in asking for work in a truck stop joint. His lordly looks and presumptive airs were things that hard times couldn’t sully and plain folks just didn’t take to. For him to be down and out like that was just like wearing a ‘kick me’ sign, and the way things looked to Eddie, the Manager planned to do just that. Well, the Manager said, with a pause, I don’t know…
But Eddie needed the money bad. There was no way he could gamble for it. He had nothing to gamble with. Word might get around besides, and then he’d be in real trouble. He’d seen what happened to friends of his who thought they’d cross his bookie. A couple of boys named Beau Bo and Billy might come 'round for a visit. They’d been out on the wrestling circuit, but couldn’t learn how to be gentle enough not to hurt their opponents. Eddie was able to get out of town before those two came calling and he wasn’t about to push his luck. He knew he’d have to work for a change but that didn’t mean he didn’t still care about the kind of work he’d do.
What sort of work you got, he said?
It’s washing trucks. You want the job? You don’t quite look the type.
I was hoping you’d need a cook since I can do some fabulous food. Prize winning Chili and Seafood Gumbo, like of which you’ve never tasted. You might’ve even heard of me from some of them truckers passing through.
The Manager’s face froze shut. He folded his arms across his chest and Eddie knew he was done for but kept on talking anyway so as not to be seen backing down.
Got me a reputation too, and one hell of a following. I’m telling you, sir, I’d keep this place full-up day and night, I would, known some boys to go out of their way much as fifty miles or more just for a plate of my chili, so what do you say there, partner, we…
You’d do just about anything, huh? Long as cookin’s what needs doing. Take it you don’t like washing trucks.
No, sir, don’t mind washing trucks a bit. It’s just that I know cooking better. Thought I’d point that out to you, since good cooks don’t come around too…
Got no time to dicker, you want to wash them trucks, or not?
Eddie let go with a wide, winning grin that pulled a little to the right, and his eyes sparkled up as they always did, whenever he smiled like that. Hell, he said, I’ll take it, how bad can it be, but I only work for daily cash, and I want ten bucks an hour, too, so have we got a deal or not.
The Manager glared at Eddie a little while longer. You know, he said, I could use a good cook, might’ve been willing to try you out, you’d held out for it long enough, but I don’t let no drifters in cause critters like that would rob me blind, but no one wants to wash trucks no more, it being out in that heat and all, so you can help yourself to the work, long as you’ll take the minimum wage.
The Manager eyed him even harder, waiting for him to speak. Eddie was desperate enough to tell him, Hell, I’ll take it just the same, but he’d never worked for the minimum wage and he wasn’t about to start. Thanks just the same, Eddie said, I think I can do better elsewhere.
But Eddie’s moment of hesitation was all the Manager needed to see. He turned and walked away from Eddie without another word. Eddie detected a lift in his step. Thanks for making my day, it said, like he’d just bought himself a Wall Street banker.
You suck the bones of your dead, Eddie yelled to the man’s retreating backside. But Eddie’s words had no effect, except to shock the patrons. Unless he was going to kill the man, all he could do for his pride was leave.
There weren’t any other restaurants around, but there was a car wash down the street so Eddie figured he’d give it a try. He walked in, shook the man’s hand, and explained his situation.
Just one or two days is all I need. No paperwork, no deductions, ten bucks an hour, cash money, that’s less than you pay at the labor pool.
The man didn’t even stop to consider. The place was busy and help was short. Can you start right away? he said.
The sooner the better. Eddie replied.
The boys will show you what to do, but keep it to yourself, will you, what you’re getting paid and all. I wouldn’t want no permanent help. Gives me too much trouble.
From Eddie’s Journal
October 22
7:35 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Cash on hand 4.77
Income 36.00
Expenses:
Water .99
Dinner 18.63
Beer 8.43
Net 12.72
October 23
7:15 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Cash on hand 12.73
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Breakfast 3.63
Lunch 3.35
Dinner 15.37
Beer 8.43
Net 40.07
I had a bad dream about Muffy. She’s calling me from Santa Fe, where she’s living in sin with some New Age dyke she met at Betty Ford.
