by Ann McMan
“I didn’t consort with anybody.”
“You said that you only just met her at that bar.”
I nodded.
“And you said you were with her in the bathroom.”
I nodded. Grammy could have clerked for Matlock.
“And that you kissed her?”
“Well . . .”
“Well?”
“Well . . . technically . . . she kissed me.”
“Honey lamb, when a buildin’s in flames, people jumpin’ out the windows don’t stop on the way down to ask who started the fire.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Well.” She snapped another bean in two. It sounded like the crack of a rifle. “I don’t much like the idea of you gettin’ involved with a union rep. But anybody who can get you to look away from that Marks girl is A-OK in my book.” She pointed at me with the end of a cooked string bean. “When are you gonna bring her over here so I can lay eyes on her?”
“Grammy . . .” I was horrified—and panicked. “That’s not going to happen. I told you . . . it was just the one time and I’ll probably never even see her again.”
Grammy gave me that look of hers . . . that same one she gave a half-rotted tomato before she tossed it onto the composting pile.
“She’s a union agitator, isn’t she?” she asked.
I nodded.
She slowly shook her head. “You’ll see her again.”
I had a sinking feeling. I knew she was right. And, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I was sure this was the only reason El was flirting with me. It was all about gaining access to people inside our plant.
“I can’t get involved with her,” I said. I was pretty sure I sounded as morose as I felt.
Grammy was still shaking her head. “Didn’t you say that a month ago about that Marks girl?”
“That was different.”
“Different how?”
“Misty Ann didn’t work for the UAW.”
“That’s true,” Grammy agreed. “But she was just as dangerous.”
“Not really . . . Misty Ann couldn’t get me fired.”
“Maybe not. But she sure could get you fired up.” Grammy chuckled.
“Okay, okay. I made a mistake with her. I admit it. But it’s not like there are a lot of available women around here with good, family values.”
Across the road, a car engine roared to life. Doc’s bright blue El Camino rolled over the scraggly patches of grass that passed for a lawn and turned out onto the county road. Ermaline waved at us from the driver’s side window. She was holding a lighted smoke. There were three mower handles sticking up out of its bed. Business must be good.
We both watched the car grow smaller until it disappeared around the bend near the crossroads.
Grammy sighed and looked at me. “Well.” She snapped another bean in half. “My mama always said that if you snuggle up with dogs, you’re gonna get fleas.”
I resisted a sudden impulse to scratch. My half-finished chair sat there mocking me. It was like the rest of my life . . . not quite right. I needed to make some changes, starting with my job. I’d been working at Krylon ever since college, and it was going no place. I was still punching a time clock and getting passed over for promotions. Working on my MBA was probably a big waste of time. It was clear that all I had to look forward to was another twenty-five years of smacking Buzz’s hands off my ass. Maybe it was time to look elsewhere—someplace with more opportunity and fewer . . . dogs.
Fritz looked up at me with his soulful eyes, almost like he knew what I was thinking. I felt bad for the slight of comparing him to Buzz and Misty Ann.
I got to my feet. “C’mon, buddy. We need to get going or we’ll be late.”
“You workin’ at the store today?” Grammy asked.
I nodded. My parents ran the S&W Fast Mart that was across the state line in Allendale, and today was the busiest day of the week. Their store was the only place over there where people could go to buy adult beverages on Sunday. Everybody thought my father was a genius when he took over that business.
“Ma asked if I’d cover for her today. They have that funeral over in Mount Carmel.”
“Buster Collins?”
“Yeah. Pretty sad.”
Buster worked at Quick Stop Tires, and had a massive heart attack while he was restocking the Motorcraft filters in the oil change pit. Nobody even noticed he was missing until Mike Scoggins went down there to lube the u-joint linkage on a Ram 2500. It pretty much rocked the whole town. Buster had a pretty young wife and four kids; and he was a volunteer fireman and a deacon at the Wabash Valley Church of Christ.
Even though Ma and Pop had retired to Allendale when they bought the Fast Mart, they stayed pretty involved in the life of the Mount Carmel and Princeton area communities. Pop said it was good for business. I was pretty sure that commerce would be brisk after the service . . . funerals made people pretty thirsty.
“Well, you get along then. Don’t worry about putting the chair up. I’ll tend to it later on.”
“Don’t you get any ideas, now, Grammy. I want to do this myself.”
“You should know by now that I let you clean up your own messes.”
I laughed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did. I walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks for listening. Like always.”
She looked up at me as I towered over her on her low chair. “Tuesday’s good.”
“Good for what?” I was confused.
“For bringing that union agitator over here for dinner. I’ll make a pot roast.”
“Grammy . . .”
She shooed me away. “You can bring some of that fancy beer you like. I don’t think them New Yorkers care much for tea.”
It was pointless to try to argue with her. Besides, if I didn’t shake a leg, I’d be late for work.
“We’ll see.” I whistled for Fritz, who lumbered to his feet and followed me down off the porch. Just as we reached my pickup, I saw a flash of blue. Ermaline was tearing back around the bend, headed for home. She must’ve forgotten something . . . probably her cigarettes.
