Part 35 (1/2)
Gram smiled. ”Good. I've already been to the printers', and I'm having business cards printed for you.”
The gift that keeps on giving.
”Wow. Thanks Gram.”
”You goin' to the talent show tonight?” Gram asked.
I shrugged.
”I suppose I'll have to. Stan will expect me to write something up about it for the paper and the blog.”
Grandville's Got Talent, was the TribRide overnight host committee's version of the popular TV talent search. Not-so-good acts selected specifically for the sole purpose of providing an opportunity for the audience to jeer and heckle were in the lineup along with quality acts from the area. The event, to be held in the brand spanking new community theater and auditorium, included a panel of judges who would provide some fun feedback for the partic.i.p.ants.
My plans for the evening? To limit my partic.i.p.ation to covering the early acts and then to skedaddle.
”You happen to see this morning's Capitol City paper?” Joe asked.
I shook my head. ”No.”
”How about the New Holland News online?”
”Negative.”
”That Star Trek fanatic's blog? See that?”
”No. I've been on a bike and in bed. Why?”
”Your Porta-Potty predicament. It's headline news.”
”What!”
”You're on the front page of the papers and all the tabloids, not to mention the Internet. They got you and that Keelie crawling out the top of the kybo. They're calling it 'p.o.o.p Scoop: Number One.'”
”Number One?”
”I know it's said bad publicity is better than no publicity, but I'm not sure that goes for a professional journalist who is filmed crawling out of the top of an up-ended Porta-Potty b.u.t.t first.” Joe shook his head. ”Talk about tip you over, pour you out.”
”I...she...we...who?” I stopped. Who? Drew Van Vleet, that's who. The weasel must have been staking out my tent. ”Was there, uh, any additional footage of the, uh, flooding in the area as a result of the heavy rain?” I asked.
”What you are really asking is if Van Vleet caught Dixie Daggett channeling Deliverance? That's 'p.o.o.p Scoop: Number Two.'”
Oh, h.e.l.l. Get my best pair of cowboy boots all s.h.i.+ned up, cuz I was fixin' to be a cowgirl angel in Heaven's eternal line dance when Dixie Daggett caught up to me.
”You see Rick yet?” Joe asked.
I shook my head. ”I thought he was working.” I hoped he was. When he got a look at p.o.o.p Scoop: Number One, I could only imagine his reaction.
”He's around,” Joe said. ”Saw him at Hazel's at breakfast.”
Great.
”And what's up with your mother?” Gram asked. ”You see her when you washed the stink off?”
I frowned. ”Why would I see Mom here?”
”'Cause here's where she's stayin',” Gram said.
”What?”
”Your mom has been sleeping here at your place since Sunday,” Gram said. ”I think she's having one of them mid-wife crises.”
I winced.
”I think you mean mid-life crisis,” I said.
”She's a wife, isn't she?” Gram said.
I frowned. Now that I thought about it, my house had been much cleaner than when I left it. I'd just figured my mom had decided to take advantage of my absence to clean. She's done it before.
”I think your folks are having problems,” Gram said. ”I think someone better talk to them. I think someone needs to straighten them out.”
I shook my head.
”We're not getting involved, Gram.”
”I didn't mean us. I meant a professional. You know. Someone like Dr. Phil. You think your folks would agree to go on his show? You think I should contact Phil's people? Or, maybe now you and that reality star are best buds, you can ask her to use her contacts and get your folks to the front of the line. She's bound to have an 'in' with Dr. Phil.”
”What I think is, we need to let Mom and Dad sort out their own issues, if they even have any,” I said.
”By then it may be too late. You know how your dad is about communicatin'. When he was a youngun, I thought he'd never learn to talk.”
I didn't want to mention the possibility that he probably wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgewise.
”I'm sure things are fine, Gram,” I a.s.sured her.
”I ain't so sure. I was over to the house the other day and your father was eating beanie weenies and lunch meat, wearing mismatched socks, and beginning to grow a beard.”
I blinked. Beanie weenies-and a beard? The situation had certainly deteriorated in the last several days.
”TribRide's done in a few days. If things are still not back to normal, we'll put our heads together and come up with something,” I promised.
”By then it might be too late. It's like that movie. You don't deal with things, and they begin to fester. 'Fester, fester, fester. Rot. Rot. Rot.'”
”Okay, Gammy. I get the point. We'll come up with some way to forestall the, er, festering,” I promised. ”In the meantime, maybe letting them both have a little s.p.a.ce wouldn't be such a bad thing.”
”s.p.a.ce? Your PawPaw Will and I never got any s.p.a.ce. We were practically joined at the hip, like married couples should be.”