Dusk was settling over the delta when they crossed the state line. Oren’s heart sank. His eyes gazed over the flat cotton fields of scraggly trees and twisted debris left over from a long ago storm. A bloated deer carcass was chained to a pillar holding a sign reading Welcome to Louisiana. They were going 8-0 southbound down 165. Oren uncapped a bottle of Bacardi and took a swig. “We need to get in and out, ya hear?” he told Hutch.
“But I gotta piss.”
“You’re gonna have to hold it.”
As he gripped the steering wheel, Oren’s palms turned clammy. Then, when he nearly finished the half pint of Bacardi, they entered the outskirts of Mer Rouge. Hutch scanned the surroundings. As they passed a decrepit yet lively Gulf gas station, he noticed reams of pickups parked outside. As he looked closer, some had dead boars tied to the hood while patrons sauntered into the establishment with shoguns slung over their shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re worried about,” said Hutch. “People seem friendly enough around here.”
“Look at you. Look at me. Notice a difference?”
Hutch cocked his head. “What? Is it because I’m Italian?”
A little further down the road, Oren’s red 81 Jeep Honcho entered the small yet bustling town center and he quietly hoped his Utah tags wouldn’t draw attention. On the other side of the square, off to the right, was Fred’s Hardware Store. Oren pulled past the gaggle of bikers and camo-covered farmers who were drifting into the local watering hole. He squeezed his truck into the tight parking space. Before he climbed out, he left the engine running. “Keep an eye on the shit in the back,” he warned Hutch. Then he slammed the door shut.
The bell dinged as he stepped inside. From behind the counter, a fellow in a blue button up and red hat looked up from his issue of the Louisiana Gazette. This was presumably Fred. Oren placed his hands in his pockets and hastily wandered the aisles searching for a toilet plunger. When he found a row of them in the back, he picked one up and took it to the register. Fred chewed his gum and didn’t move an inch. “From around here boy?” he asked.
Oren stammered. “Uh yeah, I’m from across the border. In Arkansas.”
“Then why do you have Utah plates on that fancy truck of yours?”
“It’s uh. Its my sister’s.”
“Your sister’s huh? So what are you carrying in the bed?”
“Nothin.”
“Nothin?”
“Vacuum cleaners.”
“Vacuum cleaners,” Fred pondered. He popped the gum in his mouth and rang up the plunger. “Well ain’t that a damn shame.”
“What’s a shame?” Oren asked as he pulled out his billfold.
“Oh nuthin. I would have sold them boys a vacuum cleaner at a decent price had they come in here.”
Oren turned around. He saw a flock of hooligans on the other side of the window reach into the bed of his Honcho. Each of them was carrying a large box with a sketch of a vacuum cleaner on the front. Forgoing the plunger, Oren sprinted outside and shouted. “Hey hey hey! What the hell?!,” he screamed. But the youths sprinted off into the woods with his cargo.
“Goddamnit!” he yelled. Then he peeked into the cab. Hutch was sound asleep.
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Internet Ruined Everything 