Oh, Edward, she says, crying, things are so awful you’d never believe it. Jane and I fighting, always over little things; the dishes, the garbage, the kitty litter. And AA’s so political I can’t deal with it anymore. My gluten allergy support group does nothing but bitch and moan about how they miss their fresh croissants… I’m dying for a drink… and I really miss you, Edward, and I want to come home so badly, I’ll make it up to you, darling. I promise you I will.
So pull out the crystals and meditate, I tell her.
Crystals? she shrieks. I don’t do that stuff any more. I’m into Shakra plates now, they’re much more powerful than crystals…
Then I hear the door bell ring and I’m sure it must be Gummy, and I want get rid of Muffy, but the way she’s going on and on, I can’t get a word in edgewise. It does no good to hang up the phone since she always calls me back.
…they’ve helped me to focus my energy, which tells me I need to come home.
Then Gummy enters the room. She comes at me with her head cocked forward, eyes fixed on mine, and she’s swinging her ass to some bump and grind that’s playing in her head, and pulling up her long plaid skirt. She kisses my neck and caresses my groin, and I’m telling her to stop because my wife on the line, but she doesn’t pay any attention to me, and I'm trying to get rid of Muffy, who's giving me this discourse on Kundalini healings, while Gummy is cooing and nibbling and whispering words in my other ear, but I can’t hear what she’s telling me, because Muffy’s going on and on like she's channeling the ghost of a flim-flam man until she’s finally gasping for air. Then Gummy’s panting and moaning on the left, there's an eloquent silence from Muffy on the right, and I hear a loud click on the line, and no sooner does Muffy ring off than Gummy disappears and I’m left hugging my pillow.
October 24
7:26 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Previous Balance 40.07
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Breakfast 3.23
Lunch 4.31
Crap game 90.00
Net 6.53
October 25
10:15 p.m
Pensacola, Florida
Previous Balance 6.53
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Lunch 3.23
Gas 25.34
Net 41.99
His boots were custom made from horsehide, black with silver toe caps on them, initials cut from lizard skin. He’d kept them up with polish and spit, but just like everything else about Eddie, they were starting to show their age. They’d cost him eight thousand dollars once when he was out on a tear, spending the money his forebears made from years in the widget making trade. Half a billion some said it was, after the brokers had churned the account. But Eddie went through it in less than a year after his parents died, on slow dogs and fast women, losing poker hands and spread bets he couldn’t cover. If he had hung on to the money he’d be rich man today, but all that was left of his forebears' sweat was the worn out boots and the beat up car and the clothes he’d packed in the trunk.
A song came up on the radio that Eddie used to like. He tapped out the beat on the steering wheel, shifted his weight in the seat a few times, then KO’d the FM band. He grabbed his CB radio mic, shoved both feet to the floor, and launched into some of that CB chatter in a version of Texas Twang he’d learned from nowhere anyone could place. This is Gopher Anus talkin, headin west on Highway Ten, anyone out there? Over.
His accent might have sounded like something, even to Texan ears, were it not for the riffs off Gomer Pyle, and bits of North Carolina cracker he’d picked up some years back. It wasn’t that Eddie was phony, or nothing, he was just purebred Yankee, see, and it didn’t take much, to his way of thinking, to know that Connecticut lockjaw wasn’t the way to appeal to truckers working the deep south routes.
This is Gopher Anus talkin, headin west on Highway Ten anyone out there? Over.
Eddie put down the mic and sighed. The romance of the open road was not living up to his expectations, given that he was alone and lonely, and his sole means of companionship had only a one mile radius. The handle he owed to his songwriter buddy, a one hit wonder from the 1960s, whose only composition had won the Grammy before fading along with its author into the obscurity of booze, drugs, and sex addiction. He was a surgeon when Eddie met him, the kind who trims the trees, but he sure did have some tales to tell about the leading lights of the counterculture, and the underaged groupies who serviced them.
