Fighting Mother Nature Part 1
Vi's battles to survive.
The forecast was ugly.
JJ: Ugly as Ye’s marriages.
JD: Ugly as UT football academics.
Edzel: Ugly as a bagga assholes.
The rain forecast had been so all spring.
As he was getting his beer drawn at Vi’s this rainy spring night, a stray (not a regular) had overheard Doc complaining about a ceiling leak in his office, and sing-songed:
“Aw! April showers bring May flowers!”
It was because of that comment that Jimmy Jay broke the stray’s nose, laying him out on the floor with a cold cock so well-placed, so accurate, that Edzel, not missing a beat while consulting his black book, observed: “Douche deserved it.”
Motioning to Vi, he directed, “Anything JJ consumes tonight is on me – at least, til the cops show.”
Luckily for Jimmy Jay, Doc gave a convincing diagnosis to the stray that he had suffered a blackout as a result of the uncommonly high pollen count and passed out, his face slamming into the bar surface.
JJ was washing the evidence off his fist, smiling widely, as Doc completed the subterfuge. The “patient” stumbled into the torrential rain, fumbling for his keys, circling the lot looking for his car.
“He might could be suffering from some kinda post PTA,” observed waitress Amy Simpkins, looking through the front window as the stray’s nosebleed dripped and mixed with the downpour.
“I’d say it’s post PD – pindick,” snarled, Jimmy Don, JJ’s father, who watched the entire episode in approval from his stool next to his son. “Kids like don’t never learn.”
He pointed at Edzel. “Two to one that ain’t the first time that unfortunate accident befelled his ass.”
JJ: Befelled?
Edline Eggers, across the bar: Befuddled?
Aggie Laggert, having just come out of the rain: Why the hell we conjugatin’ her for? This is bringin’ back some fairly unwholesome memories.”
He waved to Vi. “I remember hearin’ about students gettin’ A’s in college when their room mates died suddenly-like.” He looked around the bar. “That mean I get free beer all night?”
Vi rolled her eyes, and Doc chimed in. “Aggie, you’re sounding like a psychiatric welfare queen to me.”
Cyril Davis, self-banishing at a table off the bar since his alcohol-induced dustup, piped in. “Queen Aggie! What’s your birthstone?”
Leon pushed thru the swinging door from the kitchen. “Y’all can whine like a bunch of butt-hurt MAGAS find somebody actually pushed back,” he announced, hooking his thumb over his shoulder, “but I just took out the trash, and they’s water creepin’ up the back of the parkin’ lot.”
There was a drainage ditch that ran behind the bar - dry most summers - that ran low about 8 months of the year. Lately it had caused some concern.
Vi was an astute businesswoman; her bar had survived Hurricane Katrina, and was one of the few that doubled down, knowing another storm would visit hell (it did) on her bar if another storm (it was Rita) came through.
The day after closing the deal on Vi’s, she’d built a small shed behind the bar, stocking it with provisions that included hundreds of sand bags.
She grabbed the remote for the flat screen that faced one end of the bar. Vi’s itself was quiet enough that they all focused on the screen as she flipped to The Weather Channel. They were treated to Steve Cantorini standing in waders, water up to his waist, with an I-24 sign behind him - they agreed he’d never looked so happy.
Parts of the interstate between Nashville and Chattanooga were under water. Vi’s was just off I-24 halfway between the two cities.
The bar watched in silence. Stories of the total devastation of east Tennessee and the western Carolinas just months before were still fresh on their minds. Months later families were no closer to moving back into their homes let alone beginning repairs.
Vi shut off the big screen, and it was quiet.
So quiet that they all started when the door opened and the Klumps burst in.
Arch and Dilly were the proprietors of The Safari Inn, a motel just up the road at the interchange. They were regulars, and their place was on much higher ground than Vi’s.
Vi served them their usuals as they shook off the water, and Arch surveyed the bar. “Quiet night, and I can bet why.”
He traversed the bar and put his head together with Doc, Edzel and JD.
Dilly circled around and into the bar and grabbed Vi’s hands.
“We been through some shit – both of us. But this ain’t good. Back half of your lot’s under water.”
Vi hugged her friend, then did a head count in the bar. Over a dozen. Not by much.
She struck the “You’re Too Drunk To Drive Bell” by the cash register, and everyone paused and looked to her. A clap of thunder marked the pause.
“Okay,” she thought to herself. “We gonna find out who my real friends are.”
Writing A Carpetbagger Down South is a joy to me. If you enjoy reading it, would you please forward it to a friend you believe would also enjoy it?
AND, if you’re feeling especially generous, a donation would help me be able to concentrate even more on writing more of the things that you enjoy reading.
And you can tell your friends you’re truly a Patron of The Arts.
Thanks as always for reading - you’re always welcome to offer feedback, too!