Calamity Jayne Rides Again (13 page)

Frankie nodded. "Me, too," he agreed." 'Cause I sure as shoot couldn't outrun him."

I nodded.

"Uh-oh, it's slipping! My boot is slipping!" Frankie suddenly shrieked.

"Scrunch your toes up!" I yelled. "And it's not
your
boot!"

"It's not working! I can't hold it!"

"Grab the top!" I yelled. "Grab the top of your boot with your hands!"

"I can't lean over. I'll get sick."

I winced, thinking that wouldn't be a pretty sight to see from any angle. "Oh, for heaven's sake, I've got it," I said. And
I took hold of the top of his left boot.

"That's not the one!" Frankie yelled. "Look out! There it goes!" he screamed, and I stuck my head over the rail to watch one
huge brown boot plunge to earth.

"What the hell?" I heard from below us.

I saw Joe motion upward. Gram put up a hand to shade her eyes and followed his gesture.

"Oh, hello, Gram... Joe," I called down to the surprised seniors, relieved they had managed to dodge the object from above.
"Uh, everybody okay down there?"

"Tressa! Is that you?" my grammy asked. "What on earth are you doing up there? Why are you stopped? And who the devil is that
long-haired cowboy next to you?" she asked.

Hunched over the side of the ride, Frankie managed to tip his hat—or the now naked cowboy's hat—to my grandmother. "Garth,
ma'am," he yelled down, in a Woody-Allen-goes-country kind of voice. "Garth Wayne."

I shrugged. Every family tree has several interesting members who occasionally swing from the branches and pelt folks below
with banana peels or cowboy boots, right? (I said, right? Oh, okay, so our family tree looks like the freakin' indoor exercise
facility for orangutans at the metro zoo. Give us credit for diversity.)

"Well, looky here, Frankie," I said, noticing the emergency equipment heading in our direction. "This should bring back memories
for you," I told him, recalling his rather celebrated dismount from a horse called Thunder. "I wonder if it's the same fireman."

"I think you're enjoying this," my cousin accused.

"I think you're right on the money there, Garth," I responded.

"It was the frizz joke, wasn't it?"

"Give that cowpoke a big cee-gar," I agreed, leaning back to wait my turn at rescue. With my luck, Frankie's firefighter would
look like Orlando Bloom. And mine? I was bettin' mine would look more like Gram's circa 1970s heartthrob, and present-day
Branson, Missouri, entertainer, Tony Orlando.

CHAPTER 11

We were ably brought back down to earth by the capable men and women of the Des Moines Fire Department. Turns out they even
train for emergencies like this. Frankie's biggest concern was that his wig would fall off and blow his cover. My biggest
fear had more to do with becoming a human pancake, an ironic metaphor—or is that simile?—because I had been denied my traditional
Methodist Church brunch (and hadn't had a bacon fix in well over a week).

I had the foresight to send my digital camera down with Frankie so he could snap a couple of pictures of my extrication and
rescue. What a totally kick-ass addition to my fair feature! But once he slapped the camera in my hand and retrieved the boot
that would fit Shaquille O'Neal, he was gone. The last glimpse I caught of him, he was hitching his jeans back up to mid-chest
level. Hello. Hadn't the guy heard of rolling up his pantlegs?

"Where'd your cowboy friend run off to?" Gram asked, once my teeth had stopped chattering and my knees were no longer knocking
together. Funny how I'd been a pillar of strength while stranded one hundred feet up in a glorified tin can with a nervous
Nellie, but the ladder descent in the strong arms of a veteran firefighter had me saying Hail Marys. And I wasn't even Catholic.
I guess I figured, knowing my luck, the most likely time for me to go "splat" would be during the rescue attempt.

"He sure didn't look like no cowboy I've ever seen," Gram observed. "The fellow was walking clean out of his boots. And I'm
sorry to tell you this, Tressa, but he was pulling at the front of his pants like he had one of them ferrets or some other
critter stuck down there. Do you suppose he wasn't wearing underwear?" She added, "Some men don't," giving Joe an assessing
look.

"Well, I'm not one of them," the old man said when he caught her gaze. "Been wearing boxers for over thirty years. Briefs
don't give you proper ventilation," he explained. "I was having to pour cornstarch in my pants to avoid chafing. Eventually
got tired of the billowing white cloud that formed whenever I sat, so I switched." I decided that this was way too much information.

"My Will used to wear briefs," Gram said. "I expect that's why we just had the two children. They say briefs can lower the
sperm count. You remember that, Tressa: You want a man who wears boxers. Got it?"

I nodded, feeling a little light-headed from lack of food and so much oxygen.

"Now your Paw Paw Will would wear boxers to bed as night shorts. I hear some girls do that, too. You do that, Joe? Do you
wear your boxers as night shorts?" she asked.

"Uh, don't you think that's a bit personal, Gram?" I asked.

She snorted. "Personal? That's not personal. Personal would be telling Joe, here, that I like to sleep nekkid.

That would be personal." My grammy always pronounces
naked
as nekkid. It's so cute.

