by Ann McMan
I wished for the zillionth time that I lived in a bigger place, where nobody knew anything about me.
El returned with the shirt. “Okay. Let’s go find you some pants.”
“I am not wearing that.”
“Yes you are.” She ignored my protest and strode off toward the Dollar General. I meekly followed along behind her. I realized that this was becoming a pattern for us.
We entered the store, and immediately a voice bellowed out, “Hey? Friday? What in tarnation happened to you?”
Mellonee . . . of course.
I looked toward the checkout counter where she was restocking candy bars.
“Hi, Mellonee. I fell into a pile of . . . something . . . and need to get cleaned up. Can I get some new pants and use your bathroom?”
“Sure.” She walked toward us. I noticed that she was staring as much at El as she was taking in my dirty clothes. “Those Capri pants on aisle seven are buy one, get one free.”
“Mellonee, this is Eleanor Rzcpczinska.”
“Hi there.” El extended her hand. “Call me El.”
“El?” Mellonee looked confused. “Wait . . . aren’t you one of them union agitators?”
“Guilty,” El said.
Mellonee shook her hand. “My cousin told me about you. She said you sang real good at karaoke night.”
El and I exchanged glances. That wasn’t the claim to fame we expected.
“It’s true,” I said. “She really impressed me with her talent.”
Mellonee laughed and slapped me on the arm. “Yeah. My cousin told me about that, too.” She was still chuckling as she led us toward the display of Capri pants. They were pretty hideous . . . a spectrum of day-glow colors that were guaranteed to make me visible from outer space.
El held out the t-shirt. “Which pair goes best with this?”
Mellonee turned away to start sifting through the rack of pants, and I gave El an “are you nuts?” look. Mellonee was wearing an ensemble that would make a pair of transition-lensed eyeglasses go black . . . indoors. She pulled out a pair of the cheap cotton pants and held them up against the bright blue t-shirt.
“I think these would look real nice.”
Real nice? They were lime green with fuchsia and white polka dots on the cuffs.
I took an involuntary step backwards. “I can’t wear those.”
El was looking them over. “Why not? They look like your size.”
She took them from Mellonee. “Where’s your fitting room?”
Mellonee looked confused. “Fitting room?”
“A place to change clothes?” El clarified.
“Oh.” Mellonee pointed toward the back wall of the store. “You can use the bathroom. It’s at the end of aisle nine, beside the fuel injector cleaner.”
“Thanks, Mellonee.” El smiled at her and took off toward the back of the store. I sighed and followed her. We were halfway there when Mellonee called out to us.
“You two take it easy on the plumbing back there. That new sink only just got put in a week ago.”
I could hear titters of laughter coming from some other shoppers.
When I reached the bathroom, El was standing in the open doorway. She held out the components of my new outfit.
“T-Bomb is so dead to me,” I said.
“No she isn’t. Take these and get in there.”
I was surprised. “You aren’t coming in?”
El rolled her eyes.
“Right. Okay.” I looked down at the collision of colors. “This stuff looks like it’s vibrating.”
“It’ll be fine. You’ll blend right in.”
I met her eyes. “Therein lies the problem.”
“Resistance is futile.” She raised the garments up a higher, like she was presenting them at an altar. “You will be assimilated.”
I stood there tapping my foot.
She stared back at me.
I gave up. I needed clean clothes, and we were already fifteen minutes late. Grammy would be out wandering around, looking for us. There was no way I was going to win this battle.
I yanked the clothes out of her hands.
“Paybacks,” I muttered as I went into the bathroom.
“I’m counting on it,” El said.
Five minutes later, when I still hadn’t emerged, El tapped on the outside of the door.
“What’s taking you so long?”
“I am not coming out.”
“Why not?”
“Because I look ridiculous.”
“You looked ridiculous before, when you were covered with . . . whatever that stuff was.”
I sighed and opened the door.
El’s eyes grew wide when she saw me.
“See?” I started to retreat back into the safety of the bathroom. “I told you. I look ridiculous.”
El grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out into the store. “You look adorable.”
“Are you nuts? I look like a pack of Fruit Stripe gum.”
“Stop it. It’s not that bad. It’s . . . cute.”
“Cute?”
She nodded.
“El.” I reached out to a nearby end cap and plucked a Hello Kitty air freshener off a hook. “This is cute. I, on the other hand, look like a sidewalk sale at a Chinese sweat shop.” I tugged at the front of the t-shirt. “Besides, this thing is about three sizes too small.”
El was staring at my chest. “I know. It’s perfect.”
“Are you for real?”
She met my eyes. “I’d like to think so.”
I shook my head. “Maybe Mellonee will lend me some scissors.”
“What for?”
“So I can cut the neck on this thing. It’s obviously cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m actually standing here, wearing this absurd getup.”
El laughed. “Grab your dirty clothes and let’s get out of here. We need to go find Grammy.”
When we reached the checkout counter, Mellonee was waiting for us.
“Those fit great,” she cooed. She held up a bag. “I went ahead and picked you out a second pair.” I could see some hot pink fabric poking out of the yellow bag. “You lucked out on this great sale today.”
Lucked out?
