Of course, we had no idea that Flash Fannie would be our demise, unlike our other adventures.
“Road trip rebels!” Mag yelled. “Whoohooo!” She bounced up and down on her knees.
“Go out knowing.” I screamed out the window and fist pumped the air. I drove like my genes were fueled with gasoline. We sped down cobble roads and veered between older stone houses in France where the roads were a tight squeeze. Old people sat outside and waved us on. “Farewell Monsieur. Come back wee-wee.” or something like that. We hadn’t learned French. For an hour or so, Mag and I lived vicariously inside a world of our own making. That was the beauty of Flash Fannie and road trips. We could trade up maps and time machine anywhere we wanted. In a flat New York second we were in South Carolina doing donuts in the parking lot of the Snap & Save. We drove to Pennsylvania and searched for elusive blood sucking vampires. We sped to Virginia and hung out at the Ponderosa, and rode horses with little Joe and Has Cartwright. “Yee-haw.” We yelled out the window as we said bye. Then we drove down some old dirt roads and ended up in Mayberry. Barney Fife showed us the ins and outs of carrying a gun and Andy showed us the town. Aunt Bee fed us pie and then we shot the shit with Opie down by the river and tried our luck with catfish. Yep. Our travels were epic. People heard of us and knew us by name. “Why looky there.” They’d say. “It’s Willodean and her sister, Maggie. Why don’t yawl come on in and stay awhile.” So we did. We racked up four thousand miles a day. We learned the mechanics of stop, go, start, look both ways, burn out, smoke tires, fish tail, curve ball, revving, and pop the gears. We learned how to drive eighty and properly spit out the window and how to flip off those cracker jack-asses that the mad hatter says got their GD license in a cracker jack box. Everything was going great until we shifted gears and accelerated into the outskirts of hell.
“Tree! Turn-turn.” Mag said. She acted out with her hands. “You’re gonna hit a tree! TURN!”
I reacted in fear which I was prone to do. I couldn’t think straight. We were moving. Actually moving—not play or pretend, but actually moving. In panic, I did what dad does and floored it. We kept rolling backwards. I panicked more. I had not mastered the art of driving backwards yet. It wasn’t in the manual. That was for James Bond or those Dukes of Hazard boys, not me.
“I gotta pee.” Mag said whiny. Her face was contorted and she held her legs together.
“Well now is not the time Maggie.” I screamed. “Can’t you see we have a situation here?” Apparently, Mag thought it was part of the adventure as if I was supposed to fly into a rest area so she could hop out and unload. That’s when a multitude of events happened simultaneously. The pendulum on our travel clock stopped. It warped everything in our vision to slow motion. I heard Mag’s shrill voice. At the same time, the ceiling sucked my body upwards and lurched my stomach into my throat. Mag shot up in the air like a gymnast. A loud foghorn blew and an atomic wind gust rushed inside the cab. We were two astronauts held by gravity, floating in mid-air. Mag’s hair looked like long spikes of weeds. A vortex of noises filtered inside the cab, a reverse vacuum that sucked, then released us, to plunge to what I was sure would be our deaths. When I hit the seat, and snapped to reality, all I could think about was motor maintenance and skill, so my legs automatically locked up on the brakes. My ears bled and burned with a loud screeching horn blow. A violent wind rushed by and Flash Fannie rocked side to side. Out of the corner of my eye, the butt end of an eighteen wheelers trailer flies down the road. We must have got to close and the push of air lifted Flash Fannie’s bumper into a gravitational hex while we glanced at death's door. When we were positive we didn't want to die—it plopped us down like a jilted lover at the altar. In the aftermath of the Houdini car trick, the hell that was in the wicked branch of the Hart family tree, broke loose. Our Randy McNally map ripped to shreds—our travel itinerary disrupted—road trip rebels detained, interrogated, dismantled.
Mag and I shook limb to limb. Our near death experience had stilled us. We had no idea we were about to witness one more, far more dangerous. We looked up to see Maw Sue in a mad dash across the front yard, her face crooked, wild and spewing fire like monster. Her MD 2020 face should have warned me. It surpassed all stages of mad dog, I had ever seen before. She was a streak of wild colors. The yellow daisies on her housecoat billowed in the wind behind her like scattered flower petals. Her fuzzy blue house slippers were kicking up dirt like two hairy animals in a stampede. She held a green spatula above her head whipping the air like mashed potatoes and wildly petitioning the God of heavens and shouting, “Jesus, God Almighty!”
