Bayou Born

chapter 30

Early Friday morning, James parked his battered white truck at the rest stop south of Gainesville. Five a.m. and already he was dragging. Coffee did nothing to jumpstart his brain. He grabbed a cooling cup of black liquid and his tote bag, locked his truck, then headed to the other side of the rest stop where Bobby waited in the dual-wheeled pickup hooked to a flatbed-semi loaded with bales of hay. Destination—Marathon Key.

“JD, look at you. Holey jeans and old boots. Boy, you’re still a damn redneck,” Bobby said as he climbed down from his truck. “You know what they say—once a redneck, always a redneck.”

“Shows what you know.” James pulled open the rear truck door and tossed his tote bag inside. “What ‘they’ say is, ‘You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.’”

“Well, what I want to know, Professor, who the hell is they anyway?”

He chuckled. Bobby could twist an argument better than anyone—woman or politician. “Listen up. They are the kind of people who pay my salary to teach smart redneck kids so they don’t grow up to be smart-asses like you.”

“Damn, smart-mouth is what you are,” Bobby said as he checked the tie-downs on the load. He tugged on each one as he walked around the truck.

“You’re a fake, Mr. Parker. Anyone with any sense knows that.”

Bobby played his role to the hilt. Bobby’s father had demanded that his son get an education and threatened to keep Bobby from working the farm, even inheriting it, if hell-raising Bobby didn’t graduate with a four-year degree. Old man Parker was a tough bird. It was his way or the highway.

In the end, Bobby caved. But he made sure it cost the old man a pretty sum. And made sure his education never interfered with people’s perception about him. He remained, first and forever, a good ol’ boy.

“Come on Professor, let’s get go’n. I’ve been waitin’ here for hours. You drive first.” Bobby took shotgun.

James slid behind the wheel, cranked the truck, put it in gear, and then rolled down the windows. Country music twanged. Trace Adkins belted out, Chrome, as James eased the truck on to southbound I-75.

He and Bobby had been friends and neighbors forever. Growing up, acres of family farmland separated them. A dusty limestone road and trails through planted pines connected them. Parker property bumped up to land owned by James’ grandfather—thirty acres of planted pines created a natural divide.

“Never thought you’d get out of farming, though,” Bobby said. He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. “We had some great times growing up.”

“Summers, working from before dawn to noon at Granddaddy’s place, then afternoons working for your daddy in hay. Yeah, that’s a real party.” He’d spent summers in the Parkers’ hay fields and took a lot of pride when ol’ man Parker trusted him, at fourteen, enough to let him drive the big John Deer. He cut, fluffed, windrowed, and baled until day faded and it was so dark he couldn’t see to get the tractor out of the field. The headlights from the pickup trucks lit his way. Sunday he rested—rising early for church, dinner on the grounds, and “sings” on Sunday night. Sunday was the social day of the week until he had turned sixteen and was able to drive legally.

“You beat the odds, man,” Bobby said. “A high school dropout with a college degree. And look at you now—fancy professor with a Ph.D.”

“Well, I don’t recommend it. It’s a damn hard way to make it.”

The year he turned sixteen he’d quit school. Worked at a hardware store during the day, then worked with the Parkers during hay season. The single thing he’d loved about school was football. But since his family lived so far from town, twenty-five miles one-way, participation in after-school activities, like football, got scratched from the schedule. No one to pick him up after practice each night during the season.

“I thought quitting high school was a viable plan. Thought life could happen quicker and sooner. Dropping out made sense since football wasn’t an option.” He had wanted more than the basic A-B-Cs they taught in small-town USA.

“You were quick enough for college ball, but you’d never make the pros,” Bobby said matter-of-factly.

“That wasn’t the goal. High school held only one interest for me. Friday night lights.”

Getting his GED was easy. The rest of life, not so much. Between the part-time job at the hardware store, morning classes at the community college, afternoons working hay, then cramming all day on Sundays—he lived for Saturday nights.

As though reading his mind Bobby said, “Tipping back a beer or sipping on Wild Turkey 101 was a fine Saturday night ritual.”

“We were Dumb and Dumber. Can’t say I wish those days back.”

