Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  “Ace, I’m sorry I’ve been so edgy this week,” she says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I mean, my cabinets were all wrong and they had to rip them all out and redo them and that was quite a frustrating experience. They’ve finally got everything back in place and like it needs to be, so I’m going to be able to put all of my groceries in there over the weekend. Maybe that’s what’s been making me so crabby. I don’t know.”

  “Cans stacked in weird places will do that, I guess.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly, and then remember what Freddie Dublin said in the lounge earlier in the week. “So is everything okay with you and J.J.?”

  “Of course it is!” she says defensively. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I say, backing off fast. “It’s just that you haven’t mentioned him in a while.”

  “We’re great,” she says, then looks alarmed. “At least I think we are.”

  Dammit! Why did I even open my mouth?

  “Well, that means you are then,” I say. I get up because I’m anxious to get away from her while things are still pleasant.

  “So you’re going out with Gaylen tomorrow night?”

  “Gaylen!?” I say, turning around. “I thought his name was Blake!”

  “That’s his last name.”

  “No wonder he used that while we were texting,” I say. “I can’t believe you’ve fixed me up with a guy named Gaylen!”

  “What’s wrong with the name Gaylen?” she asks, and I hear that edge creeping back into her voice.

  “Nothing,” I say, turning to go. “Nothing at all.” Because I’m sure it’s going to be a freakin’ disaster date anyway, so why bother.

  “Let me know how it goes,” she calls as I walk out the door.

  “Will do! Thanks!” For nothing!

  *

  Standing in front of the mirror, I wonder if Gaylen would prefer my hair up or down. Then I laugh out loud because I couldn’t possibly care less. I wonder what would happen if I shaved my head bald and showed up at the door wrapped in a toga sheet. That cracks me up again.

  Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings and Buster Loo goes nuts. I spend a minute calming him down before placing him in my bedroom and pulling the door closed, apologizing the whole time. I go into the kitchen where I take two quick shots of Crown, and then I go open the front door.

  Oh my, I think. What have we here? Gaylen is standing on my porch in light wash denim jeans about two inches too short and he’s running a big, beefy hand over his shiny, bald head. His shirt appears to be sprayed on, and I think his pants might cover his ankles if he pulled them down off his waist a little bit. I wish I had my phone so I could snap a picture of this hot mess and send it to Lilly along with a single word: “Why?”

  At first, he doesn’t notice the door is open because he’s too busy admiring his reflection in the glass of my storm door. So I just stand there, looking. Then I get the feeling that he knows the inside door is open but continues to primp because that affords him the opportunity to flex his rather large biceps. Thank goodness I’m wearing this dress with fifty yards of slimming fabric, because I’m going out with a stud-muffin tonight! I giggle to myself as he stands there, flexing. I resist a strong and sudden urge to push the door open and “accidentally” pop him on the end of his oily, pointy nose. But then I think about Chloe and know that my only option is to politely tap on the door. So I do that.

  “Hello,” I say, then carefully push the door open. “You must be Gaylen.”

  “Garlen,” he says indignantly. “Is Ace Jones here?”

  “I’m Ace Jones,” I say.

  “Oh, I thought you might be the sister”—he looks me up and down—“or something.”

  Yes, you barrel-chested fool, I’m the sister who answers the door in a fucking strapless dress on a Friday night.

  “So if you’re Garlen, then where is Gaylen?” I ask, just to be contentious. I can come across like a real bitch if it’s absolutely necessary and I feel that it is. “I have a date with Gaylen.”

  “I don’t know a Gaylen,” he says arrogantly, and I think again about hitting him in the nose with the door.

  “Oh,” I say, sighing in disappointment, and he immediately looks more interested. “So it’s Garlen, then?” I look at him like he’s already boring me to death. He smiles.

  “Did I hear a dog barking in there?” he asks, peering into my house.

  “No,” I say. I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me. “That was my cat.” Then I look him right in the eye and say, “That pussy is ferocious.” I smile, thinking that will surely send him screaming off my steps and then I can call Chloe and blame this failed romantic interlude on him. Instead, he bellows with laughter and slaps me on the back.

