in for a night if he were so exhausted he risked ramming his car into a tree. People called it a pass-through, where they made the sign of the cross if they were religious, rubbed two stones together if they were superstitious, and just hoped the carburetor didn’t blow.
There was always a rinky-dink bar or restaurant serving half pound burgers and crispy onion rings, the place stuffed with locals sipping long necks. And Ford F150-350’s lined up out back, plastered with Local U.A.W. or God Bless America decals
Derry, Shea, and Cyn sat in a red vinyl booth at The Blue Eagle, a joint that specialized in hot dogs smothered in chili sauce, battered onion rings on a stick, and $1.50 drafts.
“Those men over there are staring at us,” Shea said, fingering her black, freshly-dried hair.
“It’s probably been a while since they’ve seen women with teeth.” Derry flashed a smile at the two men in question. One waved back, the other just kept staring.
“It’s our hair,” Cyn pronounced, ruffling hers with both hands. “And the red lipstick. I haven’t worn red in”—she paused, considered—“I don’t think I’ve ever worn red.” Her sleeveless top was a shimmery black knit, one of Derry’s, a medium though she usually wore large.
“New hair. New face. New look.” Derry slid a cigarette from its case, lit it and extended her long neck toward the ceiling as she exhaled.
Shea coughed. “Derry, please.”
“Sorry, I forgot.” She snubbed out the cigarette, lifted her beer and saluted. “You both look great. Cyn, you’ve got great boobs, you shouldn’t hide them under those tents you always wear. And Shea, the cleavage peeking out of that zipper will drive men wild.”
Shea yanked the zipper to the base of her neck. Derry laughed. “That’s not going to keep them away. They can see the curves beneath all that pink velour. Any man’s fantasy.” Derry wore a red jumpsuit, her near perfect body poured into it. “And in three months, I’ll be a size 38 DD, every man’s fantasy. Though I’m not so sure about this hair, it’s more Susan Powter than Marilyn Monroe.”
Derry would look gorgeous with her head shaved, GI Jane style.
“Look at those men.” Shea motioned to the two who’d been ogling them. “They’re coming this way.”
“God, Derry, get rid of them,” Cyn muttered under her breath, wishing she were hiding behind a Washington Redskin sweatshirt right now instead of a stripped down version of a Victoria’s Secret ad.
“Relax, I can handle these local yokels.”
“We’ve done our something different for the day; let’s just get out of here.” Shea grabbed her purse, clutched it against her stomach.
Too late. Barney Fife and his cohort surrounded them with big smiles and extra doses of heavy cologne. “Hey, little ladies,” the taller one said in a bad John Wayne imitation. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
Derry leaned back in her chair and lifted her glass. “No, we’re not.”
Encouraged, the taller man moved closer. “Mind if we join you?”
Derry shrugged, “Sure, why not?”
The shorter one—Cyn thought of him as Barney Fife—smiled at her and dragged two chairs to their table. Barney was small and wiry with a wide-striped polyester tie, a short-sleeved white shirt and brown pants cinched with a three inch tan belt. “Pleased to meet you, ladies,” he said quickly, his words sifting through the huge gap between his front teeth. He extended a wet, sticky hand. “Elroy McGill.”
“Hello, Elroy.” Derry pulled on the vowels making them sound like sex talk.
“I’m Ed Johnson, people call me Big Ed,” the other man said as he slid Derry a once over. “Or you can call me Big Johnson.”
“I’m Marilyn, and this is Liz, and Sophia.”
“Dang! Like the movie stars.” Elroy’s grin widened as he plopped down next to Shea. His gaze settled on the soft mounds of velour. “Hi, Liz. You sure are something.”
“Uh, thank
There was always a rinky-dink bar or restaurant serving half pound burgers and crispy onion rings, the place stuffed with locals sipping long necks. And Ford F150-350’s lined up out back, plastered with Local U.A.W. or God Bless America decals
Derry, Shea, and Cyn sat in a red vinyl booth at The Blue Eagle, a joint that specialized in hot dogs smothered in chili sauce, battered onion rings on a stick, and $1.50 drafts.
“Those men over there are staring at us,” Shea said, fingering her black, freshly-dried hair.
“It’s probably been a while since they’ve seen women with teeth.” Derry flashed a smile at the two men in question. One waved back, the other just kept staring.
“It’s our hair,” Cyn pronounced, ruffling hers with both hands. “And the red lipstick. I haven’t worn red in”—she paused, considered—“I don’t think I’ve ever worn red.” Her sleeveless top was a shimmery black knit, one of Derry’s, a medium though she usually wore large.
“New hair. New face. New look.” Derry slid a cigarette from its case, lit it and extended her long neck toward the ceiling as she exhaled.
Shea coughed. “Derry, please.”
“Sorry, I forgot.” She snubbed out the cigarette, lifted her beer and saluted. “You both look great. Cyn, you’ve got great boobs, you shouldn’t hide them under those tents you always wear. And Shea, the cleavage peeking out of that zipper will drive men wild.”
Shea yanked the zipper to the base of her neck. Derry laughed. “That’s not going to keep them away. They can see the curves beneath all that pink velour. Any man’s fantasy.” Derry wore a red jumpsuit, her near perfect body poured into it. “And in three months, I’ll be a size 38 DD, every man’s fantasy. Though I’m not so sure about this hair, it’s more Susan Powter than Marilyn Monroe.”
Derry would look gorgeous with her head shaved, GI Jane style.
“Look at those men.” Shea motioned to the two who’d been ogling them. “They’re coming this way.”
“God, Derry, get rid of them,” Cyn muttered under her breath, wishing she were hiding behind a Washington Redskin sweatshirt right now instead of a stripped down version of a Victoria’s Secret ad.
“Relax, I can handle these local yokels.”
“We’ve done our something different for the day; let’s just get out of here.” Shea grabbed her purse, clutched it against her stomach.
Too late. Barney Fife and his cohort surrounded them with big smiles and extra doses of heavy cologne. “Hey, little ladies,” the taller one said in a bad John Wayne imitation. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
Derry leaned back in her chair and lifted her glass. “No, we’re not.”
Encouraged, the taller man moved closer. “Mind if we join you?”
Derry shrugged, “Sure, why not?”
The shorter one—Cyn thought of him as Barney Fife—smiled at her and dragged two chairs to their table. Barney was small and wiry with a wide-striped polyester tie, a short-sleeved white shirt and brown pants cinched with a three inch tan belt. “Pleased to meet you, ladies,” he said quickly, his words sifting through the huge gap between his front teeth. He extended a wet, sticky hand. “Elroy McGill.”
“Hello, Elroy.” Derry pulled on the vowels making them sound like sex talk.
“I’m Ed Johnson, people call me Big Ed,” the other man said as he slid Derry a once over. “Or you can call me Big Johnson.”
“I’m Marilyn, and this is Liz, and Sophia.”
“Dang! Like the movie stars.” Elroy’s grin widened as he plopped down next to Shea. His gaze settled on the soft mounds of velour. “Hi, Liz. You sure are something.”
“Uh, thank
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