Bobby tugged on the bill of his cap until it covered his eyes. In a few moments, James could tell by his friend’s breathing that Bobby had slipped off to sleep.

Music from the radio filled in the silence as he drove. Occasionally, he checked the side mirrors for any movement in the load. The triple axel flatbed carried six hundred bales of premium horse hay. Each weighed fifty-five pounds, and baled with custom ordered twine, not wire. He’d learned that horsewomen demanded this particular feed, and wire hurt their hands.

The sun peeked over the horizon. Crowning rays of light fanned across the sky. If the color of the light was a true predictor, the cool dawn would evaporate as the sun climbed higher into the sky. As they drove south, the day would heat up. He drew a deep breath and let it go. He enjoyed the world before it turned crazy. Dawn remained his favorite time of day.

Bobby woke as the truck approached the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. James wasn’t fooled when his friend didn’t open his eyes. Bobby’s lack of snoring was a dead giveaway that he played opossum.

“At least you kept it between the lines this time,” Bobby muttered.

“You’re worse than any old woman I know. I drive just fine. Just because one time—”

“You ran us into a ditch and almost rolled the truck.”

“We weren’t hauling hay. I was fifteen! Besides, I’ve got the feather from the owl to prove it hit the windshield. I tried to avoid it. Saving it was more important than saving your sorry ass.”

Bobby chuckled. “Right again, Professor,” he said, then reached into the back seat where they kept a small cooler. Bobby pulled out a bottle of orange juice and waxed paper-wrapped biscuits. “Here. Eat. Your granny made them for us.”

James took the food. Laden with ham and smeared with butter, the golden biscuit beckoned. Ham hung over the edges. One bite of the flaky biscuit and honey-cured ham was a reminder of home. His grandmother still made biscuits twice a day, but he hadn’t been around much to satisfy his cravings.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he said when Bobby pulled out two more ham biscuits. “You worked up an appetite.”

“Man, that was the best four hours of sleep I’ve had in a while.” Bobby took another bite of the biscuit, then said, “Your granny knows how to cook.”

“It is one of her finer points,” he agreed while holding a biscuit in one hand and steering with the other.

Bobby gobbled up the remaining crumbles in the fold of the napkin.

“So, you slept on the couch after all?” James asked.

“Slept on the couch?” Bobby puffed up like a barnyard rooster. “Man, you don’t understand about conjugal rights.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. I told Charlene about our little negotiation, ’bout how I would take us all for drinks after dinner, maybe a little dancing.” Bobby paused to wipe his mouth. “Maybe we’ll go over to the County Line? Live band, cheap drinks, a usual good time.”

“Really,” James repeated.

“Anyway, she was telling me about who she selected to be your next girlfriend and...”

“My next what?”

“You know how women are, they want men to nest. Its hormones or genetic in their DNA. Part of the X-chromosome thing.” Bobby tuned the radio to a different country station. “Anyway, Char kinda got hot and bothered talking about you and...”

“I already have a date.”

“You agreed to this blind date. I’m not going to give you the chance to worm out of it by making shit up.”

“I assure you, I have a date. I told you I wouldn’t do a blind date again unless I couldn’t find one of my own. But for the sake of conversation, what was your woman hot and bothered about?”

Bobby wiggled his eyebrows and a sly lop-sided grin spread across his face. “I had her describe to me what moves she thought you might try with this one.”

“You’re frick’n voyeurs,” he said in disgust. “The two of you are detailing my moves on someone, someone whom I don’t even know, and you’re panting about it in bed?”

As if on cue, a singer on the radio crooned about turning the lights down low and doing things soft and slow.

Bobby shrugged. “If you’d get married, you’d understand what it’s like keeping that lusty, brand-new-sex feeling in your life.”

“Bobby, I love you like a brother, but you two are not exactly the absolute picture of a wonderful happy marriage. The way the two of you fight.”

Bobby laughed and slugged him in the arm, “Son, that’s what you don’t understand! Make-up sex is the best!” He winked. “Anger makes her burn. It’s kind of like a backfire. I come along and put more heat to the problem—and we burn ourselves out together.”

