As Marcus stepped into the barn, the sound of people laughing and talking mingled with the loud country music from speakers mounted in the corners of the old barn. At the far end of the room was a small raised platform in front of a large open area. White twinkle lights were strung all around the room, and from the hayloft above, a multicolored spotlight flickered and flashed across the open area in front of the stage.
Two elderly men in poorly fitting dresses, bad makeup, and ratty red wigs danced and lip-synced to the Judds song playing over the speakers. A few men stood at the edge of the platform and offered dollar bills to the performers, who would wink and smile before shoving the money into their fake cleavage. Skeet stopped and nodded toward the stage.
“That’s Toona Melt and Pattie Melt.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Tonight’s entertainment?”
“Yeah. It ain’t Ru-Paul, but they’re kind of funny. Somebody said they’re two old army buddies of Sarge’s and he asked them to move down here with him when they all retired. Sarge calls them ‘the twins’ but I don’t think they’re really related.” Skeet shrugged and then gestured toward the stage. “They all dressed up as country singers for Halloween one year. Everyone thought it was so funny that they just started doing shows for a lark. Everyone gets a kick out of it. I also heard they both are stinking rich from never having any wife or kids to pay for. All that combat pay stuffed away or something. Anyway, when they’re done, we’ll be able to go out on the floor and dance if you want to. I think they’re almost done.”
As the music began to die down, Marcus’s attention was pulled back to the stage as a squeal of feedback shot from the speakers. “Ooh! Hot mic! Hot mic!” one of the men in drag said as he shook the microphone in his hand. “Sorry about that everybody. Whew, I’m getting too old for those upbeat numbers.” The man fanned himself with his free hand and then patted his chest. “All right, Pattie and I are going to take a little break and let you kids dance for a bit.”
One of the men standing at the edge of the stage booed and yelled out, “We want more!”
“Oh, honey, calm down,” the other man on stage drawled. “We’ll be back. You’re just a little worked up because you’re confused. It ain’t often you meet someone whose stacked like your mama and hung like your daddy.” The crowd in the room laughed, and a few men hooted and whistled. The man threw his head back and laughed loudly toward the rafters. The man yanked the wig off his head, revealing a bald head. “Damn, these things are hot. Well, glamor is pain. All right, Toona, put something peppy on the record player.” The other man tottered in his high heels to the edge of the stage and began messing around with a record player. The opening chords of a dance song thumped through the room.
“So,” Skeet said as Marcus turned away from the stage, “you want to dance?”
“Not yet.” Marcus shrugged. “We just got here. But that food smells really good. I just realized; I never ate tonight.”
Skeet tugged Marcus to a long table covered with old newspapers on which a mix of seafood, sausage, and corn on the cob had been dumped out. Beside the table sat three galvanized washtubs filled with ice, bottles of beer, and cans of soda.
“Just a Coke for me, but if you want a beer I don’t mind. I’m driving you, after all.” Skeet stuck his hand into the ice and pulled out a can of soda. “It’s free. Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“Well—”
“Skeet Warner, you little stinker!” a booming voice interrupted him. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, this here place is a barn, not a chicken coop. We don’t need no little chicken like you strutting around. If Helen Warner knew I was exposing her grandson to all of these old perverts, she’d wring my neck.”
A burly man in his late fifties walked through a side door of the barn with bright pink oven mitts on his hands and carrying a large silver stockpot with steam rising from the top. Atop his head was a platinum blond wig that had been teased to a height of nearly a foot. He wore an ill-fitting, pink-sequined dress that barely covered his muscular, tattooed and hairy arms, and his beefy, unshaven legs tumbled out of the absurdly high hem to land in dark black combat boots.
“Sarge, you old fart,” Skeet shot back at the man, “you shut up. If it weren’t for me coming in here, you’d have to call this place an old folks’ home.”
“First of all, missy, I’m in the dress, so it’s Polly, not Sarge. Lord knows you can’t miss these bazooms.” The blue and red stripes of two beach balls shoved into the bust of the dress bulged out of the low neckline. Sarge shoved his chest out and gestured at the beach balls with his chin. “Secondly, screw you.”
