Drew in blue, p.14
Drew in Blue, page 14
By five thirty I was out the door, Nick strapped in the Snuggli and happily kicking me in the gut as we walked toward the town square. It was still dark when we approached the grounds where the festival was to be held, but the square was buzzing with activity. People were setting up their food-stands and merchant booths in the cool morning air.
I inhaled deeply and steered us toward the booth Kris rented. The scent of sauerkraut mixed with the aroma of cinnamon, and I wrinkled my nose at the unlikely combination of smells. In these parts, the scent was the first sign that the end of summer was approaching.
If you want to see River’s View at its finest, or at least its most lard-laden, this is the festival to attend. It's like Oktoberfest in Hell. They pull out all the lame tourist trap stops to attract every out-of-towner schmuck with money burning a hole in their wallet.
Usually, a few townsfolk are paid to dress up like the Amish, a tradition that makes no sense because the nearest Amish farm is well over a hundred miles away. But those tourists love themselves some Amish, so inevitably you’ll see someone like Candi Bueller and Marty Ritter pretending to be Amos and Rebecca Stoltzfus, trolling around in some jacked up wannabe horse and buggy, directing people to the nearest hex sign booth.
Aside from that insanity, they stick to the more basic German stuff. Lots of beer, beer steins, how-to-brew-beer-yourself demos – anything beer oriented, you’ll find a booth for it. The mayor struts around town in lederhosen, accompanied by his hefty wife who manages to squeeze herself into a dirndl every year.
Every year, the guys I know follow her around and place bets on if and when the dirndl is going to have a major wardrobe malfunction. I don't participate, mostly because I don't want to be caught near the epicenter of such a cataclysmic event. The shock wave on that kind of failure has to be equivalent to the force of the Nagasaki and Hiroshima bomb drops combined.
The food, though, that's the clincher. Sauerkraut, Hendl, Steckerlfisch, Blaukraut, Schweinsbraten, Knodeln, Weisswurtz – if you can’t name the dish without getting tongue-tied, we’ve got it.
Most of the stuff contains some mighty questionable ingredients, so the unpronounceable names are your best defense. I strongly suggest to any potential tourists to never ask what Scrapple or Hog Maw is if they value their appetites.
I'm not a fan of the meat in a tube fare, mostly because the names conjure way too many dirty connections in mind, and I don't mean dirty in a good way. Disgusting, the crap they'll put in a meat processor. If you want in on the good German stuff, keep an eye on my trajectory. I'm usually found trolling the non-meat food vendors. Apfelkuchen, Zimptkuchen, kuchen out the yin yang. It's the only German word I want in my vocabulary because I'm pretty certain the word means ‘cake’.
Unfortunately, the cakes would have to wait. Making money took top priority, and I still had to locate our booth and help Kris finish setting up. It didn't take too long to find it. After all, I only had to keep an eye out for a massive sculpture made out of the guts of a '72 Mustang Kris had salvaged from the junkyard. She was certain the monstrosity would be her big sell at the auction. Me, I was certain it would only attract a crowd of men weeping at the sight of a perfectly good Mustang engine laid to waste.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered the booth, seeing Kris' portable playpen set up in the back for Nick. Idiot that I am, I didn't even think of such a contingency. I dropped Nick's bag of supplies next to the playpen and deposited him inside, then took a visual inventory of what needed to be done.
Kris walked in from the back of the booth. “Framing table is set up.” She leaned into the playpen and fished Nick right out again, kissing him all over his face. “How's my boy?” she cooed as Nick giggled over her facial assault.
“Big booth,” I said, trying to gauge how to set up around Kris' displays. “Think we'll sell?”
Kris gently placed Nick back into the playpen, pouting at his grunt of protest. “I think we'll do well. I checked out your work. It's real good, champ. It's going to go over like gangbusters.”
“Thanks,” I said, flexing my aching right hand. “I got carpal tunnel syndrome trying to crank stuff out by the deadline.”
She squatted down to root through Nick’s diaper bag, producing a lightweight blanket to cover him with until the day warmed. “Yeah, well, in the future, don't be so secretive about your rut. I’d have kept your ass in line.”
“You should have just called me out earlier.”
“Yeah. You’re right,” she conceded. “I thought I would just give you some breathing room. You’re a big boy, after all. If you needed help, you should have just asked.”
“I know, I know,” I said. She was right, but what's the point of wallowing in the wonder of the crap-pile that is life if someone tries to make you get up off your ass and do something other than wallow? The very purpose of embracing your rut, in my opinion, is defeated.
“I have a few hooks up on the beams already.” She gestured at the wood frame of the booth. “Did you bring a hammer?”
I grabbed a painting and hung it up on a nearby hook, then turned back to face Kris. “I got a hammer for you, baby, right here,” I said, hitching up the front of my jeans.
Kris looked at me with disgust. “God, you got some.”
