Chapter Three: Sentimental Journey, Part 1

Seven year-old Little Ovella Fleetwood was in the throes of a Dimetapp high. Her breathing was shallow, her legs twitched and her drool, a deep, royal purple from sucking the pill before she swallowed it, stained her pillowcase and favorite pajamas. Although she was unaware of it, her eyes were wide open, pupils dilated and oblivious to her immediate surroundings, the Tremont Mobile Home Park and Auto Court, Lot 19, in Walla Walla, Washington.

Floating freely in the continuum between the here and now, the there and then, and the everywhere in between, Little Ovella was not even cognizant of the nocturnal whisperings that signaled the end of the day for her trailer-mates: the click and hiss of Buddy opening another can of Budweiser, the crack of the ice as Momma poured a fresh cocktail, the BEEP of the microwave, which was the Lot 19 version of the dinner bell. Even the odor emanating from the bathroom, which smelled vaguely of the burrito Buddy had for lunch, escaped her attention.

Little Ovella seemed to be traveling backwards through a dense fog, with no destination in sight:

She saw herself at her last birthday party, five years ago, when Momma burned Thatcher, the little black-boy-next-door, nearly setting him on fire as she tried to light the two candles on Little Ovella’s cake with an errant cigarette because she was fresh out of matches. That was the day that Momma first met Buddy, who was delivering a Domino’s pizza to Lot 5. Buddy worked for a living back then, but was just as stupid. He somehow got lost, or maybe couldn’t really read his numbers, and rang Momma’s doorbell instead. Ever the bumbling hero, Buddy managed to save the day on account of he had a large pepperoni pizza and matches, so the party wasn’t a total bust. Momma pressed a cold beer on Thatcher’s burn before guzzling it up, used Buddy’s matches to light the candles and another cigarette, and sang “Happy Birthday” to Little Ovella in her fine contralto, all the while using her good eye to flirt with Buddy. Momma was the queen of multi-tasking before anybody knew what the hell that was. Everybody ate pizza, but Little Ovella threw hers up on the floor in protest because Buddy gave her the creeps and because Domino’s Pizza was owned by a former Catholic altar boy who avenged his implied sexual abuse by roping the whole United States of America into believing that mozzarella cheese, Ragu and cardboard was haute cuisine as long as it was delivered in thirty minutes or less. Despite never attending medical school, Buddy diagnosed Little Ovella’s outburst as acting up, a term that haunted her to this very day. (Even now, in her in-between state of sleep and wakefulness she shuddered.) Buddy moved in that very afternoon, quitting his job at Domino’s via Momma’s cell phone, and started calling her “Whirly-Girly” the next day. It really bugged Little Ovella that their anniversary coincided with her birthday. Jesus Christ on a crutch, a girl only has but one day to call her own, and she sure as shit doesn’t want to share it with her Momma and a man who was quite possibly a paid emissary of the Catholic Church disguised as a white-trash pizza delivery boy. From then on, Little Ovella flatly refused to participate in any birthday parties, her own or anyone else’s, until such time as Momma came to her senses and kicked Buddy to the curb.

Little Ovella’s hiccupped as her trip down memory lane continued:

She saw herself the day she and Momma moved into the Tremont Mobile Home Park and Auto Court, six years ago. For the past six months, Momma was running around with a man she met at the SOAK-N-SUDS who was older than Nanny Fleetwood and filthy rich to boot. His name was Beauregard Shamburger, but everyone called him “The Colonel” on account of his resemblance to the late Colonel Sanders of KFC (we do chicken right) fame. New to town, The Colonel hailed from Texas, which immediately made Little Ovella suspicious, but she couldn’t say anything to Momma because she hadn’t learned to talk yet. She did manage to have a nasty bout of flatulence whenever The Colonel was around in an effort to warn Momma of the dangers of dating a man from the Bush country, but to no avail. Momma just rubbed her gums with Captain Morgan’s Rum and put a pacifier in her mouth. The Colonel was in Walla Walla for some secret business deal that he claimed would make him richer than Croesus. Momma had no idea who that was, and Little Ovella was too busy trying to fart to explain that according to legend, he was the first foreigner to come into contact with the Greeks, and acquired most of his wealth as a direct result of King Midas. Momma was just happy that she had a love interest that bought her drinks over to the cocktail lounge at the Holiday Inn instead of cadging free drinks off of her at the SOAK-N-SUDS, even though The Colonel never touched alcohol his own self. Little Ovella decided to let Momma enjoy herself for once; besides, she loved being alone while Momma and The Colonel went out on the town. Things seemed to be going swell, and Momma thought The Colonel might be planning to “pop the question”; she suggested a home-cooked meal for The Colonel in their little apartment over the SOAK-N-SUDS. Momma spent all day painting her fingers and toes and doing her hair just right. Then she popped a Stouffer’s Grandma’s Chicken and Rice Bake in the microwave and re-applied her makeup, anticipating her new life as the wife of a rich Texas businessman. Momma popped downstairs to the SOAK-N-SUDS to get a bottle of carbonated water, The Colonel’s favorite, when all hell broke loose. The TV in the SOAK-N-SUDS was tuned to the ten o’clock news, and the big story was an all-out search for a Mormon polygamist from Cottonwood Heights, Utah, who abandoned his seven wives and seventeen children. The Citizen’s Crime Commission was offering a $5,000.00 reward for information leading to his arrest and conviction. Momma took one look at the grainy photograph on Channel 63 and marched right across Highway 12 to the Holiday Inn, Room 317. She kicked the door down using a Vegas fan-kick she learned watching old re-runs of Batman, and clobbered The Colonel with a bottle of Perrier as he looked up, guiltily, from a can of Pepsi. Momma had no patience for married men on the prowl or Mormon sinners, and The Colonel was both. She collected the reward money and used a portion of it to buy Lot 19 at the Tremont Mobile Home Park and Auto Court. She felt the apartment above the SOAK-N-SUDS had too many bad memories. Momma used another portion of the reward money to buy new furniture for the trailer and some cute matching outfits for her and Little Ovella. She also managed to start a college fund for Little Ovella with the last $25.00, and got a free blender in the process.

Still dreaming, Little Ovella felt herself being pulled further backwards, but got up to pee first, nearly tripping over Buddy, who had fallen asleep in the hallway.