blood red '74 Ford Ranchero

I pulled up to the house. My ’74 Ford Ranchero sparkled in one place still – the hood.

I found myself staring at that shiny place a little too long.

“What you want?” a little black kid yelled into my window. I hadn’t noticed him standing on the sidewalk seconds before. I’m slipping, I think to myself.

“Looking for Lovey,” I replied. Hoping that actually telling the truth instead of lying to the little shit – and I could tell he was a little shit because of the way he wore his sunglasses, upside down and without lenses – would get me somewhere.

“That bitch moved out yesterday,” he said before walking over to the Circle K across the way.

I pondered that response. It made little to no sense to me. How could anyone call Lovey a bitch? She was the most awesome woman I’d ever met. She had Pam Grier’s body and Maya Rudolph’s looks. And anyone who knows me will tell you that the only thing better than that is a redhead.

Anyway. I stop pondering that when I see Jeff Knight.

He played fullback for Arkansas for three years before blowing out his knee – not playing football, but tossing cornhole in my backyard three days before the Cotton Bowl his senior year. If there was one person who I did not want to see today, it was Jeff Knight.

But there was no way I wasn’t going to see him, as my car kind of stuck out in this neighborhood. Well, it sticks out in any hood. Fucking great car it is.

“Son of a muther fucka!” Jeff Knight yelled when he saw me. “You got a lot of nerve showing your stupid face in my block.”

“What are you talking ‘bout Jeffrey,” I replied. “I come here every damn day.”

“Yeah, but usually I ain’t ‘round, muther fucka.”

“Agreed,” I said with a flick of sarcasm and fear.

I think he sensed that. The fear.

“Lovey ain’t coming out for you, man,” he said. “The bitch told me the other day what you did.”

“What I did?”

“Yeah, what you did,” he barked. “Told me you fucked that redhead that works at Food Lion.”

“In 2006, yeah, I fucked her. What can I say, I was drunk. She was drunk. And I just happened to need a box of Frankenberry. It was destiny.”

“Fuck that shit.”

“Well, it’s true. All of it.”

“So you fucked the bitch almost 10 years ago? Damn, that’s fucked up. What Lovey said ‘bout you.”

“Damn skippy.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Peanut butter, jelly time, Jeffrey. Peanut butter, jelly time.”

“You a dumb ass, man. A real dumb ass.”

“Yes, but I’m in love. So here I’m going to sit until Lovey comes out. Just like fucking John Cusack in ‘Say Anything.’”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. Kickboxing wasn’t the sport of the future.”

“Fuck you.”

“See you Saturday?”

“Of course. You know I don’t miss cornhole over at the Three Leg, man.”

Fucking Jeff Knight. Still plays cornhole. I fucking hate cornhole. Throwing a beanbag into a hole. What fucking fun. Beats horseshoes, I guess. But I fucking hate horseshoes too.

I look at my flip phone. It says it’s 4:22. I look outside, the sun is almost gone.

“Fucking winter,” I mumble.

“Why you so depressin’?” I hear a familiar voice say from behind me. I look in the rearview mirror and there she is … Lovey.

“Damn, you’re beautiful,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, throwing her left hand in the air, making a motion that says both fuck you and keep going at the same time.

“Why’d you tell Jeff Knight that shit, I think he was going to fucking punch me.”

“Oh, bullshit. That guy loves you, baby. He didn’t punch you when you caused his blown knee did he?”

“No, but it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re the one who kept feeding him Abita’s, hun. He never woulda slipped and fell playing Marcus in that damn hole game if you’d been feeding him Coke Zeroes instead.”

I stared at her in the mirror. I didn’t dare turnaround. She had a knife at my throat.

“Lovey, why you doing this?” I asked, knowing she would probably tell me.

“Because I love you, baby. But this, this us? It ain’t neva gonna work. You know that.”

“No, I don’t know that. You’re the one that knows it.”

“What’s the rule, baby?”

“Never lie. Ever.”

“Yep. And you lied.”

I looked at her in the mirror. It would be the last time I saw her.

She stuck the knife into my chest. The blade was cool as it sliced its way through my skin, then my lung. I felt woosy. I felt alone. Lovey kissed my neck before she got out of the car. I slumped down in the seat, blood filled my mouth. It tasted sweet. It was very red. It had been that way ever since I started taking aspirin every day. Doctor’s orders after I had a stroke at work. Hadn’t been able to interview someone since. I lose my train of thought and start stammering for what was just there seconds before.

But my writing improved.

Strange.

I passed out, expecting to die.

But I didn’t.

The next thing I remember was Jeff Knight, standing over me. Fucking naked. His balls touched my chest when he lifted me out of my car – a blood red Ranchero that Lovey gave me for my 40^th birthday. Now the interior matched the hood.

