Down and Out in Bugtussle (19 page)

Stacey stops fiddling with one of the many zippers on her jacket, looks at Freddie and then at me.

“Okay, time to get this party started!” I say. “Let’s rock and roll!”

“The hard livin’ mullet havin’ men won’t know what hit ’em tonight, ladies!” Freddie says with an accentuated drawl. Stacey Dewberry keeps an eye on him as she reapplies her powder pink lip gloss.

I run to the bathroom, double-check myself in the mirror, and, empowered by my new look, think about how funny it would be to go into Walmart dressed up like this. After all, shocking people is
one of my favorite pastimes and, at this very present moment, my guns are fully loaded. But knowing my luck, I’d run into Chloe and there I’d be—caught and embarrassed. I go back to the living room and follow Freddie and Stacey out the carport door. Freddie whistles as he runs a finger over the hood of the Iroc-Z28.

“This is one of those rare moments in life when you know you’re witnessing something very few people ever get to see with their own two eyes,” Freddie says. “Like a volcano erupting or those goats that climb trees in Morocco.”

Stacey howls with laughter like she does at every one of Freddie’s cracks while I stand there and wonder if I’m going to regret this. Freddie has us pose with the car and hands me the phone to inspect the pictures before I even ask. Finally we say good-bye. He heads to the Prius and we hop in the Iroc-Z28. After I close the passenger side door on Stacey’s car, the window tint makes it so dark that it seems like nighttime. Stacey revs the engine and cranks up some Mötley Crüe. I decide then and there that I don’t give a flying rat’s ass what Freddie does with those pictures; I’m having the time of my life and we’re still sitting in the driveway.

Stacey has to swing by the liquor store because I forgot to stop on the way over and when I see her car reflected in the mirrored front glass, I laugh out loud because it’s so freakin’ awesome. When we get out, I hear whistles and catcalls and turn to see some boys in a mud-covered pickup truck pulling out of the gas station next door to the liquor store. I hustle in behind Stacey, wishing we had either used the drive-thru window or waited until we were well out of town to show ourselves off like this. Then I decide I don’t want to go to Walmart after all.

As soon as we walk in, the man behind the register starts chatting
with Stacey. I wander up and down the rum aisle, giving her plenty of time to flirt back with her new suitor. I carefully select a bottle of Bacardi Dark, grab a Coke from the cooler, then walk to the next aisle and pick up Stacey’s Southern Comfort. At the register, she tries to give me ten dollars, but I remind her of the deal we made and she crams the money into one of her jacket pockets. I pick up our brown paper bag and turn to go, smiling when I hear the man behind the counter ask for Stacey’s phone number.

“Look at you!” I say when we’re back in the darkness of her car. “Mackin’ before we even get out of town.”

Stacey sniggers and asks if I thought he was cute. I tell her I thought he was adorable. And he was, in an ugly-baby-with-a-receding-hairline sort of way.

“I
f we get too hot in the concert, I might take the T-tops out on the way home,” she says as she pulls out onto the highway. “Now that the weather’s warmin’ up, I’ll have these babies out all the time! Well, except when I’m going somewhere I have to be seen.” She pats her hair, so I do the same and it feels like a ball of springy wire. In my whole life put together up until today, I don’t think I’ve used as much hair spray as I have on my hair right now. “Can’t be messin’ up Mama’s mop!” she says with a cackle.

Stacey talks pretty much the whole ride to Memphis while I alternate swigs of rum and Coke. I point her into a garage next to the FedEx Forum and by the time we find a parking space, I’m so nervous about my outfit that I don’t want to get out of the car. I take a few more shots of rum to get my courage back up. Stacey shuts off the engine, then reaches into the backseat and grabs that massive cassette tape storage box. “Be right back,” she says, opening her car
door. She puts the tapes in the trunk and comes back with a club, which she places on the dashboard.

“I’ve only got liability insurance and I can’t take any chances with my baby,” she explains as she digs through her purse. She finally fishes out two plastic flasks. “Here we go!” She hands one to me, then starts fumbling around in her glove box. She pulls out a Ziploc bag containing a tiny funnel. “Here, you go ahead.”