A flashing light on the dashboard demanded Eddie's attention. But he wondered how he'd fill his tank when he had no money for gas. Suddenly, the scanner squawked. This is Tango Tyler, over.
Eddie grabbed his microphone.
Whaddaya say there Tango Tyler? This is Gopher Anus talking, heading west on Highway Ten.
Whatchya hauling? Prairie dog shit?
Seat of your pants, there, Tango Tyler, think you’re some kinda comedian do ya? Rig full of laughing hyenas here be much obliged for your jokes an' all but you wouldn’t want to mess with 'em none. They ain’t been fed a spell.
Don’t be givin me lip now, boy. Running a handle like Gopher Anus, you take what’s coming to you.
Got your attention didn’t I?
Don’t be letting it go to your head. Been trying to raise some chat all day.
Eddie was pleased as he could be. He’d been a full day on the road already, up through the swamps on Route 19, where mile after mile of mangrove shrubs were a man’s sole travel companions. Unless you count the Florida heat, which felt like being smothered up in a marathoner’s jockstrap. He’d jabbered into that microphone every half hour or so and this was the first bit of conversation he’d had in all that time.
Looking for that good old boy they calls Ophelia’s Darling. Ain’t heard tell of him lately, have ya?
Sound’s like a live one, Good Buddy, you two doing the hanky panky?
Hell I am. But your wife might be. Might be doing her myself, that is if she’s woman enough, but married to a fellow like you, I don’t see how she could be.
Hoo wee? Don’t be talking about my Mama. I’m half a mind to shove your teeth right down your lying throat.
Just squarin up the put downs, partner. Heard that handle round these parts?
Can’t say I have there, Gopher.
How long you been driving, Tango?
Darn near half my lifetime, and I’m well over fifty.
And you ain’t heard of…damn! All his cookin and womanizin… boy’s a legend near’s I can tell.
The traffic ahead was slowing down over the crest of the hill. Trouble ahead there, Tango Tyler.
You got that right, boy, I’m already up to my backside in it.
Another half a mile on, Interstate 10 was a parking lot, and a truck stop parking lot at that, filled with scores and dozens of trucks, all within range of his radio, and all at a dead stop. Eddie looked down at his gas gauge. He turned his vapor fueled car to the shoulder in order to save on gas.
Just like I was saying, Tango, that boy makes the best damn gumbo, heard tell it won prizes too, down in New Orleans and pot roast chili, hoot dee dang! Made with brisket, stewed in beer, with garden herbs and chili peppers, couple of secret ingredients just to round the hot stuff out, served with a long neck Dixie Beer. Worked cafes from here to Abeline long as I been driving rigs, last I heard he’d be in these parts. I always like to taste his cookin whenever I pass through, but that boy never stays put nowhere. Gets himself in woman trouble everywhere he goes, has to hotfoot out of town once they get that way about him. Says them gals want saddle ponies they shouldn’t be ridin rodeo.
Where you from, boy? Tango said.
Why do you ask me that?
Cuz yew shur dew tawk funny…
People been saying that all my life, never had a notion why. Must be on account my pa, him being in the service an all, an me being raised all over like. Boy picks up all kinds of notions, gettin run all around like that.
What did you say that handle was?
Ophelia’s Darling.
Can’t say I’ve heard it none. You say that boy’s a living legend? Sound’s to me like an ol’ fish story.
Damn, Eddie said to himself. He’d never known his racetrack friends to give him any trouble whenever he got into character and launched into one of his spiels. He’d livened up parties for years that way, ever since he could remember, and no one ever second guessed him. He’d always thought the point was to make people believe the lies, even when they knew he was lying.
Is that a fact? Eddie said. Maybe you’d know Ophelia then…
Eddie paused for a second, trying to picture Ophelia. He figured if he were to sell the story she would be the key.
…used to be a truck stop waitress outside Tuscaloosa, ugly as an old sow she was, wen coming out left side of her nose, eyes like flea bit hound, had the hots for this Denver boy, used to come in regular, making a run to Jacksonville…
Break 19, Gopher Anus, why would he go through Tuscaloosa?