“Hang on, buddy,” Jeff Knight screamed. “I’ve got you.”

“And I’ve got your balls on my chest,” I spit out, laughing just enough to send pain to every pore.

“Chest nuts!” Jeff Knight said with a cackle.

Three days later, I was in Florida. Trying to find out what exactly went wrong.

lying mother fucker.

Morphine’s “Cure for Pain” belts out of my CD player as I drive down U.S. 70 into Morehead City. It’s raining out and very, very cold for this part of the world this time of the year. Temperatures are expected to hit the mid-20s tonight. The snow and ice, it appears, isn’t going to make it this far south and east.

Coming home from work every day, I hate this stretch of road. Especially when it’s raining. I can hardly see anything anyway. And the rain just leaves giant puddles in the roadway. I hit one, a deep one at 44 miles per hour. Right before the speed limit drops to 35. I don’t slow until I get out of the puddle. Down to 42. Still speeding, but just about where I sit every time I drive this road.

A guy sits in my blind spot. I glance down, 42 mph. He starts to pull ahead of me. Then right beside me. I glance down again. 43 mph. We take the turn where the cop always is. I think this a moment too late. Boom. There he is.

He pulls out. Lights on.

He gets behind the guy who was passing me. He slows down and gets behind me. Then the cop flares up and pulls beside me. Hits is siren once. I put my blinker on.

Fuck. I haven’t been pulled over for speeding since 1997. In a rental car. In Texas.

I park. The other guy parks way far away. The cop parks right behind me. Lights bright and flashing. He tells me to roll up my window. He goes over to the other car. “I said pull over there!” He yells at the driver.

The cop is about 6 foot 2. Weighs a buck sixty if that. He’s black. Has on sunglasses. It’s fucking night. In the winter. He’s got sunglasses on.

I wait. And wait.

Finally, he taps on my glass.

“Why were you in such a hurry? You were going over 50.”

“There’s no way I was going 50,” I said. Yeah, you’re not supposed to argue with what they say. But this is a lie. I never have gone over 50 on that road. I’ve lived here for almost eight months. Drive that road every, single day. Never gone over 50.

“Well, you were speeding.”

“You got me there. I looked at my speedometer all the time. The fastest I was going was 42, 43.”

“Oh,” he said, taking my license and registration. “Do you have any outstanding warrants?”

“Nope.”

I sit in my car. It’s starting to fog up and get cold. Fucking shit. He’s gonna ream me to help this fucking Podunk shithole I live in make enough money to keep the Christmas lights on all month long. Just read an article in the shitty newspaper I work for. Budget shortfalls for the county’s police and fire rescue. Coincidence?

The wait becomes 25 minutes. Fuck. I’m cold now. Not happy.

“I’m giving you a citation for speeding, sir,” he says in his monotone voice, no doubt taught to him in Kiddy Kop school I think to myself. “You’re court date is March 16. You do not have to go.”

“I will be going,” I think to myself. I look at the ticket. 50 mph in a 35. Fucking lying sack of shit. Cost of ticket: $171. I don’t have $171. I can’t even buy food this pay period. Let alone pay a fucking halfway bogus speeding ticket.

“Any questions,” he asks.

“Yeah, I really know I wasn’t going that fast,” I say. He gives me the “fuck you asshole, I could’ve said you were going 51, then it would be reckless driving” look. “I was speeding, but not that much. 42, 43 yes. Over 50? No way.”

“Well, sir, that’s what I put there. That’s what it is.”

Yep, that’s just how it is asshole. Protect and serve. Eat my ass.

He stays parked behind me while giving the other guy his ticket. Another 5 minutes I have to sit there. I’m angry now. And I don’t usually get angry anymore. It’s such a waste. But my dad’s bi-polar tendencies come out sometimes still. It’s genetic. And I can fight it, but if it wants to come out, the Hulk does what he wants.

The other cars peels out of the parking lot of the community college where we pulled over. I get up to 35 and stop accelerating. He’s way ahead of me. A guy is tailgating me. Now, I’ve got months and months of speed limit driving to look forward too on the way to work every day. 41 miles exactly. Monotony will set in.

I’m sure I’ll get a traffic school thing to get it reduced. Great. Can’t wait for my insurance to go up. Guess I won’t turn on the heat tonight. It’s 52 degrees inside at 9:45 p.m. Only going to get colder. The drunks are stumbling out of their cars in front of my house to go to the Shag bar. Where’s the cop now?

Just when things were so damn close to being cool, mentally and all, this shit happens. Another hole to flop down into. My savings are shrinking enough as it is. Thanks cop. You can suck my balls. They’ll be really small since that money was supposed to pay my heating bill.

(And yes, I know I was speeding. But a 6 or 7 mph over ticket ain’t $171. It’s $80. I looked it up. I don't mind paying for what I did. But that asshat lied to my face.)