Seven Daze

by Margaret Lashley

“Here we go,” he said, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  My stomach gurgled like an angry bobcat. Tom laughed and turned the key in the ignition.

  “This ought to be fun,” he said, and backed slowly out of the drive.

  “I can’t wait to see Winky’s place,” Laverne chirped from the back seat. “I heard he’s got his own swimming pool!”

  “Wow!” I shook my head. “Imagine that. A few weeks ago he didn’t even have his own shirt.”

  “Life can be unpredictable,” Tom said, and turned onto Bimini Circle.

  We rode in contented silence for a while as the silver 4Runner thrummed steadily along under Tom’s guidance. But about a mile or so down the road, Tom suddenly turned the steering wheel sharply to the left and hit the brakes. I got a close-up view of the dashboard as the SUV first swerved, then lurched to a stop.

  “Sorry about that!” Tom said, and winked at me. “Everybody okay?”

  “I think so,” Laverne said, patting down her strawberry-gold curls. “What happened?”

  “I thought I saw a possum about to meet his maker,” Tom replied, watching Laverne through the rearview mirror. “Had to swerve to miss him.”

  Tom locked eyes with me and grinned like a fox. “Look,” he whispered, and nodded toward my side-view mirror.

  I peeked just in time to see the reflection of a red plastic plate tumbling down the road behind us like a renegade hubcap.

  “Poor little critter,” Laverne said. “Did you miss him?”

  “Yes,” Tom said, and shifted into drive. “But it was a close call.”

  I looked back at Laverne. She was smiling brightly. I squeezed Tom’s thigh and smirked.

  “Yep,” I said. “That was a close call, indeed.”

  WITH OUR DEADLY CARGO dutifully jettisoned, Tom’s SUV headed north along Gulf Boulevard past rows of pastel-hued mom-and-pop hotels built during decades that seemed more innocent and less commercial than today. Tucked between the cheerful, homey motels were small shops selling beachwear and souvenirs, as well as a handful of restaurants with names like Grouper’s and Barnacle Bill’s, focused not so much on cuisine as on gimmicks to lure the tourists in.

  It was nearly six o’clock. The sky over the Gulf of Mexico was just starting to tinge pink like a slow-boiling shrimp. Tom hooked a right at the Thunderbird Hotel and headed east. We crossed a pair of small bridges traversing the Intracoastal Waterway, leaving behind the sandy strip island and entering the mainland of Pinellas County.

  As we did, everything beachy and touristy disappeared, as if the Gulf waters had been only a mirage. In place of surf-shops and beach stands, a hodge-podge of dry cleaners, banks, grocery stores and thrift shops sprouted up like toadstools. Except for the tell-tale palm trees, you could have been forgiven for thinking you were in Georgia, or D.C., or pretty much anywhere else in the good old US of A. Until you rolled down the window, that is, and got blasted by heat normally found only inside a pizza oven.

  I suppose the summer heat and humidity were the only things that had kept St. Petersburg from turning into Lower New York City. That and a distinct lack of space for urban sprawl.

  Pinellas County itself was comprised mostly of a bloated peninsula that stuck out of Florida’s west coast and into the Gulf of Mexico like a bratty kid’s swollen tongue. Bordered on three sides by water, it stretched along the coastline northward, from its southern tip, St. Petersburg, to its northern boundary, the Greek-themed town of Tarpon Springs.

  The Pinellas beach towns lucky enough to stick their toes in the Gulf had enjoyed the glamour, acclaim and “progress” that tourist dollars inevitably wrought. The opposite fate had befallen their land-locked cousins. These turf-town communities had remained virtually ignored for decades, left to play a second fiddle so distant that it might as well have been in an orchestra on the moon. And no place played that second fiddle better than the township of Pinellas Park. An oasis of local yokels and rednecks surrounded by a desert of tourists and transplants, it was, naturally, where Winky had chosen to set up his new home-sweet-home.

  Tom turned off US 19 at the Pinellas Park exit and took a left. Immediately, the view was blighted with deep-discount stores, fast-food restaurants and auto repair shops. Each proudly vied for our attention with garish lights and grammatically incorrect signs. After dodging a rusty red pick-up that nearly rammed us on its hell-bent journey to Walmart, Tom turned off 19 and onto a road sandwiched between two strip centers as tired and uninspiring as a geriatric insurance salesman.

