WIP: DYNAMIC DUO OF THE OZARKS

CHAPTER 3

After Sunday dinner, Mykel loaded his stuff into the trunk of his 1960 Chevy Impala and got ready to leave for his second semester at Show Me State College. His grandparents told him goodbye.

“Do you have the highway emergency kit I gave you?”

“Yes, Grandpa. It’s in the trunk.”

His mother hugged him and kissed his cheek. Tears formed in her eyes and her voice trembled.

“Call me when you can,” Margaret instructed her son. “Do you have the card with my Bell employee code on it?”

“Yes I do. It’s in my wallet.”

“Be careful driving. They don’t call it ‘Bloody 66’ for nothing…and just because Dad got you that emergency kit for Christmas, doesn’t mean you have to try it out,” Margaret paused for a breath and then started in with more instructions for Mykel. “Remember, I don’t want to hear any stories about you getting drunk or getting some any girls in the family way.”

“The way things go with me,” Mykel joked. “That last one sure won’t happen.”

“Well…good luck, Son.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Mykel started the Impala, backed it up and started down the driveway. Margaret and her parents went back inside the house.

Mykel turned on the radio, as he pulled out of the drive onto Kasner Street and headed toward Route 66 and Springville. The announcer on Music and the Spoken Word was giving the weekly tally of how many shows they had broadcast from ‘beautiful Temple Square in Salt Lake City,” which he said was ‘in the shadow of the Everlasting Hills, at the crossroads of the West,’ over a pipe organ playing in the background.

Then the local radio announcer, who sounded like Gomer Pyle’s long, lost cousin, gave the radio station’s I.D and launched into a newscast.

“This is K-R-P-P in Lemming, Missouri, your CONALRAD station at 640 kilohertz. Here is your live, local news for Sunday, January 16th, Nineteen and Sixty-six.” What followed was the corn pone announcer reading the agenda of the Lemming city council meeting, a story about a car wreck on Route 66, followed by several obituaries, and two minutes of high school basketball scores. Then, the bucolic announcer topped off his excruciating newscast with a minute long weather forecast for the next two weeks.

“Your news, sports and weather, for January the sixteenth, Nineteen and Sixty-six, has been brought to you by these fine sponsors,” he then proceeded to read a lengthy list of local businesses. “Grubner’s Hardware Store, Lemming M-F-A Farmers Exchange, Brinkwell Funeral Chapel and Ambulance Service, Duckworth Insurance, Good Viddles Diner, Barton’s Rexal Pharmacy, Turner’s Shoe Store, O-K Used Cars, and Swan’s Dry Cleaning. It’s 2:10 o’clock on Sunday, January the sixteenth, of Nineteen and Sixty-six and this is K-R-P-P in Lemming, Missouri at 640 kilohertz. We are your CONALRAD station for the Ozarks. This is ‘Walk In the Black Forrest’ by…” The announcer paused, then continued, “Some feller, whose name I can’t pronounce.”

Mykel thought “A feller whose name I can’t pronounce?” He had attempted to get a job at that radio station and they gave him the understanding that he was ‘too young’ to work at a radio station and had a ‘Yankee accent’. So, why did they allow that guy to be on the air? Mykel could pronounce Horst Jankowski. It didn’t matter now. He would soon be an intern at the coolest radio station in Springville, Missouri. Mykel would have to wait until he was thirty or forty miles from Springville to pick up K-I-L-L, so he was stuck listening to K-R-P-P.

He stopped at Luhrmann’s Grocery Store to get his usual two bottle of Pepsi, that he drank when driving back to Springville. Mykel hated that he would have to go to a grocery store to buy his Pepsi, but Luhrmann’s was the only place that could by-pass the stupid Missouri Blue Law and the Dairy Queen in Lemming would not be open again until March.

Mykel parked the Impala in front of the ice cooler. He got out and walked up to the front entrance, then jumped on the rubber mat, that caused the glass door, adorned with the blue and white ‘Money Orders Available’ decal, to swing open faster than if he casually stepped on it. Once it opened, he strolled in nonchalant to a big refrigeration case. Over the case was a sign, featuring a grinning cartoon man, wearing an apron and forage hat, with a pencil behind one of his giant, round ears. The sign read “Need a cold drink? Mr. A-G says a bottle of Pepsi Cola is a just a dime!” Mykel took two bottles from the case, but then thought about it, and grabbed a third bottle from the case, turned and walked to the checkout.