“Didn't say that at all, did I?” The cheesy grin that spread across my face betrayed me, and believe me; I tried to fight it from revealing itself. It was a dead giveaway. I looked over at Nick and lowered my voice. “I got laid like you wouldn't believe.”
Kris held up a hand and turned away. “Spare me the gory details, okay?” She busied herself by hanging a cluster of metal wind chimes on a rack at the entrance to the booth.
“Oh, come on.” I flipped through my paintings for one to compliment what I had just hung. “You've been all gung ho for me to get some action, and now that I do, you act like a prude.”
Kris whipped around to face me. “I am not a prude.” She fixed a steady gaze on me, her voice softening. “Just be careful, okay?”
“I wore a condom,” I muttered, pulling a canvas out of the stack.
“God, I didn't mean that.” She walked up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist as I put up a painting, hugging tightly before letting me go. “I mean, you be careful with you. I don't want you getting hurt.”
“I'm a big boy.” I patted her hand and reached out to fix the angle of the canvas. “I can cross the street without holding someone's hand, and I may even be able to tackle dating a girl without needing specialized training.” I glanced over my shoulder at Kris who had released me from her grip and was watching me with an anxious expression on her face. “I'll be careful,” I promised, rolling my eyes.
“Thanks.” I guess that was good enough for her because she turned around and started working on arranging her wind chimes again.
Chapter Twenty Six
Business was good. By noon, I’d sold two paintings. It doesn't sound like a financial coup, but believe me, it was. I moved a landscape priced at eight hundred bucks, then a large abstract I’d listed at three thousand dollars, but the buyer haggled the price down to twenty six hundred. All well and good since I probably would have taken two grand for it.
The day’s weather was ideal for an event geared toward luring in large crowds. It was hot but not sweltering, thanks to a gentle but steady breeze. The sun shone constant and bright, with nary a cloud in the sky to mar the occasion. Festival-goers found cooling relief in the readily available shade under the abundant trees lining the streets and scattered throughout the town commons on the square.
The rush of activity around our booth died down around noon as the crowds began their surge toward the food stands. Taking advantage of the lull in business, I strapped Nick, fresh from a late morning nap, into his Snuggli and took him on a tour of the festivities.
We found a stand selling plain old hot dogs and I bought four, knowing Kris shared my vehement disdain for any variety of mystery wursts. Nick and I took the scenic route back to the booth, detouring through a long lane of dessert stands and carts.
Nick was in heaven. I stopped at each booth, trying to decide what variation of sugar-coated lard I wanted to attack at some point during the day. At each location, somebody inevitably crammed a finger caked with something sweet into his mouth. I would have had a fit over the unhygienic aspect if I didn't know most of the food vendors as locals who knew the value of a good hand washing when selling their dishes.
I learned Nick overcame his inherent shyness when a finger covered in custard or pie filling came his way. Besides all the free samples he received, he’d also wrangled a free piece of zwieback from the Zinn's Bakery stand.
He held the treat in both hands, gnawing it into a mushy mess. The sugar rush that was sure to follow would be impressive, I knew. I laid him down on a blanket under the tree next to our booth upon our return, and Kris and I ate lunch. Nick entertained us by rolling around and attacking his toys like a maniac.
“I wonder what set him over the edge,” Kris mused as Nick shoved himself upright with his arms and kicked furiously until he collapsed down on his face. He quickly launched himself onto his back and squealed up at the leaves blowing in the breeze, waving his arms furiously at them. “Too much zwieback?”
“I'm thinking his blood sugar went wonky the second he mixed marzipan with head cheese,” I said. “He's been kind of jittery since then.”
“Head cheese?” Kris blinked. “Are you kidding me?”
“Old Lady Tafani attacked while my guard was down,” I said. “I was trying to smile and nod my way out of the conversation and didn't notice Nick chewing through the wrap on her souse until too late.”
“Gross.” Kris lounged back on the blanket next to Nick. “Sweetie, how often does Auntie Kris have to tell you that pig cranium goes straight to your hips?” Nick only laughed and barrel-rolled closer to her.
“The kid is about to vibrate into another dimension.” I chuckled. “I'm sure that'll burn off a few calories.”
“Who's burning calories?” I glanced up to see Valerie approaching. “Hi, Kristina,” she said, with a friendly wave.
Kris grimaced. “Man. Kristina. Why is it that whenever I hear my proper name, I feel like I should be wearing my funeral dress?”
I snorted. “Probably because the only person who calls you Kristina is your Great-Aunt Myrtle, and you only see her when someone’s kicked the bucket.”
“Sounds about right,” Kris said, shielding her eyes from the fractured rays of sunlight shining through the tree branches. “How's it going, Val-er-ie?” I shot her a warning glare to let her know I’d heard the sarcasm in her tone.
Valerie, oblivious to Kris’ mockery, held up a brown paper bag and waved it in the air. “I’ve got Apfelkuchen. Any takers?”
