Dottie and Bree: Episode 14- Broken Ladies (of the night)

Dottie and Bree: Episode 14

Clouds of dust whirred in the rearview mirror, and Bree knew they were still following; police, Koreans, lesbians and the devil were encroaching. She imagined a herd of hell spawn mounted by all four, Devil at the point, wingedly rushing toward their prize, controlled by reigns, ridden by uniformed officers and ½ naked lesbians with jingling jewelry and angry Koreans balancing atop their backs practicing Tai Chi or Kung Fu or something Asian and kick ass; they would be torn limb from limb if they didn’t make it across the border.

Dottie needed to drive faster.

Mexico was safety and reprieve; they would be rebirthed into the desert and mewl and cry like newborns suckling on the sweet teat of tequila. Dottie was not excited about switching to a new alcohol. “Don’t they have whiskey down there? What kind of heathens are they?”

Badly broken Bree was alive, and in Dottie’s excitement, she hadn’t been noticing the gauges on the car. She was speeding at dangerous velocity with the top down screaming the wrong lyrics to the radio with glee and bouncing haphazardly to “Faith” by George Michael. They were almost out of gas.

“There’s a Truck Stop up ahead. We can make it there. We can clean you up. We can get you some clothes. We’re getting gas, and we’re going to make it.”

Dottie was suddenly hopeful and quite trusting in the Universe; Bree’s miraculous recovery was enough to restore her faith.

Bree could barely walk. She expected an x-ray would discover at least three broken ribs and some massive internal bruising, but she had stopped coughing blood, and although her breathing was laboured and painful, she could breathe, and that was enough for now.

Dottie draped loose material across Bree’s crusted and flaking bloody skin and supported her into the truck stop. The light was burgeoning into morning, but the stars still shone and darkness covered their entrance into the bathroom that was thankfully near the front double glass doors. They limped barefoot across the Linoleum and quietly slipped into the remarkably clean handicapped stall. Dottie carefully placed Bree on the tile and began to delicately wash her wounds with crinkly seat covers and toilet paper dipped in the bowl. The red soaked into rolls and rolls and slid into the drain coloring the water pink. Not a word was spoken as she finally dried Bree with the remaining TP.

She flushed at least sixteen times.

Dressed and cleanish, they emerged from the bathroom eyes scanning the large room. Desperation filled the paper napkin holders and clung to the seats smelling like unchanged deep fryer oil and rotten fish sticks. The light continued to grow outside, and they knew if they could hold out until 6am, there would be alcohol with their bacon and French Toast.

Dottie loved French Toast and preferred it with morning bourbon; creamy butter and syrup are a wonderful accompaniment to Southern Comfort and coffee.

Two waitresses pushing 50 looking 60 trolled the room with 16 teeth between them. Cigarettes hung behind their ears held by bottle blonde thinning strings of what could be called hair. One turned her back to a table and reached into her pocket for a small orange bumper and a tube of Chapstick. She applied one to her nose and the other to her lips and was immediately awake. They leaned dangerously close over tables toward greasy bearded men in faded flannel whispering secrets and placing roughened hands on saggy tits peaking from under pink lacey uniforms. They were the saddest whores every seen.

“Oh Bree. Oh Bree. Those poor women.” Dottie gasped, covering her mouth, barely able to speak. She swore she saw a man in a red suit at the far corner booth. He leaned forward, slammed both hands flat on the table staring menacingly in their direction, then leaning back smiling widely with sharpened teeth, he pointed at her with open mouthed laughter and winked whilst raising a clear glass filled with iced brown liquid. He cocked his head and held up one flaming finger to light a thick cigar.

The waitresses made their way over to the table. Bree slumped deep into the booth, chin down, cheek dejectedly resting on the back of her hand and raised her eyes sleepily to the pair. She read the names she expected to see on the black plastic tags with white lettering: “Dottie” and “Bree”.

The devil laughed louder and louder filling the Truck Stop with deafening waves of future regret.