A Roll in the Hay with Rita May

A Roll in the Hay with Rita May

"Rita May get yur ass out here with that cold beer, Hyde needs 'nother
un," Verne barks, poking his head in through the trailer's open door.
"Damn woman, ain't good for shit, 'cept fur naggin."
Hyde snarls and hurls the bottle at the burnt-out pick-up in the
trailer's gravel yard. Glass shatters just as Rita May appears at the
broken-screened door.
"Y'all need to git in there'n git yur own dang beer," Rita May growls
at the brothers, resting her arms against girthy hips. "Reckon y'all
had anuff as it is."
Verne turns to face his wife's large frame looming over them in the
doorway. "Woman you better watch yurself, you ain't done shit today
'cept run yur mouth," Verne says though slitted eyes, cigarette
dangling from his lip as he talks. "I done had 'bout anuff a yur shit
today, go in git us some beer, I ain't gonna tell y'again."
Rita May stomps loudly on a cockroach, making the brothers jump in
surprise. She angrily retreats into the trailer's kitchen, aware that
the refrigerator has broken down again and the beer probably isn't
chilled to her husband's liking.
Every inch of the tiny kitchen's Formica countertops are littered with
empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and ashtrays spilling over with butts.
The sink, filled to the brim with dirty dishes, exudes a sour smell
that permeates the whole place. Cloudy, dark gray dishwater covers the
filthy dishes with more filth, and cigarette butts float atop the
watery mess.
Rita May reaches into the mildew-infested refrigerator, pushing aside
remnants of a mustard sandwich to get to the beer.
"It's bout fuckin' time, y'old hag," Verne snarls at Rita May as she
appears at the door, doling out the tepid cans to the venomous
brothers.
"Cold as a witch's titty," Hyde scoffs at his brother, the slander
directed at Rita May but channeled through Verne. "My piss is colder
than this dang beer."
Verne stands up and angry red begins to creep up his neck into his
face. He hurls his can of beer at the side of the trailer, making an
indentation in the aluminum siding.
"Git in the car, Hyde, we's gonna git some cold beer," Verne orders.
"Rita May, git the keys, you's drivin' us into town." "Dwight and
Floyd's comin' o'er later, yur gonna cook us up sumthin'." "And don't
try to kill us with yur cookin' this time, or you ain't n'er gonna hear
the end of it."
"Y'all can git yur own dang beer, I ain't goin' nowhere," Rita May says
through the slit screen door, wondering where she put the keys.
Hyde heads for the Impala, old and rusted, it's rear window broken out
and replaced with a taped-on garbage bag. Next to the impala is an
ancient Citation with no tires, propped up on cinderblocks for years,
piles of trash stuffed in through its broken-out windows. A scrawny cat
skitters out from underneath the Citation as Hyde approaches.
"You ever gonna git this baby runnin,'" Hyde asks, lighting a cigarette
off the end of the one he's just smoked.
Verne relieves himself against the side of the trailer. Zipping the fly
of his dirty jeans, he turns and looks at Hyde with a half-grin. "What
if I do, good buddy, you in'ersted?"
"Shit no, I'm getting' me that pick-up that Earl Bybee's sellin' down
in Boone County," Hyde reports, his eyes bright at the thought of his
new truck. "Damn bitch of a wife decided to go and git herself knocked
up. I done told her I ain't feedin' another damn mouth, I's gettin' a
truck. Bitch knew I was gittin' a truck, so it's her own damn fault for
getting' knocked up at the wrong time," Hyde says, angrily stomping out
a cigarette, mashing it into the gravel with his muddy boot.
"Rita May, where you at, where them keys at," Verne barks into the
trailer. Rita May slides on a pair of pink jellies and slurps down the
rest of her Capri Sun. Keys in hand, she stomps and huffs as she makes
her way out of the trailer and into the gravel yard. Her stomping is so
exaggerated that gravel dust is kicked up and coats her jellies and
already-dirty feet with a gray film.
Verne and Hyde are sitting in the Impala, both eyeing a young, teenage
girl in the next yard. "Whooooo we," Hyde hoots and hollers from the
backseat, "That there is a tight piece a' ass."
'I hear ya, good buddy, I oughta show that lil' bitch who her daddy
is," Verne adds, making smacking noises with his lips. Rita May lumbers
into the driver's seat and shifts her girth several times before
starting the engine. The V-8 engine makes a throaty roar as it catches
and Rita May throws it into gear, black exhaust billowing out of the
tailpipe and into the sky.
"I oughta git rid 'a yur fat ass and git me some 'a that right there,"
Verne nods in the direction of the young woman and spits out the
window.

"Yep, I reckon I could do with a roll in the hay with that one there,"
Hyde pipes up from the backseat.
"Hell, rollin' in the hay with Rita May here's like throwin' a sausage
down a hallway," Verne says, laughing and slapping his thigh. The
brothers erupt into a fit of giggles and knee slapping.
Five miles down the dirt road, the brothers are still chuckling and
Rita May is still silent. Anger rises in the back of her throat and she
accelerates, the Impala's engine roaring. Verne hasn't been able to
drive since his DUI six months ago. Rita May thinks of the sawn-off
shot gun in the glove box and wonders if Verne even remembers it's
there.
"Woman, turn this baby around, I forgot ma sunglasses," Verne
orders.
"Verne, we's miles away from home, you can do without yur damn
sunglasses for an hour," Rita May says, staring straight ahead, her
grip tightening around duct-tape covered steering wheel.
"Dammit, bitch, shut the hell up and turn this car around," Verne says,
slapping his hand hard on the ripped-up dashboard. "Them is costly
sunglasses, and I don't want some weirdo wearing ma sunglasses and
messin' with 'em while I's gone." They's costly glasses.
"Verne, I ain't drivin' all the way back home to get yur dang
sunglasses," Rita May says through clenched teeth. Hyde says nothing;
the only sound coming from the backseat is that of tobacco juice being
spat into an empty beer can.
Rita May slams on the brakes as Verne's hand grips her throat. The
Impala fishtails on the dirt road and Verne loosens his grip.
"Dammit, woman, you tryin' to kill us," Verne yells out in surprise, an
incredulous expression added to his angry, red face. The Impala squeals
to a stop, the engine sputters and cuts out.
"Hyde, git outta the car," Rita May demands, glancing over her shoulder
at the good-for-nothing brother in the backseat. "Git the hell outta
the car, dammit," she yells, her voice and anger rising together.
Hyde just sits there, spit can in hand, a bewildered look on his dirty,
unshaven face. Just as Verne starts to open his dirty mouth in protest,
Rita May clocks him in the face with a meaty fist. Verne is stunned
into silence, his nose broken and bleeding. Rita May starts up the
Impala; the engine catches on the second try. "Hyde, GIT OUT OF THIS
GOD-DAMNED CAR, DAMMIT, Rita May almost screams.
Hyde drops his spit can and stumbles out the rear door of the Impala.
Barely out of the car, the back door still open, Rita May accelerates
hard and the engine roars and tires squeal as the Impala takes off.
Hyde stands up and shields his eyes from the dust storm the Impala has
created. He watches the car fade from view as it gets farther away. A
few minutes later, as he turns to make his way home, a gunshot sounds
in the distance.