I saw Joe's eyebrows rise almost to his hairline—or where his hairline would be if he had one. "I wear boxers during warm
months, but I need something a bit more substantial during an Iowa winter," he managed to respond. "I usually wear sweatpants
during the winter. I can't wear the ones with the elastic 'round the bottom, though. Cuts off my circulation."

Gram nodded. "I have velour sweats I wear during the winter around the house. They keep me nice and toasty."

I felt like I'd been transported to the senior citizen center. There, if you were lucky, the topics of the day were politics,
the weather, and court TV shows. If you were unlucky, it was detailed descriptions of specific ailments, doctors' visits (and
evaluation of treatments), and Michael Jackson.

"With all this excitement, we missed church," Gram said. "And for sure we missed first place in line at the Methodist Church
breakfast."

"There's always Dottie's." Joe gave me a wink.

"I think I need something more traditional," I said, my hankering for bacon and eggs, a fluffy ham and cheese omelet, or a
country skillet breakfast jumpstart-ing my salivatory glands.

"Come to think of it, I could go for one of those omelets stuffed with hash browns, grilled onions, green peppers, and ham
and smothered in cheese sauce myself," Joe said, pulling out his cell phone. "I'll just call Rick and ask the boy to drive
us to that family restaurant up by the freeway. The one with the big flag."

"I
love
that place," Gram said. "What about you, Tressa?"

My mouth was already watering, but I wasn't sure I wanted to eat across the table from Ranger Rick this morning. I was way
too tired and hungry to spar.

"You don't report to the mini-freeze until three today, isn't that right?" Gram asked. "So you should be okay. Go ahead and
ring up your grandson, Joe," Gram told him. "We'll make it a foursome."

Joe punched a button and shortly after began to speak into his phone.

"This is not a double date, you understand, Gram," I hissed, as Joe arranged for Townsend to pick us up at the Grand Avenue
gate. "I just really want that skillet breakfast." She made no reply.

Half an hour later, Townsend pulled alongside the curb at the main gate in his shiny red four-by-four pickup truck. I always
look at shiny red vehicles with a smidgen of envy. Okay, a smidgen the size of a Mack truck. I drive a white Plymouth Reliant
that rolled off the assembly line during Ronald Reagan's first term in office. I'm always a tad wistful when I see a nice
set of wheels. My vintage transport had served a rather pivotal role in the thriller that had played out earlier in the summer—but
that's an entirely different story.

I squeezed into the back of the extended crew cab pickup, moving a stack of Townsend's uniform shirts and trousers to one
side. Joe helped Gram in and climbed in after her.

"Gonna be another hot one," Joe said, pulling off his Hawkeye cap and wiping a hand across his forehead. "We need a good storm
to break the heat."

"Looks like that's on tap for later in the week," Townsend said. "May get severe."

"I hope we don't get any high winds like we did in 'ninety-three," Gram said, amazing me at how she could remember dates like
this and forget to take her daily fiber supplement. "We had to haul our fannies down to the Emporium and hide in the freezer,"
she said. "That's the year Frank's mini-freeze blew away.

That was sure an exciting time. Oh, and speaking of excitement, did you hear about my granddaughter's thrilling Sky Ride adventure?"
she added.

I poked a foot under the seat and jabbed upward. Townsend jerked. "Wrong seat," he growled, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview
mirror.

"She got stuck on the Sky Ride, didn't she, Joe?" Gram said. "Joe and I were just walking by and there she was, stranded in
midair on a swing, and with a rather, shall we say, questionable character right beside her. Anything could have happened.
What was that cowboy's name again?"

I saw Townsend give his attention to the traffic and then back at me in the mirror. "Cowboy?" he asked. "You sure it wasn't
a state trooper, Hannah? They wear those big-brimmed hats, too."

"How do you know Gram's not talking about Taylor?" I asked Townsend. "After all, she has more than one granddaughter."

Townsend shook his head. "But only one who would get stranded in a ski-lift ride on a Sunday morning," he said.

"Kindly tell your grandson that I know the difference between a cowboy and a trooper," Gram snapped at Joe. "And what was
that cowpoke's name? The one whose boot fell off and nearly maimed you. The one who wore no underpants."

I put my head in my hands. Hash browns or not, no breakfast was worth this.

"Garth," Joe supplied. "Garth Wayne was his name. And a very suspicious character he was, too. Fabio hair down to
here
." He motioned to his shoulder. "A black mustache Groucho Marx wouldn't be caught dead wearing. You know, I wouldn't be surprised
if he was in the system," Joe said.

"System?" I asked. "What system?"

"You know. NCIC. CODIS. VICAR The FBI's most wanted. The sexual offender registry. You could run him, couldn't you, Rick?"
Joe leaned forward to look at his grandson. "Run him through the system for hits. It's Garth. G-A-R—"

"I know how to spell it, Pops," he said, "but ideally you need at least a date of birth plus a legitimate reason to run someone.
And, sadly, going sky-riding without underwear isn't sufficient grounds." He looked at me again. "Besides, if he's a friend
of Tressa here, surely she can vouch for him."

