New Beginning 1015

The rattle of the tail pipe on my old Indian Scout echoed back from the walls at me. It struck me with a bite of self-consciousness; I didn’t belong here.

Not that this cul-de-sac looked like a millionaires’ enclave. In fact, it was a funny sort of place to live, considering she had so much money—and I was pretty sure she had a lot of money. Judging by her car, her clothes, and that giant rock on her wedding finger.

That rock was on my mind, too. I was up to no good; I knew that. But I’d been anticipating this all afternoon, unable to think about anything else, ever since Mrs. Q had stepped out for lunch—and ‘Big Red,’ as I called her, stepped in. The little head had been doing the thinking for the big one ever since. I was in no mood to stop now. Hell! I was like a torpedo, fired on a collision course—no choice. Not anymore.

From the back seat, Big Red broke into my thoughts with her deep bass voice. “So, what kind of rock is it this time?”

I looked in the rearview mirror at her as a line from the old Kinks’ song “Lola” played in my head. You know, the one that goes “she walked like a woman and talked like a man.”

“What difference does it make whether it's igneous, metamorphic, or sedimentary? All I know is, it was BIG! And I want it!”

Laughter rumbled from deep within Big Red’s throat. “Not easy being a two-headed man in a one-headed world, is it? Especially when the little head is an obsessive-compulsive rock collector.” She wet a finger and dabbed it in an ear of the smaller head that protruded from the right side of my neck.

“Stop that!” we said.

I would have stopped the Scout and kicked Big Red out, but I was going to need some help getting that enormous rock from Mrs. Q., who was obviously a powerful woman if she could lug that much weight around on her finger. Besides, what she’d said about my little head’s compulsion was true. And who would know better, considering all the other times she’d helped get my rocks?

“Probably just cheap sandstone,” Big Red said. “But whatever fires your torpedo, honey.”

I ignored the comment and the muscular, pantyhose-clad leg she draped across the backrest of the front seat, and said as assertively as I could manage, “Just make sure your jackhammer’s ready.”

Another deep-throated giggle from the back seat let me know my last admonishment was unnecessary. Her jackhammer was always ready.
 


Opening: Dixon Hill.....Continuation: James