Ruckus In Georgia

A Story About Growing Up

I met Brooke early one morning at the airport. She was working behind the counter of an airline we tenderly called “America’s Worst.” She sat perched on a stool, reading a tome of a book, occasionally playing with the vintage chopsticks she had holding her up her hair. I miraculously started talking with her, and weeks later we sat, on our first date. We were both playing a game of bad cop good cop while we interrogated each other, and neither of us wanted to do it “the easy way.”

“Have you ever been arrested?” She asked me. Her head tilted a bit with inquiry as she leered at me through wide, old woman glasses. I thought she might be asking because she was about to be arrested for knocking over some blue hair’s clothing store. I sipped my beer in protest, and she squinted ever so slyly. She could have been the big bad wolf. I wanted so badly to ask her about the spectacles but didn’t want to hear, “All the better to see you with.”

The answer, of course, is that I’d never been arrested. I had made it 21 year on the planet and never even had the bracelets on — and my anti-misdemeanoring non-felonious streak was written all over my face. I was guilty of being innocent and in front of me sat a beautiful judge, jury, and executioner.

“What’d you get pinched for?” I desperately hoped ‘pinched’ is still what cool people said about getting fucking arrested.

Georgia gets soft at night. The sun goes down, the temperature drops, and in the space between humidity and humility: southern hospitality comes out to play. It’s a little after 9 on a Thursday, and Brooke is in front of a mirror. She’s a southern bell that hates her middle name and has brown eyes that will make you miss a step.

It’s a great night for honky tonk. After a struggle, she’s managed to tie her pony tail so it’s hangs along with her words. The black and white wingtip shoes complete the summer dress ensemble. The whole outfit smacks of “Portland Cool.” Her tiny ankles betray her sophistication.

She places the last piece of the puzzle as she slathers deodorant on before running out the door. There was dancing to be done.

The “track” is a circle of honky tonk bars just outside Atlanta. She looked again at the directions hastily written on the back of an envelope and started her car — a 1980's Mercedes C class in champagne. The engine puttered along as she slinked out of the driveway in reverse. The cool night flooded the old car as she slung it down the highway. One of the speakers was just starting to go, but it added the warmth of a little reverb to everything it played.

Gravel crunched under the cars big tires as she pulled into the parking lot. A big orange peach hung above the door with smaller letters below it that read, “The Pit.” Smoke occasionally hustled up from the revelers outside to flirt with the fruit. “They should have named it the Peach instead of the Pit.” She thought of how uncouth the name sounded.

“Brooky!” said Brittany as she bounced over to her car. “Are you absolutely excited to Honky Tonk tonight?!”

“Absolutely.”

“Ok, I brought my sister’s ID for you. Tonight, you’re Ashley Hendrix. Make sure you remember the address in case they give you a hard time about it.” She bubbled.

“Yeah but Brit, this really doesn’t even look like me that much.”

“Oh don’t worry. My sister used it even after she had Frank, and it didn’t look like her at all either. Besides, none of the guys working here give a hard time to girls.”

They skipped to the door, and climbed the three wooden steps onto the porch. Outside, over the bannisters, hung people smoking cigarettes, talking, and looking aimlessly out into the dark Georgia sky. As they waited in line, the porch would move just a little, especially as the honking and tonking inside got more serious.

The bouncer waves his hand holding his thumb and forefinger apart like he’s shaking the tiniest martini. Brittany hands him her ID.

“Alright, that’ll be $5"

“What? I thought it was free for college students on Thursday?!” Brittany half protested, blinking her long eye lashes at the bouncer.

“I don’t know this is like my first day doing this. Let me ask a manager.”

The young man disappeared and returned with a middle aged woman who looked like she really had something better she could be doing at that moment.

“We don’t do the special on Thursdays anymore. We can probably make an exception though. Let me see your ID’s.”

Brooke started to wonder if she had put on enough deodorant, because even in the night air she was starting to sweat.

The woman looked at Brittany’s ID and then at Brooke’s.

“This isn’t you. Note even close.” She gestured towards Brooke.

“Yes it is, I’m Ash.” She said, hoping the informality of the first name would sell the lie better.

“What’s your middle name Ash?” The woman asked matter-of-factly.

Ashley looked at Brooke intently and shook her head from side to side slowly.

“I don’t have one.” she said.

“According to this you do Ms. Ashley Hannah Hendrix. Steve, call the police.”

Ashley turned and took Brooke by the arm. “We don’t need this shit. We’re leaving.”

The woman grabs Brooke. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Slick with sweat from the worry of being caught, she worms her way free starts running; wingtip shoe over wingtip shoe, crunching the gravel. The giant peach from the sign lights the young fleeing girl in an orange hue. The pony tail brushes her neck with each stride as she struggled to get her keys out of her purse.

The door squeals as she pulls it open and she jumps into the drivers seat. As she turns the keys into the ignition, the engine struggles to life. Brooke throws her arm over the passenger seat and looks out the back window. As she starts to reach for the gear shifter, an orange silhouette fills the back window of the Mercedes.

“No fucking way you’re running out on me. The cops are on the way.”

“Get out of the way! I’m leaving!!”

“I’m not moving until the cops are here. You’re going to jail bitch!”

Brooke presses her foot on the accelerator pedal, and the engine churns under the hood.

“You’re going to have to run me over if you want to get out of here. Gun it all you want. I double fucking dare you.” The woman was indignant.

They sat, staring at each other, engine revving. Half pleading, half hoping, Brooke didn’t look away from the woman. A full minute passed. From the distance the orange light found two new red and blue friends. From the car, a sheriff gets out and walks to her squeaky drivers door.

“Will you shut off the vehicle and step out of the car mam?” he asked. Tears fell from her eyes.

I like to think that the kind sweet thing in front of me wasn’t going to run that woman over. I like to think that. I have no idea if it’s true. She might have been getting ready to let that fucker rip in reverse, kicking rocks everywhere and laying out that woman.

“Do you have a copy of that mugshot?” I asked her.

“I wish I did.”

“Why?”

“It was a great mugshot. I was wearing the most amazing red lipstick that night.” A reminiscent smirk found its way onto her face. “So you’ve never been arrested?”

“Nope.”

“Keep hanging out with me. I’ll show you the ropes kid.” She winked.