  “That’s a good one,” he says. He lets his hand brush my butt and then, in a most unexpected gentlemanly maneuver, extends his arm toward the sidewalk. Disappointed that my plan to send him running didn’t work, I walk down the steps. When I get to his truck, which appears to be a foreign-made two-wheel-drive model decked out with mud tires for some odd reason, he surprises me again by opening the passenger side door. Nice, I think. Maybe I could get used to that waxed dome and light-wash denim after all. Ha-ha! Never!

  “So where would you like to go?” he asks when we’re on the road.

  Somewhere I don’t know a soul and can get shitfaced drunk. “Wherever you like,” I say, deciding to act like a full-fledged crazy bitch whore all night so I can at least enjoy that part of the evening. “I’m easy.”

  He looks at me and smiles, and I can tell by the look in his eye that he thinks he’s going to get laid tonight. I smile back at him because Cupid will shit a golden egg filled with tequila worms before that happens. As we debate going to Memphis or Tupelo, I try to decide which would be worse: a longer ride with him or the risk of seeing someone I might know.

  “I like Buffalo Wild Wings,” he says.

  “You know what? Me, too!” I tell him, thinking, Please don’t let me see anyone I know. I look at him and he looks at me and I can see that I’m moving up his I’d-hit-that list with speed and finesse.

  “So, where are you from?” I ask.

  “Everywhere,” he says.

  “How do you know Chloe?”

  “Who?”

  “Chloe.”

  “Is that the sheriff’s piece?”

  “Piece of wha—,” I begin, then stop and cringe. I look at Garlen and, seeing I’ve figured it out, he starts sniggering. Really, Chloe. Really? I think. She would die if she knew she’d just been referred to as a “piece.”

  “Met her at a cookout. When she found out I was single, she said she’d fix me up with a fireball.”

  “Did she really say that?”

  “Well, no, but I assumed that was what she meant.”

  “Right.” Thank goodness I opted for the shorter ride.

  I glance over at him and he’s grinning, looking all smug and shit. I imagine he thinks he can startle and shock me all night long with his scuzzball words and phrases, but he doesn’t know what he’s up against if he thinks he can out-shock me. He hears a song he likes on the radio and turns up the volume, and I spend the rest of the ride thinking up outrageous things to say to Gaylen or Garlen or whatever the hell his name is.

  When we walk into Buffalo Wild Wings, I scan the area looking for familiar faces. I’m thankful that I don’t recognize a soul. The waitress tries to seat us right in the center of the restaurant, but I insist on a booth in the corner, claiming I want to be closer to the television. This impresses my waitin’-for-the-flood date even more. I smile as I allow him to take the seat with the best view of the TV, which allows me to face the restaurant, just like I wanted. Maybe if I am seen, whoever sees me won’t be able to see this moron who is staring at his roll of silverware like he’s not sure what it is. Goofy bastard. “You like sports?” he asks.

  “I like watching men in tight p
ants.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, football is my favorite because I love seeing all of those hot, sexy men wallowing all over one another.” Apparently, my date doesn’t know what to say to that. “Baseball is okay, too. All of those long, hard bats.”

  “So you won’t think I’m a pervert if I say I watch women’s tennis just to see all of those tight asses under those short little skirts,” he says, his voice almost a growl. I realize that I’ve made a terrible mistake by opening up this can of worms. He keeps talking about watching women’s sports, and I curse myself for being such an idiot. The waitress finally shows up with our drinks and, after she takes our order, I excuse myself and go to the restroom. The way he’s looking at me now is disgusting, but I have no one to blame for this but myself. Epic fail!

  I hurry into the restroom, lock myself in a stall, and call Lilly. She doesn’t answer, so I send her a text with a full description of my date. I wait a second and when I don’t hear back from her, decide to go back out there and get this over as quickly as possible. I devise a plan. I’ll sit down and immediately start talking about Buster Loo, continue to pretend he’s a cat, and rattle on nonstop about my cat/dog until our food arrives. Then maybe he’ll think I’m weird and be in a hurry to get me back home. I step out of the stall, look in the mirror, and desperately wish I hadn’t worn a strapless dress. I take a deep breath.

