Fried Pickles and the Fuzz

 

To Buford:

As always, you're the one who keeps me laughing, who keeps me smiling and makes me feel special in a way that gives me goosebumps.

 

 

Sheriff Bronson Andrews
released a long breath
, slammed the door of his
aging department
-
issued
black and white
SUV
,
and
walked
slowly
up the
well-lit
sidewalk toward the Fried Pickle Café. As the
recently
appointed
sheriff
in Big Creek
County
,
he was determined
to up
hold the law. Granted, it was
n'
t
hard to do in the small,
sparsely
populated
W
est
Texas
county. He'd been welcomed with open arms by the residents. Made to feel like one of their own even though he came from about two hundred miles away and had never even been to Big Creek before taking office.

And he like
d
it.

Wel
l…
most of the time.

Like any law enforcement officer
,
he had
days when his job made him feel like he was really making a difference. Then there were the days when he pondered his
choice
of profession and the wisdom of
the decision to make it a career
.
While most of the calls he had responded to during his time as
sheriff
could truly be classified by his fellow officers as “real police work”
,
the guys back in Austin would have a h
e
ar
t
y chuckle if they knew he also spent a number of hours herding cows on county roads and settling disputes between neighbors about who rightfully owned the wisteria growing along a shared fence
line.

The
brass
be
ll above the door to the café ja
ngled as he stepped out of the s
weltering
summer
evening
and
into
the
air-conditioned
haven. True to
its
name, fried pickles were on the menu, along
with about any other southern
battered and
deep-
fried goodie
he
could think of
,
r
ight down to fried green beans and
fried
green tomatoes.

Bronson
pas
sed
bright red upholstered booths and tables with red
-
and
-
white checkered tablecloths
,
returning
greetings to
a few lingering
townsfolk
as he weaved
his way to the counter. Pulling out a faded stool, he took up his regular spot at the end near the kitchen. As far as he was concerned
,
it was the best
seat
in the house. From his vantage point
,
he could clearly see the entire café, the main street out the front window
,
and he could listen to Heather sing
along with the radio
in her slightly off
-
key manner from
the kitchen
.

One of the many things he
'
d learned during his short time as sheriff was that very little ever changed in Big Creek
without a fight
. The Pickle still resided in its original spot
,
smack dab in the center of downtown, and the deco was reminiscent of a time that had long ago faded away
as the younger generation began to spread their wings and leave the relative comfort of the nest and the small community
.
Big Creek might
still
be the tight
-
knit ranching community it had started as
,
but with the years had also come some progress
, technology
,
and a regular stream of tourists brought in by many of the newer, vacation
-
friendly businesses. Many of which the hometowners had strongly opposed. They wanted the town to stay the same. Safe and protected in a bubble.

They relished in sharing stories about the b
lack
-
and
-
white photos of the town in
its
early days
that
dotted the cream walls all around the interior of the café.
They took comfort in the fact that
Erma, the evening waitress, had been waiting the same tables for nearly fifty years. And every year just before school started again
,
the town would have its
weeklong
birthday celebration. Residents
,
current and past
,
seemed to look forward to the festivities almost as much as children anxiously awaited Christmas. It was a time for friends and family. Homecomings and reunions. Merrymaking and good
,
old
-
fashion
ed
redneck
fun.

This would be the first
of many he planned on
being a part of. As
s
heriff, he
'
d head up the parade and
oversee
all of the events that
would take
place during the
weeklong
fiesta. When he
'd
seen
the list of his Big Creek Days
'
duties
,
the sheer number of activities
had
floored him. The parade was just the tip of the iceberg. Once that was over
,
there was a lawnmower race, cow patty bingo, a beer
-
burping contest, two different
cakewalks
,
and a pie walk. There
were
the trade days, the fishing tournament, the pig grab, the rodeo, a scavenger hunt
,
and a box
ed
lunch auction
and picnic
. The final night the entire main street square would be shut down to traffic and a street dance would ensue. The following day, Sunday, the
s
heriff would host a brunch on the lawn of the town square and thank everyone for attending and pass out any awards that had been won.

And those were just the events he could think of right off the top of his head.

Bronson closed his eyes and drew in a steadying breath.

A full week to be sure, but everyone in town had assured Bronson that a better time was not to be found anywhere in the
L
one
S
tar
S
tate. And everything kicked off first thing in the morning. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that it was going to be a
stereotypical
Monday and things were bound to go awry.

Opening his eyes, Bronson glanced around the café.
The dinner rush was over and the last few customers
were
slowly rising and heading to the register to
pay
their bills. Big Creek was nothing if not predictable. Another ten minutes and Erma would have the tables bussed and leave for the evening.
Then, it
'
d be just him
…
and Heather.

Alone.

Just like every other night since
just after
he
'
d moved into the area. And who knew, maybe tonight would be the night
he'd
actually drum up the gumption to ask her out like he
'
d been planning on doing every sin
gle night for the past two months
.
Ever since he
'
d learned about the upcoming picnic. It would be the perfect date. Public but not too public. Romantic but not too intimate.
Just
the right amount of
buffer in case she decided he was a total loser
,
and she needed an easy way out of a nightmare date.

The woman of his dreams chose that exact moment to leave her normal post in the kitchen
.
The first glimpse of her
,
and all the stress of the day
and the upcoming hullabaloo
melted away.
Her long honey-blonde hair was neatly plaited into a single braid that Bronson knew ran down the center of her back
,
ending about four inches above the
waistline
of her jeans.
Her oval face was always
free of make-up
. Not that she needed any. He tended to like a woman who was comfortable enough with herself that she didn't fuss over primping and preening. Her bright blue eyes were framed with long thick lashes
,
giving
them a naturally smoky
look
many women spent a great deal of time and a ton of
money
to gain.
She was pretty as a peach.
If he didn't know better, Bronson would never believe she spent her days toiling away in a sweltering kitchen
,
serving the good folks of Big Creek.

“Evenin'
,
Bronson.” She placed a steaming bowl of
dark red
chili on the counter before him
, its spicy aroma filling his nostrils and causing his stomach to rumble in anticipation
. “You want cornbread?”
Her lush pink lips tipped up at the corners
,
giving him a warm smile.

“You know I do.” He
followed her with his eyes as she returned to the kitchen
, humming just under her breath as she went
.

“Gonna try the pickles tonight?” Though the question was slightly muffled by the swinging door that separated them, the dreaded words still pierced his ears.

Bronson resisted the urge to shudder.
Just the thought
of a deep
-
fat fried dill pickle slice did not sound appetizing to him. “I'll pass.”

Close to ten years his junior, Heather was a breath of fres
h air in the community. In her early
twenties, she had come home
right after
college to take over her
grandmother's
café when the older woman had
passed on
unexpectedly.
Bronson hadn't had the pleasure of meeting Joy before she
died
,
but if Heather was anything like
Granny Joy,
it wa
s no wonder the town loved her.