“Sorry, Polly,” Skeet said and chuckled. “You better watch it or that hot pot is going to bust your boobs.”
“You got that right!” Sarge nodded. “Honestly, I don’t know how women stand them. At least I can deflate mine before I go to bed. Women have to maneuver around these things all night. Let me dump this pot before I cause permanent damage, and then come give me a hug.” Sarge tilted the pot toward the table and poured the steaming seafood onto the newspaper. “All righty, kids. Fresh shrimp and crawfish are ready to eat!” As he set the pot on the ground beside the table, the man jerked his bewigged head toward Marcus. “It appears I’m not the only one bringing in something fresh. Has our little chicken found himself a rooster?”
“No, sir… um… ma’am… um…” Marcus stammered as he stuck out his hand. “Your little chicken is still a bit too close to being an egg for me. We’re just friends. My name is Marcus Sumter.”
“Yes, he’s an egg, but he’s a good egg.” Sarge’s eyes sparkled as he laughed. “This vision of loveliness standing before you is Miss Polly Darton. The Hostess with the Mostess. But you can just call me Sarge. So, Marcus, what brings you to my little barn? Wait, did you say Sumter? Are you kin to Eloise Sumter?”
“She was my grandmother. I’m here to settle her estate.”
“Son, I was so sad to hear about her passing. Your granny was a fine, fine woman. When the twins and I would go into town to stock up on supplies, we’d always go in the Tammy to get some lunch. Your granny and the rest of those hens she flocked with would be in there all the time. But she was always a darling to us. You know, to Miss Eloise, all geese were swans.”
“What?” Marcus said and cocked his head.
The steam from the simmering pot had caused the thick layer of makeup Sarge wore to sweat and run down his cheeks, giving his eyes the look of a horny yet confused raccoon. “She saw the best in everyone. When the twins and I first showed up here, well, people didn’t take kindly to three old bachelor gentlemen living out here by ourselves. But your granny was always so kind to us. As a matter of fact, you see that blouse Toona is wearing? Well, don’t tell anyone but it just might have been a donation from your granny. Toona once told your granny that with her red hair and wearing that blouse she was the spitting image of Naomi Judd. Well, that tickled your granny pink. So when Toona told her she wanted to be Naomi for Halloween, your Granny drove all the way out to the house the next day to give it to us. Yes, she was a mighty fine woman. I tell you what, you reach in that tub over there and snag us both a beer, and let’s drink a toast to her memory. You’re old enough to drink, right?”
“Yes, I’m twenty-two, but I don’t have much money with me.”
“Look, Private, tonight’s on the house. Anyway, I can’t really sell you a beer. That requires a license and a bunch of nonsense paperwork I ain’t going to bother with. I gave up paperwork when I left the army. No, see, we got a little understanding around here. Everybody pays me some money to park on my lawn. Then I give them the food and beer for free. That keeps that old sheriff off my back and lets us have our fun out here without anybody bothering us.”
“That reminds me,” Skeet said as he dug into his pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill,
and handed it to Sarge. “Most expensive damn coke I ever had.”
“Need I remind you that you’re getting some first-rate live entertainment for that money as well? Which reminds me, I need to go freshen up before the next set. Standing over that steaming pot has made my face melt down closer to my chest than Mother Nature has already dropped it. But first,” he shoved his hands into the nearest washtub, pulled out two beers, and handed one to Marcus. “Let’s drink a toast. As classy a dame as Miss Eloise was, we ought to use champagne, but beer will have to do. To Miss Eloise Sumter. She could’ve taught the queen of England a thing or two about being a real lady.”
“To Miss Eloise,” Skeet said as he lifted his can of soda.
“To Miss Eloise,” Marcus joined in and took a large swig of the cold beer.