I fill my flask with rum, then give the funnel to her.

“Alrighty then,” she says, slinging the funnel up and down when she finishes. A wayward drop of Southern Comfort finds its way into my eyeball and the burning is quick and intense. With my one good eye, I locate the Kleenexes in my purse. I jerk one out of the little plastic wrapper and start dabbing under my eyes.

“This should keep me going for a few hours,” she says, dropping the bagged funnel back into the console. I take my pressed powder out and flip it open to make sure I haven’t smeared all that mascara Freddie globbed on my eyelashes. I look over at Stacey, who is wiggling around in her seat and wonder what in the world she’s doing over there. She catches me looking and grins.

“Trying,” she grunts, “to get this bottle.” I hear clanking noises and glance back to see three bottles roll out from under the driver’s seat into the back floorboard. “Already had a few under there, I guess,” she says without looking. I take another swig of rum and finish off my Coke. I try to stick my liquor bottle under my seat, but it won’t go.

“Hold on! Don’t bust it!” she says. “Just set it back there with the others and I’ll throw that pillow over ’em.” She tosses the weird pillow over the paraphernalia, then wrestles the club into place on her steering wheel.

When I step out of the car a minute later, I feel a little woozy and wish I’d worn flat-heeled shoes. I hobble back to where Stacey is standing behind the car, checking to make sure the trunk is securely closed.

“You okay in those boots?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” I lie. My feet have started to sweat, and I’m almost certain I’m going to fall and bust my ass. I follow her over to the elevator, which reeks of piss and stale beer. We ride down and walk out of the garage onto the sidewalk. Stacey speaks to every single person she sees, and by the time we get inside the lobby of the Forum, we’re surrounded by middle-aged men, some of whom, I must admit, aren’t that bad-looking at all. I spot a few people who appear to be normal and can’t help but think how boring they look compared to us. And they aren’t having nearly as much fun as Stacey Dewberry.

I feel like a wingman in a dunce cap as she deftly mingles with her horde of admirers. Stacey Dewberry favors a man with a mullet and the bushier, the better. The mild-mullet to mullet-less fellows are quickly dismissed. I think about striking up a conversation with one of the scorned, but they all scurry away, not noticing me or my zebra-print legs. I feel for the short-haired rejects, knowing how much we have in common, and wonder how Stacey commands so much attention. After watching her run that wacked-out game of hers for a few more minutes, I begin to get a bead on it. All of these fellows—young and old but all sporting some variety of bush mullet—are, I believe, attracted to her authenticity. Stacey Dewberry is clearly in her element, and her veracity is drawing men like moths to a flame.
Or maybe it’s that hair,
I think, wondering how my own bouffant is holding up.

I notice a pack of younger chicks—no doubt here to take in some “oldies” rock—saunter past Stacey, casting wicked looks her way as if to say, How dare you glean so much attention in our presence! One group in particular walks past two or three times, visibly frustrated that their six-inch heels and peek-a-boo skirts fail to distract the passel of men orbiting the Dewberry. I wonder if the girls are really that interested in guys with hair stringing down their backs or if they’re just attention whores. I take in the outfits—unapologetically slutty, yet feeble and cautious in their attempts at eighties fashion. Like me, they don’t appear to be sold on their own coolness while Stacey Dewberry is burning down the house with hers. Those poor girls will have dimples on their other cheeks by the time they understand why their duck-faced smirks went unnoticed on this particular night. I mean, I just now figured it out and I’ve got at least a decade on their taut little asses. I cringe when I realize I’m in that creepy space between young hotness and the wisdom that comes only with age. I wonder why it has to be that way. It doesn’t seem like a fair cut at all, especially for those of us stocking up on our very first vials of antiwrinkle cream. I guess the world would be too dangerous a place for susceptible men and certain ladies if we were allowed to be young, hot, and wise.

I think about the flask in my purse and make a decision. Tonight, I’m going to party like a rock star with Stacey Dewberry. But first, I need to get hammered. I motion to Stacey, and she pulls herself away from her fans long enough for us to buy a Coke and duck into the bathroom, where we mix up our poison.