  “Just get it done,” I tell my reflection. “It’s just another hour. Two at the most.” A lady whom I didn’t know was in the restroom comes out of the last stall and looks at me.

  “Bad date?” she asks.

  “Blind date.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says as she washes her hands. “Those are the worst. Makes me glad I’m married.”

  “Right.” Thanks!

  “Well, you look lovely,” she says with a kind smile. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” I put on fresh lip gloss, not to be sexy but to make myself feel better. At least there’s no one here I know. I walk out of the restroom and run right into Drew Wills.

  “Woo hoo, girl,” he says. “You look good!” Behind him, I see Logan Hatter.

  “Dang, Ace,” Logan says, eyeballing my boobs. “You get all dressed up like this to come to Buffalo Wild Wings?” My face burns with embarrassment and humiliation. I don’t know what to say. I’m seriously considering making up some kind of wild story when Logan says, “You’re on a date.” It isn’t a question. “Chloe was saying at lunch today how excited she was about fixing you up with some guy she thought was perfect for you.” I can’t read the expression on his face and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was a little jealous. No way! My brain is just shutting down because of this unbearable humiliation. Why can’t I just disappear right now? They just stand there, looking at me.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” I say finally. “This guy is such a douche bag. It’s horrible.”

  “You want us to invite ourselves to sit with you?” Logan asks. “Might make things a little more bearable for you.” Wills gives him an odd look.

  “No, that’s okay,” I say. “I just—” I think about trying to explain the mess I got myself into by trying to out-shock my date, but then I decide against it. I mean, a person can only withstand so much shame in a thirty-second time frame. “I’ll just tough it out.”

  “Well, we’ll be at the bar if you need us,” Logan says.

  “Is he a big guy?” Wills asks.

  “He’s buff,” I say. “In all the wrong ways.”

  Wills laughs and walks into the restroom while Hatter stands there looking at me.

  “You look great,” he says. “You really do.”

  “Thank you, Logan,” I say, then give him a big hug that lasts a minute longer than it should.

  “Call me later if you get lonely,” he whispers.

  “Okay,” I say. Don’t do this!

  When I get back to the table, my date doesn’t look happy.

  “What the hell was that all about?” he asks.

  “What the hell was what all about?” I don’t even try not to sound like a smart-ass.

  “You go to the restroom to meet other dudes?” He points a meaty finger at me. “You are here with me. I’m buying this meal.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.

  “I’m talking about you standing over there in plain sight flirting with those two guys and then hugging up on the short one,” he says, a little too loud. People start looking.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say in a low voice. “Not that I owe you any explanation, but those guys are my friends. People I’ve worked with for years, so why don’t you pipe down?”

  “You don’t tell me to pipe down!” he practically shouts.

  “I’ll tell you whatever I damned well please,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You don’t own me just because you take me out and buy me a piece of fucking fried chicken, got it?” I’m pretty sure I could instigate a brawl with this idiot and he would get mad and leave me here, and then I could catch a ride home with Hatt and Wills. I’m sure Chloe would understand. A manager appears at the table.

  “Is everything okay here?” the nervous fellow asks. He looks down at Garlen’s arms. Garlen says nothing, so I tell the manager that everything is fine as far as I’m concerned and he hurries away.

  “Tell you what,” he says quietly. “Why don’t you call me when you lose fifty pounds?” He tosses his menu down on the table and stands up.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I say, getting up as well. I have to concentrate real hard on keeping my voice low. “Why don’t you not call me when you’ve got some hair on that lumpy ass overwaxed dome and find some pants that cover your ankles?” He looks surprised by that, but looks down at his shoes. “That’s right,” I say. “A little on the short side, asshole.” I don’t remember the last time I was this mad.

  He glances up toward the bar where Logan Hatter and Drew Wills are craning their necks to look back at him. How fucking embarrassing!

  “I assume you can find your own way home.”

  “You bet your rock-hard nipples I can,” I say, turning to walk toward the bar.

  I take a seat between Logan and Drew and proceed to drown my problems with enormous amounts of cold beer.

