Then came the next float, carrying a realistic replica of a Cuban refugee raft. Standing in the middle of the raft and waving to the crowd was C. C. Flag, wearing a gold satin sash that read “Mr. Latin Heritage- Tampa Bay.”
Juan and Rafael Diaz suddenly recognized the man on the float going by, and they exchanged worried glances.
“Whoops,” said Juan.
He started up the van to get the hell out of there. He was about to pull out of the parking space when a black Jeep Eagle sped by and skidded up to Seventh Avenue. Three members of the Posse Comatose jumped out of the Jeep, charged through the spectators and climbed up the grand marshal’s float. They began whaling on Flag.
Because of concerns of violence surrounding the upcoming vote on Proposition 213, the parade was attended by a contingent from the militant Hyphenated-Americans Defense League. For security reasons, the members attended the parade in disguise. And when C. C. Flag came under attack, the brass section of the Miami Sound Machine jumped down from its float and charged the Posse Comatose. It was a near-riot. Flag fell off the back of the float and was scooped up and pulled to safety by unlicensed gypsy nacho vendors working the skirt of the crowd.
28
The day that City and Country left Alabama for Florida, they didn’t know they were going until they were already driving.
Friday, nine A.M., City began her shift at Piggly Wiggly on register eighteen, ringing up an economy box of candy corn, off-brand hair spray and ninety-nine-cent false eyelashes. Back at the apartment, Country put on her uniform and nametag and walked out the front door. On Monday, Country’s Pinto had blown a gasket, whatever that meant. The mechanic had put the Pinto on the lift, wiped his brow with a greasy rag and undertaken the highly technical diagnostic procedure of trying to guess the maximum amount Country would agree to pay. The figure was way off, and the Pinto had sat ever since in a sea of disabled, gutted cars and free-range dogs behind Big A1’s Garage and Beverage at the county line on State Road 67. When their boss, Mrs. Frigola, learned that Country depended on City for transportation, she staggered their shifts an hour, and Country was forced to buy a fifteen-dollar banana bike with a loose chain at Crimson Tide Pawn. For the third day, Country climbed on the high-handlebar child’s bike and pedaled off for work four miles away. The first two days, Country arrived at the supermarket sticky, tired and late. Frigola said if it happened again, she was fired.
Ten A.M., City rang up a sack of pork rinds and checked her watch, then the front door. No Country. She looked over at Frigola, who was watching the door with a blend of rage and delight.
Ten-forty A.M., City saw Country through the front window of the Piggly Wiggly, drenched, walking a banana bike dragging a broken chain, forty minutes late. Country leaned the bike against the shopping carts and walked through the automatic door. Frigola waited until she was well inside and loudly fired her in front of everyone.
City bit her lip. She prayed: Country, don’t say anything. Don’t hit her, and definitely don’t cry.
Country didn’t. She just turned and walked out. City stopped ringing up items mid-customer and ran after her.
Frigola yelled, “You leave and you’re fired, too!” but City never looked back.
Ten P.M., City and Country were peeling the labels off their fourth beers at The Hole in the Wall, a dive on the far side of town from campus favored for the eighty-five-cent longnecks. City’s Torino was two hundred yards down the road from the bar, where it also had broken down. All in all, not a good week for the girls. As the house band mangled “Brown Sugar,” City and Country resigned themselves to the most constructive course of action. Unwind, maybe get a little wild, and put the day’s events behind them. Get a good night’s sleep and start checking the classifieds.
The bar was bare bones. Every surface was wood and had been gouged and regouged with large knives. There weren’t any windows, just thick wire mesh and roll-down shutters. In the men’s room, the urinal was a long trough along one wall filled with ice and disinfectant cakes, and the sink was a large rounded trough on the other wall. There was a sign above it: “This is a sink!”
It was a loud crowd and City and Country had to shout to talk. The crowd was almost all locals, but there was a table against the side wall with two frat boys and a sorority chick who’d decided to go slumming. From the trio’s plurality of affections, it was clear neither of the guys was the woman’s steady, but both wanted in her pants. It was also clear that Sorority Sister was a damn fine juggler, holding both their interest without committal. City nudged Country and pointed. One of the guys was looking their way, then both were looking. Soon they were waving City and Country over.
The guys didn’t look too shabby, kinda young and adorable-Andrew McCarthy types-and City winked at Country and they stood up.
City and Country counted ten empty longnecks and the dregs of five pink poodle drinks as they arrived at the table. The frat brothers stood and held out chairs as City and Country sat down, but Sorority Sister’s body language said the fur was standing up on her back.
The sister was an eye-catching Marilyn Monroe blonde with a name straight from the heart of Dixie -Billie Joe Bob (“Bo”). She was five-six with a string of add-a-beads, a cute little Valerie Bertinelli nose, big tits showcased in a tight pink sweater. But in the end, she was a peroxide-and-pancake makeup beauty, whereas City and Country were the Real McCoys, and everyone at the table knew it.
Five minutes into the conversation. “So you girls work at Piggly Wiggly…” said Billie Joe, and she let a snicker escape. “That’s just lovely. How bucolic.”
The men were overcome with beer-chuckles and grinned at Billie Joe.
City smiled, too, as she noticed the three triangles of the Delta Delta Delta sorority on the woman’s sweater.
“I heard a good joke,” said City. “If you can’t get a date, tri-Delta.”
The guys broke up laughing even harder this time and turned to the unamused Billie Joe, and the guys’ expressions retreated to serious.
The band rolled into “Born on the Bayou,” and the guy on the left shouted, “I love this song!” He started to ask City to dance, but Billie Joe clamped onto him and nuzzled into his neck. Before she knew it, the other guy had taken Country’s hand and headed for the dance floor. One of the juggling balls had just fallen.
When that guy got back from the dance floor and sat down, Billie Joe put a hand on his thigh under the table-and the other guy popped up and asked City to dance. It went on this way for hours; Billie Joe could keep a grip on either one she wanted, but not both. A game of sexual brinksmanship, the old bird-in-the-hand dilemma, and the longer it went on, the more Billie Joe knew she risked losing both.
The alcohol kept coming-more longnecks and poodle drinks-everyone getting seriously bent. Billie Joe leaned over the table to Country. “Want a taste of this? It’s really good.” As she leaned, she whispered “bitch” and dumped the whole pink drink square in Country’s chest.
Everyone was on their feet, suddenly awake. “I’m such a klutz,” said Billie Joe. The guys were grabbing napkins from nearby tables. Billie Joe smirked at Country.
Then things took an unexpected turn. In the chaos, both frat boys were soon leading City and Country to the dance floor as the band began “Long Cool Woman” by the Hollies. Billie Joe was aghast-all the juggling balls had hit the floor.
“…Saturday night I was downtown, working for the FBI…”
Both couples had their arms around each other’s neck. Back at the table, Billie Joe found an unfinished beer and drained it, grabbed her purse and got up.
On the dance floor, Country broke off from her date. Under the influence, she closed her eyes and did a sexy grind in the middle of the floor. She threw her hips in synch with the music and ran her hands slowly down the outside of her legs.