the storm had eased up a little, but it started getting darker. my
sandals were soaked so i kicked them off and got in my car. hell, i was
soaked; still had my bags in the trunk, needed to change and relax a
little. none of my friends were in town, except pork pie. little sidney
was at least safe, and not too unhappy. i drove to a liquor store and
pulled up to the drive in window. "twelve cold miller lites and a
bottle of gin," i ordered.
"what kind of gin miss, and how big a bottle?" the clerk
asked. he was kind of cute.
"oh, any kind, and a big bottle." i grinned.
"you're pretty wet ma'me."
"i know." i smiled.
he came back with my beer and two big bottles of gin. "this
one's eighty proof and this one's free for that piece of red yarn
you've got tied around your right toe."
"fair enough," i said, unsnapping the self made toe ring.
my car almost died when my foot left the gas pedal. "damn!"
i said, as i handed him the yarn.
"car trouble?"
"always," i answered.
"you should buy a lexus."
"right! how much do i owe you mister?"
"oh, maybe nothing." he said, hungrily, as he undressed
me with his eyes.
"eddie!" a female voice hollered at him.
"twenty bucks," he said to me. he looked nervous, the toe
ring was gone from his hands. i paid and scooted, bet that was his
wife. louisville, hadn't changed a damn bit.
the rain was really coming down when i reached pork pie's safe
house. plenty of parking this time. i had my sack of liquor in one
hand and was in the trunk grabbing by bags with the other. heavy load,
maybe i should whistle for simpson. naa, he was over a "hunnard,"
i imagine his moving and shaking days were over, well, maybe not his
shaking days. the rain was dousing me, i had to get out of these
clothes. struggling up the front steps, i staggered in the doorway,
dropped my stuff on the butler's desk and looked around. no-one was
around. hell, only pork pie and simpson lived here, pork in the loft
and simpson in the catacombs. i opened a suitcase and removed a beach
towel, started drying my hair. pork pie had once told me that he
didn't own a hair drier "just stick my head in the fuckin' oven,
just like my mama taught me", i would welcome an oven even.
soaked! i dried myself off as best as was possible. i pulled out a
pair of panties, yellow shorts and a light blue midriff friendly
cotton top, with "i purr when i'm petted" written across it,
and debated on whether or not to change on this floor. why not, pork
pie had seen me naked, and simpson would have to get very close in
order to see me. i slipped out of my clothes and stood there as naked
as the day i was born. i slipped on a white gym bra that was about as
revealing as a wet tee shirt, applied the rest of my wardrobe,
including a red yarn toe ring, grabbed a beer, and padded to the back
of the house.
the beer washed away a hundred and sixty miles of kentucky dust
from my throat. other than my wet hair, i was feeling better. i had
packed a week's worth of clothes, and the only shoes i brought were a
pair of white - now rain soaked - sandals in the front seat. pretty
smart, carlee. no, i brought my red leather moccasins, i wore them as
house shoes. i went back to my bags, found them, opened another beer
and sat down on a couch, relaxing as i drank.
willow banes must be crazy. putting a million dollar ad in the
paper for pork ass's ass, hell, this wasn't new for the crazies in
this burg. i needed to find a bathroom, beer runs straight through me,
not to mention that my last pit stop was elizabethtown. nothing
promising on this floor, gosh though, it looked like offices needed
bathrooms. the rain was really coming down now, sounded like a tall
cow pissing on a flat rock, made my search a little more desperate.
the second floor was no better. i heard foot steps on the third. what
about the basement? i though. the catacombs; the foot steps were too
light for pork pie's, must be simpson.
i climbed down the stairs until i reached the door of the
catacombs, i slowly opened it, as if i expected a herd of poltergeists
to jump out at me. god, how creepy, the wooden stairs went down a
mile, and there was a naked light bulb that lit the landing. the floor
apeared to be dirt; how could simpson get up and down these, i didn't
know if even i could make it down. did simpson tell me he lived down
here? no, i don't think he did.
the descent took a full five minutes. the lightbulb hung there from
an electrical cord that was attached to two or three beams that ran
across the entrance to two doors. both doors looked quite thick,
heavy, old. i put my ear to the first door, heard nothing. a whirling
noise came from the second door. what could that be? sounded like
something electrical, with a noise that waxed and waned, then just
whirled. weird, that's what is was. i grabbed the handle to the door;
it was hot to my touch, it wouldn't open. i was getting scared, this
spooky old house, in the middle of a thunder storm, and me, all alone
in this catacomb. shit! i heard a noise. then the other door creaked
forward, toward me. my heart started beating a hundred miles an hour.
what in the hell? i started to run up the stairs, then simpson
appeared behind the door.
