Chapter 6

“I thought you were exaggerating when you said your apartment was a shithole, Doober,” Missy B. said. “I see you were not.”

Doober pushed a longneck into her hand. “This place is not what I wanted but it’s the price point I wanted to pay. How did you get your momma to let you come over?”

Missy B. took a long pull of her beer. She swallowed the brew with a smile. “Tastes good, Doober. She got tired of cooking every Sunday night for the last six weeks and your momma is a tad overwhelming with her opinions.”

“Huh? I thought all the church ladies liked to sit around and cluck at each other,” Doober said. “I wasn’t even sure whether they were tuning out one another or just jabbering to hear themselves talk.”

“That’s mean, Doober.”

“Prove me wrong, Missy.”

“I can’t disprove the truth, but you still said it mean-like,” she said. “They could be home drinking, watching crap on cable, or smoking meth. Instead, they are sitting together and passing the time in church. Well, in church, after church, and the day after church they carry on. They are passing time with the Good Word though, and that sure beats what everyone else is doing around here.”

She finished guzzling her bottle and handed the empty back to him. “I want another one, but it depends on what you’re feeding me. What audacious feast are you preparing in honor of my magnanimous visit to your manse?

“Well,” Doober said with a smile and waving his other hand. “You are in luck. The gods smiled upon me with that rainstorm all afternoon yesterday that cancelled my job for the day. I drove all the way to Lafayette to the Walmart. They had a special on hot ‘n spicy buffalo wings: buy one and the second one at half price. They also had the large size Crystal hot sauce, guaranteed to burn your butthole the next day.”

“Oh, I never knew you were a true gourmet,” Missy said. “Is this how you serve all your girlfriends?”

Doober gave her a squinty look. “Missy, when I asked what you wanted yesterday, you said beer. I bought you beer and then I bought you the best things to eat with beer. I was only thinking of you. Knowing that your momma doesn’t allow alcohol in your house unlike my mother, I planned the menu according to beer.”

She shook her head. “You are a nut. How soon until the wings are ready?”

Doober leaned sideways and glanced into the kitchen area. “The oven is heated. Whatever the directions say, we are good to go, Houston.”

“I’m going to fart all night, Doober.”

“Did you know?” Doober said as he tore open the bag and dumped the contents on a baking pan, “that the average adult farts eighteen to twenty-four times a day.”

She slapped him on the arm. “Where did you read about farting?”

“On the internet,” Doober said, trying to hide his smile. “You realize I’m only talking about the average. Emile showed up to work on Monday with a footlong salami sandwich and, God as my witness, there was a pound of meat on that bread along with cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickles, and mayonnaise. Emile farted nonstop all afternoon; I mean, you could hear him clear across the site. I figure that a man can fart every five seconds, which is twelve times a minute. Emile worked the afternoon from one to five which adds up to 2880 farts in one afternoon.”

“Doober, why are we talking about farting?”

He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “First, you brought it up. Second, I want you to be comfortable in my home this evening. You can fart to your heart’s content, but you will never, I mean never, match Emile in the farting contest. I’ve been in the presence of the best, Missy B., and I must report you will never break Emile’s record. The Lord has blessed you with many attributes, but this is a race you were not built to win. You are going to have to take your competitive spirit and put it into something else.”

Missy put her hand on his crossed arms with a serious look on her face. “Doober, you are not a nut, you are nuts. You are a full-blown off-your-rocker lunatic. It’s about time.”

He snorted, unable to hold back the laughter when she smiled. They shot the breeze about nothing in particular until the alarm on his cell phone dinged. He shook the pan hard, announcing another five minutes.

Missy took a couple of napkins, which obviously came from a fast-food restaurant, and wiped down the coffee table. Doober was thanking his mother for reminding him to clear away all the junk and toss it or hide it. By the time Missy was done, so were the wings. He dumped them on a bright red plastic plate and grabbed the rest of the long necks.

When Doober checked the time, two hours had flown along with an entire six-pack of longnecks and half a bag of wings. Somehow, Missy had sniffed out his stash of generic cheese curls, leaving an empty bag of cheezy crumb residue at their feet. His stomach reminded him that he was full to the gills.

“Oh, my aching stomach,” Missy said. “I am going to regret this night tomorrow morning, but right now, it was totally worth it. All those Cosmo articles about women wanting romantic dinners in fancy restaurants with the clothes and the makeup and the fantasy are bullcrap. To be able to unbutton my jeans and slam down some greasy heat with some beer without judgment is better than any of that prissy hairspray beholden posturing.”

“If tonight’s dining was a pre-qualifier for the crawfish boil in May, you are ready,” Doober said. “I have no idea where you put all that food, but damn girl, you can set the pace and hold it.”

“This,” Missy said, using her hands to point from the top of her chest to her legs, “is the product of good, clean living and running seven miles every morning.”

Doober slid off the couch onto his knees. With his arms stretched out in front of him, he made obeisance, bowing at the waist. “You are the miracle woman. Seven miles, indeed.”

“You’re drunk,” she said. “I’ll need to run eight miles for the rest of the week to work this meal off my frame.”

“Again, the goddess speaks power.”

“Knock it off, Doober, and get your ass back on the couch,” Missy said. “What has got you in such a good mood?”