Page 7 of Cookout Carnage
RORY: Suits are rubbish. Bin it.
JONATHAN: Tanya picked it out. I thought this bullshit would help it all go down easier.
TRISTAN: You look fine. Just don’t wear it again. Get it over with and duck behind people should there be photographs.
BEN: And remove your coat when you get there. Let’s see the shirt.
JONATHAN: {Picture of a shiny black shirt and a red tie}
SABRINA: No offense, but you look a bit like the Schlong.
TRISTAN: That’s pronounced Schleen.
RORY: That shirt is bloody awful. So fucking shiny.
SABRINA: It will be fine. Maybe wear a simple white button-down.
TRISTAN: Button-down. {Eye roll emoji} It’s a shirt, for God’s sake.
SABRINA: Chill out or I’m not finding you an apartment, and then you’ll have like ZERO friends in Chicago.
TRISTAN: Tabi’s visiting in August.
TABI: Maybe. I have two things I’m taking care of right now. Not sure I can make it.
RORY: Go and wear the suit. Then burn it. It appears that it will go up in smoke rather quickly.
BEN: Have a good time, man.
JONATHAN: I’d tell you all to fuck off, but I’m quite nervous about all of this.
TRISTAN: You got this. It’s time to chuck her in the bin.
TABI: Don’t forget to kiss the ring when you have your audience with the don. Oh, and tell Sonny not to go to the toll booth.
* * *
I’m aboutto climb into my truck when a pink golf cart driven by nine-year-old Dinah Dexter-Haven bumbles down the driveway. Dexter-Haven is her middle name and was her mother’s maiden name, but she likes it best and always introduces herself like that. It’s her mom’s cart, but she steals it all the time. It’s emblazed with CK Dexter-Haven Kitchen on the side and is used for local deliveries in our small town. The café was named by Dinah’s grandmother, who felt a bit regal that she shared a name with a Cary Grant character. And the name stuck. The locals call it CK’s.
Dinah’s not supposed to take the cart without her mother, but she stops by to pick flowers in my industrial greenhouses all the time. I let her take as many flowers as she wants for the tables at CK’s. I’ve taught her how to prune. Although she did steal a couple of thorns and used them like thumbtacks on some boy’s chair at school.
The sun’s in my eyes, but I hear Squeakers before I can make out who’s in the passenger seat. I swivel my head towards the little barn. I call it the penthouse because it’s a baller’s suite for a pig. The door is open, which means Squeakers picked the lock again.
She’s a bit blind, she’s lost a few teeth, and she tends to run away like she’s setting out on an adventure. Whenever she gets to a new location, she bolts as soon as she’s loose. She’ll keep running, bumping into things until she circles back and realizes she’s somewhere familiar.
“Where was she?”
“Hiya, Mr. Jonathan. Barbershop eating the hair on the floor.” I cringe. “But I totally saw her in the window, so I snagged her and brought her home.” That’s at least three miles this pig trotted. Tanya hates her and has threatened to cook her.
“Why do you look like you’re going to your funeral?”
I smirk at her. “I’m headed to a cocktail party…”
“That suit looks like one that needs a hat. Like a costume hat.”
I shift uncomfortably. “There’s a hat.”
“Bet it’s white.” I nod. “Not gonna wear it?”
