A Trashy Affair

by Shurr, Lynn

  “Do you like the mix?” Waldo asked. “Put it together myself to play at the mortuary and made a copy for the Caddy.”

  Oh right, the songs played in the background at the last viewing she’d attended for old Leroy “Lambo” Mouton’s funeral. Jane stopped humming. Somehow, singing along seemed disrespectful. “Very nice,” she mumbled.

  They cruised through the town of Chapelle with perfect enough timing to miss every one of the five traffic lights: entering town to slow folks down, two on either side of the green where the Church of Ste. Jeanne d’Arc sat, one at the school, and the last upon leaving town in a vain a attempt to make people stay a while. Outside the city limits, they did have to stop at the light slung across the road at the huge Hartz Technology campus. It sort of balanced the new signal by Jane’s house, though Hartz needed it to allow its many employees to come and go while the Cane View light served more as a convenience for its residents and a way to remind passersby they could stop right there at the Fast ’N Fun for fried chicken and gas.

  Waldo used the delay at the light to move one long, thin arm from the wheel and lay it across the seat where Jane sat a little hunched forward, eager to get to the Barn, escape the Caddy and mood music for mortuaries. She believed the last time a guy tried that move on her she’d been in high school. The cold hand inched toward her shoulder. The light changed. They moved out with Waldo’s hand dangling still closer.

  “Watch out for that dog!” Jane screamed. The hand snapped back to the wheel, the Caddy swerving a little in the process.

  “Where?”

  “Oh, it ran into the cane field across the road.”

  She supposed she might have gotten them both killed, all in an attempt to get Waldo’s hand back where it belonged, but since they had just pulled out, she doubted it. Her date made the turn onto the secondary road that would take them to Broussard’s Barn with his hands stuck tight to the wheel and his teeth gritted in his long, pale jaw.

  They arrived without mishap and parked in the far corner of the large oyster shell lot because Waldo did not want his car scratched or dinged by the trucks, large and small, SUV’s, and rusty beaters parked closer to the building. Strings of clear bulbs illuminated the space and left the rear of the place in near darkness except for the lamps burning dimly in front of the doors of an old motel to the back where rooms rented by the hour. Fallow cane fields closed in on either side of the property and beyond them the venerable Broussard homestead still stood despite its hundred years and more.

  They entered according to custom through the nineteenth century general store where canned peaches older than its current proprietor still held shelf space. The goods that really moved, snuff, cigarettes, and condoms, sat behind the cash register protected by Old Broussard and various weapons known to be kept under the counter but rarely seen. The arsenal supposedly consisted of a Louisville Slugger, a shotgun, and a pearl-handled revolver.

  Old Broussard was an institution himself and nearly as large as a real one. His hind cheeks overflowed the cane seat of a bentwood chair. His vast stomach filled out bib overalls with a bulk like a laughing Buddha and strained a soiled white T-shirt beneath it. A standing joke said an Old Broussard died of a heart attack when his heir reached the required weight to replace him. Nevertheless, the family provided the current mayor of Chapelle and many others powerful in ways no one wanted to ridicule. Old Broussard, certified as a justice of the peace, performed marriages in the store. Oddly, many locals chose to tie the knot there, then step through the connecting corridor to the dance hall and celebrate their union. Quite the scandal when the local librarian eloped to the place with Bob LeBlanc one boozy Mardi Gras Eve. No chance Jane would ever wed here.

  From blubbery lips sunk into several chins, Old Broussard greeted their arrival with a “Bienvenue a Broussard’s” and held out a sausage-fingered hand for the five dollar each cover charge, a relatively new fee. “Now you get one free drink wit’ dat. Y’all pass a good time,” he added as he handed Waldo a ten in change and two tickets for the drinks. The couple descended into the frenzy of the dance hall.

  At this early hour, customers already filled the tables nearest the large dance floor. Some patrons had taken the four-tops and shoved them together to accommodate all of their friends. A group of wiry black men calling themselves The Salty Beans warmed up on the spacious bandstand that once hosted jazz bands out of New Orleans during Prohibition. While there was only one way into Broussard’s Barn, it possessed many ways out, great for accommodating the fire laws, but having their origins in its speakeasy days.

