The Feet of God

48 - WHAT NEXT?

I escaped the Monett 4 Motel as bare-ass naked as the day I was born.  I kept low to the ground and hurried along as fast as I could to the painted bus.  Police cars was pulling up fast with sirens blaring, and gawkers was starting to gather and mill about outside.  But I had places to go and people to avoid.

I climbed aboard the bus and rummaged through the remnants of dirty unwashed clothes in search of a passable traveling wardrobe.  I discovered an unopened box of Mom’s Soakies undergarments and I unwrapped a fresh pair.  Then I tried to find some pants.  Bobby’s bellbottoms was too short, Freddy’s too tight, Cherrie’s was all crotchless (how had I missed that?), but Buffy’s fit just about right.  Next, I grabbed me one of them souvenir “YOU BET!” T-shirts, and this one wasn’t gonna cost me nothing since I’d earned the sucker.  I tried on Freddy’s studded dude boots and, lucky for me, we had the same size feet.  I dusted off a white cowboy hat with feathered band, found a stained fringed suede jacket, and just to polish off the star-turn look, I put on sparkly rhinestone sunglasses.  Dressed in what Cowridge costumes I could find that fit me best, and wasn’t too soiled, I was ready to hit the road.

My next move was to initiate my own version of the witness protection program.  Not that this comes up a lot in general conversation, but should you ever see a mass murder, let the proper authorities sort everything out for themselves.  They don’t need your help.  I always say, leave it to the pros.  I didn’t see a thing, and I’m sticking to it.  Nobody needs you confusing matters with your panicky version of what may or may not have happened.  And that’s exactly what I told myself, as I headed along Rt. 275.

About an hour and a half later, with no flashing red lights in sight, I began to slow down a bit and think.  Some helluva development this was.  Here I was in the middle of Nebraska on the run from what, I’m not exactly sure.  I’m dressed like some bent rodeo bozo, and all the money I had in coins was in my old jeans lay’n somewhere in a puddle of water on the bathroom floor at a horrific homicide scene.  After such traumatic unpleasantness, what next?

As if in answer, a car was slowing down.  Reflex caused me to spin around and stick out my thumb.  (Freddy’s digit somersaulting across the room flashed in my mind, and I flinched for a moment.)   A Ford Escort stopped next to me, and four hefty gals had their faces pressed up against the windows.

“Oh my Gawd!” a dimple-cheeked female screamed.  “It looks just like Fabulous Freddy, spreading the fabulous!”  She yelled at the others in disbelief, “Don’t that look like him?”

From the backseat came a shriek.  “Freddy’s dead!  He’s dead!  Dead!  Oh dear Gawd, I loved him!  What am I gonna do?  I’ll never get to show Freddy how much I truly love him!”

The gal up front rolled down the passenger window partway, “Are you some thieving drifter?  Did you steal those clothes from the Cowridge family?”

Before I could say anything, the woman applied her hand to her mouth in a look of stark terror.  “Oh my Gawd!  Oh my Gawd!  You were there when they were killed!”

I had to think fast on my feet.

“No, ma’am, I’m just hitching my way to Florida.  The Cowridge Clan was kind enough to assist me with a ride as far as that last town back there.  Freddy himself gave me these duds after I told him what a big fan I was, and how I was on my way to be the first Freddy Cowridge impersonator in Miami Beach.”

Sometimes my ability to improvise on the spot amazes even me.  They bought it.  Then they actually offered to buy all the Cowridge memorabilia I was wearing.

“I’ll give you $100 for the shirt,” the driver opened her purse.

“Here’s $200 for those pants,” the screamer in the back offered.

“How much do you want for your hat?” an unseen backseat passenger asked.

“I’ll take the boots and jacket,” another one waved a wad of bills my way.

I got lucky.  The gals gave me cash on the barrelhead for the clothes off my back.

My new female fans was also kind enough to give me a lift.  Along the way they told me about the terrible fate that befell Freddy and the rest of the Cowridges in Elba.  After about an hour or so, they dropped me off in Ewing.  I was $575 to the good.  Each one of ‘em had given me some piece of their own clothing so’s I’d at least have something to wear, as well as a personal keepsake to remember our special time together.  Although they might not get the opportunity to share their undying love with the real Freddy Cowridge, they got the next best thing if clothes make the man.