How should I know? Eddie said. Maybe he had business there.
Eddie scanned his map a second. Reading how the Interstates go he saw he’d taken his man off route. He’d said Tuscaloosa just for the rhythm of it but figured Chattanooga might sound more convincing.
Now where was I? Eddie said, just to stall for time. He needed a place to take the story or he’d be in even greater trouble than he was in Tuscaloosa.
Just like I was saying, partner, that old Denver boy, he always took Ophelia’s spot whenever he come through and when she come to pour his coffee he’d start flirting in on her like she was a Playboy bunny or something. She’d be saying, you don’t mean it, stop giving me such sass, and such, but she’d be creamin herself deep down. It always shown in the light in her eyes, and how she primped when he come in, way she dropped that huckleberry pie the time he’d pinched her butt, peeled right off her fingertips cause she was giving him the eye rather’n what she was doing. Said he’d help her clean it up, so they go down on hands and knees and she gives him this come-on smile and he winks back at her, and she grabs him and squeezes him, plum near took the life out of him…
Break 19, Rodent's Rump, I thought you said this feller cooked?
I’ll be getting to that, don’t fret. So anyway, some of the regular boys, they didn’t like that trucker much, ‘count of him being so cocky and all, and getting the eye of the local girls. So being the practical joking sort, they done wrote a letter up, addressed it to Ophelia, signed it lover boy, an' mailed it down the road apiece, said they’d go out dancing next time he come through. That was always Thursday night, first and third week of each month, round about nine o’clock.
Woman gets her big night off, wears that new red dress she’d bought just for the occasion, and goes to the stop to meet her man, She sits by the door and waits, he rolls in about eleven, sidles up to the service counter and takes his regular seat. Ophelia weren’t nowhere in sight cause she'd gone off to the ladies' room half worried sick about her man, or so it seemed to me anyway from all the smoking she’d been doing, and half being mad for being stood up. Writ all over her face, it was.
Girl that took Ophelia’s place, she come over to pour his coffee. He says where’s Ophelia, and why ain’t she waiting on me, and she go home already, or she get fired for dropping that pie? Girl points out Ophelia to him, coming out from the ladies' room, hair done up with bows and ringlets, wearing that bright red dress she’d bought just for the occasion, makes her look like a fire truck, and lover boy, he’s sipping coffee, and just then the waitress says, I think she’s waiting on you, lover boy, seein’s how ya’ll had a date tonight. Lover boy chokes and sprays his coffee all over that gal’s uniform, and then he says, the hell we did, and puts his dollar down and walks.
Woman sees him leave, of course, gets all teary-eyed and weepy, pumps that girl that waited on him for every word they’d said. Only makes her cry some more. Fellow hired to do the cookin, he comes over to sympathize, sees her dressed like a Christmas package waiting to be unwrapped, takes her back to the kitchen and makes a happy woman of her right there on the salad counter, bunch of us watching through the door, never did take that dress off of her…
Break 19, there, Gopher Asshole. You some kind of woman hater? Why are you being so mean? Over!
Who you calling a woman hater? I’m just telling what happened is all. Ain’t gonna give it no sugar coating to please no damn feminists. Over.
Sexist fucking pig.
Another voice broke in. Shut up and let him finish, bitch, some of us wants to hear this yarn.
Appreciate that, partner. Can’t imagine I hate women half as much as she hates men and I got plenty o' reason to… But anyway, boys, like I was saying, after that cook was done with her that Denver boy never crossed her mind. Cook, he saw where things was going, her making eyes at him and all, and always calling him darling and such…
Break 19, it’s Tango Tyler, you’re breaking up real bad, there boy, but you sure tell one hell of a yarn for a fellow that might be lying. I wish to hell I’d seen this boy, like to taste that chili too, but it’s the first I’ve heard of him. Tango Tyler over and out.