Yeah.
I needed to find a better place to snuggle.
It was one forty-five—almost the witching hour. I went to turn the lights on inside the beer and wine coolers. We could start selling alcohol at the crack of two, and people were already pulling into the parking spaces out front. Some of them were still wearing their church clothes, which meant they probably wanted to stock up before heading out for Buster’s funeral at three-thirty.
So far, there had only been a smattering of customers—people buying gas and cigarettes, or coming inside for Jumbo Cups of Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper. But I knew that would change soon enough. I heard the electronic door tone chime, telling me that someone had just come inside.
“Hello,” I called out. “I’ll be right there.”
I headed back up toward the register and about dropped dead in my tracks when I saw who was standing there in front of the potato chip kiosk.
El.
And she was looking great, too. She had on a short-sleeved t-shirt and pair of khaki-colored cargo shorts, and her legs were pure works of art. Just like the rest of her.
I was mortified. There I stood, practically drooling, in my mother’s red, oversized S&W polo shirt, with her name badge sagging off my right boob.
El was staring at me. She looked confused, but I could see a little smile forming around the corners of her beautiful mouth.
“Sissy?” she asked, in that sexy voice of hers.
“Oh.” I glanced down at the name badge. “No. This is my mother’s shirt.”
“You wear your mother’s clothes?” she asked. She sounded amused. “No . . . I mean. She works here. I’m just filling in for her today.”
“In Illinois?” she asked.
“They live here. This is their store.”
El nodde
d toward the beer and wine coolers at the back. “I bet it’s pretty lucrative for them.”
“It is on Sundays,” I agreed.
“So I’ve heard.” El smiled. I felt weak at the knees. “I’m actually here to have my own adult needs met. Think you can help me out?”
Okay . . . this was just getting ridiculous. I needed to buck up and stop acting like a complete imbecile. Two could play at this game.
“Maybe,” I said. “What are you in the mood for?”
El looked surprised. “Are we talking about the same thing?”
“You tell me.” I tried to act nonchalant and rested an elbow on a shelf containing rows of tiny cans of Beefaroni and Vienna sausages. It probably didn’t do much to atone for how hot I was certain I didn’t look in my mother’s provocative polo shirt, but it was the best I could do right then.
El just stared back at me for a moment. I thought I saw something flicker in her gray eyes.
“I need beer,” she finally said. “Lots of it. And maybe some wine, too.”
I straightened up, proud of myself for making her fold her hand. “You’ve come to the right place for that. I turned around and headed back toward the coolers. “What kind, and how much?”
El followed me. “I don’t know . . . what kinds do most people around here like to drink?”
“Well, there’s what people like, and there’s what they can afford. Which kind do you want?”
“Both,” she said with another smile.
“I’d get a mixture of Heineken and Old Style. And you might want to throw in a few bottles of our finest, cheap white zinfandel. Folks around here aren’t known for being real wine connoisseurs.”
“Sounds perfect.” She smiled. “We’re hosting a little open house at our motel suite later, and I need to stock up.”
“And you came to Illinois? Why didn’t you go to Evansville?”
She shrugged. “There was some kind of monster wreck on Highway 41. The motel clerk told me that Allendale was the next best place.”
“How many people are you expecting?” I was as much curious as I was interested in helping her figure out how much to buy.
This was pretty much standard operating procedure for how these union invasions played out. The big shots rolled into town and got everybody liquored up so their tongues would loosen. Expressions of grievance and wrongdoing would start up and begin to feed off collective umbrage until the whole thing reached critical mass. That’s when the labor board would swoop in and call for the vote to organize. I’d already been through this at Krylon twice before. It’s not that I thought things were perfect in our plant—there were plenty of abuses to clean up. Even my own situation was beginning to feel pretty pathetic. I just wasn’t sure about which approach was best for life in Princeton. Plus, siding with the union forces was always the best way to ensure that you never got off the time clock.
“For tonight? Maybe ten or twelve—if we’re lucky. Tony thinks things will pick up after this first gathering.”
We stood in front of the coolers. El’s reflection in the tall glass doors was nearly as enticing as she was. I forced myself to look back at her.
“Tony?” I asked.
“Tony Gemelli,” she said. She held up a hand to about chest height. “The short, Italian man who was with me the other night at the bar.”
“He your partner?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What manner might that be?”
She raised an eyebrow. “The manner where we work together, but he goes home at night to his wife, Rosa, and their three kids.”
“Ah,” I said. “I think I like this Tony.”
“I was fairly certain you would.”
“Really?” I leaned against the cooler. I had no idea where my bravado was coming from, but I decided to just go with it. For one thing, I didn’t see any fleas buzzing around El. “What makes you so certain?”
“Do you really need to ask me that, Friday Jill?”
There was that sinking feeling again.
I retaliated by looking her up and down. She noticed. I saw a tinge of red creep its way up her neck. Deuce.
The electronic door chime went off again. Great.
