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“It’s not memorable,” Lula said. “I want to be number nine.”
My eye was starting to twitch, and I had a dull throb at the base of my skull. “Probably, they gave us Chipotle’s number,” I said.
“Do you think?”
“Absolutely. He got decapitated, and you registered late, so you got his number.”
I hoped she bought this baloney, because I didn’t want to hang out while Lula pulled a gun on the registration lady.
“That makes sense,” Lula said. “I guess it’s okay then. Let’s find our spot.”
We walked down rows of flags and finally found twenty-seven. It was a little patch of grass between the red-and-white-striped canopy of Bert’s BBQ and the brown canopy of The Bull Stops Here. Our neighbors had set up shop and taken off. From what I could see, that was the routine. Stake out your territory, get your canopy and table ready to go. Hang your sign. Leave for the day.
“The instructions say we can get back in here
at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” Connie said. “We can start cooking anytime we want after that. The judging is at six in the evening.”
“We got a lot of stuff to get together,” Lula said. “To start, we gotta find one of them canopies and a grill.”
“Not everybody has a canopy,” Grandma said.
“Yeah, but the canopy is classy, and it keeps the sun off the top of your head, so you don’t get a sunburn,” Lula said.
We all looked at the top of Lula’s head. Not much chance of sunburn there. Not a lot of sunlight reached Lula’s scalp.
“I’ve got a couple hours free this afternoon,” I said to Lula. “We can go around and try to collect some of the essentials. We just have to stop by Rangeman, so I can get the Buick.”
“I’ll go with you,” Grandma said.
“THE FIRST THING we gotta do is get us a truck,” Lula said. “This Buick isn’t gonna hold a grill and all. I bet we could borrow a truck from Pookey Brown. He owns that junkyard and used-car lot at the end of Stark Street. He used to be a steady customer of mine when I was a ’ho.”
“Boy,” Grandma said. “You had lots of customers. You know people everywhere.”
“I had a real good corner. And I never had a business manager, so I was able to keep my prices down.”
I didn’t want to drive the length of Stark, so I cut across on Olden and only had to go two blocks down to the junk-yard. The name on the street sign read C.J. SCRAP METAL, but Pookey Brown ran it, and scrap metal was too lofty a description for Pookey’s business. Pookey was a junk collector. He ran a private dump. Pookey had almost two acres of broken, rusted, unwanted crapola. Even Pookey himself looked like he was expired. He was thin as a reed, frizzy haired, gaunt featured, and his skin tone was gray. I had no clue to his age. He could be forty. He could be a hundred and ten. And I couldn’t imagine what Pookey would do with a ’ho.
“There’s my girl,” Pookey said when he saw Lula. “I never get to see you anymore.”
“I keep busy working at the bond office,” Lula told him. “I need a favor. I need to borrow a truck until tomorrow night.”
“Sure,” Pookey said. “Just take yourself over to the truck section and pick one out.”
If you had a junker car or truck, and somehow you could manage to get it to C.J. Scrap, you could park it there and walk away. Some of them even had license plates attached. And every now and then, one got parked with a body in the trunk. There were thirteen cars and three pickup trucks in Pookey’s “used car” lot today.
“Any of these trucks run?” Lula asked.
“The red one got a couple miles left,” Pookey said. “I could put a plate on for you. You need anything else?”
“Yeah,” Lula said. “I need a grill. Not one of them gas grills, either.”
“I got a good selection of grills,” Pookey said. “Do you need to cook in it?”
“I’m entered in the barbecue contest at the park tomorrow,” Lula said.
“So then you need a barbecuing grill. That narrows the field. How about eating? Are you gonna personally eat any of the barbecue?”
“I don’t think so. I think the judges are eating the barbecue.”
