Duck's & my closest gay pals are Cindy & Diana. They're women. In Sandtrap you can't be picky.
For the record, Cindy's the butch, Diana's the fem. Never understood why, but female couples end up roll-playing. And, there goes the air in my tires.
Cindy operates the Tire and Tube; it was her Dad's business. Haven't seen a "tube" in years, except those Cindy recycles for kids' at the lake. She always has specials, merchandise that "fell off the truck." She picks tires up off the side of the road.
Cindy's a decent mechanic, but I wonder. I took in the pickup for a worrisome knock.
When I picked it up, Cindy strutted proud as a peacock, "Couldn't find the 'ping,' so I installed subwoofers under the dash. Check it out!"
She hot-wired those monsters. Nothing short of a ball-peen gonna shut them off. And it wasn't a "ping." It's a knock, and remains.
Cindy's partner Diana is Sandtrap's "Petticoat Carpenter," a miracle worker with power tools.
Story out of school: Cindy had the temerity once to step out on Diana. Diana surgically removed the interloper's deck with a chainsaw. That first step out the double-wide was killer.
Anyhow, the four of us drove into the big city (Macon) for a night out. We like seafood at Jim Shaws. It's not fine dining, but the place has solid ladder-back chairs, gen-u-wine oil-cloth table-covers, sweet tea, alligator tail and fresh Jawja shrimp.
Usually, when Duck & I go out with "the girls," we look regular. Whenever the girls pay, waitresses or concessionaires invariably give Duck or me their change. It's a decent scam.
But that night, Cindy and Diana were all fringed out for square-dancing later. so our foursome resembled Roy Rogers (Cindy) and Dale Evans (Diana) out on the town with Jed Clampett and Uncle Festus, felt hats and all.
Now, where do you put a hat in a restaurant? The girls kept theirs on. Duck & I balanced ours on knees under the table like gentlemen.
We tried to ignore the couple across from us, but they constituted a distraction.
He was loud, and opposite him sat her, silent,"work done" attractive, Botox-blank expression, too dark hair, arms crossed over store-bought boobs like there was nothing this boor could say of interest to her. She was simply married to the man and had the rock-ice and life insurance to prove it.
They finished their meal, he paid the bill, then this too-important-to-live boor took it upon himself to return phone calls. On his speaker phone!
Roy Rogers (Cindy) waved her hat trying to get the man's attention. He ignored a legend.
Finally, the wife tapped a false fingernail on his arm and pointed, "Hey, the cowboy wants to talk to you."
Roy (Cindy) tipped her hat politely, "Could you please do that outside?"
The boor huffed, "I'm on the phone here!" Like Roy Rogers was HIS interruption.
Even the boor's wife was shocked, although her range of emotional expression had been chemosurgically restricted to turning her head.
I practice a form of Southern Zen Baptist Buddhism. But for assholes, I make karmic exception.
Duck had excused himself to the little boys' room, so his chair was closest and empty. I spun it on a back leg over to the couple's table and plopped down on elbows. I greeted the lady, inquired as to her supper, then said to the boor, "So, who're we talking to?"
He stammered, "What? I'm in a conversation!"
I said, "I know. We're all part of it. Just wondered who we're talking to?"
He hawed, "Tom. This is important! I'm talking to Tom."
I asked, "Can I talk to Tom?" Of course, Tom was listening, quietly now, HIS interest piqued.
The boor choked, "What? No! Who are you?"
I said, "Name's Bud. Pleased to make acquaintance. Well, ask Tom why it's OK for you to annoy us, but not for us to bother you."
I was as sweetly passive-aggressive as possible and not budging until he got off that phone.
His wife glared expressionless, at him not me, then screeched the legs of her chair against the concrete floor and stalked out. At length, the bore pocketed the phone and sulked after.
Duck returned and couldn't figure what the three of us were snickering over. He'd missed the show. In peace, we finished, got out check and prepared to leave.
That's when it got scary. Monsieur Pompous stormed back in. Apparently, he made it into the parking lot and drove around the block before realizing he'd been punked. And he'd exchanged words with the Mrs.
Or, maybe "Tom" had canceled that billion-dollar deal.
The boor fumed in my face, "I have never been so embarrassed in all my b orn days!"
I fanned his grouper breath with my hat, "You've led a charmed life."
Our party made the unspoken consensus that the boor was on "ignore." He followed us out mumbling veiled threats like Rodney Dangerfield jerking the knot of his tie.
In the parking lot, his poker-faced wife was behind the wheel honking the horn of their humongous Cadillac Escalade. Fortunately, things didn't.
As the Mrs. peeled rubber out the gravel lot, Diana brandished a cordless power drill from her purse and revved it, "I was 'bout to poke holes in his calling circle!"
Don't cross the Petticoat Carpenter. That sucker's equally dandy for deflating tires.
Duck & I dropped the girls off at the Community Center for the square- and contra-dance. We headed to Club Synergy, the gay bar, for black coffee and pool. Duck plays. I watch. Rack 'em up.
Nothing like the sight of tight butox bent over billiards.
We made it back to the Community Center in time for the last coupla contra-dances. Duck loves to shake his booty. He's so cute, everyone tweaks his cheeks.
Cindy was floating on air. As Roy Rogers, she got to do-si-do with all the ladies.
Next day, some lucky customer at the Tire and Tube was in for a complementary lube job and woofers under the dash.
Up next in the Heart of Jawja:
In “Karen Black Encounter,” Bud is accosted by a sorta, maybe, kinda famous actress. (Go!)
© Phil Comer
Disclaimer: Although loosely based on reality, characters and events are none you or I know.
Text is copyright material of the author. Photo by Phil Comer. Unless stated otherwise, links are for information and not the property of the author.
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