Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (7 page)

“Oh Daddy, he’s old business.”
That was news to me.

“Alright then,” Dr. Brown said. “Drive safe and don’t be too late.”

A PLASTIC ODOR CLUNG to the van interior and a light dust coated the dashboard. Clicking the power window switch, I let river air subdue the upholstery smell. “We’ll pick up Patsy first. You’ve probably heard me talk about her. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade. She’s a senior at New Bern High.”

Riding around in a van full of girls didn’t hold much promise for meeting guys and partying. I figured we’d go to the football game and then end up on someone’s porch, shooting the shit. I guessed I’d shadow Katie Lee as she caught up with her high school friends. I’d try not to be the clingy roommate, but not knowing anyone in New Bern, that could prove to be a challenge. Not my idea of a killer night, but it was better than staring at dorm room walls.

A mile from her house, Katie Lee eased off the gas and glided into an oyster shell-covered driveway that popped and cracked under the van tires. Headlights illuminated Patsy McCoy. Wisps of honey-streaked hair entwined her thin gold loop earrings, and she wore a silk scarf as a headband. Patsy’s patchwork denim skirt had been several pairs of Levi’s in a prior life. Leaning on a mermaid mailbox, she impatiently tapped a flip-flopped foot. Uncrossing her arms, she uncovered a peace sign logo on a tie-dye tee. 

“Patsy,” Katie Lee said. “Rachael.”

Patsy slammed the door shut. “Y’all are late. What happened?”

Katie Lee had never fully depressed the brake and the van lurched when shifted into reverse. “Lord, Patsy, our ride, as sweet as he was, drove below the speed limit the entire way home is what happened. Then Mama went and made crab cakes. The table was set. We couldn’t leave.”

Holding her hand on her heart, Patsy’s gaped her mouth open. “With the pink sauce?”

“Rachael and I are wrecked. The trip took an hour n’ twenty longer than it should’ve. Hugh’s car isn’t road trip safe. We’re not ridin’ with him on Sunday.”

“Katie Lee, how are we going to get back?”

“You just leave that to me.”

Patsy unzipped her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Pick up Shelby next. Leslie is over at Addie’s. I told Trish, Sarah, and Delany we’d be there in twenty.”

“Patsy, no smoking in the van. If Daddy smells tobacco, he’ll make us look at x-rays of lung cancer patients again.”

Katie Lee may as well have driven a oversized yellow bus. Lost in a maze of names and conversations, I decided to stop paying attention to the body count at the fifth driveway. I knew there were enough girls in the back to clear a drug store’s shelves of lip-gloss and hair spray. With the van seating at capacity, Katie Lee pulled into the 7-Eleven.

Sucking on an unlit cigarette, Patsy held out her hand. “Everyone who wants BJ’s, pitch in a five.”

“Sounds good. I’m in,” voices mumbled.

Handing five singles to the back of the van, BJ, I thought, didn’t sound right. I’d lived in North Carolina for a month and still found myself confused when a southerner spewed slang, tall tales, colloquialisms or idioms. “So,” I asked Katie Lee, “they’re getting BJ’s?”

“And cigarettes,” she told me.

I still didn’t have a clue what my five dollar donation would be purchasing.

Two girls left the van and moments later, a rap, rap, rap noise startled me. They climbed back in and emptied paper bags in the middle of the seats. Patsy handed me a green glass bottle with a silver label. “Rach, you like Bartel & James wine coolers, right?”

Katie Lee spun the driver seat around. “Y’all, listen up. I’m drinking. Who’s gonna drive?”

Moments lingered between whispers. Without a volunteer, we were stuck at the 7-Eleven until I heard Patsy grumble about already having missed the first half of the football game. She called out, “Move over.” Yielding her wine cooler to an open hand in the back, she clambered her way into the driver seat and turned the ignition over. “Ladies, to the high school football field.”

Sitting in the front with Patsy, I listened to gossip and guy-scoop from Chapel Hill, Meredith College, and NC State, but if tested on who said what, I’d fail miserably. Katie Lee relaxed her no cigarette rule, as long as the girls exhaled out the window.

A hand from behind passed a makeup bag forward. “This is for Patsy.”

