Jim Bob’s Dog Days of Summer

Jim Bob had just smacked his last girlfriend into the hospital.  A little too much mouth, a righteous temper, and her own ideas had landed her there. Some women praised his good looks, while excusing the child’s rage boiling in his strong man’s body; they refused to focus on the inside, soured and spoiled.  Jim Bob did not share attention.  He was not much for sharing the money either, or the food.

Jim Bob was in-between jobs and going a little stir crazy sitting in the hot trailer all day.  He was feeling as scratchy and irritable as a towel in a cheap motel.  He decided to have a big steak dinner with the last of his cash and scout out a few bars.  He needed to find an isolated, malleable woman who would invite him into her home and bank account. 

He considered his options.  There were the bars downtown, loud music accompanied by fistfights and drunken college kids.  Country bars reeking with a clientele of two-stepping partners in custom shirts and new boots. Then there were the bars out in the country, nestled along secondary roads.  These were metal framed, cement-floored buildings with gravel drives, the architectural style of the Ozarks.  These drafty, steel buildings distorted the DJ music, giving it a tin can quality.  There, the beer was all domestic, the counters Formica over plywood, and the chairs sticky and uneven. 

Jim Bob usually avoided these bars; the women there were sad individuals, caricatures of their youthful selves.  In trying to preserve the semblance of youth, they applied coats of makeup, wore their skirts too short, showing more cellulite than allure, and dressed in tight spandex, which outlined their fat stomachs as much as their breasts.  These chairs held women used, abused, and discarded like old model cars sitting in a junkyard.  Some hopeful, most cynical, they perched themselves on rusty metal stools waiting for Mr. Right to enter and rescue them.  On lucky nights, the men outnumbered the women and they hit the sweepstakes if any of the men were single, usually between divorce court and the altar. 

Jim Bob spun into the gravel drive of the metal building and watched the flashing, neon sign blink, “Booze and Cues” in blue and pink.  Cute thought Jim Bob, a real classy joint, but then he was searching for desperate and this was its nesting place.

As he entered the bar, admiring glances from a row of women, most dressed in black, came his way.  They resembled a power line full of crows, sentinels watching for prey.  Then he felt the heat of dislike from a smaller group of men.  Fat, short, and balding, they had been the, “pick of the litter” until Jim Bob’s arrival.  They welcomed him as warmly as a Baptist church acknowledges the new topless club.  There was a silence; an exchange of eyes, and the bartender wisely dropped coins into the jukebox to break the dangerous spell.  There was a scraping back of chairs, as couples got up and moved to the wooden, dance floor to twist and shake to a twenty-year-old song.

Jim Bob managed to find a stool open at the end of the bar.  He felt cocky after viewing the competition and knew he held a winning hand in the looks department tonight.  His height, always an asset with the women, was not his only advantage.  He also had hair and plenty of it, even if it was growing wavy from humidity and infrequent haircuts.  Jim Bob dismissed the men, like a prom queen disregards the wallflowers in the back row.

Ah, the ladies, he used that term loosely, appeared as he had suspected.  Several blonde-haired women, none natural, grouped together at a table, had rooster-tailed their bangs.  It looked like their hair had been caught in an uprising elevator.  Jim Bob noticed they were all dressed in similar styles, like mannequins in a discount store.  They had decorated themselves with cheap dime store jewelry dominated by big hoop earrings, while high-heeled shoes served as their platforms.  They were lit with cigarettes held in various practiced poses, high in the hazy air.  To Jim Bob, they resembled cheap, Christmas trees ornamented in junk.  Too young, Jim Bob dismissed them; they would not serve his purpose tonight.

He drank his beer while involuntarily shivering in the chilled, damp air of this metal box.  Cobwebs laced the corners, rodents scurried in and out of table legs, and Jim Bob speculated on odds that the local health department had never inspected this place. 

Jim Bob ran his eyes down the row of black covered women seated at the bar.  Females alone, the quarries he was searching for.  All were older than he was, the facial lines dug deep, like maps through hardship lane.  One was overweight by about forty pounds.  She wore an impressive ring on her right hand; the large stone shimmering ruby red under the bar lights. She too was dressed in black, with brown trim at the cuffs and neck.

The smoke was gagging Jim Bob along with the tunes being played by the bartender.  He imagined tension building at the counter as he rose and he thought for an instant, that he saw a flash of red in a dark brown eye.  The stools on both sides of the heavy woman sat stark, empty, Jim Bob hoped her life was that way too.

“Can I buy you a drink?”  Jim Bob asked, as he sat on the stool next to her.  He thought he saw her flinch in anticipation before she turned to him.

“If you want to,” she replied in a surprisingly deep, rich voice.  “I’m drinking Old Charter.”

Pretty hard-core, Jim Bob thought as he ordered her drink and another beer for himself.  That was probably why her voice was subterranean and smooth.

Jim Bob existed off his manipulating expertise and he tried to hide his smugness behind a bland facade.  Their drinks came and Jim Bob laid down a twenty, wishing he had a hundred.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” she stated, more like a fact than an accusation.

