There is a gathering storm in the farmhouse. The contratemps between Ophie and Neesha blew through like a summer monsoon. Neesha started online classes in agriculture with Virginia Tech. She left Blackwood for Richmond before applying to VCU. Another “fire! erm . . . too late to make ready and aim” like me. It’s about four hours one way from Goochland to Virginia Tech. Farm workdays are at least ten hours and start at 4am.
Before I continue, Neesha’s birth name is Faye Pepper. Faye is too Coal Miner’s Daughter. Faye became Neesha on the bus ride from Blacksburg to Richmond. She got on that bus sure that all her troubles would obey and be memories once she got to Richmond. Kanye would think Neesha was hot and Faye was not.
Time is an enemy for Neesha. It was easy to be a fan girl of the blues in that peak decade between 15 and 25. So on fleek in 2020 to throw kerosene at the RPD headquarters. Too was a drunken night with Charlie. She’d been to Planned Parenthood so no worries there. And Charlie acted like a whale. So she felt, money would be no problem. Then . . . she was late. Shit. The test was positive. Some fun this. Even better—picking up trash in the median for a bullshit charge of reckless endangerment. RPD is so racist, seriously.
Cruzar El Río Madre Rubicón
Motherhood is life changing. Ditto fatherhood. But Faye couldn’t give two shits about Charlie. Everything about that asshat is a lie. He’s a potwasher for the casino. All his noise about being a whale is rat shit.
He said he got a really great deal on the Escalade. He did. A carload of Spanish speaking, fish sandwich eating guys parked it in front of my house and told Charlie to take care of it until they returned. They gave him cash for the trouble. Well damn!
Expired temporary Texas tags, expired insurance card, registration naming someone in Rhode Island as the owner, busted out driver’s seat window and a dead battery. What could possibly go wrong? Charlie told Neesha he got it to fix up. Classic car and all that.
Dirty Whip
So Charlie got it running. Then they filled a garbage bag with the fish sandwich trash and went out for drinks. The new trash was Hardees. And red Solo cups wreaking of margueritas.
The night finished at Denny’s. Because, where else do you go after bar close? Then the moment when she either goes home or his place. She went home in an Uber Sunday afternoon.
Charlie never explained why the Escalade was abandoned in front of my house.
Traces
It’s mixed news. The evidence found implicates someone outside the circles of Charlie, Ophie and Neesha. The story told by the trash left behind says this was a road trip that ended outside my house.
In the trash–a receipt from a bodega in Philly and the familiar stench of weed–good times. The wheel well for the front passenger filled with Wawa food wrappers and a discarded Camel straights box. In back more trash, including a lace bodysuit and ripped pantyhose.
About the finger. It was a pinkie finger with a polished nail. DNA testing confirmed it belonged to a woman. What it didn’t confirm is the owner of the amputated left small finger. Nail color? It wasn’t one color. It was an expensive acrylic applique with a miniature unicorn riding a rainbow.
Diamond Nails
Obvi a woman. Are you sure, you misogynist, racist asshat?! It could be a queen. Check your whiteness, boomer. Your DNA evidence is bullshit.
Neesha was needy that weekend. And tipsy. Charlie wasn’t the right guy. He was a right now guy. So that happened.
I called the cops. They told me they’d give it a day and if the Escalade wasn’t gone they’d tag it. It wasn’t gone so the cops tagged it. I was at work when the tow company came and took it away.
No Novel?
Unrelated: I’ve got a pax headed to Scott’s Addition from Rocket’s Landing. She chatted with me as some pax do, “what do you do?” “I’m a writer.
“What are you writing?”
“A blog. worldofwebb.net“
“Oh. What’s it about?”
“Lies, Damned Lies and Complaints about the news.”
“Oh ok” a minute of silence. “Are you writing a book?” Because a real writer writes books. Blogs are for tweeny angst. Shall we dive down the rabbit hole of family angst and paternal judgement against real writers? How about a bipolar paternal grandmother treated for epilepsy with phenobarbital? My Dad’s big fear was struggling to pay bills. Because Gramma (his Mom) depended on Federal Disability payments and his paycheck once he was old enough to work. And . . . yeah.