"Today was the first time I've seen this particular cowboy," I said, which was technically true. "We just happened to share
a rather harrowing experience a hundred feet off the ground—but we didn't exchange DOBs or phone numbers, if that's what you're
asking," I added.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," Joe said. "If I see him again, I'm gonna recommend a smaller boot size. He could have given
me a skull fracture. I could be in a coma right this minute."

I grunted. "You're way too hard-headed to worry about traumatic head injuries, Joe," I told him. "Art anvil falling from the
Giant Slide wouldn't put a dent in your head."

"Well, if I see that cowboy again, I'm gonna tell him to get a shave, a haircut, and a couple of packages of boxers," Gram
added.

I shook my head. "Are we there yet?" I asked Townsend. He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the mirror. My insides immediately
turned to melted butter. Damn, the man was all that! And knew it!

We pulled into the busy restaurant, parked, and several minutes later were seated at a corner booth. Gram and Joe strategically
arranged themselves on the same side of the booth. Well, actually, Joe shoved me aside and slid in beside my grammy before
I had time to react. Or complain. That meant I had to brush thighs with Townsend all through breakfast. And we were both wearing
shorts. I wondered inanely if Townsend had on boxers or briefs. Or nothing at all. Down, Tressa. Down, girl.

We'd just been brought our water when Grandma started in.

"Frankie Barlowe is a disgrace to this family," she said.

I looked at her over the top of my menu. "Whose family?" I asked, not going to remind Gram that technically she wasn't related
to Frankie. It was convenient having Gram consider Frankie one of her own: It took some of the pressure off me when there
was another screw-up to share the spotlight with.

"Our family. If I had ten minutes with that young man, I'd set him straight pronto," my five-foot-five-inch grammy stated.
"And he knows it. That's why he won't be seen within a city block of me anytime soon. I can't think what's gotten into that
boy. He's causing a lot of friction between his mama and papa." She paused and opened her menu. "I do hope he's all right,
though. So I can wring his neck when he finally does show up!"

I had to hide a smile behind my menu on that one. Her answer depended on whether you thought dressing up like a smart-alecky
midway clown or a bad impression of Roy Rogers and skulking around the fairgrounds was being "all right." And not ninety minutes
earlier, he'd been close enough to get a whiff of Gram's Ben Gay (called Gay Ben by everyone under the age of requiring it)
and White Diamonds, an oughta-be-a-law-against-it fragrance combo that could easily knock the boots right off your feet at
a hundred paces.

"I'm sure he's fine, Gram," I said, wishing I could put her mind at ease—
all
of their minds at ease—and tell them what Frankie was really up to. How he was trying to protect his family and win their
respect at the same time. A been-there-done-that moment of sentimentality struck me and I felt my eyes grow moist.

"You aren't crying, are you, girlie?" Joe asked.

"Of course not," I told him. "It's Townsend's cologne."

A chesty brunette came over to take our orders. Her mouth dropped when she caught a look at the tanned, toned Ranger Rick.

"What are you having, Pops?" Townsend asked his grandfather.

"I'm having the country omelet stuffed with hash brown taters, with a short stack on the side," Joe answered.

I caught myself before I drooled on the table. "Oooh, I could go for one of those," I decided.

"They have a fifty-five-plus menu," Townsend said, "with egg substitutes. Why don't you take a look at that?"

Both Joe and I frowned. "I came to eat, son," Joe said. "And my cholesterol level is twenty points below the at-risk guidelines,"
he pointed out. "Besides, I have this rapid—"

"I know, I know. Rapid-fire metabolism," Rick responded. He turned to me. "I give up."

"Two country omelets with short stacks," the waitress managed to tear her eyes away from Townsend to write.

"What looks good to you, Gram?" I asked.

"I'm going to have the strawberry Belgian waffles," she said.

I licked my lips. "Oooh, that sounds yummy, too," I said, rethinking my order. "Maybe I'll have that, instead. With bacon
on the side."

The waitress gave me a pained look. "You want to change your order?" she asked.

I smiled my best the-customer-is-always-right smile. I know this expression intimately from my own retail work. I'm just usually
on the receiving end. It was nice to play the role of always-right customer for once. "If it's not too much trouble," I said.

She crossed out my previous order and looked at Townsend. Out came the white-toothed smile, a not-so-subtle puffing of the
chest, and an accompanying see-anything-you-like? look.

"Now, sir, what can I get you?" the amply endowed waitress asked. She gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "short stack."

I looked at her nameplate. Toni, it read, and I caught myself thinking about the blonde joke Frankie had told about the buxom
waitress, Debbie. I felt a giggle work its way up and out my throat.

"What's so funny?" Gram asked. "What did I miss? Did I toot or something?"

I shook my head, the desire to laugh almost overpowering. "No, Gram," I managed. "I'm just thinking of a certain waitress
joke I recently heard."

"Tressa!" Townsend jabbed me.

I motioned to Toni, determined not to look at her nametag again. "Please, go on," I said.