My Redacted Life: Chapter 21 (Cont. _2)

We went out for a ride the next day, the Redhead and I. We took “Old Highway 70” out by Hill’s Lake where they had filmed scenes of White Lightening. This prompted her to direct me to a home not far away where they had filmed the final shootout in the action film Bloody Mama. It had featured legendary star Shelly Winters and an unknown aspirant no one had ever heard of named Robert De Niro.

The fake bullet holes were gone from the house. Spanish Moss still hung from the massive trees where they had replicated a Florida location. We marveled for a moment and moved on. It didn’t take much to impress us that day.

I drove slowly, and we talked, finding much common ground. As I mentioned earlier, we had had families with rural backgrounds. We were both un-enamored of organized religion, particularly the cult varieties. This led to the discovery that we had both read the James A. Michener classic Hawaii in the tenth grade, albeit six years apart. Further, the experience had left us both with a slight distaste for most missionaries.

We were what you would call “Blue-dog Democrats” and oriented toward liberal and progressive ideals. Her high school had been integrated. Mine hadn’t, although both the University of Arkansas (sort of) and the United States Navy (completely—cannon fodder has no color) had been during my stay. I had survived both experiences with neither scars nor embedded diseases.

It was a glorious day. She tied her hair back and we took the top off the sports car. Then we drove around more. They were beginning to plow the fields, and I could tell she loved the smell of freshly turned earth. In fact, she told me so.

I can remember parking at one particularly scenic spot and making out for few minutes like a couple of teenagers, although the Volkswagen didn’t offer a chance for much intimacy. Still, the experience made me shiver inside. I had carried a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine and couple of plastic cups in the trunk, so we toasted the day before leaving.

The house was still there.
Only the bullet holes were missing.

Have you ever heard, Dear Reader, of anything more romantic?

We got back to the apartment complex late in the afternoon. After replacing the car’s top, I took the remaining wine from the trunk of the car and invited her into my apartment for another drink. She smiled, cocked her head winningly, and said, “No.” With that she turned and went up the stairs. I stared at the ascent, wondering which of us she didn’t trust and whether nature had ever produced a more perfect body.

When I turned toward my apartment, my neighbor was outside hers, leaning against the door. She wore tight jeans and sandals and was leaning with an elbow against her front door frame. She had neglected both a bra and the top three buttons of a loose satin blouse. She grinned and said, “Well if it isn’t one-half of the top gossip story around the old apartment complex.”

“Don’t forget,” I said, “that you are the one who suggested it.”

“Yep,” she said. “Just keep listening to me and you might find your way to Heaven.” With that, she turned quickly, narrowly avoiding a revelatory accident, and went inside. I stood pondering what she had said and smiling.

The weekend had passed, though. I turned, unlocked my own apartment door, and went inside. Heaven would have to wait.

Hell was waiting for me the next morning. I just didn’t know it as I sat down to finish the Boone’s Farm.