My mother literally dropped from thin air. She was strangling a blue dishrag and in a fast strut, somewhere between walking and sprinting, her yellow pants sparking fires with each stride. There was a tree with low branches and the spindly limb fingers snatched her coal black beehive right off her head and she never missed a step. This was bad. Very, very bad. The wig swayed side to side like a pine cone Christmas ornament. Dad was behind her in an awkward trot in an attempt to not foam the beer in his hand. I’m not entirely sure which garnered his attention more; his troubled daughters or the wig in the tree. By the look on his face, I’d say the wig won hands down. Before long, neighbors came to porches up and down the street. Mr. and Mrs. Montalongo, who never missed a thing, were front and center, gawking from their perch and documenting our various states of offense to use it against us. Papa Hart was the last to show up, covered in dirt and sweat and dragging a garden hoe. Maw Sue possessed of the devil, swung the door open and glared without blinking. It was the first time I had ever been scared of her. One of the fuzzy blue animals smashed the emergency brake which made a loud thwacking noise. She nudged me back and fumbled with the gear shift. I hadn’t realized until now, my legs had been locked on the brakes the whole time and somehow while learning the gears, I had left it in neutral. My hopes of getting a driver’s license were dwindling.
“Jesus Christ!” Lena said festered with anxiety. “You could’ve got smashed to bits!” Salvia spit from her coral lips and she sighed. Then she turned into an octopus with more arms than I could count. Miraculously and so good, I don’t know how she did it, she jerked Mag and I out of the cab at the same time and commenced to swatting the daylights out of us with the blue wet dishrag. All anybody heard was popping, swooshing and screaming. She grabbed our chins and gave us a brisk jaw-jacking which consisted of numerous tilts, left, right, up and down, sideways—while she spewed a considerable large and damning Old Testament shit storm. Then unexpected, code unknown, she went to hugging and kissing us on the forehead and talking nice. It didn’t last long. In a snap she’d revert to the dishrag and jaw jacking until she was tired, then back to kissing and being nice, then dishrag, jaw jacking. This bizarre behavior was as ambiguous as Flash Fannie. Swat. Hug. Swat. Hug. Mag and I didn’t know if we were being punished or praised, or both. The women did most of the work, Lena mostly while Maw Sue stood in the background like an angry shadow with pet blue monsters at her feet. The men were like bystanders, Papa Hart leaning on his hoe and dad beside him, drinking his Papst Blue Ribbon.
In a few, Maw Sue calmly got inside the cab and cranked the engine. She revved the motor so furious, dust flew out from underneath in little spiraled tornadoes. When she was sure she had our full attention she picked up the green rod of God and waylaid a slap across the dashboard. The flimsy plastic spatula popped and sizzled. My legs might have stung but I couldn’t feel it because they were numb from the dish rag. Our travel bag came flying out the window, followed by smashed sandwiches, kool-aid packets, travel maps and a rudimentary warning. The paddle talk landed at my feet like a prophet blaring its red letters of fundamental truth.
YOU IDIOT
Well said paddle talk. Well said.
“Get to the house.” Lena screamed. The blue dishrag pointed the way. Mag and I began the long, slow walk of shame. Our shoulders went slump, our lips pouted and our ears grew dull, mechanical in nature, to avoid th
e constant drip, drip, drip of her mouth. The walk of shame consisted of boring lectures, a long, prehistoric list of rights and wrongs, and what other people think, say or do, namesakes, genetic traits, family curses that did or did not exist and a whole slew of other jargon I tuned out centuries ago, to avoid the paddy wagon. Before it was over, dad was in as much trouble as we were. Lena drip-drip Hart said this wouldn’t have happened had the mad hatter not suggested it in the first place. It was mid-July without an air conditioner but our house was as frigid and chilled. Plus we had to endure torturing silence and burnt cornbread. I went to bed early to mourn my loss of never getting a driver’s license. I listened to the mumble of the television through the wall. I could have sworn I heard it call me a cracker jackass. I was lost in a world without vehicles when the door opened.
“Tell me you learned something today.” Dad said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. The dark of my room made him a talking shadow. Gavin Hart is a man of few words, so when he does say something, I take notice. Did I learn something today?