Stuffing the small case between her legs, she unzipped it with one hand and pulled out a bowl and a palm-size baggie of hooch. Patsy had the gift of ambidexterity. She could steer with either her left or right while she packed the pipe. For an encore, she lifted both hands off the steering wheel and drove with her knees so she could light up.

“Are you okay there?” I asked.

Patsy sucked the pipe and ballooned the sweet smoke in her lungs. She exhaled out the open window. “I’m great. Want some?”

I found it curious that Katie Lee wouldn’t drink and drive, but it was okay for Patsy to inhale and drive. I’d never smoked weed. It was on my “to do,” list, but I thought it best not to stink up the Brown’s van. I didn’t want Dr. Brown lecturing me on the hazards of inhaling. I declined with a nod. “I’m good.”

I noticed Patsy’s post-pot driver foot power through three yellow lights. Beneath the traffic lights, she licked two fingers and stuck them onto the carpeted roof above her head. “What’s the saliva finger thing all about?”

She informed me, “It’s good luck to lick and stick under a yellow light.” 

When we entered a residential neighborhood, she executed two stop sign roll-bys. I would’ve been more comfortable in the back where I couldn’t see Patsy’s navigational finesse flash before my eyes. Since I was trapped in the cockpit, I reached behind the visor flap and familiarized myself with state maps.

Oak trees framed the underside of an illuminated stadium where autumn leaves had gathered between the parked cars. Patsy drove up and down the aisles looking for an open spot. “Crap y’all, we’re late, and there’s no parkin’.”

Turning a fast, not-wide-enough left, we heard a CRUNCH-SMASH noise and Patsy locked her eyes with mine.

“Shit y’all,” someone shouted. “Was that a fender bender?”

Another voice sent a newsflash. “I see a hunk of metal lying on the ground back there.”

The hairs on my arm stood straight, and I thought three lick and sticks had been overkill. The third one probably jinxed us. Midway down the aisle, Patsy put the van in park, and everyone piled out. As we assessed the situation, no one seemed to be around, and the noise from the cheering crowd stayed contained inside the stadium. After a pause, the consensus of our huddled group became: What crunch? What noise? Fender? I don’t see a fender lying in the parking lot without a car attached to it.

In a serious tone, Katie Lee professed, “Y’all, what just happened, didn’t happen.”

My internal bells and whistles blared. I worked hard to block an urgent PTT – parental-telepathy-transmission. Not wanting to create a confrontation or add to the drama, I quickly rationalized:
It’s their town. It’s Katie Lee’s van. These girls must know what they’re doing.

The dozen girls from inside the van who’d been witnesses were eager to move away from the accident and scattered like fiddler crabs beneath the rising tide. Patsy, Katie Lee and I found a distant parking spot and examined the van under the haze of a street lamp.

From the curb, Patsy and I watched Katie Lee pace. “They’re a few nicks along the side,” she said to herself. “No big dents or missing parts. When the van is in the garage, the scratches will face the wall. No one will notice.”

Katie Lee had mentioned that New Bern is a hell of a place to party, and I found myself wondering if she meant to say, “New Bern is a hell of a place to get arrested.” Her “No one will notice,” proclamation was ostrich-head-in-the-sand bullshit. Someone could go to jail. It had better not be me.

NOTE TO SELF

Katie Lee’s home is over the top southern. If I were from New Bern, I’d brag about it.

BJ. Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s a wine cooler brand.

Hit n’ run fantasy –- Imagine it never happened. My gut tells me that’s highly unlikely.

6

D
eer
S
teaks
A
nd
B
athtub
D
ew,
W
ho
K
new?

From
under the tiered bleacher seats, a lanky man with short, wavy brown hair strode toward us. His faded jeans were torn on one knee, and his Nascar T-shirt looked vintage. He locked eyes with Katie Lee and she waved.

Patsy leaned into my ear. Under her breath, she informed me, “Finding the right guy in New Bern is about as likely as finding a hen with teeth.”

Luckily I wasn’t looking to hook-up in New Bern. I had my sights set on the guy that sat in my the back of my Psych class. 

Katie Lee squealed, “Nash,” and kissed him like he was a sailor who’s home on leave. Before she made introductions, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and the two disappeared into the shadows.

