2 Dog River Blues Read Online Free PDF Page B

She turned away before I could say anything else and ran toward the parking lot.
    If I didn’t know better I’d say she was jealous. Then again, maybe I just pissed her off as much as she pissed me off.   
    ***
    I was waiting in front of the parking lot and did a double take when Cathy drove up in her Miata. It was covered in black spots and obviously designed to look like a Holstein cow. The Wisconsin license plate read, “MOOOOO.”
    I opened the door and climbed in. “When you said you would drive I had no idea what I was letting myself in for.”
      “It’s my statement of absolute cow nonsense,” Cathy said.
    “But why?” I asked.
    She popped the clutch and my sore shoulder slammed against the door as she raced across the parking lot. A bolt of pain ran up and down my arm and I felt light-headed.
    With the pain came the realization that I probably should have stayed home and spent the night recuperating, but I was intrigued by Cathy. Her eccentricity, or maybe it was just plain weirdness, reminded me of the people I’d most enjoyed interacting with in Key West.
    “I used to collect cow things. You know, ice cream scoops that mooed, trinkets of all kinds. I never had to buy any; once friends found out I collected cow stuff it was like open season. The things just kept flowing in. When I decided to get out of Wisconsin I opted for a new car. This was it. My ex hasn’t seen it yet, but I’m sure he’ll hate it.”
    “I’m surprised you were able to find someone to paint the damn thing,” I said.
    She grinned. “Actually, I tried three different auto paint shops and when they found out what I wanted to do they acted like I was crazy and turned me away. Finally someone suggested I get some of the 3M sticky vinyl stuff and do it myself, so I did. I used black trash bags to cut my patterns.”
    We left the marina, drove down a gravel road, past a junk yard, and turned onto a four lane highway labeled Dauphin Island Parkway, referred to as D.I.P. by the locals. I soon discovered the true meaning of driving a car that looks like a cow. The top was down and when we stopped at the first light I heard a distinct “Moo” from the car to my right. I looked over and got a thumbs-up from the teenager driving the car. In the back seat another youth stuck his head out of the window and again let loose with a loud “Moo.”
    At the next light, it was an older couple who couldn’t resist the spectacle of a cow car. The man driving shook his head and said something to his passenger. Her door shot open and she ran to the front of their car. Pointing a camera at us she snapped our picture, and skipped back to her door with a wave.
    “This happen often?” I asked.
    “Constantly,” Cathy said. “It’s what makes the car so much fun. Does it bother you?”
    “It’s a bit disconcerting,” I admitted.
    We turned onto Interstate 10, and by the time we reached Highway 65, three cars and a truck had honked at us. I found myself slouching a little in my seat, which aggravated the cuts on my shoulder.
    The Blues Cafe was a rundown concrete box that didn’t quite fit in among the retail stores and car dealerships. It was six-thirty and the parking lot was just beginning to fill. Cathy pulled in between a new Harley and a Dodge Ram pickup, turned off the car, and faced me.
    “Just so you know, Wes, this is who I am. I like the attention this car brings me. I like you, I think we can have some fun together, but what you see is what you get.”
    “I can handle it.”
    “You sure? I saw you scooting down when those cars were honking at us.”
    My insecurities were battling my hormones at the moment. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So maybe it will take a little while to get used to riding around in a cow car.”
    Cathy nodded and swung open her door. She looked up at the sky and climbed out of the car. “I think I’ll leave the top down. It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain tonight.”
    Inside, the