But Eddie still had an audience so he just kept on talking. …hit the road soon after that, took another job, and ever since that cookin fellow’s been known as Ophelia’s Darling, always seems when I pass through where that old boy’s been cookin the CB’s rattling all about it and all the drivers is making detours just so as they can eat his chili, and you’d have known him if you’d seen him, always dressed in black, he was, unpressed jeans, and a slub silk shirt, red bandanna round his neck, belt made out of rubber, bottle caps around it, fastened with an old seat belt buckle from a General Motors car. I ain’t never seen the like. Boots with silver toe caps on em, initials done in lizard skin. Never wears nothing else that boy, except them cooking whites that is, and all the girls go crazy for him account of his outlaw looks an all.
Eddie sat there jamming until the roadway cleared, talked his way through Tallahassee, kept on telling the same story as well as he could recollect from what he’d said the time before. He didn’t want to keep explaining where he’d gotten his accent from so he cut back on the dialect.
* * *
Eddie cruised the truck stop just to the west of town, one of those big, new-fangled places, all plastic and stainless steel, acres of parking lots out back for staying overnight, truck wash and diesel pumps, convenience store and cafe seating several dozen. Help Wanted signs hung out, so Eddie parked and entered. He was all dressed up in black, just like he’d described, hoping he’d be recognized. But no one paid him any mind, he seemed downright invisible. He asked to see the Manager, who kept him waiting long enough. Turned out he was a cold-looking cuss, with a face as hard as a stone in your shoe. Eddie didn’t speak to him directly, sized him up a bit at first, deciding how to approach him, then stepped up with his hand held out, only to pull it back untouched.
I’m Ed Conover, sir, he said, I saw that sign in the window there and figured you could use some help. Seeing how my car’s broke down, and I’ll be needing travel money once I get it fixed, I thought I’d come in to inquire. I can give you a about a week, until you find some permanent help, and I’ll do just about anything as long as it needs doing well.
The Manager looked him up and down as if he’d done hard time somewhere. Eddie simply didn’t fit in asking for work in a truck stop joint. His lordly looks and presumptive airs were things that hard times couldn’t sully and plain folks just didn’t take to. For him to be down and out like that was just like wearing a ‘kick me’ sign, and the way things looked to Eddie, the Manager planned to do just that. Well, the Manager said, with a pause, I don’t know…
But Eddie needed the money bad. There was no way he could gamble for it. He had nothing to gamble with. Word might get around besides, and then he’d be in real trouble. He’d seen what happened to friends of his who thought they’d cross his bookie. A couple of boys named Beau Bo and Billy might come 'round for a visit. They’d been out on the wrestling circuit, but couldn’t learn how to be gentle enough not to hurt their opponents. Eddie was able to get out of town before those two came calling and he wasn’t about to push his luck. He knew he’d have to work for a change but that didn’t mean he didn’t still care about the kind of work he’d do.
What sort of work you got, he said?
It’s washing trucks. You want the job? You don’t quite look the type.
I was hoping you’d need a cook since I can do some fabulous food. Prize winning Chili and Seafood Gumbo, like of which you’ve never tasted. You might’ve even heard of me from some of them truckers passing through.
The Manager’s face froze shut. He folded his arms across his chest and Eddie knew he was done for but kept on talking anyway so as not to be seen backing down.
Got me a reputation too, and one hell of a following. I’m telling you, sir, I’d keep this place full-up day and night, I would, known some boys to go out of their way much as fifty miles or more just for a plate of my chili, so what do you say there, partner, we…
You’d do just about anything, huh? Long as cookin’s what needs doing. Take it you don’t like washing trucks.
No, sir, don’t mind washing trucks a bit. It’s just that I know cooking better. Thought I’d point that out to you, since good cooks don’t come around too…
Got no time to dicker, you want to wash them trucks, or not?
Eddie let go with a wide, winning grin that pulled a little to the right, and his eyes sparkled up as they always did, whenever he smiled like that. Hell, he said, I’ll take it, how bad can it be, but I only work for daily cash, and I want ten bucks an hour, too, so have we got a deal or not.