“We can’t afford their fifteen-dollar toddies on a substitute teacher salary,” she says, giggling as she creeps into a stall. I go into the one next to hers and pour a substantial amount of rum into my
Coke. I want to take off my boots, wrap my feet in paper towels, and toss these ridiculously hot socks into the trash, but that would most likely have unpleasant consequences later on.

Upon exiting the ladies’ room, Stacey and I walk into the crowd. Some have dutifully waited for her return, and I step into the mix right beside her. I smile and chat and sip my drink because I am determined to get on Stacey’s level and I don’t care if I have to get shitfaced drunk to do it. When the music cranks up, everyone goes their separate ways.

Stacey looks at me and says, “Are you ready for this?”

“I am,” I say, following her into the arena. I hobble down the aisle, careful to hold on to the railing. All the way down to the front we go, where we have to show our tickets to a security guard pretending to be an usher who points us toward our row. Our seats are right in the middle, so we have to step over, around, and behind twenty people before we get to our designated spot. We get situated just as the band starts up and the crowd, including Stacey, really gets into the groove.

The people around us are singing and head-bopping and gyrating and otherwise getting wound up. I sit down and try to sip my drink, but I get elbowed in the forehead. I turn sideways and try it again, but someone from behind me hits my arm and half of my rum and Coke splashes onto the floor. I turn back to the front, turn up my cup, and power guzzle what little I have left. I stand up too quickly and my head starts to spin, so I sit back down.

“What are you doing?” Stacey shouts at me. “Get up and dance!” I get up and try, but then my left boot hits the spill spot and takes off without warning and the hefty-looking fellow next to me slides an arm around my waist just before I go into a free fall. I look up,
see that he’s quite handsome, and smile as I proclaim my gratitude for him literally saving my ass. Then some chick on the other side of him starts yelling and hitting him in the back with her fist, so he takes his hands off me and turns back to the stage. They swap places and she starts giving me the evil eye and Stacey, who is still laughing about the mishap, asks me to swap places with her. I worry about an altercation, but the arena goes dark, fireworks blast up from the stage, and I forget about everything, including how hot my feet are inside those damned fuzzy socks and real leather boots. When the band finally takes a break, I get down from my chair and follow Stacey to the restroom, where I see I’m a hot mess.

“Here, sweetie,” Stacey says, getting her makeup bag out of her purse. She pats and dabs my face, then whips out a pick and full-sized bottle of hair spray. In a matter of minutes, I’m back in business.

“Stacey,” I tell her as she pats down her own face, “I swear, if I’ve ever had this much fun, I don’t remember when.”

“Oh, this is only the beginning, sister,” she says, spraying what has to be the sixteenth coat of hair spray on her hair. “C’mon, let’s go get some Cokes so we can keep getting our drink on!”

Laughing, I follow her out the door and we get in line at the concession stand. We’re discussing the band lineup with a few other drunks when I hear someone yell, “Ms. Jones! Ms. Jones! Is that you?” I stiffen up and look at Stacey, who casually glances behind us.

“Don’t turn around,” she whispers. “I had those two little pricks in class before. They were supposed to be doing a history assignment, but they had their telephones stuck inside their trapper keepers
making all kinds of weird racket. They lied and lied about what they were doing, grinning the whole time like little shit-eatin’ dogs. Made me so mad! Just a couple of smart-asses!”

“Stacey!” I say, grinning at her. “Did you use profanity?” And the term “trapper keeper”?

“Ms. Jones! It’s me, Camden Price! From sixth period! Remember? It’s me and Ben Evans! Hey, Ms. Jones, is that you?”

She points to the floor. “This ain’t the schoolhouse! Let’s get the hell outta here.” We duck out of line and find another place to purchase beverages and then head back to our seats where all of our new friends, all of whom are equally hammered, greet us like you might a long lost family member. When Def Leppard hits the stage, the crowd goes wild and so do we. I catch a faint whiff of marijuana but never actually see anyone puffing. I look around and see that the security ushers seem to be more concerned with keeping people from standing on their seats than anything else. I look up at the stage. Two songs, three songs, eight songs. I’m dancing my fat ass off and having the time of my life.