out.”
“Hey, here’s an idea,” she said.
“What?”
“Tell ’im you’re hangin’ out with a Yankee bitch. That might pique his interest.”
“It might very well do that. You pique interest like nobody’s business.”
A series of lefts and rights that took them past a public housing project and a mixture of light commercial and scrub residential properties ended with a left turn into Don’s Dog House. Don had prospered, at least enough to have built onto the place and paved the parking lot, leaving patrons in Jack’s age group with a fast-fading memory of the bumpy, graveled onetime corner of a cow pasture that preceded it. The lot, now more than double its former size, was relatively empty, and would be for several hours if, as Jack suspected, Bisque High was playing basketball at home. The dozen or so patrons’ cars that were there at the moment clustered in twos and threes in various spots, the afternoon having warmed sufficiently so that over half of them sported curb-service trays on driver’s-side windows that were slid down to a greater or lesser degree. Jack nosed the Buick into a spot next to the broad concrete porch that had been a major feature of the remodeling job. “No point in making ’em walk any farther than necessary,” said Jack, “Unless you want to park over there under the big tree and make out.”
“This’ll be fine, Romeo,” she said as Jack toot-tooted the horn for service. Within seconds, a white-coated figure in a high-walled cardboard cap emblazoned with “Tom’s Potato Chips” on each side exited from the right of the building, turned left and walked quickly down the stairs that were used primarily by the “curb boys”. Jack eased his window down as the young white-clad black man approached him from behind the car. “How ’bout it, James?”
“Ain’ nothin’ hap’nin’, Jack,” James said with a broad grin. “Where you been so long?”
“Florida. Sold that old Buick to a guy in Miami.”
“Mm-mm. Wisht I coulda bought it. You done got that thang lookin’ good.”
Jack laughed. “Yeah, it did look good, but I spent way too much gettin’ it that way. It’us all I could do to get my money out of it. You’da looked good in it, too.”
“You ain’t wrong. Well, whachu an’ the lady gonna have?”
“Just a setup right now. Club soda. An’ James, this’s Linda Green. Met her down there, and caught a ride back with ’er. Linda, this’s the famous James.”
Bending down through the window, James shot a bashful “Hey” in Linda’s direction.
“Hey yourself, James. What’re you famous for?”
Still looking at Linda, James cocked his head in her direction. “He ain’ tole you?”
“No.”
Jack laughed. “You know that Harley sidecar rig in the barn? I had the sidecar off of it three-four years ago, ridin’ the bike around by itself. Stopped in here one evenin’; James’d been pesterin’ me for awhile to take him for a ride, so when I saw him in the lot I said “Hop on, James!” and off we went.”
James, getting into the spirit of the moment, said, “He useta ride by heanh standin’ straight up on that damn mo’sickle. People be sayin’ ‘looka dat fool,’ and evva time he do it he make me wanta do it too. A lil’ bit, anyway. Den he ride up dat day and say ‘git on,’ an’ fo’ I know it I be on de damn thang and we be roarin’ down de highway lak a bat outa hell. Los’ my hat fo’ we’us outa de lot.”
“Just a nice little air-it-out ride,” Jack said with a broad grin. “Tell her about the big finish.”
“I holler at him, ‘take my ass back,’” James said, his eyes bugging out as they must have on the night in question, “I done had all th’ ride I could stand. Den he wheel back in d’pokkin’ lot, TOO fas’, and de damn thing get away from ’im. I goes one way, he go anudder way, an’ dat dam mo’sickle go any damn way it want to. Peoples jumpin’ all over d’place gettin’ out de
“Hey, here’s an idea,” she said.
“What?”
“Tell ’im you’re hangin’ out with a Yankee bitch. That might pique his interest.”
“It might very well do that. You pique interest like nobody’s business.”
A series of lefts and rights that took them past a public housing project and a mixture of light commercial and scrub residential properties ended with a left turn into Don’s Dog House. Don had prospered, at least enough to have built onto the place and paved the parking lot, leaving patrons in Jack’s age group with a fast-fading memory of the bumpy, graveled onetime corner of a cow pasture that preceded it. The lot, now more than double its former size, was relatively empty, and would be for several hours if, as Jack suspected, Bisque High was playing basketball at home. The dozen or so patrons’ cars that were there at the moment clustered in twos and threes in various spots, the afternoon having warmed sufficiently so that over half of them sported curb-service trays on driver’s-side windows that were slid down to a greater or lesser degree. Jack nosed the Buick into a spot next to the broad concrete porch that had been a major feature of the remodeling job. “No point in making ’em walk any farther than necessary,” said Jack, “Unless you want to park over there under the big tree and make out.”
“This’ll be fine, Romeo,” she said as Jack toot-tooted the horn for service. Within seconds, a white-coated figure in a high-walled cardboard cap emblazoned with “Tom’s Potato Chips” on each side exited from the right of the building, turned left and walked quickly down the stairs that were used primarily by the “curb boys”. Jack eased his window down as the young white-clad black man approached him from behind the car. “How ’bout it, James?”
“Ain’ nothin’ hap’nin’, Jack,” James said with a broad grin. “Where you been so long?”
“Florida. Sold that old Buick to a guy in Miami.”
“Mm-mm. Wisht I coulda bought it. You done got that thang lookin’ good.”
Jack laughed. “Yeah, it did look good, but I spent way too much gettin’ it that way. It’us all I could do to get my money out of it. You’da looked good in it, too.”
“You ain’t wrong. Well, whachu an’ the lady gonna have?”
“Just a setup right now. Club soda. An’ James, this’s Linda Green. Met her down there, and caught a ride back with ’er. Linda, this’s the famous James.”
Bending down through the window, James shot a bashful “Hey” in Linda’s direction.
“Hey yourself, James. What’re you famous for?”
Still looking at Linda, James cocked his head in her direction. “He ain’ tole you?”
“No.”
Jack laughed. “You know that Harley sidecar rig in the barn? I had the sidecar off of it three-four years ago, ridin’ the bike around by itself. Stopped in here one evenin’; James’d been pesterin’ me for awhile to take him for a ride, so when I saw him in the lot I said “Hop on, James!” and off we went.”
James, getting into the spirit of the moment, said, “He useta ride by heanh standin’ straight up on that damn mo’sickle. People be sayin’ ‘looka dat fool,’ and evva time he do it he make me wanta do it too. A lil’ bit, anyway. Den he ride up dat day and say ‘git on,’ an’ fo’ I know it I be on de damn thang and we be roarin’ down de highway lak a bat outa hell. Los’ my hat fo’ we’us outa de lot.”
“Just a nice little air-it-out ride,” Jack said with a broad grin. “Tell her about the big finish.”
“I holler at him, ‘take my ass back,’” James said, his eyes bugging out as they must have on the night in question, “I done had all th’ ride I could stand. Den he wheel back in d’pokkin’ lot, TOO fas’, and de damn thing get away from ’im. I goes one way, he go anudder way, an’ dat dam mo’sickle go any damn way it want to. Peoples jumpin’ all over d’place gettin’ out de
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