“Now, I best get back there and change into my coat of many colors.” Sarge winked at the boys and started out of the barn. He stopped, turned around, and said, “Marcus, you help yourself to some food and beer. And welcome to our little place. Any kin of Eloise is kin of mine.”
“Thanks, Sarge. And that food smells delicious. Come on Skeet, let’s grab a plate.” Marcus took a paper plate from the edge of the table and began shoveling food onto it.
“Well, looky what just waltzed in here. If it ain’t Cowboy.” Sarge wiggled his eyebrows at the boys and nodded toward the door. “Must be spring chicken night in here after all. Got to say it makes me happy to see the young’uns coming in. Easy there,” Sarge said as he placed his hand on Marcus’s arm to stop him from adding more food to the plate. “Don’t want to look like a pig while that one is here. Have fun, boys.” Sarge tipped his beer toward the boys and walked out of the barn, leaving a few pink sequins on the ground behind him.
“Who?” Marcus asked as he turned around. He fumbled with the plate in his hands and nearly dropped it when he saw Hank Hudson walking across the barn straight toward him. “Oh, hell. What is he doing here?”
“Hank?” Skeet asked and scrunched his shoulders up. “He comes here every now and then.”
“He’s gay?”
“Gayer than Mardi Gras,” Skeet whispered and then turned toward Hank with a broad smile. “Hey, Cowboy!”
“Skeet, I have asked you not to call me that.”
“Sorry, I guess Sarge just got me in the habit.”
“Hello,” Hank said as he nodded at Marcus.
“Hey.” Marcus darted his eyes around the room looking for somewhere to hide from the mechanic. When he noticed Hank watching him, he looked at the ground and tried not to blush.
Skeet shifted his eyes back and forth between the two men before stretching his arms above his head and taking a deep breath. “Oh, look. There’s Darchelle Peterson. I’ve been meaning to ask her about… um… yeah. Excuse me.” He scampered over toward the people sitting at the tables scattered along the far wall.
“Skeet!” Marcus hissed before turning back to face Hank.
“So.”
“So.” Marcus fumbled with the plate. “Um, do you mind if I sit this plate down? I’m about to spill it all over the place.”
“Tell you what. You find us a table, and I’m going to get a plate too. I’m slap starving and I never pass up Sarge’s low country boil.”
Marcus stepped over to the closest table and put down his beer and plate. He pulled the chair out and sat where he could watch Hank at the buffet table. His muscled arms flexed under the tight sleeves of his blue shirt as he scooped several helpings of the stew onto his plate. The flashing red and blue lights of the dance floor swished across his brown hair and down his back, leading Marcus’s eyes toward his narrow waist. A wide leather belt with a pattern stamped on it held up his snug, faded jeans. God, that man can wear a pair of pants.
Marcus dropped his eyes to his plate as Hank turned to face him. Marcus picked up his fork and shoved the shrimp on his plate around until the other man’s shadow fell across the table. He looked up to see Hank smiling at him with a plate in one hand and a can of soda in the other.
“Mind if I sit?”
“Free country.” Marcus tried to sound nonchalant and nodded toward a chair.
Hank dropped into the chair and placed the plate on the table. He leaned over and inhaled deeply over the steaming food. “God, Sarge makes one ugly-ass woman, but he sure can cook. Isn’t that the best thing you ever tasted?”
“I haven’t had a chance to try it yet,” Marcus said. “So, you come here a lot?”
“No. Not really. I mean, the garage is open every day but Sunday, and I have to be there so early. It doesn’t really lend itself to late nights in a barn. Plus, it’s always the same old people here. Nothing really of interest to me, you know.”
“I was shocked to see you walk in tonight.”
“Why?” Hank raised his eyebrows in a confused look.
“I mean, I didn’t think you were gay.”
“Ha! Well, yeah, I like guys. Just not anyone here in particular. But the food is good, and I do find the twins to be funny.”
Behind Hank, the dance floor began to fill as the music grew louder and switched from a country ballad to a two-step. Marcus slid his chair closer to Hank so he could hear him over the raucous tune. He leaned closer and asked, “So why did you come tonight? For the shrimp?”
