Hick - Andrea Portes [41]
I could never turn away from a car crash.
TWENTY–ONE
Jackson is a place for rich people. it’s a place where the rich people are so rich, they pretend to be poor. They ignore us, noses up, as we stop at the light off Main Street. They look ahead and pretend we don’t exist. They saunter around the rickety walk-ways and Wild West overhangs making everything look old-timey and fake. We’re in the town square, the epicenter of the Old West put-on. The rich people promenade around, wearing shorts and sandals, licking ice-cream cones and looking in the shop windows, anxious to spend. Eddie parks in front of the Million-Dollar Cowboy Bar and tells me to wait in the truck. He grabs his Stetson, slams the door and strolls into the darkness.
I wait in the car for about five minutes before deciding that I’d rather go into the bar and piss off Eddie than stay out here and die of boredom. I’ve been hearing bits and pieces of conversation from the sidewalk: Who’s dating who, Should I have bought that bag, Uncle Ted bought a boat. There’s a kind of ease to it. Comfort.
People are different here. Beige. The women wear knee-length skirts and flat shoes. The men wear brand-new cowboy hats and don’t swagger.
Two pale ladies in hats come strolling by. One of them stops to adjust her purse. I guess with so many bags of new-bought stuff to contend with, it’s hard to get it all straight. They chatter on like two birds on a wire about Jenny and the ungodly wake-up hour for the swim team. They think it’s too early. I get sick of listening to the trials and tribulations of whether or not Jenny should’ve joined the swim team and decide to go in. I open the door and sweep past them, but they can’t be bothered to notice. I mean, not with Jenny having to wake up at five on a Saturday and all.
I walk in and it’s like I just walked into a commercial for forest fires. Everything inside is made of logs, with fake branches and trees like a woodland retreat. I guess rich people like to put the outside inside. There are no seats at the bar, just saddles, one after the other. Sitting on a regular-style barstool is not an option. I take a saddle near Eddie, playing pool by himself. Behind him in a glass case is a stuffed bear, eight feet tall, his mouth froze open and his claws ready to swipe. It looks like if Eddie just took one step back, it’d all be over.
He looks at me, annoyed.
“Thought I told you to wait in the car.”
“You gonna teach me to drive or what?”
The bartender takes a keen interest, stopping what he’s doing to observe our mismatch. He’s a plump man, pink like a pig. He’s wearing a dapper new-looking denim shirt, pressed and ironed. Looks like his jeans are ironed, too.
“Not now. Not since you disobeyed a direct order.”
The bartender chimes in, uneasy with Eddie seeming too much like the real thing in a town full of Disneyland cowboys.
“Hey, Mister. She can’t be here,” he says, drying a glass.
“Sure she can.” Eddie shoots. “I can take my niece wherever I want, can’t I, Luli?”
He winks, sly, as the seven ball drops in the corner pocket. I don’t answer.
“That true, Missy? That your uncle?”
I look up. Eddie aims for the five ball, leaning in. There’s a stale smoke hanging over us, sinking into the floorboards. Eddie hovers over the table, waiting for my answer, pretending to set up his shot.
“I guess, sir.”
“You guess?”
“Yup.”
“Well, then, I guess you should be leaving”
Eddie freezes mid-shot. I can tell there’s gonna be trouble. Something in the arch of Eddie’s crooked back makes me know that the next step is gonna be a step down and out. The next step is gonna prove we’re too poor and ignorant to be mixing with dignified folk.
“Um, Eddie, maybe we should go back to Lloyd’s?”
The bartender perks up at the sound of the name.
“Lloyd? Lloyd Nash?”
“Yup.”
“You two friends of Lloyd’s?”
“Friends,” Eddie sinks the five ball, “is an understatement.”
“He said Eddie’s like a son to him,” I blurt out, sounding shrill and desperate.
“That so?” The bartender starts to look nervous.
“Yup.” Eddie sinks the three ball,