Devilcountry (17 page)

It was in this three-month-stint at a women’s
correctional institution located in Quincy, Florida, Randalee Louise Thompson
became a sworn, devout, born-again Christian.  Her sins washed clean in
the Krowne 1800 series underbar hand/dump sink used to wash hands and dishes
for the communal breakfasts.  
Ten new friends with her
applauding, hugging, loving, and granting her a sense of community as well as
faith and belief in herself.
 A belief she’d never felt before.
 Her new beliefs showing her
that conflicts
don’t
always have to have a violent resolution.  

But faith is to be tested and sometimes the high
road, the road of the righteous, is actually a hill we must fall down somewhere
in the mountains above Benedict Canyon.  Randi knew she had one of two
moves to make.  Open the glass door that separated her from a possible
third strike or...

Rick was lost in the hills now.  
Totally and completely.
Pitch black, no streetlights, no
flashlight, a disconnected cell phone and one high beam hesitantly pointing the
way.  He made a random left, another right, and like a deer in the
headlights he came upon the most beautiful gazelle he’d ever bore witness to.
 It looked like she had just tumbled down a hill, a good twenty-five-foot
drop at over forty-five degree angle, and had plopped down onto the street
below.  She was a bit
muddy,
her short red skirt
had a tear in it which only made her more sexy.  She was sweaty, alone,
wide-eyed, holding her Jimmy Choos together in her left hand.
Mud covering her arms, leaves and dirt peppering her hair, neck and
chest.
 She was the hottest Yeti anyone had ever discovered. She
walked over to the car that was now idling in front of her.  Best to not
delay introductions.  “I’m Randi.”

“Yes you are.”

“What’s your name?

“Uh, Rick.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Rick.”  (Rick
noticed how she used his name in a sentence.  He was instantly taken).

“Are you okay?”

“Rick, do you think you could get me out of
here?”

“Well, I’m not even sure where here, is.”

“Then we’ll get lost together.”  She went
around to the passenger side door, expecting to be let in.  Rick reached
over like a cat and unlocked the door.

And they were off, together.

“Do you need a towel or something?”

“Do you have one?”

“No.”

“Then no, Rick.”

 
She
noticed four pizzas, a six-pack of soda, and the hugest piece of chocolate cake
she’d ever seen.  “Why do you have all this food in here?”

“I’m a driver.”

“What restaurant?”

“The Big Pizza.”

“I know that place!  You know Pudgie?”

“Pudgie got me the job.”

“That’s funny! Let’s make this delivery and then
take me back to the restaurant.  So I can eat.  I’m starving.”

“I’m lost.”

She thought for a second, she grabbed the ticket
out of Rick’s hand and studied the address.  “Go left.”

Rick turned left.  “Go right.”  Rick
turned right.  “It should be about two doors down.  That cake looks
amazing.”

“You can have it.”

“Really?”

“You earned it.”  She grabbed it and opened
up the container housing the chocolatey monster.  “Have some with me, I
can’t eat it all.”

They sat there, parked in front of the
customer’s house, laughing and eating the customer’s cake together.  Rick
lit a joint and handed it to Randi.  “This pot tastes like Jesus came in
your mouth, try it.”

“Well, when I die, the real Jesus will do that,
but until then, okay.”  She hit it and started to laugh.  “WOW! I
CAN’T WAIT TO DIE!!”

He cracked a soda for her.  Smoke billowed
out the window as he blasted his demo he’d been working on.  Nu-Metally
shit with a D.J.  Randi loved it.  

“We’d better get you back to the Pizza, Randi.”
 

“Okay”, she said with slight disappointment.
 Neither of them wanted the night to end.  “Let me just deliver this
shit, and we’ll get goin’…fuck…I’m stoned…”

“Language!” she said playfully.

