the woman in the Daisy Duke's told. She gulped down straight tea, no sugar, on ice, drained the Pepsi cup of the stuff, crushed it and chucked it on top of a pile of trash. A guy in supertight jeans ran up and gave her a five dollar bill. "What's this for?" She made a face like the guy might be weird and asked loudly as motors revved. She crossed the parking lot amidst unblinking eyes, tugged at her ponytail holder and her hair fell down all around her shoulders. She put her Dragon's Tail ballcap back on. Wiped a backhand across her lips and picked up the racing flags.
It was true, that two guys with perfect hair had gone from Chapel Hill to northah New York to try and help somehow. Between people on strike! and bad attitudes (not to mention legitimate "burnout") peoples' bloodwork all over the State was being held up. "Maybe indefinitely," a male nurse slumped down on a hunk of logseat. The two guys and a referee-type making sure no funny business had made it back in nine hours and forty-seven minutes.
The Mustang purred to the quickly drying Baptismal engine bath. A splash of water left in a grimey on the outside plastic water bottle. And a young girl admonished, how dare you waste water. Then she donned a plain red ballcap and waved a little American flag on a stick like she was lettin' 'em loose.
It wasn't racing on the Dragon, but something called an Autobahn.
Oh my God, the balding guy was still mouthing at the sight of his very academic "girlfriend" in such short, well-worn, cut-off jeanshorts. Between that time-of-the-months and still-beer-smelling ruined outfits, she'd ended up with the hottest outfit, swear to God. "Even on you," the jeanshorts' owner hissed. "Don't listen to the Cougar," a guy in a dress polo and not too much gut urged the woman to get out of the car Squiggles.
And it was true, and not really a "secret" so much as a don't tell everyone
"Some guy's giving out fifty cents a lap to scholarship of choice!!!!!!!!" The wife overheard a kid hollering. "He's not a guy," she turned and blew air through her lipstick'd lips and shook her head in little no, no's, this can't be rights. "He's MY old man," she dramatically thumbed herself like a peacock spreading tail. Nobody said anything. "And that was only supposed to be for OUR son."
A woman in sunbonnet and swirly peacesign printed skirt went to the woman. "Something wrong dear?" At that the composure dissolved and the woman burst into tears putting her hands all up and all over her welldone makeup'd eyes. Another woman with a clipboard and sporting tubesocks with Sharpied-on stripes came over and put the clipboard down on the hood of a car and took the woman's head into her bosom. Gross, the younger of the perfect hair guys said. The driver of the car in front of which this was playing out, got out, heels hard on the pavement, and brushed the clipboard off the hood. Alligator boots and ironed straight edged jeans, a tall man walked over and picked up the clipboard after giving the guy who'd knocked it off the hood that look: Me. Watching You. "M'am," he extended his arm long as that car's hood was wide and tapped the woman filling in as a mama's gone already with the clipboard on the hugging arm.
No comments:
Post a Comment