The Manager glared at Eddie a little while longer. You know, he said, I could use a good cook, might’ve been willing to try you out, you’d held out for it long enough, but I don’t let no drifters in cause critters like that would rob me blind, but no one wants to wash trucks no more, it being out in that heat and all, so you can help yourself to the work, long as you’ll take the minimum wage.
The Manager eyed him even harder, waiting for him to speak. Eddie was desperate enough to tell him, Hell, I’ll take it just the same, but he’d never worked for the minimum wage and he wasn’t about to start. Thanks just the same, Eddie said, I think I can do better elsewhere.
But Eddie’s moment of hesitation was all the Manager needed to see. He turned and walked away from Eddie without another word. Eddie detected a lift in his step. Thanks for making my day, it said, like he’d just bought himself a Wall Street banker.
You suck the bones of your dead, Eddie yelled to the man’s retreating backside. But Eddie’s words had no effect, except to shock the patrons. Unless he was going to kill the man, all he could do for his pride was leave.
There weren’t any other restaurants around, but there was a car wash down the street so Eddie figured he’d give it a try. He walked in, shook the man’s hand, and explained his situation.
Just one or two days is all I need. No paperwork, no deductions, ten bucks an hour, cash money, that’s less than you pay at the labor pool.
The man didn’t even stop to consider. The place was busy and help was short. Can you start right away? he said.
The sooner the better. Eddie replied.
The boys will show you what to do, but keep it to yourself, will you, what you’re getting paid and all. I wouldn’t want no permanent help. Gives me too much trouble.
From Eddie’s Journal
October 22
7:35 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Cash on hand 4.77
Income 36.00
Expenses:
Water .99
Dinner 18.63
Beer 8.43
Net 12.72
October 23
7:15 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Cash on hand 12.73
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Breakfast 3.63
Lunch 3.35
Dinner 15.37
Beer 8.43
Net 40.07
I had a bad dream about Muffy. She’s calling me from Santa Fe, where she’s living in sin with some New Age dyke she met at Betty Ford.
Oh, Edward, she says, crying, things are so awful you’d never believe it. Jane and I fighting, always over little things; the dishes, the garbage, the kitty litter. And AA’s so political I can’t deal with it anymore. My gluten allergy support group does nothing but bitch and moan about how they miss their fresh croissants… I’m dying for a drink… and I really miss you, Edward, and I want to come home so badly, I’ll make it up to you, darling. I promise you I will.
So pull out the crystals and meditate, I tell her.
Crystals? she shrieks. I don’t do that stuff any more. I’m into Shakra plates now, they’re much more powerful than crystals…
Then I hear the door bell ring and I’m sure it must be Gummy, and I want get rid of Muffy, but the way she’s going on and on, I can’t get a word in edgewise. It does no good to hang up the phone since she always calls me back.
…they’ve helped me to focus my energy, which tells me I need to come home.
Then Gummy enters the room. She comes at me with her head cocked forward, eyes fixed on mine, and she’s swinging her ass to some bump and grind that’s playing in her head, and pulling up her long plaid skirt. She kisses my neck and caresses my groin, and I’m telling her to stop because my wife on the line, but she doesn’t pay any attention to me, and I'm trying to get rid of Muffy, who's giving me this discourse on Kundalini healings, while Gummy is cooing and nibbling and whispering words in my other ear, but I can’t hear what she’s telling me, because Muffy’s going on and on like she's channeling the ghost of a flim-flam man until she’s finally gasping for air. Then Gummy’s panting and moaning on the left, there's an eloquent silence from Muffy on the right, and I hear a loud click on the line, and no sooner does Muffy ring off than Gummy disappears and I’m left hugging my pillow.
October 24
7:26 a.m.
Pensacola, Florida
Previous Balance 40.07
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Breakfast 3.23
Lunch 4.31
Crap game 90.00
Net 6.53
October 25
10:15 p.m
Pensacola, Florida
Previous Balance 6.53
Income 64.00
Expenses:
Lunch 3.23
Gas 25.34
Net 41.99
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