“Sorry, uh...Fuck, I am REALLY stoned.”
 Randi laughed as he closed the door with the food curled up in his arms.
 The four pizzas were still intact, minus two slices on the bottom, two
sodas were gone and he’d think up something about the cake.  He didn’t
care about any of it.  He had met the woman of his wettest dreams.
 He was instantly taken with her.  He knew it.  He knew inside
his car was the woman he would attempt to spend the rest of his days with.
 He very desperately wanted to put a baby in her.  He thought for a
moment.  He turned back around and with his arms and hands filled he made
the
roll the window down
motion.  She complied.

“Yes, Officer?” she asked.

“I just want to say that you’re awesome ‘n’
shit, and I’m really glad I met you...” he paused for a moment, unsure of
himself, “...you were falling down that mountain, right? There was probably a
sidewalk nearby, or something, right?” Rick stopped for a moment unsure if he
was too stoned to properly remember the events that had just occurred.
 Randi smiled.  Her two front teeth were set a bit imperfectly, but
it complemented the rest of her mouth and face so wonderfully.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways, Rick.
 Hurry back now, hon.
”  She
rolled the
window back up.  She cranked the music.  She bobbed her head ever so
slightly while staring at Rick through the glass.  She liked what she saw.
 She would do him.  
Maybe not that night, but soon,
real soon.
 

Rick was speechless.  He turned and made
the short journey to the door and rang the bell.  It took a minute then a
harsh splash of light as the door opened on the blackness outside where Rick
was standing.  “Jesus! What took you so long?” said the irate customer.

“Uh...the Lord works in mysteries...n...shit
..
” He kind of mumbled it.  It didn’t hit the way Randi
had said it.  He had no gift for verse. But he knew how to hustle.
 “Look, sorry about that
,  got
lost in the
hills, you know how it is, up here.  Listen, uh, the cooks screwed up your
order, so uh, just call it forty for everything and we’ll call it a night. “

“I’m too hungry to argue.”  The customer, a
tall,
long-haired
record producer-type, inventoried
his kill.  “Where’s the cake?”

“Oh uh, they, uh, ran out of cake…uh…sorry.” The
customer looked at Rick.  Rick continued his epic tale.  “Yeah, uh,
there was like no sugar left or something and the cake couldn’t be made
correctly, it was a real nightmare….
”  
Rick’s
face was covered in chocolate cake.  It looked like Rick had a cake beard,
complete with a frosting moustache.  “Yeah, uh, we’re not uh…licensed to
uh…carry…more sugar then we’re supposed to…so uh…they couldn’t uh…make a
cake…uh…
”  
As he spoke, cake crumbs fell off his
chin and onto the top of the pizza box.  “I took it off the bill, so
uh…it’s all good.”

“Forget about it.  I just wanted to hear
what you’d say.  Word of advice, try not to smoke generous amounts of
marijuana while driving my delivery, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man.”   The customer stepped out
onto his porch.  
He was drawn in by the music blasting,
and Randi bobbing her head
.  Rick saw gold records mounted on the
wall in the foray of the house.  “Is that your lady?” the customer asked.

“No, just giving her a ride.”

“But you’d like her to be your lady, yes?” he
snapped, not breaking his gaze off of Randi.

“Yes sir.”

“She appears to be into the music.”

“Yea, that’s my demo.  It’s kind of a Nu-Metally
blend with some rappin an
..
.”

“Why?”  He turned back to Rick.
 
Did you abduct her or something?
 Just kill her, don’t torture her.”  Rick tried to formulate a
response.  But the customer smiled.  “Don’t sweat it.  I made my
first million off of shit like that. Far worse sounding.”  He turned back
into his house. His ponytail whipped around him almost cracking Rick in the
face.  There was the slight scent of pot wafting outward. A football game
was on.  
Some male laughter.
 “Would you like
some friendly advice?”
As he dug into his pocket for the
cash.

“Uh, sure.” Rick said.

He Handed Rick two twenties and
a five.
He had a smooth, polished tone.  
Manicured
nails, casual t-shirts that cost more than Rick’s entire wardrobe.
 
A huge pinky ring.
 This was a man who’d
been hustling for longer than
Rick
ever had.
 “You seem like a talker.  
One of those cool
hustler types, always with a demo or a club promotion or your own line of
condoms or some shit, yes?