I was about to disagree with her when I caught El staring at my chest again.
I handed Mellonee a twenty.
Grammy was pacing in front of the lemon shake-up stand, scanning the crowd. She was juggling a tower of paper plates topped with thick, spicy pork chop sandwiches. She must’ve had six or eight of them, because the stack was nearly as tall as she was.
“Grammy!’ I called out to her. “Here we are.”
Grammy looked toward my voice, but did a double take when she saw me.
“Jill?” she asked.
We reached where she stood, and I took the stack of sandwiches from her. Cutting the neckband of my t-shirt had helped a little bit, but I still thought I looked like a floozy walking around in it. I was happy to have something to carry that would conceal how tight it was. Grammy was giving me a good once over.
“It’s a long story,” I began.
Grammy shook her head. “I don’t begin to understand what motivates you young people when it comes to fashion.” She shifted her gaze to El. “It’s nice to have you here with us, Eleanor.”
“Thanks, Grammy.” El smiled at her. “I’m so sorry we’re late. Friday Jill had a little mishap and fell into the bed of your pickup. We had to get her some clean clothes to wear.”
Grammy looked at me. “What in thunder were you doing up in my compost heap?”
“Is that what it is?” I asked.
“Of course. I got it from Doc. It’s for my Garden Peaches.”
El looked confused.
“She means her fall tomatoes,” I explained.
“Let’s get our drinks and head on over to the Pagoda,” Grammy said. “Doc and Ermaline have our chairs all set up. Lua
nne and Terri are already there.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want a lemon shake up, honey?” Grammy asked El.
“I don’t know what that is,” El replied, “but if it’s cold, I’ll take two of them.”
“It’s cold, all right. And refreshing.” Grammy walked over to the vendor and ordered the drinks.
Ten minutes later, all the introductions had been made, and we were seated in our long line of webbed lawn chairs near the town Pagoda, balancing our lunches on our laps and listening to the rumble of approaching marching bands. The parade was starting.
I leaned forward to Doc. “How’d you score this great location?”
He shrugged his narrow shoulders and bit into his sandwich.
“We got here at seven o’clock this morning,” Ermaline explained.
I looked at Grammy. “You’ve been here since seven o’clock?”
She nodded.
“You pretty much have to do that if you want to stake out a good location,” Ermaline continued.
“Jay and I set up our chairs and roped ’em off while it was still dark.” Luanne pointed to the stage in front of the Pagoda. “We wanted to be sure we had good seats for the competition.”
“Well, it’d be hard to get any better than this,” T-Bomb chimed in. “Luke! Quit playin’ with that bone . . . you’re gonna put Laura’s eye out. Donnie? Take that dern bone off his sandwich before he puts his sister’s eye out.”
Donnie Jennings pulled the bone away from Luke’s pork chop. He was a smallish man—short, with hair so blond it was almost white in the sun. The twins were like mini versions of him. They were all dressed alike in crisp blue shirts with matching blue-and-white striped shorts.
“I told you this was a mistake,” he complained. “They’re gonna have this mess all over their new clothes.”
“So what? They don’t get to do this but once a year,” T-Bomb replied. “Besides, if either of ’em get too dirty, we can borrow Friday’s extra pair of new pants.” She laughed merrily.
I glared at her. “By the way . . . thanks for telling your cousin about the sink.”
“Hey. I didn’t tell her nothin’,” T-Bomb declared.
“Honey,” Ermaline cut in. “Everybody in the whole tri-state area knows about you two and that dern sink. Ain’t that right, Doc?”
Doc grunted.
“What sink?” Grammy asked.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just another urban myth.”
“Urban myth? Is that what you’re calling it now?” Luanne shook her head. Her hair was especially big today and finished off with a bunch of tight-looking curls that swept down over both ears. I figured she must’ve put in some extra effort since the spotlight was going to be on Jailissa all day. “I don’t think that post commander thought it was much of an urban myth when he had to tell two hundred people that one of his bathrooms was out of order.”
El started chuckling.
“What bathroom?” Grammy asked.
I pointed up the street. “Look, Grammy. Isn’t that the Soul Stompers?”
“Where?” she asked, scanning the scene with eagerness.
“I heard they were gonna be here today,” Ermaline said. “Doc said they were making the parade circuit. Last week, they were over at Owensboro. Ain’t that right, Doc?”
Doc shrugged.
“I just love them fancy marchin’ routines they do,” T-Bomb added. “I hope Luke joins up when he gets old enough.”
Donnie rolled his eyes. “It’s Job Corps, Terri. You don’t join up, you get sent there by the authorities.”
T-Bomb glared at him. “He’s your son. I expect he’ll grow up to be an accountant soon enough. Let me have my dreams while I can.”
Donnie huffed and picked a piece of lint off his shirt sleeve.
A red Cadillac convertible was gliding by with the grace of a shark in shallow water. Larry “Golden Throat” Dennis was sitting up on the white leather back seat, waving at the crowds.
“How in tarnation did the county coroner get to be Grand Marshall?” T-Bomb asked.
“It’s an honorary title,” Grammy explained.
“Larry helped Jailissa a lot with her diction,” Luanne explained to El. “He used to be a famous radio announcer.”