“Yes, daddy, I did.” I blurted a lie. It was lame and not at all what I wanted to say. Disappointed with myself, I turned inward to the Dumas of Umbra. I ran to the NAMESAKE room. I could hear a rustling of spirits behind the door. I entered and typed on walls like biblical epistles was the words I wanted to say.
Go out knowing. Go out knowing. If you’re gonna go out—go out knowing. As I read the words out loud, they spin off the walls and into my mouth. I swallow and internalize their meaning.
“Willodean?” I could hear dad’s voice in the distance. I wanted to scream the words and rise up in Anarchy like some militant super hero. Instead, the words swirled in my mind like a vortex of crazy eights, traveling in circles, unable to locate my vocal cords. Maybe I don’t know squat. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me if I had went out today—I wouldn’t have known diddly-squat. Zilch. Nero the zero. Notta. Nothing. I expected to see the world, tour Europe, party with the Romans, meet the whales, swim with dolphins, walk the streets of Italy, and hike the mountains and maybe camp in the wild and observe the moon from the highest peak. I wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge and the Grand Canyon. I wanted to yell across it and hear my own words come back to my ears. I wanted to catch a Marlin in the Atlantic, stare into the marvel of its eyes and then set him free, watch him swim away. I wanted to meet my dreamboat, David Cassidy of the Partridge family. A hush fell over me and my dad’s shadow engulfed my own. I realized I had done none of these things. But I was a little too hard on myself, I mean, I was only ten. Not even of legal age. It didn’t matter none, the magnitude of my father’s words weighted me down.
“Are you okay Willodean?” Dad was talking but I was somewhere in Italy planning my next adventure.
“Uhhh—yeah. Dad. Sure…” LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE. I was not fine. I was far from fine.
“You and Mag need to be careful.” He said loudly and clearly. “You hear me? You’ll have us all in the dog house.” He peeked out the door. A few bangs and clangs rang out from the kitchen lair.
“Okay, dad. I promise.” Liar-Liar.
“Just be careful. Yawl could have gotten seriously hurt Willodean. Seriously. Now, go to bed. Sweet dreams.”
I was already in a dream and his voice ripped me from David Cassidy’s lips like a scratchy needle on a vinyl record. Dad turned to walk way and the door was almost closed.
“Hey dad.” I yelled. He came back in filling up the spaces of his shadow. “If I go out…” My mind stormed with adventures. “If I go out, I wanna go out knowing.”
The words lingered between us. The glint of moon shining through the window lights up the rough features of his face. He is locked up some place, stoic and deep thinking, as if he was waiting on his own words, spoken from my lips, to return to their rightful owner. Him to me, me to him.
“Well…” he grinned. “At least wait until you turn eighteen. Now—let me go out knowing—you’ll go to sleep.” He winked and closed the door. “And I mean, right now. Goodnight.”
“Night dad.” I giggled and slipped under the covers. Today had been a life changer—rebels searching for namesakes, discovering treasures and untold adventures, and country detours on the scathing outskirts of hell. It was a red letter paddle talk wordy-dird, an epic MD 20/20 thrill ride. Just two girls following their wild beating heart.
If you’re gonna go out—at least, go out knowing.
Shotgun Annie
Crumbs, crumbs and more crumbs. I was drenched in joy like raindrops. Had I been blind to them all this time? Was my gift never activated until now? I had so many questions and no one to ask. I was alone. Alone. I still hated the word but it wasn’t a heavy burden anymore. It seemed planned, meant to be. Part of the process. My process. All I could think about is a rebel salute. I was driving fifty five in Lena’s suburban and turned the corner on two wheels, okay, actually four wheels but who can blame me for being a little scared of Lena. I didn’t want to push my luck. Five greenbacks burned inside my pocket waiting on fulfillment. Faith and 500.
I literally skipped inside the store, bought a coke Icee and grabbed a copy of the local Thrifty newspaper. I sat in Lena’s suburban which was long and huge, like a tank. From that moment on, it would have the namesake, Tank. I laughed at my childlike mannerisms coming back to life. I slurped and scanned the used car section, stopping every so often to fight brain freeze. Everything is way out of my price range. One page left and I was low on hope. I scanned page 33 and mid-way down on row 3 was the premonition. I couldn’t believe it.