“Well, jeez, why didn't you say so in the first place?” Kris instantly became more sociable. She scooted over to give Valerie room to sit down on the blanket. “Aw crap, customers.” A young couple had stopped to inspect her wind chimes at the entrance of our booth.
“We'll save you some,” Valerie promised as Kris jumped up, put on her best salesperson's smile, and approached the browsing couple. “Hey, you,” Valerie said, sitting next to me.
“Hey, yourself.” I pressed a kiss to her cheek and grabbed the bag out of her hand. “Hot damn.” Inhaling deeply, I basked in the sweet aroma of warm apple and vanilla wafting up from the package. “God bless the Germans. You actually eat apfelkuchen?”
Valerie shrugged. “It's a special occasion. I'm sure I can cheat and have a teeny piece.” She laughed when it dawned on Nick that a new source of sugar was within his grasp. He rolled on his side to face me and let out a wail when I pulled the bag away from him.
“Down, kid. You need teeth for this stuff,” I said and turned my attention back to Valerie. “Honestly, I think I created a monster today.”
“Few are able to resist the call of a good lard-laden dessert.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the corner of my mouth, blushing slightly when she pulled back. “So, stuck here all weekend?”
“It's a noble cause.” I reached out and trailed my fingers up the length of her leg, on display below an enticingly short skirt. “Baby needs a new wardrobe. Daddy needs to pay the mortgage.”
“Oh, don't try to distract me with logic,” Valerie said, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. “I was interested in a little one on one time with the daddy. But if you have to worry about the mortgage...”
“Hey, it's not an all-night festival,” I argued. “You can always stop by my place for a visit.”
“Visiting isn't what I had on my mind.” She gave me a sly smile and a jolt of electricity shot through my body, settling somewhere deep in the pit of my gut.
I moved closer to her and slowly rubbed her thigh. “Okay. You can always stop by my place and stay.”
“Now we're talking,” she said with a grin.
“Nine o'clock.” I nodded to Kris as she rejoined us and pulled my hand away from Val’s leg. “Be there.”
“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Val whispered. She slid the wrapped cake and some napkins out of the bag. “Dig in.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
After the success of the first day of the festival, I ordered a pizza and hot wings to celebrate. Valerie arrived, as planned, at nine o’clock and didn’t complain once about the calories or fat content of the meal. Progress, I thought. That was why I pretended not to notice when she started peeling the skin from the wings before she ate them.
Once Nick's bedtime arrived we adjourned to the bedroom and watched television for a while. She readjusted her pillow and slid into a more comfortable position, which probably wasn't much of an improvement because I’d shoved my head under her shirt. Thoughtfully, she held the hem up, allowing me better access while we talked. Okay, while she talked and I orally molested her stomach.
“My fantasy vacation,” she murmured. “I’d go to France, I think, or maybe Brazil. You know, during Carnival.”
I removed my tongue from her belly button and raised my head. “Really? You’d go during that insanity? Why don’t you just stand on a street corner and hand your purse over to the first thug you see. Save yourself the travel expense.”
“You have a problem with me going to Carnival?” She yawned and stretched before laying her hand on my head and curling her fingers into my hair. “Think I’ll find myself a hot Brazilian stud and never come home?”
I shook my head and returned to my work below her shirt. “Nope,” I said in between licks. “Because it's never going to happen.”
“And your fantasy trip will?” She snorted.
I raised my head again. “There’s nothing bad about wanting to backpack across Europe.”
She rolled her eyes so theatrically I was afraid they'd pop right out of her head. “Well, no,” she conceded. “I just think all the high school grads doing it might think it’s funny to watch you trying to keep up with them.”
“Nobody said you have to be seventeen to take on the trip.”
“No,” she said, smirking. “Maybe if you can’t make Europe, you can settle for buying an old VW bus, cover it with peace signs and smiley faces, and take a drive up to Woodstock, New York. I heard something about a really righteous concert going on up there.”
“Just what are you trying to say?” I raised my head again and glared at her.
“That your fantasies are severely dated, my friend.”
“Aw, I don’t have to take this abuse,” I said and nipped at her hip bone, teasing lightly with my teeth.
She reached down and tugged on a lock of hair curling up at the nape of my neck. “You are in dire need of a haircut.”
“And you are in dire need of me shutting you up,” I murmured, slowly circling her belly button with my tongue.
“Threat or promise?”
I pushed myself up, balancing my weight on my hands as I nudged her legs open to give me room to kneel. “Whichever you prefer.”
She responded by pulling me down on top of her which was as good as shooting off a starter pistol, in my mind. All systems go for sex. The clothes started flying and I broke out all my best maneuvers. I clutched her panties in my hand and burrowed under the sheets, kissing my way up her thighs. At least until things went a little haywire.
“God, I love you,” she whispered. And then my brain went 'ping'. Literally. I heard an actual sound somewhere deep within my skull. I clawed my way up to fresh air and stared at her.
“Say again?”
Her eyes widened, and the color drained from her cheeks. “I ... love when you do that,” she said, biting her bottom lip.
