| General Fiction posted June 29, 2024 | Chapters: |
Prologue 3 -4- 5... 
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The detour begins
A chapter in the book Detour
Cavalry in Straw Hats (Rachelle)
by Rachelle Allen
| Background Gretchen and Rachelle, who made friends on FanStory, have decided to meet up for the first time on a road trip to a FS convention. |
We are no more than six miles past the sign that reads "Welcome to Lancaster County, PA" when suddenly "Old Reliable" - well, the 'old' part is certainly accurate - begins to churn roils of smoke out from beneath the dashboard like a hillbilly pig roast gone wrong.
"What the heck?" I shriek as my lungs try to fend off the assault with prolonged coughing spasms.
Gretchen slaps her palm against the top of the dashboard over and over as if this is her child and it's swallowed a Lego.
Old Reliable - just for the name alone right now I could slap my traveling companion senseless - lurches to a stop and issues forth a strangled, operatic wheeze. No amount of turns of the ignition resuscitate her.
I glower at Gretchen but swallow down my words of discontent...well, after just a teeny snipe about her being in denial when she tells me all we have to do is wait a few minutes for her junker to cool down.
She lays her keys on the console and high-tails it to the front of the suffering vehicle. I see the hood rise and am grateful for the obstruction. If I can't witness a disaster, it ceases to exist in my mind. I am that good at compartmentalizing.
I'm wondering if she's had so much experience repairing this behemoth that she now actually recognizes what's wrong and knows how to fix it. My answer comes soon after this question forms in my mind when she returns to the driver's side window and, after I ask what's wrong with it, replies, "Either the radiator overheated, or it's the flux capacitator."
Seriously? She chooses this dire situation to offer up a line from Back to the Future? Gawd. She honestly is every bit as irreverent and hilarious in person as she is on our writing site. I smile in spite of the fear rising up in my throat and watch as the little Dixie chick goes off to try to get a signal on her phone in a region I know to be void of any power that's not supplied by the Almighty, Himself. Within moments, I hear her sobbing like a child whose cat's just been run over by a dump truck.
I close my eyes and offer up a prayer.
I have just said my silent "Amen," when Gretchen approaches and starts discussing the possibility of walking to the nearest gas station. Suddenly, I hear the clippity-clop of horses' hooves and the rhythmic, rotating clatter of wooden wheels. I squint and see two buggies heading in our direction.
"Gretchen!" I gasp. "Look! It's the Cavalry."
"Well, they are using horses," she says.
We take in the straw hats and suspenders on the men coming into view and the aprons and round white caps, tied at the chins, of the two women and one young girl. Gretchen gives me a highly amused smirk.
"Oh yeah," she says, as they draw nearer still. "They're going to be totally impressed with how nicely you're dressed!"
"Don't make me impale you with my beautiful leopard stilettos before our rescuers pull up here," I say out of the side of my mouth.
The two buggies come to a stop directly in front of Old Reliable, and the older man and woman and young girl in the smaller buggy look aghast at the still-billowing blue-and-pewter-colored plumes.
"We were afraid Seth Hartman's chicken coop had caught fire," the man says.
They look toward us, taking in my brazen leopardness, and quickly look at the ground, as if I'm to be shunned.
Gretchen chivalrously steps in front of me, to ease their discomfort. Pointing to Old Reliable, she says, "She won't start. Could we hitch a ride back to your house, maybe, and call a tow truck?"
This makes the three twenty-somethings in the other buggy look away from each other and fold their lips over their teeth so as not to smile.
I shake my head. My poor Southern-fried friend is about to become Yankee-fied.
"This is Amish country, Young Lady," the man says. "The only two people in our community with a phone are the Doc - in case of medical emergencies - and the sheriff, and both are forty miles away right now helping out at the site of a farming accident. They prob'ly won't be back 'til at least Wednesday."
"Today's only SUNDAY!" Gretchen pretty much shrieks.
"Yep, it sure is," says the older man.
"But we're on our way to a writer's conference in Atlantic City, New Jersey!" Gretchen's voice now is not only shrill, but also has a quaver to it.
The man says nothing. He just waits for the reality of the situation to sink in for us all.
The woman in his buggy says, "I'm Helene, and this is my husband, Ezra, and our daughter Hannah. These are Solomon, Simeon and Rebekah. Let us take you back to our home just up the road. We'll be happy to put you up until you can make your phone calls."
I step forward in my full high-heeled splendor and watch the five sets of Amish eyes retreat, once again, toward the ground.
"That is very generous of you," I say, upping the wattage of my smile so they'll be distracted from looking at my quite ill-fated traveling ensemble. "Do you have room for our luggage in your buggies?"
"Of course," says Helene.
"I'm Rachelle," I tell them. After a beat of silence, I elbow my formerly oh-so-Chatty-Kathy of a traveling mate.
"I'm Gretchen," she manages to choke out in a voice just above a whisper. Not having everything go according to plan is hard for my favorite shell-shocked Southern belle.
"Gretchen," I repeat so I'm certain our new friends have heard.
"Solomon, Simeon," says Helene, "go get their suitcases and put them into the buggies, please."
The boys hop down at once, and Rachel scoots over to allow room for me to sit beside her. Helene and Hannah do likewise and Helene beckons Gretchen.
Without warning, a neon slash of lightning sizzles the air between us, followed immediately on its sparks by a deafening cadence of thunder.
"Hurry," says Helene.
As the horses begin to trot, Gretchen and I exchange looks from our parallel buggies. They're the looks of omniscience, laced with trepidation, between writers who understand the terrifying symbolism and the kind of foreshadowing present in only the most memorable of adventure tales.
