Andrea Portes - Hick

HICK

andrea portes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Unbridled Books

Denver, Colorado

Copyright 2007 Andrea Portes

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Portes, Andrea.
Hick / Andrea Portes.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-932961-32-4
ISBN-10: 1-932961-32-1
[1. RunawaysFiction. 2. Family problemsFiction. 3. Coming of ageFiction. 4. Swindlers
and swindlingFiction. 5. SexFiction. 6. Automobile travelFiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.P83615Hic 2007

[Fic]dc22
2007000105

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Book design by SH CV

First Printing

for mom

There never was such a country for wandering liars....

MARK TWAIN

You know why you keep losing, cause, guess what, youre a fucking loser.

If I could grab you out your seat and make you fly past yourself and set you down in the middle of this red wooden shoebox, youd be staring at my mama. You can see her now, ruddy-faced and getting a little too loud, some kind of aging Brigitte Bardot, ten years later and twenty pounds past what might have been, sitting there in a yellow tank, pink nails and blond flip-up hair. And the shoes, the shoes are the crowning glory, the angel on top of the tinsel tree, yellow plastic mules with a flower etched on the strap, just above her chipped pink toe-berries. My mamas littlest toe looks like a shrimp. shes half in the bag and not caring about bra strap showing or big brass laughing or acting slutty.

Thats my dad, there in the corner, hunched over the bar like some kind of beaten question mark. Hes staring fixed into his 7 & 7. Seven for give up. Seven for make do. Not much left over. Theres no doubt in my mind that if he could dive headfirst into the ice-cube clinking whiskey pool dangling at the end of his fingertips, he would.

If you threw Elvis and a scarecrow in a blender, topped the whole thing off with Seagrams 7 and pressed dice, you would make my dad. Hes got tar black hair and shoulder blades that cut through his undershirt like clipped wings. He looks like a gray-skinned, skinny-rat cowboy and I would be lying if I didnt say that I am, maybe sorta kinda, keep it secret, in love with him.

And you would be, too, you would, if you met him before drink number five or six. Just meet him then. Get lost before things get ugly.

His name is Nick, but call him Nicholas, like that Russian royal from my yard-sale World Book, cause if anybody in Lancaster County looks like some displaced king, its my dad, shot through time like a diamond in a dirtbox.

My mamas name is Tammy, last name Cutter. And the worst part about it is, my dad cant stop being in love with her. Even as she sharpens her knife on the bones sticking out his back, even as she slurs her words, even as she makes goo-goo eyes at strangers, even then, he tilts his glass and shrugs and jiggles the change in his pocket and waits for her to love him back.

I mean, they never win. They never win. Tom Osborne is just not a winning coach.

She lowers her voice to a loud and confidential whisper.

I mean, if you ask me, hes just a dud. Just an old dud. Hes not hungry enough to win.

And then, like shes gonna show you what true hunger looks like, she throws her head back, sucks down the rest of her berry-lime cooler and slams the empty glass on the bar like a drunk German, itching for a fight.

If you want to know how to reach us, you can call us here. Lets just say thats your best shot. So, heres the number, just ask for Nick. Lets just say the phone may or may not be working back home. Lets just say next to the line marked O for office, you can just put down the Alibi and Bobs your uncle. If you want to track us down on foot, its that red neon sign three miles outside Lincoln, halfway down Highway 34 towards Palmyra. If you get to the water tower, you passed it.

I hear theyre gonna build a mall down on Route 5, cross from the slaughterhouse.

The bartenders trying to save me from hanging my head down and memorizing the floorboards. His name is Ray and hes known me since I was tall enough to put a quarter in the jukebox. The angels played a trick on him, giving him the body of a linebacker, then putting freckles all over him and topping the whole thing off with strawberry-blond hair. its like if Strawberry Shortcake had a big brother that looked like he wanted to kick your ass.

Sometimes I call him Uncle Ray because sometimes hes the only one that makes sure I get home safe at night. He and I are in a secret club cause we both know the rest of the night by heart. Weve watched this little drama played out, night after night, season by season, and Dad and Tammy are the stars of the show. thats the way its gotta be, she wouldnt have it any other way. shes not stepping out of bed for just some two-line bit part.

Heres whats gonna happen. The little round glasses are gonna get filled and drained, filled and drained, over and over and over again. For about the first two drinks theres gonna be a nice breeze going through, simple, easy, light FM, lemonade by the side of the road.

Then around drink number three or four, everybodys gonna start having the time of their life. These guys are all gonna be best friends for good with everybody, thats for sure. Somebody is gonna play Thats Life on the juke-box and everybody is gonna sing along and pat each other on the back and next thing you know, were all moving in together.

Lord knows, Thats Life is the anthem of drunks everywhere. If you want to make friends, just walk into any bar from here to Wahoo, find the juke-box, put in a quarter, play Thats Life and watch the souses slur and sway. Before you know it those gin-blossom faces will be sidled-up, just a little too close, going on six ways till sundown, about the one that got away.

But wait till drink number three or four. thats when a fella could drop by from Timbuktu and be taken in as a brother, no matter what color or language or creed, we are all compadres here. He could be a Hatfield and the McCoys would sell him their sisters and offer him grits. Mi casa es tu casa. Mi bar es tu bar. Drinks are on me, amigos.

Then, around drink number five, everything is gonna get real quiet. I call this the calm before the storm. That is, when I call it anything, which is never, since the whole thing is so shamey, why talk about it in the first place? Why even mention it at all? Maybe lets just talk about the weather or the new mall down on Route 5.

Okay, now, here comes drink number six, thats a doozey. thats really the party crasher, that one. He comes in and you know theres gonna be trouble. You can hear the record scratch right when he walks through the door. Drink number six. Hold on to your hats.

Get out now, before drink number seven or eight come waltzing through the door, cause you can slice up the air with a butter knife. You can almost see the surliness rising up through the smoke, coming off the pool table. You could just tell drink number seven and eight to stay home, but they got invited with drink number one and they RSVPd around drink number four. There is no way they are not coming to this party. Theyve been gussyed-up since happy hour.

So, here they are, drink number seven and eight, and heres Tammy, starting the show off with a bang.