  Finding a space near a side door, Jane and Waldo sat and considered their options for dinner. Judging by the offerings on the two-sided laminated menu, the music drew the crowds, not the food. Choice of fried catfish, shrimp, crawfish, or oysters served in a basket with fries and a cup of coleslaw or ensconced in a loaf of French bread po-boy style, same sides. Boiled crawfish available in season with corn and red potatoes. This wasn’t the season for mudbugs. A long list of half-pound burgers with various toppings filled the second column and the back merely listed all the beer and booze available from Broussard’s bar.

  Okay, the giant ball of cholesterol or fried seafood, Jane considered. Most Cajun places did fried really, really well. She settled on the shrimp basket. Waldo dithered about the wine list consisting of a choice of house red or white, but he wanted a Broussard Burger, the Barn’s specialty. Jane’s selection called for white while his would go better with red.

  “Order a glass of each for our free drinks. You really don’t want to see the bottle,” Jane advised.

  “Oh, you’ve been here before, a nice young woman like yourself—alone?” His tone implied perhaps she was not as nice as his aunt claimed.

  “No, I came with a bunch of women from the office for the music as you said.”

  “Ah, I see.” Waldo held up his arm and began snapping his fingers. Jane half-expected frost to fly from the tips. “Waitress, where is our waitress?”

  She came up behind the undertaker. “Yeah, wadda you want to drink?”

  Jane did the double-take. She knew Merlin’s mom worked here, but somehow didn’t expect to run into her. But, the voice wasn’t right, this one tough, not childish. She took a closer look as the waitress stepped around Waldo. Not Jenny David, but her younger clone with an identical hair style and blonde streaking, dressed in the same Broussard’s Barn serving attire but exposing the tops of bigger, plumper, younger breasts. The overdone makeup matched, but instead of coming across like a girl trying out her mother’s red lipstick and mascara, this babe looked hard despite the lack of Jenny’s facial lines. Her nametag read “Brittney,” the sister Merlin wished he never had.

  Suddenly less imperious when confronted by their surly server, Waldo ordered the two glasses of wine and went ahead with their orders as if dearly wanting to minimize contact with the waitress. That seemed fine with her. “Gotcha,” she said before moving off toward the bar and kitchen.

  “Allow me to apologize for the terrible service here, but Chapelle has so little to offer in the way of fine eateries. The next time we should go into Lafayette.”

  “Hmmm,” Jane responded. No more promises to May, no next times, she swore to herself.

  The music cranked up with the accordion and fiddles taking the lead and the rub-boards coming in behind, one played with the spoons and the other with inch long picks like stainless steel fingernails for a different sound. A fast-paced zydeco two-step, some people danced as couples and others appeared to simply jerk their bodies around to the rhythm.

  “Shall we dance?”

  “Ah, no. Let’s wait until after we eat, okay?” The longer she could draw out the meal, the less time spent in Waldo’s frigid grasp.

  Their waitress plunked down the wineglasses and left without saying a word. Jane sipped her drink, a white jug wine with a sour edge. Gauging by Waldo’s expression, his beverage did not taste any better. Still he did the whole sniff and swill in the
mouth routine so thoroughly to impress her, Jane had to hold in a laugh. As if Brittney would take it back for a better vintage.

  “As I said, the music is the thing here.” Waldo clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to a pleasant evening in good company.”

  “Hmmm,” Jane said again with a slight acknowledging smile.

  The food came quickly in green plastic baskets served with the same crude panache. Plonk! “Enjoy” and their waitress retreated. Jane imagined the grill and the deep fat fryers never stopped churning out big, greasy burgers, golden fries, and lightly battered seafood from the time the music started until the Barn shut down at two a.m. She gave the kitchen credit for using huge, fresh shrimp and a superb, flaky coating as well as fresh cut potatoes for the steaming fries. The coleslaw, very peppery, was not to her taste, but then, no one came here to eat vegetables.