"What the heck?" I shriek as my lungs try to fend off the assault with prolonged coughing spasms.
Gretchen slaps her palm against the top of the dashboard over and over as if this is her child and it's swallowed a Lego.
Old Reliable - just for the name alone right now I could slap my traveling companion senseless - lurches to a stop and issues forth a strangled, operatic wheeze. No amount of turns of the ignition resuscitate her.
I glower at Gretchen but swallow down my words of discontent...well, after just a teeny snipe about her being in denial when she tells me all we have to do is wait a few minutes for her junker to cool down.
She lays her keys on the console and high-tails it to the front of the suffering vehicle. I see the hood rise and am grateful for the obstruction. If I can't witness a disaster, it ceases to exist in my mind. I am that good at compartmentalizing.
I'm wondering if she's had so much experience repairing this behemoth that she now actually recognizes what's wrong and knows how to fix it. My answer comes soon after this question forms in my mind when she returns to the driver's side window and, after I ask what's wrong with it, replies, "Either the radiator overheated, or it's the flux capacitator."
Seriously? She chooses this dire situation to offer up a line from Back to the Future? Gawd. She honestly is every bit as irreverent and hilarious in person as she is on our writing site. I smile in spite of the fear rising up in my throat and watch as the little Dixie chick goes off to try to get a signal on her phone in a region I know to be void of any power that's not supplied by the Almighty, Himself. Within moments, I hear her sobbing like a child whose cat's just been run over by a dump truck.
I close my eyes and offer up a prayer.
I have just said my silent "Amen," when Gretchen approaches and starts discussing the possibility of walking to the nearest gas station. Suddenly, I hear the clippity-clop of horses' hooves and the rhythmic, rotating clatter of wooden wheels. I squint and see two buggies heading in our direction.
"Gretchen!" I gasp. "Look! It's the Cavalry."
"Well, they are using horses," she says.
We take in the straw hats and suspenders on the men coming into view and the aprons and round white caps, tied at the chins, of the two women and one young girl. Gretchen gives me a highly amused smirk.
"Oh yeah," she says, as they draw nearer still. "They're going to be totally impressed with how nicely you're dressed!"
"Don't make me impale you with my beautiful leopard stilettos before our rescuers pull up here," I say out of the side of my mouth.
The two buggies come to a stop directly in front of Old Reliable, and the older man and woman and young girl in the smaller buggy look aghast at the still-billowing blue-and-pewter-colored plumes.
"We were afraid Seth Hartman's chicken coop had caught fire," the man says.
They look toward us, taking in my brazen leopardness, and quickly look at the ground, as if I'm to be shunned.
Gretchen chivalrously steps in front of me, to ease their discomfort. Pointing to Old Reliable, she says, "She won't start. Could we hitch a ride back to your house, maybe, and call a tow truck?"
This makes the three twenty-somethings in the other buggy look away from each other and fold their lips over their teeth so as not to smile.
I shake my head. My poor Southern-fried friend is about to become Yankee-fied.
"This is Amish country, Young Lady," the man says. "The only two people in our community with a phone are the Doc - in case of medical emergencies - and the sheriff, and both are forty miles away right now helping out at the site of a farming accident. They prob'ly won't be back 'til at least Wednesday."
"Today's only SUNDAY!" Gretchen pretty much shrieks.
"Yep, it sure is," says the older man.
"But we're on our way to a writer's conference in Atlantic City, New Jersey!" Gretchen's voice now is not only shrill, but also has a quaver to it.
The man says nothing. He just waits for the reality of the situation to sink in for us all.
The woman in his buggy says, "I'm Helene, and this is my husband, Ezra, and our daughter Hannah. These are Solomon, Simeon and Rebekah. Let us take you back to our home just up the road. We'll be happy to put you up until you can make your phone calls."
I step forward in my full high-heeled splendor and watch the five sets of Amish eyes retreat, once again, toward the ground.
"That is very generous of you," I say, upping the wattage of my smile so they'll be distracted from looking at my quite ill-fated traveling ensemble. "Do you have room for our luggage in your buggies?"
"Of course," says Helene.
"I'm Rachelle," I tell them. After a beat of silence, I elbow my formerly oh-so-Chatty-Kathy of a traveling mate.
"I'm Gretchen," she manages to choke out in a voice just above a whisper. Not having everything go according to plan is hard for my favorite shell-shocked Southern belle.
"Gretchen," I repeat so I'm certain our new friends have heard.
"Solomon, Simeon," says Helene, "go get their suitcases and put them into the buggies, please."
The boys hop down at once, and Rachel scoots over to allow room for me to sit beside her. Helene and Hannah do likewise and Helene beckons Gretchen.
Without warning, a neon slash of lightning sizzles the air between us, followed immediately on its sparks by a deafening cadence of thunder.
"Hurry," says Helene.
As the horses begin to trot, Gretchen and I exchange looks from our parallel buggies. They're the looks of omniscience, laced with trepidation, between writers who understand the terrifying symbolism and the kind of foreshadowing present in only the most memorable of adventure tales.
Before I settle in for the ride, I send out a hope to the universe that Gretchen doesn't vomit on her buggy-mates, being that she's not sitting in the driver's seat.
Meanwhile, back in Baltimore, my 2024 S-class Mercedes sedan sits, like a grounded teenager, in my cousin's driveway. Not that I'm bitter or anything, of course. Clippity-clop, clippity-clop.
Book of the Month contest entry
 Recognized |
|
At the scene of a crime or an accident, the attending policeman never says, "What happened?" Instead, he or she says, "Tell me what you saw." This is because the exact scene won't look the same to any two of the witnesses. Such is the case for Gretchen and me as we describe our saga, too.
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