“Well. The garage is closed tomorrow, so I figured why not. Plus,” Hank gestured to the other tables with his fork, “a little bird told me you were going to be here. Well, more of a little mosquito.”
Marcus followed Hank’s point to see Skeet at a table surrounded by people laughing along as he gesticulated wildly. “You asked Skeet about me?”
“You gave me a bit of a scare that day in my garage, Fiat. I wasn’t sure what happened to you. I went to get the water and poof. You were gone. Been in the diner a few times to check on you, but you were never around. Also, I need to know what to do with that hunk of metal you got at my shop.” Hank stabbed a shrimp with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth. “Anyway, Skeet’s supposed to work for me, you know. He actually showed up to work today and told me he was bringing you here. I figured, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Marcus blushed and looked at the food on his plate. “Look, I’m sorry about skipping out. I just got overwhelmed by everything when I saw how bad the car is. Plus, I hadn’t eaten anything in a while and I just… you saw.” Marcus raised his head and gave Hank weak smile. “To be honest, I’m a little embarrassed that happened.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I have to say, I was pretty shocked you weren’t in worse shape than that. I was also worried maybe it was something from the wreck that the doctors in that glorified first-aid stand might’ve missed.”
“No. Just me being an idiot.” Marcus scooped some of the food into his mouth. “Oh, my god, this is so good!” He took a few more bites of food then said, “I was better once I got to the Tammy and got some food.”
“And a job, too. So, you decide to stick around for a while?”
“Nah. I agreed to help Miss Francine out until my grandmother’s inheritance money comes through and I can get out of town. I figure between the money I make there and the inheritance, I can pay you to fix up the car for me. I really want to get that taken care of and hit the road as soon as I can.”
Hank took a swallow of his soda. “Well, I hate to tell you, Fiat, but you’ll be working there a while if you want me to fix up that car.”
“You can’t fix it?” Marcus dropped the fork onto the table and his shoulders sank.
“You saw that hunk of metal. That’s way above my skill level.”
Marcus slapped his hand to his forehead. “Well, shit. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Hold on, now. Don’t go getting all worked up.” He reached across and pulled Marcus’s hand back to the table. “We can figure something out. I’ve got a couple of o
ld cars there at the garage that I fixed up. I can sell you one of those.”
“Well, I don’t really have any money yet. Like I said, I’m waiting on my inheritance…”
“Hold your horses, all right? We can work out a little deal.” Hank shifted his eyes upward. “I know, you can give what’s left of your car as a down payment, and we will figure out a payment plan for the rest.”
“Why would you want that hunk of junk?”
“Damaged doesn’t mean useless.” Hank shrugged. “Look, I can take a few parts off it. True, I don’t really need much. Not a lot of call for those fancy little imports down here. But I can haul the rest to the scrap yard over in Eganville and get some cash.”
“Hank, I appreciate that.”
“No problem, Fiat.” Hank winked at him.
“Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Marcus.”
“It’s just something I do. I’m not too good with names. But I always remember what people drive.”
“Well, I guess you’ll be calling me something new soon. What do you think? Am I a Jeep? A Chevy?”
“Nah. Fiat suits you.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. Sporty little body. Built for the road. And a nice little bubble back-end.” Hank ticked up the corner of his mouth in a half-grin and then took a giant swig from his soda can.
Marcus’s chin dropped. With the loud music thumping in his ears, he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly what the other man said. “Did you just say I have—”
“Hey, Cowboy,” a deep voice interrupted Marcus. One of the twins stood by the table with his large, vividly manicured right hand resting on the hip he cocked out to one side. The silvery threads in the blouse that was apparently a gift from Grandmother Eloise sparkled as the lights from the dance floor flashed around his shoulders. The bangles on his other wrist clanged as he adjusted the deep red wig on his head. “Welcome back. Long time no see.”
Lunch with the Do-Nothings at the Tammy Dinette Page 11
