Twenty-twenty

There was me, Francis, who is called Frank. And there was Spike who is called Spike. And there was Andrea who we called Andrea in the fall and winter when she sometimes cared for me. She went by Iris in the spring and summer when she was madly in love with Spike. 

It was May.

And we were racing down I-10 somewhere between Lafayette and Lake Charles. As usual Spike was driving even though it was my '73 Impala. Iris sat in the front seat because every hero need a girl And Spike was confident that he was the hero of this story. He barreled down the interstate at 85 mph changing lanes and flicking cigarette ashes out the window while she scratched his inner thigh with a red painted nail. For my part, I sat largely apathetic in the back set turning pages in a semiotics tome and sucking an MD 20/20. Mango, from the gas station we’d hit in Biloxi for a piss.

It was meh.

Passing a sign for a roadside casino gas station in someplace called Bayou Grenouille, Spike drifted back across the lanes and hit the exit at 70 mph. He left the car idling, parked straddling four gas pump slots at the Bet n’ Jet, before tearing across the parking lot tossing me my keys over his shoulder as he went. I dove for them as I crawled out of the back seat. Iris followed him silently, dutifully as he headed inside to gamble, leaving me stretching out the nearest gas pump hose to the rear bumper and shoving it into the receptacle under the license plate. 

Standing, transfixed by the neon sign alternately blinking “Chips!” followed by “Poker” or “Potato,” I came to realize that I was being watched. I locked eyes with an old man peering at me from behind a rack of propane tanks. He smiled. I scowled back. After a bit the gas bubbled up out of the pipe and spilled out over my Chuck Taylor high-tops. I slammed the nozzle back intis holster and reaffixed the oil cap which served as a gas cap. A loop of baling wire sealed it in for good measure.

Turning around to look again, I found the man gone and shrugged. It’s no matter. The man looked to be a typical harmless local Cajun. Sun-beaten face. Foam Courvoisier trucker cap. Flannel shirt. Worn Dickies. And barn boots.  A very old pair of Red Wings if I was not mistaken.

Next, I checked the status of our smokes. Still a half carton of Marlboros in the glove box to hold us till Texas. Satisfied, I snapped the car shut and headed after Spike and Iris.

Spike was at a small cash-only blackjack table sandwiched between the beef jerky rack and the sandwiches. Mostly triangles of faded yellow egg salad and impossible texture-less ham and cheese. Iris giggled in his lap. He was asking for a hit on a nineteen. He was feeling lucky.

“Idiot,” grumbled the dealer, a mummified crone with a string of plastic Mardi Gras beads and a sensible pair of white Grasshoppers. She dealt him a two. Spike grinned. 

She threw some crumpled bills at him. “You know, we got no tolerance for strangers here in Bayou Gren.” She took a Kent out the corner of her mouth and jabbed it at us, “Specially not smart ass ones.”

“Too bad,” Spike laughed scooping up his winnings, “We’re pretty strange.”

Iris slid off his lap and grabbed her purse; she added “Yea, we’re pretty smart too.”

The dealer glowered as they turned to leave. I sighed. “We’re just asses,” I consoled her before turning to follow them out.

I found Spike and Iris in the parking lot.

“Where’s the car?” Spike asks.

“Right were you parked it right in the middle of everything.” But it was not there. “Where’s my car?”

“Snatched. Fuck. You left the keys in it?”

“No,” I pulled them out of my pocket and waved them angrily. “See?”

“Snatched. Fuck.” Spike repeated.

“Yea, I know.”

“Who?”

I shook my head, “There was a little connasse watching me out here earlier.”

“Let’s go register a complaint.” He announced and we all marched back into the Bet n’ Jet.

Confronting the manager got us not much more than a “Serves you right!” as he made change from Spike’s winnings so Iris could call the sheriff on the pay phone out front.

It was not clear why Sheriff Boudreaux, a fat little man with mirrored sunglasses and brown Dannon tactical boots drove all the way from downtown Bayou Grenouille, out to the highway just to say:

“What de fuck makes his any business of mine, mais?”

But he did. 

“Give us a ride to town at least anyway, Officer.”  Iris whined taking off her red Gianna Meliani pumps and rubbing her sore arches.

“Sheriff!” he corrected, brushing her off his fender. I caught her by the elbows from behind as she slammed ass down in the dust. Boudreaux drove off in a huff. More dust. 

The manager told us that the Ragin Cajun Motorlodge was a mile or so down the access road from the gas station. There was also a local Chinese takeout that sounded heavenly about that time. So we started to hoof it.

Spike was bare-footed as usual. When he required shoes he’d wear an old pair of Frye’s engineer boots of mine that he found in the trunk. But they were usually slung up on the dash as he drove.

We found the left boot in a drainage ditch a half mile past the Bet n’ Jet. 

“At least the culprit left the boots.” I offered as Spike clambered down the bank for it.

“At least?” He agreed stepping over a Budweiser can only squelch a foot into a squalid nutria carcass. He snags the boot. “Just one boot. What good is one doing me?”

“Give here.” He tossed it up to me and I stuck it under an arm. Iris sighed.

“I wish he’d thrown my Sketchers out.” 

“I like the heels.” Spike consoled as he reached the top again. They kissed deep and sloppy. 

And I trudged ahead, stewing. I was the one with no car. And no girl either. At least until Spike and Iris broke up again. At the time, I didn’t expect that until late September at the earliest. 

Chucks aren’t the greatest walking shoe, but between her heels and his bare feet, I was soon way ahead of them, finishing my second to last smoke when I made the motel. Inside, I enjoyed an electric fan with tattered blue streamers for a bit, before slamming a hand on the desk bell. Once, twice, three times. Then over and over again, as my anger and frustration increased. At length I grabbed the bell and hurled it out into the parking lot. I followed, sat on a curb and lit the last smoke.

Turning over my left Frye in my hands, I considered the years since picking them up in a strip mall in East Queens. Hopping gigs, cities. Deejaying in Erie. Night clerking in Emporia. Teaching English in Waterbury. Pipeline work wherever and whenever was always good money and roaring times. I picked up Iris (then Andrea, of course) handing out PQ literature in Montreal. Spike, I found on a land rig in Enid from which he was also cooking crystal meth. The rest was history.

“What’s mine is ours.” I thought, tossing the boot down.

I’d come to realize there was some banging coming from behind the hotel office and, assuming it must be the missing desk clerk, I decided to take a peek.  

What I found was the connasse from the Jet parked behind a dumpster attempting to pry open the trunk of my Impala with a crowbar. I watched for a bit as he struggled, occasionally getting over-heated and taking a hit from my left-over Mad Dog. 

My right Frye was lying in the weeds nearby.

I could not stand him scratching my car up any more than he had though, so, I stepped out from behind the dumpster, took up the boot and smashed the rubber heel over the old Cajun’s head with all my might. He half turned to confront me before collapsing.

I swapped out my Chucks out for my now complete pair of Frye’s. These boots were old friends. They were from long before Spike put them on his grubby little feet. The car was another old friend, paid off long before I first perched Andrea on the hood and kissed her.

Little damage had been done to the massive trunk, I popped it open with the key and took out Spike’s and Iris’ gear, which I dropped in the motel lobby before taking off. I even replaced the bell for good measure. 

Heading back to the interstate on the access road, I didn’t pass Spike and Iris. Or at least I didn’t notice them. Damn. I loved that car.

And it was mine.