“Yes.  As a matter of fact I got...”

“Quiet.”  The record producer raised a
finger.  Rick obeyed.  “Now, to the naked eye, it appears as
ambition.  It’s not.  It’s actually a lack of maturity.  You
lack focus.  You think you’ve got it all figured out.  All the angles
covered. Just waiting for the right door to open, or the right douchebag to say
yes or some crap.  But let me tell you what time it is.  Okay?”
 He paused for a half second waiting for Richard to nod with
acknowledgement.   “ It’s time to shut the fuck up.  It’s time
to let go of that amazing demo, or line of perfumes, or Llama farm.
 
Go back to the restaurant, buy that girl
a slice and let her talk.  Don’t speak!”  He pointed his finger up
again for emphasis.  He let his words resonate for a moment.  “You
will nod your head and smile.  No talking, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” answered Rick.  The record
producer saw Randi inside the car. She was bobbing her head to the crappy
sounds.  He stepped forward towards her.  
Just a
few steps.
 He studied her movements.  She was perfect. He
admired Rick.  He wished he were
Rick
.  

Ordinarily he would have had Rick’s balls.
 He didn’t like having to wait. He despised people.
 
Didn’t care about pissing people
off.
 
When he wanted something, he
got it.  But today had been different.  His first wife had visited
him at his office.   She was the one who loved him before the money
came.  The one who believed in him enough so he could believe in himself.
  She was the one who ran away from him out of fear, frustration and
betrayal.  Five foot eight.
Long black hair.
 Athletic.  
An urgent care nurse.
Now about to re-marry.
 When they were married he would
sit there and listen to her.  Just listen.   Be soothed by her
voice as she came home from a hard day of beta-dining open wounds and sewing up
bullet-ridden gang members. She’d tell him about all of it, and he loved her
for it.   Eventually, he would succumb to an affair with the girl at
the front desk of the studio where he was recording the album that sounded like
shit but would make him his first million.  The receptionist had huge
natural boobs and a comforting smile. She was cute with dark brunette hair, a
thin face, and one bad tooth offset from the rest. She had what he referred to
as a “lazy body”.  Her cute twenty-something face melted into a soft firm
neck and disproportionately huge cans that were so overwhelming it was
impossible to notice the twenty pounds of “slut-gut” around her midsection.
 She knew guys were so into her tits she didn’t have to worry about the
rest. This had been going on since 7th grade when she realized that Steven
Cross would laugh at anything she’d say.  He’d even sit through some of
her free verse poetry, which she still wrote.  She would talk.
 Endlessly at times, and if it wasn’t endless it was certainly pointless.
 Jokes with no punch lines, uncompelling characters, and references to
people that no one knew.  All punched up with jiggly self-laughter and no
ability to stop.  At times her co-workers prayed the phone would ring just
so she’d be distracted.

She would sit behind her desk and talk, laugh
and smile.  It was all boring shit to him but he was lonely.  Her
voice soothed but it was nothing like his wife’s.  Twenty-hour workdays
for both he and his wife began to take their toll.  
Asshole
record executives.
 
Shithead band members.
He found himself confiding in her to help dilute the stress.  It was
actually just him sitting there listening to her tell stories about her friend
blowing a tennis instructor, but it helped.  He was at his wits end with
the recording session.   He had played and recorded most of the
guitar parts himself because the lead guitarist was on too much heroin. You
could be on the right amount of heroin and still be okay in his book but this
was ridiculous.    It was late.
 
He was frustrated.  The bouncy receptionist
saw an opening and went for it.  She playfully demanded a massage.
 He stared down at her from behind while working her shoulders as she sat
in her receptionist’s desk.  She kept quiet.  She knew when to let
her body do the work for her.  Her cleavage was a massive, soft, pillowy
canyon he wanted to spelunk all over.  Finally, they went at it in a spare
conference room.  Immediately she was on her knees.  
Her mouth open.
Her breasts out.
 Within three minutes his infidelity was consummated and his marriage was
over.  He was overwhelmed by guilt.  He confessed to his wife that
night.  Ashamed.