  Waldo divided his immense burger in half like a prissy spinster wearing white gloves and bit into it. A glob of grease and mayo looking very much like a bird dropping splurted onto his pale blue dress shirt. Only making the spot larger, he tried to wipe it away with a paper napkin.

  “Embarrassing.”

  “Don’t worry about it on my account. Maybe we should leave so you can go home and soak your shirt in cold water.”

  “Oh, no! I’ve had worse things splattered on me,” he countered.

  Jane did not want to think about what. She reconsidered dipping her fries into ketchup. No, fine just as they are. She ate slowly, holding each shrimp between her fingers and nibbling down to the tailfins as she watched the musicians put on a gyrating show. One glance at Waldo told her she should have cut the shrimp into pieces and eaten them with a fork. Not repelled at all, he watched her lips as they progressed along the length of the large crustacean. Dang, finger food turned him on! How could she turn him off again? She bathed the fries in ketchup until they appeared to swim in blood, let some of the sauce drip on her checked shirt, and hoped she wouldn’t have trouble getting out the stain.

  Blotting her chest, she said, “I can be a very messy eater.”

  His dark eyes sunk deep in his skull watched her hand dabbing at one breast as if she masturbated just for him. She tossed the napkin aside in a hurry. “Let’s dance!”

  “I thought you wanted to finish eating first.”

  “The food will keep. I want to move.” Yes, far from Waldo.

  Without his mother and aunt watching, he cast away decorum and clutched her close to his bony chest as soon as they reached the edge of the dance floor. Jane pushed away.

  “It’s a fast one. We should be dancing like this.” She spun off by herself about three feet away and began swaying her hips and snapping her fingers, tossed in a few twirls and sidesteps as Waldo observed standing almost still amid the dancers. He headed forward, his arms outstretched.

  “No, I am sure the music calls for closely held partners.”

  “Not!” she said and backed into the guy behind her.

  “Hey, watch it, babe,” the guy objected as she kicked his ankle with her boot heel. “Oh, hi, Jane.”

  “Blaine, so good to see you again. You with Wanda? I’d like her to meet my date, Waldo Robin. Maybe we could switch partners again like we did at Mulates.”

  “She’s around somewhere. We already hooked up with Dylan and Linzey here.” Shouting above the music, he nodded at his current partner who held her arms up high and shimmied down low. Her straw cowgirl hat sat on top of a brunette extravaganza of big hair. Amazing how she could get that close to the floor in jeans so tight and still rise again without landing on her ass.

  “Hey, Linzey, we’re switching partners, okay?” Jane slithered between the dancing couple and tugged Blaine to one side leaving the brunette facing Waldo with his arms still extended. “Waldo, I want to dance with my old buddy, Blaine, for a while. You take Linzey for a spin.”

  “But I came to dance with you.”

  “The night is still young. Off you go.”

  Determined not to give in on the style of dance, Waldo drew Linzey into his grasp and began a fast foxtrot around the floor. He held his new partner tight enough to get a feel of her enhanced breasts against his chest and knock her hat to the back of her head. Linzey, possibly stoned and in her own little world, went along with it.

  “So where’s Merlin tonight?” Blaine asked.

  “Waldo asked first, unfortunately.”

  “Sorry to say he looks like a real stiff. Old and smells kinda funny, too.”

  Jane watched Waldo with his upper torso held rigid, but his feet moving fast like a Celtic dancer. “Eau de Mortuary,” she answered.

  Blaine laughed, thinking she jested. “Well, Wanda will be disappointed. She’s still a little ticked Merlin didn’t call her.”

  “He’s been offshore and washed her number with his jeans.”

  “I done that a few times. Always wanted to kick myself afterwards. I never did get yours.” Jane didn’t offer it now either.

  The set ended and the leader stepped to the microphone. “Next one is a line dance for the ladies. Gentlemen take a seat and watch them show their stuff. Girls, I don’t want to see a single one of you sitting at a table. And here we go, one, two, three.”

  Waldo took his seat and started in on his burger again, careful to enrobe its oozing bottom with a napkin first. Jane stayed on the dance floor even though she didn’t know the steps and made her turns and directional changes a half beat behind the others. When the music stopped, she drifted slowly back to their table. The fries had gone soggy in their puddle of catsup.