“Way too much information.” He shook his head. “Way too much.”

“The best part is, she thinks I’m being all sensitive and stuff. Yeah, gotta have make-up sex.”

“Shut up.”

“Wake me in time for lunch,” Bobby said, leaning back in his seat.

James turned his attention to the truck’s radio. Every song danced with romance and hints of sexual desire—some less subtle than others. His thoughts drifted to Branna. Her vulnerability brought out his protective instincts along with his desire to make love. Leaving her to make this trip made him uneasy. In truth, his rule about no colleague fraternization had evaporated when they walked into the Tin Lizzie. He just didn’t know it then. After he’d made love to her, there was no maybe about his feelings. She tantalized all his senses.

It had been too long since he’d been in love. So long, it took him a while to recognize it.

One thing for sure—he didn’t do anything half way. He’d learned long ago, with his heart, it was all or nothing.

But how did Branna feel about him? He’d been hesitant to ask in her muscle-relaxer haze. Her touch made him sizzle. His hard-on about killed him. He hurt for hours. If she’d gotten past his shirt...probably any zipper movement would’ve made him come. Last night, he resolved not to take Branna to bed again, unless she was stone-cold sober. It took all he had to resist her. But he wouldn’t risk taking advantage of her condition. She had to have a clear head, clear eyes, and a clear heart.

Had it been any other woman, he’d be a sexually satisfied man. With Branna, the wait would be worth it.

Nearly noon, he exited the interstate at Junction and pulled into a gas station on the southwest corner for diesel fuel. The station could pass for a left over movie set out in the boonies. The mostly deserted truck stop was straight from the sixties with white fading paint and several old tin advertising signs nailed to the sides. Four overhangs stretched outward from a center building, like marks on a compass showing north, south, east, and west, and shaded fuel pumps.

The spot-in-the-road with cheap eats and girlie magazines on a large magazine rack behind the counter had occupied that corner of Junction since the early forties. No other town around for miles. At night, the place lit up so bright that photos from space identified it. The station’s reputation was well known in certain circles. Sometimes vehicles, from the smallest sports car to SUVs to eighteen-wheelers, required delicate ballet moves to avoid collisions. However, most of the time James had driven this route with Bobby, the place was No Where’s Land empty.

For the last fifty miles, his stomach had rumbled, and his mouth watered for the barbeque that waited.

“Where are we?” Bobby yawned, stretching his arms and arching his back.

“Get your arm out of my face,” James snarled. “No Where.”

Bobby grunted. “We can’t be nowhere. We’re here, and that’s somewhere.”

“So you’re somewhere. Then why ask?” Hunger made him cranky. Or maybe it was his lack of sleep. It took a boat load of energy to resist Branna. He’d lain awake most of the night. They had plenty of time for sexual exploration once she was well.

“Boy.” Bobby slapped him on the arm. “All I can say is, you need to get laid.”

“Mind your own business.”

They exited the truck at the same time, slamming doors. Bobby went off to the restroom while James slid a credit card quickly through the slot at the pump. He unscrewed the fuel cap, placed the nozzle in the hole, then flipped the lever.

Diesel fuel sloshed into the empty tank, and James scanned the area. He was the only one in the west wing. The other three bays were empty. He glanced over at the other gas lanes and noticed an old Camaro and older Mustang end-to-end fueling up. He admired the rides. During his teenage days he’d considered robbing a bank for the chance to own a low-slung sports car—even if it needed a paint job, the muffler had a hole, and the seats were torn. As long as it had a good stereo and got him from point A to B, that was his dream.

Deep bass rumbled from the speakers in one of the cars. James couldn’t discern which one. A couple of boys hanging out the windows of the old blue Camaro yelled at the kids in the green Mustang. He couldn’t hear exactly what they were yelling, but it didn’t sound serious.

When his fuel line shut off, he replaced the nozzle. He’d never liked the smell of diesel. He began his walk-around to check the straps on the load, making sure all remained secure. He noticed the top of the load had shifted a bit and using the ropes, he scaled the bales. Thirteen feet off the ground offered a great view from that vantage point.

