Chapter 9

“Dare ya!”

The dare up for grabs was a four ounce cup of alum pickle juice. We had started out with the pickle. Not bad ... pretty sour ... more so than your typical bar dill. Pucker your lips. Another beer to wash away the sourness and we were ready for a bit ... or bite ... of very sharp cheddar cheese to “cleanse the palate.” Someone bought another pickle ... we were unsure who ... and the guilty party didn’t step forward. My money was on the Texas cowboy. He had a late season Elk license and a guide. Both of them were sitting out the latest snow-storm in the bar at Arrowhead Lodge.

The bartender had a roaring fire going in the fireplace and both propane heaters full blast. Ceiling fans keep the warmth circulating.

Coming out of the snow and wind ... the heat was welcome.

Hmmm ... tasty ... seriously. Not half bad ... and it seemed to ring my chimes. The second slice of the pickle ... the sourness ... better than sweet-tarts. Another draft. More cheese.

Understand ... we were buying our own drinks ... no expectations. None of us were sponging drinks. Teenagers drinking legal ... we had driven up 14 in the Dodge. BEFORE the storm. Stuck up here until the Troopers opened the road. Shit happens.

Anyway, after the second pickle and the fourth beer, a male voice said, “Barkeep! Gimmie a shot of pickle juice. Stir the jar first.”

Don’t you just know ... we all had to try it ... twice. An ounce of juice, chased with a draft.

You should keep count ... because none of us were.

Six? Really? Six beers? No ... wait ... seven. Yeah ... seven ... or was it eight?

“Anna? How many trips to the pisser?”

“Two.”

Eight beers ... each.

Sure it’s 3.2 but ... eight, and the stool is feeling comfy.

“Gimmie your keys,” said the bartender.

I didn’t even think about it ... I passed ‘em over. He hung ‘em on a board behind the bar.

He got on the phone to the desk. “Yeah ... four of them ... college girls, looks like.” He hung up.

“You’re bunking here tonight,” he said.

Unnerstan ... we were in snowsuits and long-handles and snopacs and Hilda ... bless her heart ... Hilda got hot and shrugged out of her sleeves.

I believe I’ve mentioned Hilda’s rack before ... Hilda has “Breasticles.” Hooters! Big’uns to go with her 6’2” frame. Hilda OWNS the tittie store.

Something you should know ... bras have a lot of support sewn into ‘em ... and underwires get damn cold. None of us were wearing one.

Hilda dropped her zipper and shrugged out of her sleeves. The shrug ... well ... yeah ... and the bar got very quiet.

“Come to think it ... it is hot in here,” April Sue Queen said ... and dropped her zip and shrugged sleeves. All eyes shifted to April Sue.

Anna grinned and lost her top.

Shit ... in for a penny, in for a pound ... I dropped mine ... and got cold. And that was instantly apparent. Well, I cuddled ‘the girls’ in my hands.

‘The girls’ aren’t a patch on Hilda ... not as big as Anna even ... but they’re round, high on my chest and “C’s” ... with puffies. I cuddled them and gave a thought to pulling my snowsuit back up ... but then the Dare.

I’m pretty sure it was the bartender because the next words out of his mouth were, “Any takers? Next draw is on me.”

“Yeah ... I’ll take that dare,” somebody spoke.

He set that half full water glass in front of me. Oops.

The somebody was me.

Taken an ounce at a time, followed with a chaser, alum pickle juice doesn’t get much of a chance to linger. Four ounces needs three swallows. My stomach turned upside down and knotted up.

Holy shit!

“Gimmie that beer!”

I burped.

“Gimmie another.”

I belched ... nothing so lady like as a little burp and passing the lace hankie over the lips with a polite, ‘Scuse me.’

Nope ... a bull roarer. I fought the next one. Big mistake ... the truth will out ... what couldn’t get out the top end, squealed out the bottom ... long, high pitched and subsided into bubbly. I learned something about alum pickle juice ... it wins Texas Fart Contests.

I had to rent my own room. The girls wouldn’t let me stay.

I slept with a window open.

Anna and April skirted me at breakfast ... gaseous permentation. The gas was effervescing through my pores.

Hilda ... Hilda, Hilda, Hilda ... yup. Hilda was having breakfast with the cowboy.