I sighed. “Sorry. I need to check that out. I’ll be right back.”
“No worries.” She sounded relieved. “I need to use the restroom anyway.” She looked around. “Where is it?”
“Outside.”
She looked at me with amazement. “Did you say outside?”
I nodded.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not so much.”
She rolled her eyes. “Where are we? Dogpatch?”
“Welcome to America’s heartland.” I smiled at her.
She shook her head. “Point me in the right direction?”
“Follow me.” I headed back toward the front of the store. Two teenagers stood near the register, probably wanting to buy cigarettes and a forty-dog. It begins, I thought.
“Let me give you the key,” I said to El, as I threaded my way behind the counter. I lifted the vintage Outlaw hubcap down from its hook and handed it across the counter to her. The key attached to it by a short chain clattered against the metal. “Here you go.” I pointed outside. “It’s back around the building on the left, next to the ice machine.”
El was staring at the hubcap. “What the hell is that?”
“The restroom key,” I replied.
She took hold of it. Her eyes met mine. “Don’t you have something a bit larger—like maybe a trailer hitch?”
One of the teenagers snickered. The other one was too busy checking out El’s ass.
“Be careful with the door latch,” I said to her retreating back. “It sticks.” I faced the teens. “Okay. Which one of you guys has the fake I.D.?”
They groaned in tandem.
“Come on, lady . . .” the taller of the two complained. “Give us a break.”
“And spend the next six months in jail? I don’t think so.”
“I’m eighteen,” he whined.
“Sure you are,” I said. “And right after I finish my shift, I’m going to suit-up and run in the Paris Marathon.”
Both boys looked back at me with blank expressions.
I sighed. “Unless you guys want some beef jerky or a pack of Nerds, I suggest you clear out of here.”
The shorter one, the one who had been staring at El’s derriere, poked his companion in the ribs. “Come on, Roy . . . let’s go.” He headed toward the door.
“Thanks for being a bitch, lady,” Roy said over his shoulder. He reached the door and yanked it open just as a woman started to enter.
“Come back real soon, Roy,” I called after him.
He muttered something unintelligible and stood back so the woman could get past him. I was surprised to see T-Bomb come strolling in.
“Hey, Roy?” she said to the tall teen. “Your daddy know you’re over here?”
Roy and his friend ducked their heads and hurried out past her without saying anything. She cackled and joined me at the register. “Remember how we used to pull that same shit at the Liquor Barn in Grayville?”
I nodded. “Did you really know him?”
“Hell no. I heard you call him ‘Roy’ when I was walking in.” She laughed. “I just love messin’ with them kids.”
“What brings you over here on a Sunday? You going to the funeral?”
T-Bomb snagged a mini York Peppermint Patty from a box on the counter and unwrapped it. “Nah. I don’t really know them Collinses— even though Donnie went to school with Buster’s cousin, Bert. You know . . . the one with the gimpy leg?”
“No.” I had no idea who she was talking about.
She handed me the candy wrapper. “Yes you do. He dated that Turpin girl . . . the sister of the one Misty Ann’s husband keeps banging.”
“You mean Albert Parks?”
She nodded.
“He’s got a gimpy leg? I never noticed that.”
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br /> “That’s ’cause he wears them corrective shoes and baggy pants.” T-Bomb shook her dark head. “We always called him Bert Parks . . . remember that?” She chuckled. “Imagine him running a beauty pageant.”
“That’s kinda mean.”
“Why?” she asked. “We weren’t makin’ fun of his leg.”
“I know. I meant it was mean to compare him to Bert Parks.”
She laughed. “Yeah, he was sort of a human creep show.”
“So if you aren’t here for Buster’s funeral, I guess you need beer?”
“Yeah. I thought I’d get in here before the crowds showed up.”
The phone rang. I waved my hand toward the coolers. “Help yourself.” I picked up the receiver. “Fast Mart, how can I help you?”
“For starters,” the low voice on the other end of the line said, “you can come out here and open this damn door.” It was El.
“El?” I asked.
Big mistake. T-Bomb, who hadn’t yet made tracks for the adult beverage section, was still standing there. Her ears perked right up.
I turned away from her and faced the cigarette display. “How’d you get this number?” I asked El.
“Yelp,” she said.
“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
“Yelp,” she repeated. “Y-E-L-P. On my phone.”
“Oh. Sorry. Um . . . sure. Lemme come right out there. Sit tight.”
I smiled into the phone. “No pun intended.”
“Very funny,” she drawled. The line went dead.
I turned around to face an extremely curious T-Bomb. I jerked a thumb in the general direction of the restrooms. “El’s here, and she’s stuck in the bathroom.”
“El DeBarge is out there?” she asked. “Why were you keeping that a secret?”
I opened the cash register and lifted up the change drawer to retrieve the extra bathroom key. “I wasn’t keeping anything a secret. She came by to get some beer.”
“Here?”
I stared at her. “Yes. Here. What’s wrong with that?”
“How’d she know you work here?”
I walked around the counter. “She didn’t know I worked here . . . it was a coincidence.”