I am writing a book. This space is the drawing board for it. The Martian started out as a blog. “Inger’s Finger” is starting out the same way, “It’s about an an amputated finger found in an abandoned Escalade”. “That’s interesting.” I’ve done enough rides to sense when a convo has become awkward. We finished the ride in silence.
Escalade Flower Box
Before Ophie bought Charlie’s farm and after the cops had the Escalade towed, in the middle time as Charlie could still pretend he was a rising star, the Escalade sat alongside the barn near the bugout shelter door. It was the bugout vehicle for his dystopian nightmare where a pestilence became a pandemic and wiped out everyone except Charlie. Charlie bought the Escalade from CoPart.
It sat outside the barn waiting for the ‘Rona to genocide the world. Meanwhile, the blue glow of Charlie’s gaming bridge illuminated his bugout shelter. Twitch, baby. No nipples in RDR2, so . . . And fed a village of mice.
CoPart sells them the way they were on the way in. RPD collected evidence before towing it. It stayed in the impound lot looking for an owner that was never found. This and that, then Charlie saw it on CoPart as a running, driving SUV. When Ophie got it there was hay growing around it.
Recidivism
So . . . the Sherriff came to the farm to collect Charlie’s weapons. He had Airsoft rifles and pistols that looked impressive but were mostly junk. There were three concerning weapons–two home builds, AR15 pistol and Glock 19 kitted out with fps cool/prepper accessories and a semi-auto shotgun. All of it mostly meh. As they were inventorying the Escalade they found Charlie’s epithelials. Implicating? Mayhaps.
Concerning enough that the Escalade went to the Sherriff’s Office for a deeper evidence collection dive. Neesha’s hair was in it as was skin cells from one of the farm hands. Because the Escalade was being used. More concerning was blood evidence found in the way back. The blood didn’t match Neesha, Ophie, Charlie or any of the farm hands. Also, this happened after Neesha moved in and the SUV was her daily driver.
My son loves trains and transit. So in his perfect world Rural America would not need cars. Our world is far from perfect. Rural American needs trucks. Not ideal, though, is an Escalade. That’s a soccer Mom car. So Neesha drove the Escalade because it was what the farm had. Also . . . there is blood in it the body shop missed. Nasty. Racist.
Stuck?
From euphoria at getting a farm manager job to stewing in the LazyBoy because the Escalade was at the Sherriff’s with no return date. Not having a car is like losing your legs. Legless is racist. Yeah . . . Instacart. But it’s still legless.
Neesha tried to stick it out with delivery. But delivery can’t compete with what she’s got in the garden. And you can’t grow Windex in a plot. She needs a truck. Facebook Marketplace was unimpressive. Then her brother called, “Hey”.
“What?”
“You got a truck? I heard you got a farm manager job.”
“I did. The Sherriff towed the Cadillac I was using.”
“He did you a favor.”
“Not sure about that.”
“So what are you doing to get around?”
“Nothing. Been stuck at the farm for a week.”
“I got you.”
“How?”
“My buddy put his Nissan Frontier on Marketplace. He’ll sell it to you.”
“Oh. Cool. Where is it?”
“Esserville”
“Ok. I’m in Goochland.”
“Yep”
“So how do we do this?”
“I got you. I’ll take care of it.”
“You coming here?”
“Yep.”
So it got done. The Escalade is with the Sherriff. Neesha owns an old Nissan Frontier. It’s early January so the farm is busy getting ready to plant. Since she took over the barn has been put to work with a horse, some goats, and a traveling chicken coop. The rhythms of a farm touch a deep part of her. It’s a hard life but a good life.
One difference between Gilpin Court and Esserville is a cup of sugar. Rural America always done for each other. Barter is just how people buy and sell. Neesha’s struggles hurt her reputation. But Farm Manager is a respectable job. And she might not live in Wise but Wise never really left her.