  “I could certainly use something to drink.”

  Waldo held up a hand and snapped his fingers. Brittney passed nearby with a tray full of draft beers and ignored him. “This will be easier if I simply go to the bar. Another white wine?”

  “No, a rum and Diet Coke.”

  He nodded somberly and weaved through the crush to the bar. Jane realized she missed Merlin teasing her about her choice of beverages. Well, she’d turned him down for another date, and he considered them even. Shortly, he’d be offshore again. Bye-bye, Merlin, no second chances for either of them.

  Waldo returned with her drink and a beer for him. Jane drank it quickly and asked for another to make dancing the next set with her date more bearable as Dylan and Linzey, Blaine and Wanda kept their distance. Evidently, Waldo did not appeal to the honky-tonk gal the way Merlin had. She downed a third before they ventured out on the dance floor again. One thing you could say about the mixed drinks at Broussard’s Barn, their bartender did not skimp on the alcohol, and it helped. Lit up and numbed from the inside out, Waldo’s hands did not feel as cold to Jane, nor his rib cage as skeletal. Still, she wanted out of his arms.

  They danced near an exit with a restroom sign and an arrow pointing outside. No lie, she needed the facilities and a break from being crushed to Waldo’s chest. Pushing away from her partner’s grip, she said, “Moment. Gotta pee.” She could tell by his down-turned mouth that he did not approve of the way she expressed herself and would have preferred her to say, “Excuse me, please. I need to use the Little Girl’s Room” with a simper.

  Well, screw Waldo. No, don’t screw Waldo ever. Jane made for the door held open for her by one of the many burly Broussard boys who worked the place as bouncers. “Knock when you need back in,” he said, combing a greasy ducktail that went out when Elvis died.

  She found herself in the parking lot by a small, cement block building, plain and primitive as a john found in the wilderness areas of national parks. Better than the wooden outhouses of yore, she figured, knowing that Broussard’s Barn once had separate sets for whites and the black performers and kitchen workers. The women’s side wasn’t totally filthy yet, just short on toilet paper and previously occupied by people who forgot to flush. Jane made sure she had plenty of paper going in, enough to coat the seat and wipe, too.

  She sat there for some time enjoying her freedom from Waldo and the cool, stiff breeze coming in under the
tin roof long after she concluded her business. The wooden stall had lots of interesting reading material: insults, comments, and phone numbers scratched into its thick, gray paint. “For a good time call…” “Dottie sucks Dick.” “Elvis lives in Erath.” A truck engine snarled as it passed the building, making its doors shake. She swore she recognized Merlin’s big-ass Ford, but put that down to wishful thinking.

  A couple of girls way drunker than her staggered in and pounded on her door. “Get out, we both gotta puke.” She got out fast, washed her hands to the tune of dual barfing, and went outside still reluctant to knock for re-entry to the dance hall. Waldo stood a short distance away in a shadowed area with his back toward her away from the light over the restroom door. Shit, he’d followed her and waited to pounce again—but no. His chilly hands rested on the shoulders of their waitress who turned away from him and enjoyed a smoke break. The wind carried his words and the whiff of menthol cigarettes back to Jane.

  “My date is as cold as a redfish on ice, baby. I think she might be of the same persuasion as Nadia Nixon since she certainly doesn’t like the feel of a man’s body against hers. After I take Jane home, I could come back at closing and get a room. It’s not like you haven’t done it before. I’m a generous man as you know, but I like to get my money’s worth.”

  Before Jane could step forward and say their evening together had ended, she felt the body heat behind her and saw the long shadow cast by its owner, Merlin Tauzin in person and truly pissed. He moved right by her without a word and knocked those hands from his sister’s shoulders. Only the woman wasn’t Brittney.

  Jenny Tauzin turned and spoke up in her soft, smoke-scratchy voice. “I’d like to help you, but I can’t no matter how good it feels. I’m a married woman and once you marry, you can’t go with other men, my mama says. Baby boy, you come to pick me up tonight? Where’s Harley?”