  To my surprise, just one building in from US 19, the neighborhood turned residential. Its modest homes were proudly working class. Yards were un-landscaped but tidy – despite the occasional vehicle or two that hadn’t moved since the turn of the millennium.

  A few blocks further down the road, the yards got bigger, but the houses remained modest. We drove past a series of acre-sized plots surrounded by chain-link fences. Most were pocked with disused RVs, flower beds lined with old tires and the random mongrel dog or three. I knew we had to be getting close when I saw the first family-pack of ATV’s parked under a tin-roofed shed. That was the unquestionable signature of a well-to-do hillbilly if there ever was one.

  “This is it,” Tom said, and pulled into the open gate of a chain-link fence bordering a grassy, green acre.

  I smiled. True to his word, Winky had gotten himself a brand-new doublewide trailer. Even in the fading light, it shone like an aluminum-clad beacon amongst his neighbors’ slightly more aged residences.

  Tom parked the SUV in the dirt driveway next to an equally shiny new red Camaro. Winky had bought it at Hopkins Chevrolet. I could tell because he’d modified the complimentary vanity plate. By removing the K and S, he’d turned “Hopkins” into “Hop in.”

  “Here we go,” I said, grinning before I even climbed out of the car. I’d barely slammed the SUV door shut when the front door of Winky’s trailer flew open as if it’d been kicked out by a SWAT team.

  “Welcome to our humble abode,” the pudgy, freckle-covered redneck hollered. “Wooo hoooo! Glad y’all made it!”

  Winky looked so ready to explode with unabashed pride that I cringed involuntarily. I grinned and took him by the hand.

  “Nice duds,” I said, and meant it. To my utter amazement, Winky had on clean cargo shorts and a t-shirt with no stains or holes anywhere to be found. The shirt even had both sleeves still attached. I secretly worried that perhaps his money had gone to his head....

  “What? This old thang?” Winky said and scratched his belly, dislodging my concerns along with the lint ball that had been inhabiting his navel. “Y’all come on in!”

  “I’ll get the food,” Tom said as he helped Laverne climb out of the SUV. “I’ve been here already, so why don’t you two ladies go enjoy the tour?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Laverne said. “Thanks, Tom. Now keep your mitts off those cookies until you’ve had your dinner,” she scolded playfully.

  “I promise,” Tom said and looked at me. “Cross my heart and hope not to die.”

  THE SMELL OF PLASTIC and formaldehyde emanating from the shiny new doublewide trailer burned my eyes, but not nearly as bad as the décor. I blinked twice to stop the stinging. Nope. The couch still didn’t look any better.

  “I paid extry for the stain proofin’,” Winky said proudly.

  “You don’t say,” I coughed, too stunned to cobble a real sentence together. Given the sofa’s hideous upholstery, a swirling pattern of orange, red and brown akin to vomit caught in a tornado, a stain didn’t have a chance against it. In fact, I would have bet good money someone could have been stabbed to death on that couch and the cops wouldn’t even notice. I made a mental note to add that to my list for my writing class when I got home.

  “Well, I have to say, the couch goes perfectly with the lamps,” I said, trying not to stare. Perched on a side table at one end of the sofa stood a lamp made out of a stuffed raccoon. Its claw-like hands had been fashioned to hold a small, rou
nd object, the purpose of which I found myself harboring zero curiosity over. The other lamp – it pained me to say – was ET the extraterrestrial, sitting in what looked to be an empty pie tin.

  “Huh. I didn’t know they made shag carpet anymore,” Laverne said to Winky, allowing me a moment to compose myself.

  “Orange is...a bold color,” I fumbled.

  “Thanky,” Winky said, and hitched his thumbs in his pockets. “You know, I had it special ordered. All this stuff, really.”

  “You’re kidding,” Laverne muttered. Her pug eyes looked as big as boiled eggs as she stared warily at the raccoon lighting fixture. “What were you...uh...was your inspiration?”

  Winky grinned like a hillbilly with a jug full of corn liquor.