In front of the concession stand, Patsy and I shared a warm pretzel. Patsy had a layered personality. Sweet, yet salty, like a soft pretzel. She didn’t outright say it, but I guessed she wasn’t a member of Nash’s fan club. From outside appearances, she gave a perception of being hardened, but the moment she crunched the fender, I’d peeked at the soft spot and spotted vulnerability.

Patsy and I watched twenty minutes of the game before it ended. New Bern was crushed by two touchdowns and disappointed locals flooded from the metal stands. The girls from the carpool gathered around. One of them suggested, “Let’s get a move on and go on over to Billy Ray’s.”

“Before the kegs run dry,” another blurted.

I giggled behind sealed lips. Up North, parents didn’t name their children Billy Ray, TJ or any of the ringy-rhyming names of real people the girls had talked about tonight.

Shielding her eyes from the stadium lighting, Patsy stood on top of a picnic table and scanned the crowd. “Y’all, Katie Lee’s gone missin’ with Nash.”

Nash, and Katie Lee were knotted in a tight emotional bond that I didn’t get. I could blame my inexperience with men, but from all I knew about Nash, experience wasn’t necessary to categorize him in the do-not-date category. The cosmic vibe I received from him during my short encounter flashed,
Proceed with Caution
, in blinking red, not yellow.

Anxious to leave, the gaggle of us stood next to an empty stadium while we smoked cigarettes. I worked myself into a slice of irked, iced with panic. One of the carpool girls summed up the million-dollar question. “Damn it, Where’s Katie Lee?”

Asking around, Patsy finally spoke to Lisa, who’d seen Joe B, who said, “Nash and Katie Lee drove off in a white Chevy before the game ended. They were headed to Billy Ray’s.”

When Patsy heard this newsflash, she pulled out a baby blue, Tar Heel keychain from one of her pockets. “Let’s get goin’. I’m thirsty.”

BY DEFAULT, I FOUND myself in the front passenger seat again. I made sure the seatbelt buckle locked securely, double-checking the tightness on my waist. Patsy reassured me that we’d find Katie Lee--eventually. Driving to Billy Ray’s in the Brown’s van without her made me uneasy. But what choice did I have, since she’d disappeared?

Being in a new town and not knowing anyone, I had recently witnessed – and was an accomplice to – a hit and run. Now my host who doubled as my roommate had vanished. The night had turned into a buzz kill and squashed my party mood. I considered asking Patsy to drop me off at the Brown’s house, but it was still early and they’d ask questions. As much as Katie Lee peeved me, I didn’t want to snitch on her. We were roommates and the year had just begun. I couldn’t show up alone at her house.

I slipped my feet out of my sandals and rested them on the dash. Preferring not to look at the landscape that flew past my window, I asked Patsy, “What does Nash have that is so attractive to Katie Lee?”

“If I knew, I’d bottle and sell it. All I see is a bowl of messed up.”

“So you don’t have any insight?”

Patsy fumbled with the cellophane on a pack of cigarettes and handed it to me to open. “Hell no. And it’s no use talking to her. She listens. Tells me I’m right, then goes back to him every time. Mostly I’m able to ignore the butthead, but I’d be lying if I told you his relationship resiliency with her didn’t grate on me.”

“How long has Nash been trying to get arrested?”

Above the girl chatter, Patsy told me, “Since he learned to walk. Katie Lee is one of my best friends, and she’s great until Nash appears. He casts a spell of stupid over her that eradicates sensibility. If I hadn’t known her since grade school, I’d have disowned her by now for dating him.”

Someone passed us two open wine coolers. “Will she ever get tired of him?”

“Once he lands in Craven Correctional. Maybe then she’ll meet someone else.”

An arm reached between Patsy and me, pushing a Joe Walsh cassette in the tape deck. Patsy cranked the volume and the girls began singing, “
My Maserati does one-eighty-five, I lost my license now I don’t drive
.” Although my personal musical taste veered toward alternative punk, I knew better than to suggest another tape. The song added weight to Patsy’s gas foot and waking up tomorrow morning became a top priority of mine, so I silently said a little prayer:

PLEASE LORD,

LET ME LIVE THROUGH THE NIGHT WITH THESE

CRAZY-ASS, SOUTHERN GIRLS