1970 Toyota, Clean. Runs good. $500. Call 409-867-8843.
I read it over and over again. I blinked a few times. Was this real? It felt otherworldly. Beyond me, of me, in me, for me. I glanced around expecting to see these omnipotent forces at work. People came and went as usual. Goose bumps lined my skin and it wasn’t because of the Icee. I sat stunned, mystified. I had truly believed—but yet I didn’t believe. And now, it appeared in substance, in real form, in black and white, right before my eyes. Faith and 500. I sat in a state of marvel at the divine. I sucked up every last drop of Icee until my head was a block of ice and the straw made that slurping sssss sound. Good stuff like this never happened to me. I warbled between two worlds, skeptical and believing. Premonitions, crumbs, divine moments. I bit my lip, wrung my hands, gulped and fret. I glanced up at the pay phone and before I knew it—my fingers dialed. Doubts formed in my head while the phone rang. One ring. Two Rings. Three rings. Surely this is a joke. I waited for someone to pick up and tell me it was a misprint and laugh in my face. “A car for five hundred dollars, Lady?” they’d say. I could hear the storm cloud of Lena looming over me. “Add an extra zero on that lady.” They’d say right before slamming the phone down. I was about to hang up when I heard a disgruntled voice.
“Hello.” I said. The noise on the other end was deep, Louisiana creole, an accent mixed with something else. Alligator grunts, maybe? I could barely understand a word. He repeated the address three times. I jumped in tank and headed out. The whole drive I could hear Lena’s dripping voice. “This is how vulnerable women meet serial killers and are never seen again Willodean. How many times have I told you?”
He was standing in the yard when I drove up. Row after row of old cars lined the yard in every direction. The back pasture was full of junkers and tall weeds. I looked the man over from a distance, a horrible habit I learned from Lena that for the life of me, can’t stop. He was about five foot tall, bald with bushy eyebrows, a pot belly and squat legs. Ehh…I could probably outrun him. His stretchy white t-shirt was ready to split like an atom. His blue jeans were held up by a snakeskin belt and a huge gold plated buckle with the initials FSS. Uhh…It should say SOS. I laughed under my breath. I got out of tank and walked to what Lena Hart said would be my death.
“Howwwdy madam—ehhh.” He said politely. He dipped his chin and offered his hand a foot to the left of me. It threw me off. I didn’t know what to do. I
s he blind? Cockeyed? Does he see me standing there but I’m here? His right eye fluctuated to the left, and the other eye followed suit, both shifting and staring where I wasn’t. He leaned and tilted like a spinning top, about to topple over.
“Hi.” I said shuffling over to meet his hand. “Willodean Hart. I called about the car.”
“Missy…ehhh.” He said. His thick chin bowed downward in triples. “Freeed Sawyer, usedcar salesman Vietnamvetparttime auctioneereehh.”
What tha what? In my head the double what-what sounded off. His auctioneer part alligator, part Cajun accent was stuck on high speed gibberish.
“Whatcan-Ido-forya-todayinterested-ina-vehicletruckcar—eehh.”
“I uh…”
“How muchyou spending? Twohundreddddd--onethousanddddd—eehh.” He said cutting me off. After hearing him talk, his shifty eyes were the least of his problems. Every sentence ended with a hook. Eehhh.
“Where is the five hundred dollar car?” I said looking around.
“Threehundredddd, fourrrrhundredddd, fivehundredddddd ehhhh.” He said turning. He waddled ahead of me with a gimp on his right side. I followed him through the mowed pathway that cut a swath through the tall grass. I smelled the pungent scent of fresh cut grass. Warning flags of Lena went off in my head. Stop it. He is not a serial killer. Fred’s pointy toed cowboy boots squeaked like a clown’s shoe. We passed a row of vintage cars rusty and dented, hoods up, and no motors. If dad was here he’d rattle off what they were, Chevy, Ford, Buick, tinker shop knowledge. Fred stopped and leaned. He slapped a large loaf of molded bread. I gasped. Upon further inspection, it wasn’t bread but a green, four-door compact. The roof had faded to brown splotches with rust and peeling paint. A rug of green fungus grew down the sides of the doors. Inside the back window, a vine sprouted and climbed and looked desperate to find its way out. The entire car was rough, scratches, dings and dents. Lena’s voice slithered in my ears. Five hundred dollars? You can’t buy a hubcap or a tire for that.
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 15
