I, Racki (Part VII)

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Another lap had been hung up on the lap counter outside the Stone Creek Library when I walked back and it showed the race was nearing its halfway point. Lena Binks, newly elected Chairman of the Women’s Auxiliary, announced the leaders from the PA and media center on the flatbed near the pits in the lot across from Tom’s Garage, and it came as no surprise that insurance salesman Moseph Mosley had led most of the race considering Steve Brinkle, the town’s mechanic and a onetime ex-NASCAR driver, was the head of his pit crew.

I walked into the Hasty Tasty Freeze and it was a cave compared to how bright it was outside. The narrowness of the shop made it seem like someone’s closet and I about overturned a table getting to the back. I was surprised to see Randy Gnoll and his Brillo pad haircut working the counter. He had the wooden smile and pronounced jaw of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Even though he was smiling at the customers you could tell he was put out.

I looked over the melting buckets of ice cream.

“Where’s your paper hat?” I asked him.

He gave me a smile sizzling with acid and asked me if I wanted to order something.

“I don’t want any of your crappy ice cream, Randy. I’d probably get mad cow from it. Where’s Jailey?”

“You need to talk to her?” he said. This man was brilliant, no doubt about it.

I rapped my knuckles on the counter and looked out toward the street. Go-karts whizzed by. “Randy?”

“Yeah.”

“I have to tell you you’re being an ass clown,” I said. Before he could talk I said, “It’s a simple question. I thought she said she was working the festival.”

“Maybe she was,” he said enigmatically. “Maybe she wasn’t.”

“I’m guessing you’ve never gotten laid, Randy.”

“Buy something or leave.”

“Alright then. There’s no need for you to be rude. After all, I’m a customer and according to the first law of customer relations the customer is always right. So I’m right when I say you’re an ass clown.” I reached over and dumped the leave-a-penny-take-a-penny tray onto the counter. “Here, get me a Mr. Pibb out of the fridge. I want one of the cold ones in the back.”

“What the…!”

“How you like them apples?”

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