Brier Patch #24 Love Conquers All

Bob Frankle, of Tulsa, Oklahoma, was randomly chosen last week’s $25 winner with the correct answer to the question: What high school did Cindy and Bill attend?? Ans: Hollywood High.

 

For three days I’d been carrying Cindy’s phone number in my shirt pocket. The one over my heart.

“Hi, Cindy,” I said cheerfully. “This is Bill Brier.”

Silence.

“You remember, from the birding group.”

“Ooh, yeaah,” she droned, nodding slowly, as if dredging up a vague memory.

Desperate for an image boost, I pushed on, “I’m busy here at the studio, but I’ll be passing through your area this weekend, you know, another birding trip. And, well, I’d like to take you to lunch.”

She giggled. “We don’t even know each other.”

“But we both went to Hollywood High. We might know the same people.”

“Maybe even had the same classes…not.”

She got me. I had her by two or three years … okay, fourteen.

“But we’ll know the same teachers,” I said. “Come on, name a restaurant.”

Visalia … Three Hours Away

Not bothering to apologize after being twenty minutes late, she said, “It’s cloudy. Do you birdwatchers go out in the rain?”

“We birders”—a subtle correction of the term—“are a hardy bunch. Can’t say the same for the birds. They stay hunkered down and out of sight.”

“This might be a wasted trip for you.”

I hope not.

She sipped her water. “Are you really some studio manager?”

“You saw my card.”

“When I was in high school, guys printed phony cards to impress girls.”

“You’re taking quite a chance.”

“Well? Are you going to answer my question?”

She was so damn cute, all I could do was laugh and say, “I’m not in high school anymore.”

I thought I’d laid good groundwork for a real date. Told her that my youngest son, age sixteen, lived with me up in the Hollywood hills. A point that usually scored well with women. Actually, two points.

The Car

Talk about a clunker. Her car was a decrepit Oldsmobile, big as a bus. Inhale the exhaust and you’d come down with black lung disease.

But the worst part was the inside. I know this will get me in trouble with some of you, but it’s a fact I’ve witnessed all my life. Women never, never clean the shit out of their cars.

I opened the door for her, and a Coke can rolled onto the ground.

“Just toss it in the back,” she said, crawling in behind the wheel.

“Pretty crowded. Got enough room to drive?”

French fry bags (minus the scattered fries), soda cans, hamburger wrappers, coffee cups, Cracker Jacks, a high heel shoe, a half eaten apple and a pizza box. Walkman earphones hung from the mirror, and the dashboard held small tubes of moisturizers. Free samples, or maybe stolen. No0o0obody knows.

Home … Three Hours Back

I wondered if I’d scored well enough for a future date. If so, was it worth the drive? After all, she had minuses.

She was awfully messy, at least in the car department. That’s one minus. Owned two preschoolers. Two more minuses. Lived practically in another state—that totals four minuses.

But so what? As I said in The Devil Orders Takeout book trailer, “Love conquers all.”

Next Week: Cindy Does Hollywood.

 

IF YOU’RE ENJOYING these goofy blogs, share them with friends (or, heck, anybody). There’s a new one each week (until I run out of drugs, girlfriends, and wives.)

 

YOU ALSO MIGHT LIKE MY BOOKS: billbrier.com/books/

THE DEVIL ORDERS TAKEOUT — Award-winning thriller (that Scooby loved).
(Buy on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, IndieBound, BAM, iBooks, Kobo, Google Play, Audible)

THE KILLER WHO HATED SOUP — Award-winning mystery (that Scooby really loved).
(Buy on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, IndieBound, Kobo, Google Play, Smashwords, Audible)

THE KILLER WHO WASN’T THERE — Award-winning mystery (that Scooby’s still reading).
(Now available! Buy on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, IndieBound, BAM)