Tiffany Scandal - Jigsaw Youth

He’s not here anymore, if he ever was.

“And that was The Stooges…catch…m…on…now.” The radio speakers crackled. Ira fidgeted with the knobs on the ‘65 Rambler and ended up losing the station altogether.

“Damn.”

A road trip through the middle of nowhere. Two young women and their cameras. A suitcase full of clothes. And a sock full of quarters in the glove compartment. We’d saved a few hundred for gas and food, and figured we’d keep driving until we started to run out.

We slept in the car whenever we really needed the rest. Bathed in gas station bathrooms when we started smelling ourselves. It was a mini tour without the gigs, a sign we clearly belonged on the road. Highways were the easiest way to run, to get away from anything.

“I keep having these dreams about Henry Rollins.” Bare feet on the dash, seat reclined, huge sunglasses on. Letting the sun kiss every inch of exposed flesh. This was a damning piece of paradise, because you knew it had to end sooner rather than later.

“Are they sexy dreams?” Ira asked, sneering.

I laughed. “Nah. But he seemed really nice, I guess.”

“Bo- ring .”

Our drive had entered endless stretches of cornfields. Narrow highway, minimal traffic, lots of twists, probably tough to navigate in the dark.

“Is that White Jesus?” Ira pointed. I turned to look at a billboard in the middle of a field. It featured a robed, bearded man with crazy brown hair. His eyes flat, empty. A smile that reminded me of South Park. With arms outstretched.

“Corn Jesus.”

“The son of Cob.”

“He popped for our sins.”

“Wow.” Ira pulled off to the side of the road, and put the car in reverse. Gravel kicking up under the car.

“I think we need to pay tribute.” She put the car in park. “Get your camera.”

Ira had her top off before I even stepped out. I scanned around for cops. She left her shirt draped over the door.

“Are we good?”

“Solid.”

Ira jumped up in various cheerleader poses, arms out, legs curled up or out. Huge, shit-eating grin. We saw a car approaching and I tossed over her shirt. She covered herself and we stopped taking photos until the car passed, slowing to stare at us. I pretended to be stretching.

I said, “Maybe it’s a good idea to get back on the road.”

We took a couple more shots and called it good.

We saw the flashing lights after we were back in the car.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

A sheriff pulled up behind us and got out, and strolled up to the driver’s side. He hadn’t even bothered to read our plates. Hand at his side, readied.

“Why, is everything okay, sheriff?” Ira laying on the sugar.

“Just got a call from someone concerned about your car on the side of the road.”

“We pulled over to stretch.”

“Do you have any illegal drugs or weapons in the vehicle?”

Ira and I look at each other. She said, “Nope, none at all.”

“Where y’all coming from?”

“Portland.”

“Portland,” the sheriff repeated. “Where y’all headed to?”

Knowing we shouldn’t say we didn’t know, I made up a friend’s name and said she lived in the neighboring state. Ira followed my lead, smiling the entire time.

He sized us up, then smacked the roof with his palm. “You ladies be safe.”

I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath. Ira nudged me with her elbow.

The sheriff turned. “Oh. One more thing.”

I tensed up.

“Why’s the back of the car say ‘vampire’?” Referring to the stenciled letters just above the license plate.

“That was there when she bought the car,” Ira said.

He shook his head. “I’d get it painted, if I were you.”

“It’s on the list, sheriff. Sir,” I said.

He got back in the cruiser and took off. We were both sweaty — I don’t think either of us could stand cops.

Ira said, “Vampire,” and started cracking up.

Because she was laughing, I had to laugh.

Ira started the car a few minutes later. I reached under the seat, for my journal.

Star Date 21 06 20 09

We are bad bitches. We meet Jesus of the corn and offer up our supple breasts. We thank Him for the abundant crops. We thank Him for Monsanto. We thank Him for the all-consuming boredom and the motherfuckers scared of what they don’t understand. We are stopped by an emissary of the Satan, the kind they call Lawman. He believed us vampires. We are but women. Meek servants of the Corned One. The day’s weight is heavy.

“What are you writing, now?”

“Scripture.”

All we want is Freedom. But they call us bad. They call us bitches. And we wear those words with utmost pride. Bad bitches unite. Bad bitches on the road to Salvation.

“Does that say ‘bad bitches’?”

“Bad bitches gonna take over the world!”

“Hide your wives. Hide your daughters.”

The sign at the right of the road informed us that we were NOW LEAVING KANSAS!

“Good riddance,” said Ira. We crossed into Missouri, toward the Ozarks.

We pulled into a truck stop that advertised cheap eats and looked fairly clean. Warm apple pie and a cup of coffee for two bucks? Hell yeah. But the moment we walked in, and it was packed, all action ceased. The place got quiet. The décor was varying shades of brown and yellow, and smelled like coffee and burnt toast. All eyes on us. We saw the Please Seat Yourself sign and made our way to a booth in a far corner of the restaurant.

It was still summer in the Midwest, and even after sundown, everything was warm and humid. I took a menu from the end of the table and used it to fan myself. Sweat from my armpits was running to my elbow.

The waitress was wearing yellow. She approached the booth cautiously. Pulled a notepad out of her apron. Minimal makeup. Blue-eyed fear. The waitress kept her distance from the table.

“Are. . are you girls just passing through?”

God forbid we stayed. “Yeah. Just stopping for a bite.” My smile seemed to ease her.

“What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a black coffee. And how’s the pie?” I felt like Dale Cooper.

“Good. It’s good.” She nodded a lot. It was kind of awkward.

I smile at her. “Okay. I’ll take a slice of pie, too.”

Ira is still examining the menu, frowning. “There’s so much meat on this menu.” She looks up to the waitress. “Can I just get a house salad and a lemonade?”

“What kind of dressing you want?”

“What are the options?”

“Ranch, blue cheese, thousand island.”

Ira made a face. “I think I’ll skip the dressing.”

The waitress nodded and left..

“You wanna bet the salad is only iceberg lettuce and unripe tomatoes?”

“Hey, it could have shredded carrots on it.” I looked over the menu again. “And probably comes slathered in gravy.”

“How does everything here have a gravy option?”

“Speaking of gravy, look at that guy.” I nodded my head at a man seated at the counter, flesh bulging over the belt of his jeans. Weight sinking over the seat, almost swallowing it. Ira stuck her tongue out and made a fake dry-heaving sound. It was mean, but I was still too upset to care.

The waitress dropped off the coffee and lemonade.

I inhaled the steam.

Ira shook her head. “I don’t see how you can drink coffee when it’s hot out.” She sipped her lemonade and made a scrunched her face. “Wow, I should’ve asked them to hold the lemon in this glass of sugar water.” Ira pushed the drink away and frowned at the table. The coffee smelled bad and tasted like dirt, but I kept drinking it, anyway.