“The Dennises have always been good public servants,” Grammy agreed.
I nudged El. “Welcome to Long Day’s Journey Into Night.”
“Stop it,” she hissed. “I love this.”
I felt a surge of affection for her. “You mean that, don’t you?”
She nodded and bumped my shoulder.
Close behind Larry’s Cadillac was a mix-n-match brigade from Cisne’s Coon Creek Ridge Riders. Some of the horses were loudly decorated and tricked out with full western riding gear. Others were being ridden bareback. They clip-clopped along the brick street to a chorus of whoops and hollers.
A trail of fresh road apples marked their progress up 5th Street.
The eighteen members of the West Salem Grade School Marching Band had the unfortunate task of following along behind the horses.
They did their best to stay focused on their up-tempo rendition of “Suicide is Painless” while they sidestepped the worst of the road hazards.
“Oh, Lord,” T-Bomb declared. “That poor little guy with the clarinet just stepped right in a pile of horse hockey.”
“That’s just disgraceful.” Luanne shook her head. “Why don’t they make them horses wear those things they put on ’em in the big cities?”
“You mean bun bags?” El asked.
“Is that what they’re called?”
“I think so. At least, that’s what they called them back in Buffalo, on the Lincoln Parkway horses.”
“Hey? Friday?” T-Bomb yelled across our line of chairs. “You should get on out there and show them Stompers some of your fancy footwork. I mean . . . they already got the manure and all.” She cackled at her own humor.
“Very funny.” I wondered how in the world Mellonee got the word out that fast.
The Soul Stompers snapped to attention right in front of us.
“Drill team!” the commander shouted. “Sound off!”
The unit of two-dozen cadets launched into a complex, synchronized step routine that was half disco and half hip hop. They chanted and slid across the worn bricks in time with their rhythmic gyrations.
I don’t know what you been told.
Soul Stompers got lots of soul.
Work your body to the beat.
Soul Stompers gonna move your feet.
It was a spectacular performance, and the crowd loved every second of it.
Luanne clapped in time to their movements. “They’re famous,” she told El. “They performed for Jimmy Carter, and that Collins girl, when she was governor.”
“Here comes the first float.” Grammy was excited. She loved seeing what kinds of designs the area 4H Clubs created to honor the agricultural heritage of the region.
Luanne sat forward and scanned the street. “That means the Pork Queen contestants are coming on.”
The top of the white float was shaped like a giant football helmet. It was decorated with an oversized 4H shamrock, made with hundreds of green carnations. “Take the Pledge Never to Text & Drive” was painted in bold type on long placards that ran the length of the float. Kids riding on the float waved signs that read, “TEXT 4H4ICW to 50555.”
“What in the world does that have to do with farming?” Grammy asked.
“Well, all that texting and driving is becoming an epidemic,” Ermaline explained. “I don’t know how people manage. I got my hands full just shifting gears and puttin’ on my eye makeup.”
“Don’t forget wranglin’ your smokes,” T-Bomb added.
“Hell. You don’t need hands for that. It’s why god gave you a mouth.”
“Here comes that Destinee Knackmuhs.” Luanne was all business now.
The first contender for Miss Pork Day USA rolled toward us. Des
tinee was a pretty girl, buxom with long red hair and a mouthful of large teeth—all Knackmuhs trademarks. Her lawn chair sat atop a slowly rotating dais on the back of a flatbed truck. Bales of hay and a menagerie of live farm animals surrounded her. It was pretty impressive—like a Midwestern-themed crèche. A curved banner that read “Heartland’s Destinee” arched over her chair. She waved and smiled at the crowds, who oohed and awed at her display.
Luanne clucked her tongue and pointed at the passing display with her pork chop bone. “That right there is our only real competition this year.”
“How’d she draw first dibs in the parade?” Ermaline asked.
“It was more like gettin’ the short straw. In this game, you want to be last—not first.”
“Where’s Jailissa, then?”
Luanne smiled. “Last.”
I leaned over to El. “Do you wanna go stroll around for a bit?”
I was Jonesing for the chance to be alone with her. Or, at least as alone as we could get, stuck in the middle of half the population of Gibson, Wabash, and Edwards counties.
She looked at me with wonder. “And miss seeing Jailissa?”
I smiled at her. “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Are you kidding? It beats season three of Downton Abbey, and it has better special effects.”
“I don’t think I’d go quite that far.”
“Oh, come on.” El gestured toward the succession of floats rolling past us. “When was the last time you saw a . . . genetically modified . . . soybean . . . that resembled a Volkswagen?”
I followed her gaze. “El, that is a Volkswagen.”
“Oh.” She looked back at me. “We don’t do much work in Germanowned plants.”
“Apparently.”
“Here come them Hortons!” T-Bomb was on her feet, chasing after Laura, who had dashed out into the street in hot pursuit of some Tootsie Roll Midgees that had just been flung off a float.
“Well if that don’t beat all.” Luanne sounded surprised. “It looks like all three of ’em are ridin’ on the same dern truck.”
Ermaline snorted. “It ain’t hard to see why . . . two of’em appear to be pretty far along.”