"you're not allowed here madam," he said.
"sorry simpson, i was looking for a bathroom."
simpson was still dressed in his butlers uniform, but looked even
scarier on this landing. "there are two on the first level miss."
"i couldn't find them simpson," i stated. "and i
have to pee really bad, really bad."
"can you make it back to the first level?" he asked.
"no simpson, i just might have to pee right here, on the
floor." he just looked at me, his eyes dropping down to my
shorts. i unbuttoned them and pulled the zipper down.
"that won't be necessary miss, use mine," he said, in a
very deep voice. "the facility is first on the right, and please
don't come down here again." fuck it, the power of christ compels
me. i thought. his room was unbelievable, his bathroom was pure heaven
though. the damn commode seat felt as if it hadn't been down in
months, it creaked loudly as i got tough with it.
"sakajawea!" i shouted (one of pork pie's favorite
oaths--other than god damn) as four pints of fluid left me.
"are you all right ma'me?" simpson called.
"i'm great, simpson, never felt better." no toilet paper
on the roll. "simpson, where's your t.p?"
"i'll have to fetch it, miss." the bathroom door opened,
and simpson walked in. "pardon me, madam," he said
graciously, as he walked toward a cabinet. he extracted a roll, opened
it up, tore the end and bent over me to put it on the roller. "pardon
me again, madam," he said. i wondered if he was going to wipe me
next. simpson's room was scandahoovian (as mr. leisure would say) -
very simple, very clean. pictures of his family around, ancient snaps,
brown with age. a bottle of wine and a glass sat upon his nightstand,
i wondered if the old buzzard had been nipping. i wouldn't mind having
a butler, but simpson would get on my last nerve.
"simpson!" a voice snapped. pork pie, i thought. simpson
rushed in and pushed a button on the p.a.
"yes sir?"
"you got carlee down there?"
"she is here sir, using my facility."
"your what?"
"my rest room, sir."
"is she done?"
"yes, i believe she is, sir."
"well, tell her to wiggle her sweet ass up to the first floor,
we need to talk."
"over and out," i hollered back.
"that's my girl."
pork pie was dressed totally in black: he had a black navy turtle
neck wool sweater under his black suit, and even had a black stetson
hat on his head. i barely recognized him. "hey, love your outfit,
you been entertaining simpson? what are you dressed for?" i
asked.
"a steak at harriet's and a covert trip to saltpeter cave.
we've got to git this shit straightened out baby."
"i don't understand pork" i said.
"go with me honey, and you will."
"i gotta change clothes, pork."
"where you at?"
"right over there, living out of my suitcases."
"put on some tough jeans and a long sleeved shirt carlee, the
movin' ain't easy where we're going."
"pork pie, i didn't bring my winter stuff, i'm only planning
to stay a week."
"shit, i'll buy you sumpin', don't worry. here, put these on."
he handed me a pair of jeans from my bag. i stepped out of my shorts
and put them on. "saltpeter cave ain't friendly to midriff
friendly tops, girl."
"shit, pork, i just grabbed some stuff, i wasn't intending on
going spelunking."
"baby, now that i have you here, we might go further that
that, terry might still be alive." this made me ponder, pork
obviously knew more than i thought he did. we went outside, pork had
grabbed a beer or two or three before we left. he popped the tops of
two and handed me one. "drink up, and be somebody," he said.
he bypassed the pig mobile, and opened the door of a huge lincoln for
me.
"what happened to your old one?" i asked.
"got dirty, besides, i like this one better."
"this looks like a limo pork, we should have had simpson
drive."
pork pie chuckled. "hell, he ain't got no license."
"my gosh, do they pull your license when you pass a hundred?"
"no, but they do after you get three dui's in six months."
so, simpson was a nipper. "hell, i thought they should have given
him a medal, most people that old drink thru a feeding tube."
"he's interesting pork, what's that machinery in the room next
to his?"
"his laboratory, so he says, i ain't been down there for
fifteen years, couldn't climb back up the damn stairs."
"and he can?"
"he manages, darlin', hell don't ask me hard questions."
"what's simpson's first name?"
"bart." he smiled.
pork pie was having problems parallel parking his lincoln in front
of style's sporting goods store. "goddamnit, what in the fuckin'
hell happened to pull in parking?" he was making his eleventh
pass. "son-of-a-bitch!!"
"you should have bought a toyota, pork."
"fuck!" he killed the engine. "this here's good
enough." he was on the bumper of the car behind him, and the
front of the lincoln was out in the street. he walked around and
opened the door for me. "come on baby, we need to get you
something black. we headed for the clothing department. unisex, i
suppose the size was the only indicators for females. pork pie picked
out a black flannel shirt for me, held it up to my chest.