“No, my first time.  It’s a little out of the way, I’m lucky I found it,” Jim Bob suggested the backhanded compliment without any fanfare.  “I’m from Tulsa,” and he almost added “with no place to stay,” but stopped himself in time.  “I’m Jim Bob,” he tacked on.

“My name is Justitia,” she offered.  Nothing else.  Jim Bob was surprised.  He thought she would be talking his head off.

She drank her whiskey slow and swirled her glass, as if it held the smoothest brandy.  “You’re not the murderer that’s been killing all those people are you?”

Jim Bob dropped his beer can with a thug and laughed. He never read the newspapers, or listened to the TV news, but he had heard the rumors about a killer, missing men.  Jim Bob was so used to being the dominator, never the victim, that he gave the stories little thought.  “No I’m not, are you?” he asked.

She smiled but did not answer.  Finally, she offered, “A girl has to be careful nowadays.”

She was way past being a girl, thought Jim Bob.  He studied her face; it appeared intense, purposeful.  “Tell me your story, you’re not from around here.  What’s that accent you have?”

She smiled at his question and replied, “West German, a town called Rottweil.”

“Wow, that’s far away.  What are you doing here?” Jim Bob asked, intrigued in spite of himself.  He had barely been out of the trailer park, let alone visited another country. 

“Oh, I’m here to see someone.  A person that interests me.”

Was she hinting that she had a date somewhere close by?  Jim Bob was not sure and felt thrown off guard.  He liked to be in charge.  Was she threatening him?  He turned to gaze at her and caught her smiling right at him.  He noticed her teeth were small and even, but rather sharp at the tops.  Her hair was a deep black; probably dyed he thought, but her eyebrows were brown.  He started to perspire as she leaned into him, and exhaled, “Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” Jim Bob was stumbling; maybe he had made a mistake in selecting her.  He should have chosen someone easier to fool.  He was just about to get up and move down the row when she asked him, “Would you like to come home with me?”

Jim Bob and Justitia walked out of the, “Booze & Cues,” the blue and pink neon sign flashing their faces a sickly color of violet.  Justitia was taller than Jim Bob had suspected, only slightly shorter than his own six-foot height.  He glanced down at her feet; they were encased in rather large, brown heels.

He looked around the twenty or so vehicles parked in the gravel drive and asked her, “Where’s your car?”

“I walked,” Justitia answered and raised an eyebrow at him.

Again, Jim Bob felt apprehensive, an emotion alien to him before tonight, he blustered, “We’re out in the country, where did you walk from?”

Instead of answering, she grabbed his arm and said, “Where is your truck?”

Jim Bob felt ill, as if the beers he had swallowed in the bar had been green.  He thought if he could see himself, his complexion might be that shade too.  He was going to have to teach her a few lessons on how to behave, later.  “How’d you know I had a truck?”

Justitia raised her chin and gazed over the area, “Do you see any cars?”  He did not and there was an uncomfortable shared laugh, as Jim Bob released tight tension building in his gut.

The couple walked towards the red, 4 X 4 and Jim Bob was having second thoughts, but he could come up with no clean means of escape.  “Do you often ask strangers to come home with you?” he asked, thinking he might be able to make her angry.

“All the time, Jim Bob, for years and years,” she replied.

Now he was alarmed.  Frightened and threatened like never before by a woman, Jim Bob began to feel nauseated.  If there was such a power as a man’s intuition, his was erupting with warning lights.  She is from West Germany and she walked to the bar?  This woman could be a problem.

“Scared?” she whispered.  Jim Bob jerked his arm away from her grip, a spontaneous movement he could not control.

“Petrified,” he whispered back, trying to sound sardonic, but coming across nervous instead.

“You should be,” she said.  Justitia latched on to his arm again and brushed her shoulders, “I’m shedding.”  She groomed both her shoulders and back while retaining her tight grip on him.  “Are we going to your truck?”

This was his chance; he could shout, “No” and run for his life.  He had never reacted to fear before, although his body was warning him, his pride blocked his good sense and he replied, “Sure, come on.” 

They started walking down the line of vehicles.  His truck appeared a deep, blood red, with the neon sign blinking on it, and he unlocked the passenger door with some hesitation.

Justitia allowed none, leaped up into the cab, and closed the door.  Jim Bob circled, pondered, and stepped slowly up into the driver’s seat. 

“So, you asked me to go home with you, where do you live?” Jim Bob asked, no longer hiding the unnerving misgivings in his voice.

She did not answer, she just pointed to a weed covered, gravel track that ran behind the bar.  Jim Bob shifted into first gear and started slowly moving down and around the path.  Too flustered to look her way, he just kept driving, swerving around large piles of rocks in the lane, and encircling wild cedars growing thick along the narrow drive.  It grew dark, denser as they traveled, until the truck’s lights offered the only illumination for miles around.  After maneuvering around a sharp turn, the trail ended.

