The Girl in the Truck
My wife, Thelma Sue, and I had
watched our neighbors and friends, Ralph and Alice with amusement for 14 years.
Ralph is a big man and loud; he could have easily been Hanna-Barbera’s model
for Fred Flintstone. I consider myself as having a higher intelligent quotient
than Barny Rubble. Perhaps my friendship with Ralph calls that into question.
I watched the scene play out from my
position trimming hedges. The chest high hedge grew between our drives. We have
an unstated agreement that we take turns trimming. I stay on top of it but
Ralph procrastinates.
As I trimmed the shrubbery this
morning, I watched the neighbors’ lugging out their vacation bags. After
dropping them behind the truck, their two boys climbed in the back seats, each
staring at their respective phones. The family was headed for Gulf Shores.
Alice’s parents own a condo and Ralph had mentioned to me the other day that
they were going down for the holiday weekend. “Ted,” Ralph said, “you, Thelma
Sue and the munchkin girls could come along, but it’s a family get together
with Alice’s family. You know how they are.”
I nodded. I thought Alice’s parents,
brother and sister were standup people, easy to get along with, nothing like
Ralph who could be bullheaded--with or without a beer. I waved it off, “Hey,
Ralph, I get it. No problem. I got a long honey-do list, including trimming the
hedges, and then I’m planning to watch the game.” It was Labor Day weekend and
college football was set to begin.
“Roll Tide. We’re going to scare the
hell out of those tree-hugging-environmental-wacko USC Cali-horney-yeans,”
Ralph added several different syllables to California.
“Yeah, that’s what the line says.”
“Are you moving a little money
through Vegas, my friend?” Ralph asked.
I smiled and winked, “Of course not.
We’re in Alabama. Gambling’s illegal.” That discussion took place last week.
Ralph drove a 4-year-old red Ford
XLT crew cab F-150 with a Gator FX Tonneau cover. Alice arrived rolling a
suitcase behind her. When he dropped the tailgate, and lifted the cover to load
the truck, both Alice and Ralph reacted with a surprised shout.
That shout was so alarming, I
stopped trimming and moved around to the end of the hedge. I still couldn’t see what caused their
reaction. They didn’t run; they didn’t reach for their phones; they didn’t
hurry the boys out of the truck. The next thing that happened is Alice slapped
Ralph across the face, “You bastard, did you forget to empty your truck last
night?”
Well, I remember last night. After
work the bowling team met at the Upper Deck for a few brewskis. I left early.
Thelma Sue likes to rein in my fun. I heard Ralph’s truck’s rumble in the drive
later as I was getting ready for bed.
I had no idea what was in his truck
until it rolled out, I mean, she rolled out. She was young, blonde, in panties
and a t-shirt. The t-shirt rolled up as she rolled over and sat groggily on the
lowered tailgate. It was one of those thong bikinis you see at Victoria’s
Secret in the Galleria or in their catalog. I got a good peek. She looked up at
Ralph and Alice and then vomited.
Ralph answered the slap in his best
pussy-whipped apology voice, “Damn, Alice, I didn’t bring her home. I don’t
know who she is.”
I’m not sure what the blonde said
then, but she wiped her mouth and mumbled something, I think she said, “Hi,
Ralph.” Alice reached down and grabbed her aluminum tennis racket; it had been
splattered with puke. With a backhand that would make Maria Sharapova pleased,
she swung it into Ralph’s chin. The blonde just sat there watching. I stood
there, partially hidden behind the hedge, watching.
Blood burst from Ralph’s chin as he
bellowed and spun away. Alice was all over him, an overhand swing chopped down
like a Florida State Seminole tomahawk. I heard the thud, cringed, and heard
another painful moan from Ralph. The next swing was a low undercut, sliding up
between his legs into the family jewels. No bellow now, only a squeal as he
folded over. He looked like he hurt too bad to fight back and instead tried to
back away.
Alice is a good Baptist, and very
patient with Ralph. What came out of her mouth was near grounds for church
discipline losing all privilege to teach middle school girls in Sunday school.
“Honey,” Ralph moaned in response,
his voice not quite an octave higher, “I don’t know where she came from.” He
hobbled away and somehow positioned the truck between he and Alice. “Come on,
I’m a stupid fuckup, but I’m not stupid enough to put a cute girl in the back
of my truck and bring her home!” By the look in Alice’s eyes, his apology was
not having its intended success.
The girl managed to teeter to her
feet just missing her pool of vomit and then staggered down the driveway
shielding her eyes from the bright morning sun.
Alice looked over and saw the girl
walking away, looked back to Ralph, and then lowered the racket. What he had
said, did make sense to me, maybe it did to Alice. Ralph was sometimes as
stupid as an empty coke can, but he’d never be so stupid as to pack up a drunk
girl in the back of his truck and bring her home, revealing her in the morning
for Alice.
The girl was just about to the
street when Alice’s Christianity kicked in and she hurried to stop her. In the
meantime, my Thelma Sue joined me at the shrubs and asked, “What’s going on?” I
just shrugged.
Thelma hurried over to Alice and the
girl. I walked over to Ralph peeking in at his twins inside the truck. They
were wide eyed and wisely silent 12-year-old boys.
“Damn, Ralph, what the hell is going
on?” I asked him. He removed his Hawaiian shirt, wadded it up, and pressed it
against his chin to stop the bleeding.
“Buddy, I have no fucking idea.”
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