Kentucky Spring
Kentucky in the spring is about as close to heaven as anyone can get this side of the rapture. Ronnie Joe remembered hearing his grandfather say that until the spring of ’07 when he succumbed to an indulgence of cigars and bourbon. For the most part, Ronnie Joe tended to agree. Temperatures rose above 60 degrees during the day and the snows receded, allowing for the welcomed start of a new Major League season. But the nights were too cold yet for the plague of gnats, and chiggers that overtook the entire state by summer, something a man like him would gladly endure for the advantages from nights marked by a steady din of croaks and chirps from bullfrogs and crickets, and a moon that hung low enough to touch and bright enough to throw a shadow.
Ronnie Joe followed his own shadow through the Sunville Apartments parking lot up to the ’87 Impala that he and Donald marked earlier at the Clarksville Speedway. Older model cars were always preferable to him, easier to break into and to tear apart. A quick pull of the jimmy bar and the door eased open. He jumped into the driver’s seat and broke the dome light with the handle of his screwdriver, used its head to pop the ignition ring and jammed it into the cylinder. A quick twist of the handle and the Impala gurgled to life. Bam. Easy. Peasy.
He pulled out of the parking lot and turned left, drove half a mile toward the Quick Stop on the corner. Donald was standing on the curb by the road, fat and balding, hands in the pockets of his Braves hoodie, swaying and tapping his feet nervously. Ronnie Joe parked the car along the curb and slid over to the passenger side as Donald took over the driver’s seat.
“Fuck yeah, buddy!” Donald laughed, baring his tobacco stained teeth and tongue, and as he often did because Ronnie Joe’s consistent lack of enthusiasm always irked him, reached over and grabbed Ronnie Joe’s shoulder and shook him as though waking him. “This’ll get us, least, a thousand.”
The routine continued as Ronnie Joe pulled his shoulder out of Donald’s grip, ignoring his friend’s attempt to get under his skin and keeping his emotions to himself. He checked his pockets. “Where are my Marlboros?” He muttered.
“How a fuck am I suppose to know where you lef’ your Marlboros?” Donald took out a pack of Pall Malls. He offered it to Ronnie Joe as he took off down the road.
“I don’t smoke that shit...the question was rhetorical.”
“Rhetoric...shit, s’cuse me, professor,” Donald laughed, trying once again to incite some emotion from Ronnie Joe.
It almost worked, but Ronnie Joe grit his teeth to maintain his cool. “Why don’t you try reading a fucking book sometime?”
“Books are for pansies, professor.”
Before Ronnie Joe had time to respond to Donald’s blissful ignorance he spotted the entrance road leading to Lake Moriah. His head buzzed as though trying to tell him him something. He pointed to the entrance road, “...turn here!”
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me where t’go!” Donald hit the gas instead. “Yeeee-ha—,” he shouted into Ronnie Joe’s face and happened to catch sight of an approaching police cruiser in the rearview mirror, “—shit!”
Ronnie Joe turned to see just as the police lights came on and the cruiser began gaining on them. “Pull over!” He shouted.
As their stolen car slowed, Ronnie Joe opened his door and jumped out, unwilling to wait for the car to come to a full stop. He rolled across the pavement and heard the cruiser screech to a stop then he jumped to his feet and ran toward the wooded area on the other side of the highway.
A deputy exited from the passenger side of the police cruiser, the butt of a shotgun up to his cheek. “Stop right ch’ere boy!” The deputy pumped the shotgun. “I got you in my sights!”