Serge patted his stomach. “Already in here.”
The clerk leaned over the cup. “Oh, yeah. I see the drops.” He smiled again and rang Serge up. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes!” Serge tossed the cup in the trash. “A side order of country-fried conversation.”
“Uh, what?”
“Like you were having with those old folks. I love small-town friendliness!”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the clerk. “If we got any friendlier, people would think we were trying to sell something.”
“You are,” said Serge. “You’re a clerk in a store. Isn’t that the program here? Just because the wagon wheel out front didn’t fulfill the big dreams, the answer isn’t Communism.”
Coleman raised his hand. “You should get a mannequin of a hot chick and stick her by the road.”
“Coleman! Shhhh!” said Serge. “I’m talking to the guy here. The mannequins draw the wrong crowd, who just want to use the restrooms and aren’t too precise about it.”
The clerk chuckled. “You guys are funny. What brings you to town?”
“The town!” said Serge. “I love everything about it. Right now I’m mentally rocking out to your murals.”
“Oh, the murals,” said Donny. “Aren’t they fantastic? My personal favorite is the telephone one.”
“Me too!” said Serge. “Byrdie Sizemore! I know her name is Byrd, but I like to refer to her as Byrdie because it’s a free country. I’m always thinking about her. Was she musical? Petulant? Did she find her life’s work fulfilling, or just start smashing telephones near the end? And exactly what switchboard call was she connecting in that mural? A family reunion at the old Forsythe place? Gossip about the preacher and the Widow Milsap? An emergency involving moonshine and a two-person tree saw?”
The clerk chuckled again. “Never quite thought about it.”
Serge pointed at the duffel bag near his feet, then at the corner of the store. “Can we use your restroom? I actually made a purchase, so we’re not from the mannequin crowd. But I will need a while because we have to get dressed for work. Really important gig.”
“Take as long as you want,” said Donny. “If there’s a problem, I’ll tell everyone to use the women’s room.”
“You’re good people . . .”
Donny sat back on a stool and resumed flipping through a magazine with blueprints for patio decks. After a couple minutes, he thought he heard something. He leaned over the counter, looking down the hall to the restrooms. There was a muffled banging sound, then a crash and arguing in hushed tones. “Let go of me!” “Don’t screw this up again!” Another bang. A clanging noise. The door opened and Serge stuck his head out with a grin. “Almost done. There’s nothing unusual.” The door closed. Bang, bang, bang. “Dammit!” “Shit, my bad.” Then a suspiciously long pause. The door finally opened again.
Serge and Coleman stepped out, and Donny stepped back, scratching his head. “What exactly is this job you do?”
Serge told him.
“Ohhhh.” Donny nodded with understanding.
“Don’t fib,” said Serge. “At first you thought this was weird. Anyway, pleasure to meet, thanks for use of the restroom, and any damage in there was from the other guys.”
They left the store, and a gold Plymouth sped off north through the fading light on U.S. Highway 441. Pot smoke wafted out the windows.
“I’m beginning to see why you like country folk so much,” said Coleman. “First your little history helper at the motel desk, and now that cool guy in the convenience store.”
“Country folk are the best!” said Serge. “That is, most of the time.”
Puff, puff. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong: Everything is usually finger-lickin’ fantastic,” said Serge. “Until you get lost driving through deep fog in the woods at night with no cell service or GPS. Then you notice a tiny light on in the distance at an isolated farmhouse. So you knock on the door for directions, and the next thing you know, you’re handcuffed to a radiator while a family in bib overalls giggles and rubs mice on your face, and one of them says, ‘Go get the twins.’ And someone else opens a cellar door, and these two little albinos with pointy teeth show up, and you’re like, ‘Where in the fuck is this going?’ But you know that all the signs so far are not positive, and then somehow you free yourself and run outside. Your car is just feet away and the keys are still in your pocket, but for some reason you tell yourself, ‘That’s a stupid idea. I’ll run for a barn way out in that dark field.’ You dash inside the rickety structure to find all kinds of thick chains hanging from the rafters with hooks and rusty scything blades, and a mottled hand is reaching up from a fresh grave in the dirt floor. Then a chain saw roars to life outside and you dive behind bales of hay as flashlight beams pierce through slats in the barn wall. And that’s if you’re lucky. Sometimes the family is into Amway: ‘No, I don’t want to join!’ ‘It’ll change your life!’ And then they’re chasing you to the barn with pamphlets and brochures.”
“Amway,” said Coleman, shaking with the willies.
The Plymouth pulled off the road. “Here we are.”
Other cars were already parked, many more arriving. People streamed toward what looked like an old minor-league baseball stadium in Oshkosh. Erector-Set girders and rusty metal sheeting over the stands in case of rain.
Serge and Coleman made their way to the entrance of the rodeo arena. A cashier in the ticket booth gave their outfits a double take, then asked for the admission fee.
Serge shook his head. “We’re clowns. We’re authorized.”
“You’re in the show?” asked the cashier.
Serge adjusted the red ball on his nose. “Why else would we be dressed like this? Just because we decided to pretend like we work here?”
“But the clowns have already arrived.”
“They called for backup.” Serge flashed a clown badge. “There could be trouble tonight. I’d count on it.”
She shrugged and let them pass.
Coleman slapped floppy shoes on the walkway. “What do we do now?”
“Act like we belong.”
They arrived at a fence along the side of the dusty arena. A cowgal in scarlet-fringed riding chaps went by on a horse. Sandy-blond locks flowed out from under her black Stetson hat. She proudly raised a giant American flag as they played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Coleman nudged his buddy. “Look who it is.”
“I know,” said Serge. “My little history helper. Imagine that.”
Coleman nudged him again. “She’s wearing a plaid shirt.”
“Shut up.”
After a few preliminary announcements over the PA system, a galvanized metal gate burst open. A cowboy swung a free arm in the air as a bronco fiercely fought to dislodge him. After eight seconds, he hit the dirt in a nasty spill. The crowd stood in silent concern. The cowboy jumped right up and waved to them with his hat.
The PA announcer: “Let’s hear it for Sundance Cassidy.”