"may i help you?" a clerk asked.
"yeah, how in the hell do you know the girl stuff from the
fuckin' boy stuff here?" pork pie asked, his cigar dangling from
his mouth.
the clerk, a rather insignificant man with a prominent adam's
apple, gently plucked pork pie's cigar from his mouth, and placed it
in his own suit coat pocket. "this shirt, i think, will fit the
young lady nicely," he said.
"alright, and we need a sweater, 'bout like mine, and a watch
cap, and a pair of hiking boots. oh yeah, and a pair of gloves."
"black also sir?" he asked.
"yeah!" pork pie growled.
the clerk picked out everything but the boots. then he led us
further back in the store. "will a six do miss?"
"yes, a six is perfect," i said. he brought out a pair of
redwings, size six, and opened the box.
"yellow, shit man, she ain't lil' abner, get some fuckin'
black boots."
i pointed to the clerk's pocket and whispered in pork pie's ear. "he's
smoking pork."
"fucker's on fire, ain't he?" he smiled.
"aren't you going to tell him?"
"he should figure it out pretty soon, carlee, if he don't,
then the motherfucker can burn." the clerk returned with a pair
of black boots, preceding a smoky trail.
"sir," i said. "i believe your coat,s is on fire."
"oh my," he said, as he removed it, beating it with his
hand. "you didn't tell me that your cigar was lit sir."
"you didn't fuckin' ask, look, we'll be checking out now."
"but she hasn't tried the boots on."
"s'alright, they'll do, how much?" pork said.
"i'll check you out, sir," said a handsome woman with a
graying bun in her hair. why's mr. malik beating up his coat?"
she asked.
pork smiled. "a long story, sumpin' to do with this god awful
discriminatory no smokin' shit. hey, 'member the old groucho marx
show, a lady with a dozen kids was a contestant, and groucho asked her
why she had so many fuckin' kids, she told him because her old man
just loved little kids, and groucho answered: 'i love my cigar too,
but i take it out every now and then.'" pork pie laughed and
laughed. the lady with the gray bun and i just looked at each other. "damn
near got the son-of-a-bitch kicked off of television!"
"anyone driving a 2002 lincoln in here?" a voice cried.
"yeah son, that'd be us."
"you're illegally parked sir."
pork pie tossed him his keys. "if you can do any better, then
have at it. you 'member that show miss?" he said to the lady.
"i'm afraid not sir, your purchase comes to $483.76."
"sakajawea! i bet groucho didn't make that much a week,"
he said. "oh, fuck, just go back there and get a size eight pair
of black leather britches for her. i'll take you for a ride on my
harley, carlee."
"you're quite a poet, pork," i replied. "tell her to
get me some socks too, these boots will destroy my ankles."
"yes, socks too!" pork pie shouted. god, what an
embarrassment to go anywhere with pork pie. 'bart' simpson. that made
me smile.
"dress up honey," he said, as we got into the lincoln,
perfectly parked. "sommama-bitch, that ole boy did pretty good.
"you want me to dress at harriet's?"
"shit no, dress in the car, hell the windows are as black as
the ace of spades. pork poped the top on our last can of beer. before
long i was undressed to my gym bra and panties. "here, have a
slurp." he practically stuck the beer can in my mouth. "goddamnit,
i just love to see you naked."
"i'm not naked, pork pie."
"purt near," he replied.
"just watch the road, pork," i advised. i was dressed by
the time we reached harriet's. the restaurant was crowded, hardly any
parking places, i hoped pork didn't park illegally. i was blacker than
the lincoln's windows, the boots felt surprisingly good over my fuzzy
black socks. pork pie stuck the watch cap on my head. not to be under
dressed.
"let's go, i got some damn important stuff to show you,
carlee."
"aye aye, sir," i responded.
"you do kind of look like a navy seal, hell, come on, i want
to show you off."
"do you have a reservation, sir?" the receptionist asked.
oh shit. i thought. what a way to start out.
"i have a permanent reservation! i'm laverne 'pork pie'
anderson, and i've been comin' to this fuckin' place since harriet
invented it," he growled. the lady led us to a booth in the rear.
"bring us a beer!" pork demanded.
"american or import?" she asked.
"some of that scandahoovian shit, dark and strong! and a
goddamned menu."
"pork, behave yourself," i said.
"you look breathtaking, carlee!"
"and you're not going to last the evening if you don't slow
down, pork."
he smiled. "let's order."
"wait until she brings the menu, pork pie." the man who
was our waiter hoved into view, god, i knew him, i'd seen him before.
shit.
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