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I shake my head. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m sane. You’re crazy not to do it.” She throws her hands on the table, palms down as she stands. “Let’s do it. How many chances in your life will you get to spit a cockroach? For money?”
Scooping up our trash, I toss it in the trashcan next to our table. “I don’t know, Miranda. I would need a lot of alcohol for that.”
Miranda’s eyes flicker toward the Bud Light trailer near the food venders. I hold up my finger. “Let me amend that by saying, I would need a lot of alcohol and a lobotomy before I would ever consider spitting a cockroach.”
Miranda’s eyes flicker with an evil sort of excitement. “Alcohol first. Lobotomy later.”
There are a few things I’m not proud of in my life. Bitching out during a thirty-thousand dollar deal and losing my job—not proud of that. Losing my virginity in the backseat of a Toyota Tercell parked behind a Catholic church—definitely not proud of that. Oh, and getting piss drunk on cheap margaritas in the middle of Salt Gap freaking Texas.
Because now I’m stumbling around and Miranda is holding my hand, and I keep asking her why her nose is black and I laugh every time she tells me the answer but then five minutes later I’ve forgotten what that answer was so I have to ask again.
“And I thought my mom was embarrassing when drunk,” Miranda says. “Maybe you’re a little too drunk.” We’re looking at the craft booths with all these amazing and shiny things for sale. She’s holding a handmade cow fur purse with rhinestones and metal stuff all over it. Wait, is cow fur the word for it? Oh well, I don’t care, I’m dizzy and I think I’ll buy it for her. She deserves a nice cow fur purse.
My cash falls out of my wallet and all over the ground. Miranda and I bend to pick it up, but I collide with her and bash my nose into her shoulder. She says a few creative curse words and apologizes to the lady. My nose hurts so badly, and it is so, so, hilariously, ridiculously funny.
Miranda looks great in that purple shirt and her new redneck style purse. I tell her this and she smiles. “We can spit cockroaches later. I think maybe we should go back to the inn.”
I kick at the ground and shove my hands in my pockets. “But I don’t want to go back.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder and then makes her face go all blurry somehow. “We need sleep. Remember
what Marcus said about them getting your car parts in earlier than expected? Your car might be done tomorrow and then we can leave.”
Only half of what she says makes sense. Car parts and cockroaches make no sense. But leaving does. I want to leave. I can feel it in my guts and in my soul and even in my fingertips. I can’t remember why or how, or even when, but I do know without a doubt that all I’ve ever wanted to do for a very long time is leave.
“Where are we leaving to?” I ask.
She shrugs. “We don’t know yet, but we’re not staying in this stupid town.” She whispers the last part to me and I giggle. “It’ll be our little secret,” I say. Her eyebrows narrow and she shakes her head at me like I’m a bad dog who just peed on the carpet. Regardless, we’re going to leave. Leave this place and leave this town and maybe even leave the planet. I don’t know. But I’m leaving.
I grip her elbow, her soft purple-covered elbow, as she pulls me through crowds of people, assuring me that she knows the way back to the inn. I don’t know what’s at the inn but I really want to go there. We step to the side of a large white tarp that two men are rolling out on the ground. It’s not like any other tarp I’ve seen out at construction and home remodeling sites. It’s some kind of chart, or map, with lines and numbers on it. Like a ruler.
“Last call for contestants,” says the man next to me. He’s pale-faced and portly and looks like a milkman even though I know that milkmen don’t exist anymore.
“Me!” Miranda says, shooting her hand up like she’s in school. “I wanna do it. So does she,” she says, grabbing my arm and holding it up like hers.
“Well done!” the milkman beams, handing her a round white sticker with the number fourteen on it. My sticker says fifteen.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. I’m so confused I think my head is about to explode. I want another drink. And the five on this sticker looks like the letter S.
“We’re going to spit a cockroach. Whoever spits it the farthest wins five hundred dollars.”
My mouth falls open and I make some kind of sound like what Scooby-Doo would make when faced with a what the fuck situation. “Is it alive?” I ask. The milkman clasps his big meaty hand on my back. “You bet it is, darlin’.”
Everything is a blur as I’m pulled up on a makeshift stage and stand at the end of a line of people. All but three of us are men. We have a big audience. I think all 1209 citizens are here watching us.
A red plastic ribbon marks what is called the Spitting Zone. I’m vaguely aware of what I’m about to do and it feels wrong but it also feels right. Something about never seeing these people again and how we should make the most of our lives, and something else about sweet iced tea. I could totally go for some sweet iced tea right now.
Some kids in the crowd make squeamish sounds as a woman in tight jeans with a fluffy brown coat walks down the line of Spitters. She holds a plastic bucket and each person reaches inside and grabs something. When it’s Miranda’s turn I look over and see dozens of big, disgusting three inch long cockroaches squirming around inside of the bucket.
She tenses, closes her eyes and reaches into the bucket. When she’s got one, she cups it in her hands and holds it close to her chest. The woman holds the bucket out to me. A jumble of words and thoughts and emotions toil around in my head, but only one actual coherent thought forms: thank God I wasn’t the first person in line.
“You can do it,” Miranda whispers. “It’s not so bad. Remember? We won’t see these people again or ever get this opportunity ever again. We’re living life to the fullest and all of that.”
I nod. Her words sound so right, so true and perfect. A burp escapes my lips and it tastes like cheap tequila. I think I say something like, “fuck it,” but all I really know is that in this moment I reach in, let one of them crawl into my hand and then I hold it the way Miranda holds hers. Surprisingly, it doesn’t move that much.
The speaker next to me bursts to life. “Are the contestants ready?” I nod, thinking that whoever asked that can probably see me. Luckily, some of my buzz is starting to wear off and I can see without double vision now. A few of the men down the line let out a true Texas holler or whoop. The speaker cracks again. “At the sound of the gunshot, each contestant will spit their cockroach. Judges, get your marking tape ready.”
