Page 136 of Soul So Dark
By the time I finally emerge from the back toting quart containers of lemons, limes, cherries, and olives, the table by the window is empty and my stomach sinks.
Because Jesse’s gone…again.
It only adds insult to injury when last call rolls around and I know I’m going to be a zombie the next morning in class. And just like I thought, there’s plenty of staff to close. And, now, I’m absolutely sure this was just an opportunity to solidify my spot in Ron’s sleazy hierarchy.
Fucking asshole.
“At least all those goddamn pickles are gone,” I hear Kara tell Sarah, one of the other bartenders.
“Did he finally decide to just trash them?” I mutter as I yank my hoodie on.
“No,” she shoots me a coy look over her shoulder, “your friends bought all of them.”
“Friends?”
“Yeah, those guys you were talking to.”
Jesse and his friends…bought all the pickles?
“Guys!” Duane’s voice echoes from the back door. “Get out here, you have to see this!”
All of us scurry out the back door to the parking lot where the dumpsters are. Duane is standing next to Ron’s silver Porsche with a wild grin on his face. It’s unclear what he’s even looking at until we get closer. The Porsche looks wet, but it’s a clear night, and there’s a distinct smell emanating from the parking space.
Vinegar.
Slowly, it dawns on everyone that Ron’s car is covered in whole Kosher dills and the brine they were packed in. What’s more, the windows have been pried open and gallons upon gallons of pickle juice is pooled on the floorboards with the dills scattered all over the leather seats.
Soon, Ron comes flying across the asphalt and stops dead in his tracks when he sees his pickled Porsche.
“Are you kidding me?” he roars, stalking around the vehicle. “Who the fuck did this?”
“Check the cameras, I guess,” Steve snickers.
“No can do,” Duane can barely breathe, he’s laughing so hard, “Ron never replaced them after they quit working.He said it was too expensive!”
No one can contain their laughter now. And the more they laugh, the redder Ron’s face gets, and the more intense my satisfaction becomes. How does he even own a Porsche? I guess anyone can make a monthly payment. I hope he’s underwater on it and now he's royally fucked.
“What’s the matter, Ron?” I ask as my mouth twitches with amusement. “Why do you look so sour?”
At the last word, Kara doubles over with laughter.
“I’m pressing charges,” he juts a finger out at me, “I want those guys’ namesnow!”
“I wouldn’t know. Thanks to you, I didn’t get that far,” I drawl through slitted eyes. “Maybe they were mad that your dusty ass wrecked their evening.”
I turn to leave while everyone else continues gawking and laughing at Ron’s pickle-flooded car. As hilarious as this is, I can’t wait to get home and get as much sleep as I can before I have to go to class. I’m sure I can enjoy this tomorrow. Steve is already circling the Porsche with his phone, claiming to be recording it for “evidence,” but his smug look says otherwise.
“Bullshit!” Ron shouts at my back as I toss my purse into my Civic. “The next time I see your criminal boyfriend here—”
“What are you going to do?Can me?” I call over my shoulder, ducking inside to the howls of laughter behind me.
???
Come the following evening, the pickle bandits are still on the loose.
I find out at my next shift that the only security cameras that pick up anything near Blood Horse belong to the floral shop next door. And even then, the owner, Cheryl Swaggert, doesn’t see any rush in providing any useful information. She’s still angry with Ron for telling his staff to throw the pub’s garbage in her dumpsters when ours got full on New Year’s Eve. At the end of the day, the Porsche remains pickled and Ron is shit out of luck.
Ron watches me like a hawk all evening, probably to see if my delinquent “friends” return, but otherwise leaves me alone. Good thing, or I might get some other mysterious stranger to fill his gas tank with hot sauce.