  “Home,” he said. “You see, I showed the fellers down at Fred’s Furniture pictures of my mom’s place back in Kentucky. I had ‘em recreate it best they could. The whole place is like this. ‘Cept for the kitchen. That’s Winnie’s domain.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I tell you what, it really is something.”

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” Winky said. “Come in here, y’all, and I’ll show you my pride and joy.”

  Laverne and I exchanged doomed glanced, then followed Winky dutifully down a step into a sunken living room off the main trailer. The 1970s time-warp continued. On the far wall, covered with dark-brown wood paneling, an off-centered hodge-podge collection of framed sports figures hung like offerings in a thrift shop. Below them were three white, waist-high, glass-topped coolers like the ones I’d seen in convenience stores.

  “Go ahead, gals,” Winky offered. “They’s unlocked and loaded!”

  Laverne and I made our way cautiously toward the coolers and peered through their clear, sliding lids. One was full of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The other two were filled to the gills with bottles of Mountain Dew and Yoo Hoo chocolate-flavored drinks.

  “Thanks, Winky,” I said and slid open the beer cooler. Laverne and I each grabbed a can.

  “Yeppers. This here’s my man cave,” Winky said, hooking his fingers in his belt loops and thrusting out his barrel chest.

  “You want one?” I asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He took the beer, cracked open the tab and walked to a door beside the coolers. He opened it to reveal a pantry stuffed to the brim with beef jerky, corn nuts, pork rinds and moon pies – the four basic redneck food groups.

  “Help yoreself,” he said. “And looky here.”

  Winky waved his right arm at a wall like a used car salesman pimping the “deal of the day.”

  “I had this here entertainment center built custom to hold my new sixty-five-inch, big-screen TV,” Winky boasted. “And, a course, my entire NASCAR Big Gulp collection.”

  I’d never seen so many plastic cups in one place, much less lined up on shelves like bowling trophies.

  “I got ‘em all, ‘ceptin’ Dale Earnhardt.”

  “Impressive,” I offered.

  Winky nodded and motioned toward a half-dozen easy-chairs clad in brown corduroy.

  “Each a these babies is decked out with cup-holders, massage action, and built-in TV trays,” Winky gushed. “This here’s my home theater. Ain’t she somethin’?”

  “She’s something, all right,” Laverne said.

  “Y’all just grab a seat and relax,” Winky said and picked up a TV remote. “I think Duck Dynasty’s about to come on.”

  My mouth was still hanging open when Goober nudged me from behind.

  “Breathtaking, wouldn’t you say?” he whispered.

  I turned and eyed my peanut-headed friend. “I’ll give Winky this. He certainly has left me at a loss for words.”

  Chapter Six

  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” Goober said. His eyes danced in the moonlight beneath a pair of caterpillar eyebrows. He’d trailed behind me as I’d escaped out the back door of Winky’s tin-can condo before Duck Dynasty came on and I was forced to watch the shenanigans of even more wealthy rednecks.

  The wooden porch we stood on afforded a good view of the humongous back yard. A sprinkling of lightning bugs blinked flashes of reddish-yellow in the dusky sky, making me realize I hadn’t seen a firefly in ages.

  Across the wide expanse of lawn, Jorge and Sherryl were talking to Winnie beside a folding table laden with food. A glance to the left made me smile. Winky had outfitted his little chunk of country paradise with a tiki hut just like mine. He’d also pimped his place with a massive outdoor grille, a fire pit, and, just as Laverne had said, a swimming pool. An above-ground one – with a fancy, redwood deck.

  “No, I’m not jealous, Goober,” I answered. “I’m glad for Winky. I was just desperate for a breath of fresh air. His place has that new-car smell. I don’t need to be inhaling any more chemical fumes. I’ve got enough brain damage as it is.”

  “Roger that,” Goober said. “I’d say from the looks of it, we all have.”

  I smirked at my tall, lanky friend who hid his intellect as if it were the map to the lost treasure of El Dorado. Despite his solid brain and body, in all the time I’d known him, Goober had never held down a steady job. When I’d left my glorified file-clerk post at the accounting firm of Griffith & Maas, I’d recommended him to fill the position. My friend and boss, Milly Halbert-Pantski, had hired him on a trial basis. Given his track record, I wondered which one of them was having more trials with their current arrangement.

  “So, how do you like working for Milly?” I asked.