When he heard tires squeal, he turned in the direction of the sound. The Camaro burned rubber, shooting out of the station like a blue flash. The teens with the Mustang shouted and gestured at the Camaro as it sped eastward. A second later, the Camaro u-turned, headed back toward the station, squealing tires the whole way. Smoke and the acrid scent of burnt rubber drifted to his nose.

Movement by the front door of the station grabbed his attention. Bobby sauntered out doing his proud-rooster walk carrying a yellow bag of candy. Uneasy, James waved at Bobby to hurry, then gave a loud piercing whistle—their signal to warn the other of possible danger.

The Camaro circled around the station and pulled through an empty bay, barely slowing.

Loud pops echoed under the metal roof.

Bobby did a running dive under the trailer while James dropped flat against the top of the hay bales. Screams pounded in his ears. He recognized gunshot when he heard it. A handgun. Thankfully not a rifle. Or an automatic weapon.

Where was Bobby?

James scrambled to the edge of the load and looked down.

The Camaro circled the west bay and came back again. More shots fired. Screams pierced the air.

Where the hell was Bobby? Grabbing a strap, he repelled from the top of the load. On the way down, a burning pain seared his arm.

Someone screamed, “I’m hit! I’m hit!”

The Camaro never slowed. It took off west bound. James tried to read the tag number, but was unable to get it.

“Bobby!” he hollered over the screams.

When he made it to the ground, he heard Bobby repeating, “Oh, shit!” Panic grabbed him. He ran to the side of the trailer, dropped to his knees, expecting the worse.

Bobby rolled out from beneath the flatbed trailer, knocking James onto his back.

“Are you hit?” James asked.

Scampering to standing, Bobby grasped James’ hand and pulled him up.

Bobby’s t-shirt was torn, his hands were scraped from his baseball-slide under the trailer, but no blood.

“Damn James! You’re shot!”

Surprised, he looked at his right arm. It oozed red. It was more of a burn than pain. A bullet must have grazed him.

Beside the Mustang, a young teenaged boy lay on the ground shrieking.

James ran to the boy. Bobby followed. One of the station’s attendants started administering first aid when another teenaged boy started pointing at the one on the ground and yelling, “Oh God!”

The station’s attendant wrapped a bandage on the first kid’s arm. He held a blood soaked pad on the kid’s shoulder. “Stop squirming. I called 911. Help is on the way.”

Three boys hopped into the green Mustang. The engine turned, and they sped away, abandoning the injured kid. The Mustang headed in the same direction as the Camaro.

“Was this crossfire of a gang war?” Bobby asked the injured boy.

“This wound looks superficial, grazed the arm. But that shoulder, that looks serious,” the attendant told James.

“What’s your name?” James asked, kneeling on the other side of the young teen.

“Yo mama,” the boy gritted out.

“I’m gonna get Yo-mama some water,” Bobby said, then walked back into the store.

The ambulance arrived and immediately the EMS workers started their triage. One man worked on the kid while another treated James’ wound. He refused a transfer to the hospital. “I’ll be fine.”

When police arrived, they separated him from Bobby for questioning.

“It happened really fast. I don’t know if the kids in the Mustang returned fire or not.”

“A trip to the hospital won’t make you a sissy,” the officer said.

“I’ll be okay. EMS has patched me up.”

“You’re our only eye witness. If we catch them, you might be called to trial. The kid looks like he’ll recover, so at least this won’t be a murder case.”

The officer took his personal information, snapped some photos, and let him go.

More than an hour after they’d pulled into the station, he and Bobby sat down for barbeque. Adrenaline had erased his earlier hunger pangs, but he ate anyway.

“Damn. Bobby, I thought you’d been shot. The way you were yelling, I expected to see blood everywhere.”

“Blood? Me? I took a running dive, and I fell on the chocolate covered peanuts. Squished them flat. That hurt. It was like buckshot in the chest. The nice lady behind the counter replaced my bag for free.” Bobby held up the new bag and beamed. “It’s all about priorities, man.”

“You’re right. And this little incident has put mine into perspective.” Images of Branna curled beside him in bed filled his mind.