  9

  Saturday I wake up and congratulate myself for not going home with Logan Hatter again, even though I really wanted to. I crawl out of bed, swear off drinking forever, and fix a pot of coffee. I take some aspirin while the coffee brews, then pour a cup and head out on the back porch.

  Spring is in the air and this lifts my spirits quite a bit. I take a deep breath and relish the warmth. Buster Loo joins me outside and, after some elaborate little-dog stretching, he hops into the yard and makes a few laps in the warm sun. An hour later, I take him for a walk during which he prances around all over the place, which makes me think he appreciates the temperature being over fifty degrees as much as I do.

  When I get back home, I call Jalena to see what she’s up to today. Turns out she’s ditched the diner, opting instead to spend the morning on the Gator with Ethan Allen riding around the farm. I know better than to call Lilly before noon and I certainly don’t want to discuss last night’s date with Chloe, so I go get Gramma Jones’s garden book, pour a fresh cup of coffee, and head back out onto the porch. A gentle breeze ruffles the pages and I can smell that a few of my neighbors have built fires despite the slightly warmer temps. I relax into my lounger and, for some odd reason, feel happy and hopeful. Don’t question it. Just enjoy it, I think. I look down at the book on the table and think that maybe, just maybe, it’s already bringing me good luck.

  I flip through the first section again and take a minute to study the bloom chart, trying to commit it to long-term memory. The pages in the second section are just as worn as the first. Some are dirtier than others, and it makes my heart ache when I think about my grandmother studying this book before going to work in her beloved flower beds. I look out at the yard, pictu
ring her on her hands and knees, humming like she always did when she worked. I can’t help but think she would be so proud of me if she knew I was sitting here with her garden book, planning a restoration.

  In the design section, I recognize several flower bed patterns from the front and back yards. I look at each page, making mental notes of certain arrangements, and then find myself looking at the final section of the book, which is all about trees and shrubs. That’s where I find the first Post-it note.

  It’s a tattered little square, black ink on faded blue paper. On it is my mother’s name and a date, June 22, the day she passed away. It’s stuck next to a picture of a lavender Queen’s crepe myrtle. On the opposite page, I find the same kind of note, only this one has my dad’s name and another date, June 25. This note is stuck next to a picture of a white crepe myrtle. I look out into the yard and see a pair of crepe myrtles skirted by vibrant buttercups. Those two trees have just started to bud and, try as I may, I can’t remember what color they are when they’re in full bloom. I look back down at the book and feel sure that one will be purple and one will be white.

  I flip the page and see a note with my grandfather’s name on it. It’s stuck next to a picture of a pin oak tree. I pick up the book, walk out into the yard, and look up at the giant pin oak that shades the back-left side of the house. It’s centered with the back bedroom window, Gramma’s bedroom window, which was the one that she had shared with my grandfather. Around the bottom is another flower bed. In there I see an old stepping stone that I’ve never paid much attention to until today. I lean down, brush the dirt off, and see the inscription, an old Irish blessing.

  I look up at the tree. Am I Irish? Was Gramma’s family Irish? Or Papa Jones? Jones doesn’t sound Irish at all. I wonder what my grandmother’s maiden name was. I can’t believe I never asked. I put down the stone and pick up the book.

  With each page I turn, I find another note stuck beside another picture. I walk around the yard, identifying trees and shrubs planted for my grandmother’s two sisters, her brother, and her parents. I discover a group of gardenias planted in memory of grandfather’s brothers and his parents. Then I find a star magnolia next to the words “Baby Jones.” I look at the date and do the math. My dad would’ve been two years old when this tree was planted. I’ve never heard anything about my grandmother having another baby. I’ve never seen or noticed a grave anywhere near where my whole entire family is now resting in peace in the graveyard behind the church. My eyes sting with tears as I realize she must’ve had a miscarriage. I stand and wonder if this Baby Jones would’ve been a boy or a girl. I wonder if Gramma Jones had been far enough along to know. Back then, I don’t think they knew what they were having until it arrived. I stare at the star magnolia. I would’ve had either an aunt or an uncle and possibly some cousins like everyone else I know seems to have in droves.