Silence, intense and still, surrounded them.  No intonations came from the front seat of the cab except for sharp breathing sounds.  Jim Bob shifted in his seat, ready to demand what in the hell she was doing, but he stopped dead in his question, and his mouth dropped open, like his jaw had just broken.  He felt transported from normal to grotesque, as he cringed in horror-struck terror, pressing himself away from his date.

Red eyes glared back at him, lit eyes with no form.  Then the body of a Rottweiler animal formed in front of him.  Massive, strong, the muzzle quivering in rage; Justitia bared her teeth in greeting.

Jim Bob thought he was going to pass out as he frantically tried to open his truck door.  He was past surprise, beyond fear, and locked in a heated stare with a horrifyingly real menace.  He could not, would not comprehend the apparition to his right.  He wrestled with the door handle, but his sweat-drenched hands could not form a grip. 

The snarl of an angry, guard dog was impossible to ignore, so was the smell.  Justitia stood and filled the cab of the truck.  Her toenails pushed into the upholstery, her breath fogged the windows, and her growl paralyzed Jim Bob as she dripped salvia on the console and seat.  Putridness, rottenness, foulness filled the tight space of the cab, causing him to descend into deep shock. 

Justitia nudged Jim Bob and as he shifted his head away from her; he felt a tug on his ear and a piercing pain shot through him. 

“Let go!” Jim Bob screamed in agony.  He was used to being obeyed, but Justitia was another kind of female altogether.  She snapped back and her voice was deep with a rabid anger that made Jim Bob begin to shake.

“What’s wrong?” Justitia asked, nibbling now at Jim Bob’s neck.  “I thought you liked pain.  Or don’t you like being on the receiving end?”

“You don’t know me.  Whatever you are, you can’t judge me,” Jim Bob hissed, trying to slant away from the animal until his head hit the side window.

“Ah, but I do know you.  I know enough,” and with great impatience, Justitia rectified the existence of Jim Bob in one, large bite to the neck.

Justitia lowered the passenger’s side mirror and checked her makeup.  Oh, the eyeliner had run and her teeth had lipstick on them, no blood.  She carefully dabbed away the smears and streaks until she was satisfied.  Poor Jim Bob, he had not studied his Latin, or her name might have given him a clue of what was to come.  Justice, from the Latin, Justitia.  Opening the door of the truck, she could not resist one last look at her work.  She was a master, swift and direct. Pride filled her as she jumped down to the gravel track and slowly sauntered away.
 
Jim Bob’s hands still gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white, but then the rest of him was pale too.  It was almost dawn, the bright red glow of the sun lit the left side of his face, and the cab began to heat up.  Outside, the high weeds smelled sickly sweet and flies buzzed the truck’s windows.  Inside all was quiet. 

Funny, sometimes when you practiced victimization, you could become a victim too.  Jim Bob had never thought of that.

Angela Conrad lives in SW Missouri with her husband Jerry. She has written two novels, worked as a procedure editor, and is thankful to have thirty-seven published works in the following magazines in 2002/2003: Ascent, Orchard Press Mysteries, The Copperfield Review, The Murder Hole, The Oracular Tree, EWG Presents, The Circle, American Feed, The Pink Chameleon, The Green Tricycle, Pindeldyboz, The Enigma, The Storyteller, Cenotaph, and Earthbase 3000. Angela Conrad lives in SW Missouri with her husband, Jerry. Her mission in writing is to sing the song of unknown heroes, to entertain, to provoke thought, and to tell a good story. She has written two novels and worked as a procedure editor, but now dedicates herself to writing fiction full time. The Circle Magazine-Online-www.circlemagazine.com “One Day,” Spring issue, March 2002. A historical, first person account of a common soldier at the battle of Fredericksburg/Civil War, fiction. Ascent-Online–www.bcsupernet.com/users/ascent “Whoever You Are,” May 2002. A mystery, suspense tale; can you release the devil on the world? Enigma-Print Quarterly-PA “Saved, but Lost,” -Summer, 2002. Fiction: a concise drama about a train crash and the emotional damage it leaves behind. The Pink Chameleon-Online-www.geocities.com/thepinkchameleon/index.html “The Caretaker,” Issue No. 3-June 2002. Fictional view of a slow illness, and the stamina it requires. “The Journey Home,” Issue No. 3-June 2002. An overachieving woman receives a message through tragedy. Pindeldyboz-Online-www.pindeldyboz.com “Stan’s Last Gamble,” June Issue 2002. A humorous satire of a minor gambler, who wins big only to lose everything. Earthbase 3000-Print Quarterly-OR “John Casey Gets a Visitor,” Issue 2002. A storm as a character, takes revenge on a murderer. The Storyteller-Print Quarterly-AR “Past Dramas,” -July/Aug./Sept. Fall Issue, 2002. A fictional, crime/suspense piece told by a sociopath. “Desperation,”-Oct./Nov./Dec. Winter Issue, 2002. A woman locked in her room, with the police on the way, hides a secret crime.

Email: Angela Conrad

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