Unfortunately, Sadie Mae Vermly was working the cash register. She put out a Pall Mall in an ash tray under the cash register and gave him her customary scowl, while chewing her Teabury gum with a force akin to a metal stamping machine. Mykel didn’t like her, because, on his first day of school in Lemming, after he and his mother relocated from Vermont, the boy’s gym class played dodge ball against the girl’s gym class and Sadie Mae hit him in the face with one of those red rubber balls, that only seem to be used in school phys-ed classes. He was going to hold that against her for the rest of her life.

“What do you want?” she snorted, as Mykel walked up with his three bottles of Pepsi.

“I want to pay for these bottles of soda.”

“Cain’t you call it pop like everybody else in Lemming does?” Sadie Mae asked. “And why are you in here on Sunday?” Sadie Mae’s face was covered with a thick, bumpy patch of red, ripe pimples that matched her stringy, dirty, rust colored hair.

“I wanted something to drink on my way back to Show Me State College and this is the only place in Lemming that is open on Sunday.”

“Even if ya go to college, folks are still gonna think yer shtoopud.”

“I’m not worried about what people in Lemming think of me. I came in here to buy soda, not get insulted!”

Sadie Mae rang up the three bottles of Pepsi on the mechanical cash register, with a stamp dispenser attached, with the words ‘We Give Gold Bond Trading Stamps’ in the middle of the black dial.

“That will be thirty cents,” she said, then, in a brief moment of civility, she asked, “Git any-thang good for Christmas?” She unbuttoned her smock, just enough to show Mykel that she had a Confederate flag tattoos on each side of her cleavage. “My daddy took me to a place down around Fort Leonard Wood and I got these rebel flag tattoos. Purdy, ain’t they!”

“Yeah,” Mykel was trying to think of something to say, since Sadie Mae was bigger than him and used to punched him frequently when they attended school together. “I didn’t know women could get tattoos. I got a portable TV, a highway emergency kit, a Beatles record and a Bob Dylan record,” Mykel answered, trying to change the subject from her tattooed breast.

“Cain’t you listen to George Jones and Johnny Cash like normal folks?” Sadie Mae snarled. “Tain’t nobody I know likes that kind of music.”

“Maybe you need to meet a better class of people,” Mykel answered with a smirk, as he handed her a quarter and a dime for the sodas.

A wild look formed in Sadie Mae’s eyes. She bared her rotting teeth at Mykel and yelled at him, like he was a dirty, old mutt in her yard, “Why don’t ya git outta here! I shouldn’t have to put up with your smart mouth on the Lord’s Day!”

“Look who’s talking,” Mykel said as he started to leave. “You’re the one that showed me her boobs in a grocery store on the Lord’s Day.” He quickly walked across the rubber mat, which opened the glass and metal door with a sign reading, “OUT – Mr. A-G says Thank you for shopping with us! Please come again!” Above the sign was another picture of the big eared, cartoon man, waving goodbye.

Mykel got into the Impala and got a Swiss Army knife from the glove box, pulled out the bottle opener to pop the cap off one of the Pepsi bottles. He took a big drink and then stuck the bottle between his thighs. He started the car and headed down Jefferson Avenue to the intersection in the middle of town. Al Martino was wrapping up crooning ‘Spanish Eyes’ on the radio, as he left the parking lot. When the song finished, there was silence, followed by a loud, audible microphone click.

“This is K-R-P-P in Lemming, Missouri at 640 kilohertz, your CONALRAD radio station. It is 48 degrees on Sunday, January 16th of 19 and 66. This is a song by Miss Peggy Lee called ‘I Go To Sleep’ on K-R-P-P, your CONALRAD station.”

When the light turned green, Mykel turned and drove down Elm Street, until it metamorphosed into the Route 66, trying to maintain a reasonable speed. When he saw the sign that read ‘You are leaving the Lemming City Limits’, he pushed the gas peddle all the way to the floor, reaching 75 miles per hour. The Impala was splashing through water, left by the overnight rain, that had swollen Goodwin Hollow Creek, over the highway, near Caffeyville. Lucky for Mykel, that there were no pokey Sunday drivers on the road.

As he reached the town of Niangua, K-R-P-P began playing ‘Flight of the Phoenix’ and Mykel decided it was the perfect time to try to pick up K-I-L-L. He pushed the fourth button on the radio, which sent the orange tuner line scooting from right before the 7 to the 14, where there was a loud popping of static. Mykel then turned the selector slightly to the left until he heard the Rolling Stones yelling at someone to get off of their cloud. He knew then he was at the right place on the dial and he cruised onward to Springville and S-M-S-C.