Hick. Andrea Portes

       HICK

       HICK

       andrea portes

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s 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. Runaways—Fiction. 2. Family problems—Fiction. 3. Coming of age—Fiction. 4. Swindlers

       and swindling—Fiction. 5. Sex—Fiction. 6. Automobile travel—Fiction.] 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

ONE

       ONE

      You know why you keep losing, cause, guess what, you’re 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, you’d 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 mama’s littlest toe looks like a shrimp. she’s half in the bag and not caring about bra strap showing or big brass laughing or acting slutty.

      That’s my dad, there in the corner, hunched over the bar like some kind of beaten question mark. He’s staring fixed into his 7 & 7. Seven for give up. Seven for make do. Not much left over. There’s 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 Seagram’s 7 and pressed dice, you would make my dad. He’s 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 didn’t 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, it’s my dad, shot through time like a diamond in a dirtbox.

      My mama’s name is Tammy, last name Cutter. And the worst part about it is, my dad can’t 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, he’s just a dud. Just an old dud. He’s not hungry enough to win.”

      And then, like she’s 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. Let’s just say that’s your best shot. So, here’s the number, just ask for Nick. Let’s just say the phone may or may not be working back home. Let’s just say next to the line marked O for office, you can just put down the Alibi and Bob’s your uncle. If you want to track us down on foot, it’s 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 they’re gonna build a mall down on Route 5, cross from the slaughterhouse.”

      The bartender’s trying to save me from hanging my head down and memorizing the floorboards. His name is Ray and he’s 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. it’s 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 he’s 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. We’ve watched this little drama played out, night after night, season by season, and Dad and Tammy are the stars of the show. that’s the way it’s gotta be, she wouldn’t have it any other way. she’s not stepping out of bed for just some two-line bit part.

      Here’s what’s 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 there’s 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, everybody’s gonna start having the time of their life. These guys are all gonna be best friends for good with everybody, that’s for sure. Somebody is gonna play “That’s Life” on the juke-box and everybody is gonna sing along and pat each other on the back and next thing you know, we’re all moving in together.

      Lord knows, “That’s 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 “That’s 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. that’s 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 let’s just talk about the weather or the new mall down on Route 5.

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