  “Okay, I guess.” Goober sighed and scratched the armpit of his white t-shirt. “But then again, I never have taken too well to domestication.”

  “What do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re finding it hard to fill my shoes.”

  Goober grinned. “You do have some pretty big feet. But sorry, Val. Your sensible pumps just aren’t my style. I’m more of a trashy, rhinestone-studded stiletto man myself.”

  “Ha ha.” I laughed drolly and tried to will myself not to look at Goober’s feet, but I couldn’t resist. The off chance that he was in hooker high heels was too good to miss. Come to find out, he wasn’t wearing any shoes at all. A ping of disappointment made my gut loosen. “What’s the problem, then? Don’t like the idea of a having a work wardrobe, eh?”

  “No, it’s more the whole, ‘Be there at a certain time,’ bit.” Goober ran a hand across his bald pate as he spoke. “All that, ‘Do this, don’t do that,’ stuff rubs me the wrong way.”

  I shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Did you?” Goober studied my face as he smoothed his bushy moustache with his right thumb and forefinger.

  I sneered and he looked away and shrugged. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Anyway, how’s your new career going? Written any best-sellers yet?”

  I blew out a breath. “Not quite. But I did sign up for a class on how to write mystery books for fun and profit.”

  “Intriguing.” A bushy, angular eyebrow raised on Goober’s forehead, giving me an idea of what Spock might have looked like if he were bald.

  “There you all are!” Winky bellowed from the open back door. “Y’all ready to eat?”

  “Let the gastronomical revelry begin,” Goober said with sardonic cheer. As Winky paraded past us, Goober turned to me and whispered. “Quick. Tell me. Which one did Laverne bring?”

  “No worries,” I whispered. “The target has been destroyed.”

  “Nice work, Fremden,” Goober replied. “Remind me to give you a raise.”

  “...AND BLESS OUR GOOD brother Old Joe,” Winky prayed over the table full of food, “Who if’n he hadn’t up and died and left me his bait shack, none of this would a been possible. Amen.”

  “Amen,” everyone echoed.

  “Hey. Where’s the cookies I brought?” Laverne asked Tom as we lined up to receive our portion of the evening’s redneck bounty.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Tom said. “Don’t say anything, but I think Winky went and hid them, to, you know, keep t
hem all for himself.”

  Laverne shot a dirty look at the back of Winky’s head.

  “He’s got a thing for snickerdoodles,” I said. “And he heard yours are the best.”

  Her horsey face softened into an impish, motherly smile. “Oh, that Winky. Okay. I won’t mention it.”

  I exchanged glances with Tom, then turned and tapped Jorge on the shoulder. He was ahead of me in the buffet line. “Hey, Jorge. What did you bring?”

  “Hey. Me and Sherryl brought homemade peccadillo.”

  “Mmm! That sounds great!”

  I was sure it was. Jorge was a great cook. His peccadillo meant there was something on the buffet that didn’t contain Karo syrup, Crisco, pork by-products, or red dye number 87. Yes!

  “How about you?” Jorge asked.

  “That tray of chocolate-drizzled strawberries, banana chunks and marshmallows,” I answered.

  “Good to know.” Jorge took a fork and filled his plate from my tray. Soldiers in arms needed to stick together.

  “What’s that orange stuff that looks kind of like dried-up macaroni and cheese?” I asked Jorge.

  “Sherryl told me Winnie made it. It’s Cheeto squares.”

  “What?” I asked as I heaped a mound of peccadillo into the biggest section of my fancy, Chinet-brand paper plate.

  “She said it’s made of melted marshmallows and Cheetos,” Jorge explained as I stared at him dumbly. “You know. Like Rice Krispy squares, only you use Cheetos instead.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  Ugh. If that glop had been topped with hotdog slices, it would have had all the makings of a well-rounded redneck meal.

  AFTER WAITING HALF an hour after dinner, Winky cordially invited us all to take a dip in his pool. I’m not sure what the waiting was about. There was no danger of drowning. I was only five-foot, two inches, and the water barely came up to my shoulders. Besides, if the rest of the group was in my state of gastric distress, they all had recently inflated their built-in flotation devices. I, personally, had enough gas in my bowels to keep me afloat all the way to Cuba.