Kookshow, Chapter 9: Arrival

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

After traversing the entire continental United States, being dropped off at the abandoned drive-in where Cult Radio was located overwhelmed my senses. I stood in front of the main compound, a hillside fortress, still teetering on twin disability canes. The horizon beyond was literally stunning to contemplate. I blinked several times to be certain that what lay before my eyes had not sprung from a haze of alcoholic abandon. Then, I made my approach with slow and deliberate steps. I breathed heavily and deeply, while knocking. The California sun bathed me in a warm glow of golden light. An undeniable feeling of accomplishment settled on my shoulders. I had done what only days ago, seemed generally impossible.

 

Yet after standing at the front door, for several minutes, I realized that no one was home. Except perhaps, for Kookshow Baby.

 

At some point, a text message had been delivered to my cell phone. But I missed the ping of notification, while beholding my new environment. Upon reading the short apology, everything made sense. Though I clutched at my belly while experiencing pangs of uneasiness over having to meet the pigtailed, southern belle on my own.

 

“Rod – I left to take Terry to a doctor appointment in Los Angeles. It slipped my mind that he had a visit scheduled, right when you and your trucker wingman were arriving. But don’t fret about it, Ms. Kook is in her trailer by the old concession stand. You’ll see it past the rows of parking spaces and movie speakers. Don’t be shy, you didn’t need me to hold your hand anyway! I’ll see you in a couple of hours...”

 

I had begun to sweat profusely. The mobile home was easy to locate, sitting on a concrete slab that must have been previously used for one of the theater outbuildings. Yet I was trembling on the short trek toward that longbox dwelling. My knees felt stiff and weak. What if she thought I looked too old or maybe, too rough and sloppy for her liking? I felt certain that she had attracted many suitors since leaving her rural birthplace. I guessed that most were typical for such parts of the country, good with their hands, skilled at using firearms and primitive tools, or hunting and fishing. But I suspected that she must have developed a sort of sophistication while living in the atmosphere of DuFoe Entertainment. I needed to be more clever, more interesting, more unique to hold her attention. Otherwise, I might be banished with a wink of her eye. Like chaff flying in the wind, being sorted out from useful seeds and grains. I did not want her to think I was boring, or useless, by any measure.

 

I concluded that she would never, ever want to be bored.

 

In younger days, I might have walked to her trailer easily. Yet now, with arthritic limbs and joints, I struggled to span that distance with dignity. Once or twice, I nearly toppled over clumped weeds or cracks in the pavement. Eventually however, I found myself at her entryway, looking somewhat disheveled and dusty. I had neglected to bring her flowers or chocolates, or a gift of any kind. Though there was no need to inject a romantic gesture into our meeting. We were, I thought, kindred spirits. Both fans of pop culture and rebellious arts. That bond could make us friends forever, if nothing else. To dream of more was understandable, particularly for an old man , twice divorced and socially hobbled. But it was not necessary.

 

I hoped for some good conversation, and a sharing of interests. That alone would be enough.

 

The sound of my footsteps and cane thumps on her landing must have been clumsy and odd. Because before I could rap on the outside wall, she opened her door with a forceful tug. Our eyes met with a mutual moment of shock and surprise. Then, she shrieked and laughed at my ungroomed appearance.

 

“Gawdamm, Rawd! Y’all look like an extra on the set of Easy Rider! C’mon in, buddy! I got a pitcher of sweet tea chillin’ in the fridge!”

 

She exuded the humble charm of an old-time star on the Nashville stage. Her braids were long and tight, a compliment to her tanned, freckled face. She stood tall on long legs barely covered by Daisy Duke shorts. A minimal sheath of denim that let her toned physique shine brightly. She was busty and curvy, and had nails painted in red, like her budding lips. Her breath teased my nose, with a sweet aroma of summer refreshments. Though I suspected that somewhere in her cupboards, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s or Jim Beam was waiting to spice up her homemade brew.

 

I sat in a plaid, swivel rocker that looked as if it had once belonged to her grandmother.

 

“It’s a pleasure to finally see you in person, I have to say. Forgive me if I’m out of words at the moment, otherwise...”

 

The program host giggled and twisted her hair, playfully.

 

“Now I get it, y’all are the spittin’ image of Grizzly Adams! Well, almost. When’s the last time ya had a haircut, friend?”

 

I cringed slightly while trying to recall.

 

“Umm... probably right before the Covid lockdown in Ohio. What year was that?”

 

She chortled and spit.

 

“Hee hee hee, that’s about what I figured! No worries though, I like a dude who kin carry off that kinda style. Where I was raised, people don’t care too much about all these modern trends and things. Hell, a couple of my uncles still rock the Mullet! Them fellers are covered in tattoos. They don’t give a shit about what anybody thinks!”

 

I nodded and remembered my chauffer in the 18-wheeler.

 

“Yeah, the guy who brought me here looks something like that. Those people are still out there...”

 

Kookshow fiddled with dandelions arranged in a Mason jar of fresh water, on her kitchen windowsill.

 

“I like simple pleasures and old movies. And I guess, old souls. Y’all know what I mean? Folks that’ve seen a thing or two. Keepin’ up with the Joneses don’t mean squat where I come from. It’s all down home and middle-of-the-road. Flags flying every day, not just the Fourth of July! Country Music pickin’ and singin on Sunday, in church! And maybe a drink afterward, if granny ain’t lookin’! Yee haw!”

 

I got her vibe. But my own experience was somewhat different in character.

 

“I think we’re simpatico. At least I hope so...”

 

My new contact tweaked her pointy nose, and whistled.

 

“Well, we’re damn sure gonna find out, right?”