Free Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) by Paisley Ray

for plowing and harvesting. Near the back, past stacked hay bails, I saw a beat up Mustang covered in dust, a torn-apart Ford Falcon, and a mint condition, Model A. Patsy led us to the center of the barn where six kegs and one garbage bag lined trash bin rested. A buff guy in a Tulane baseball cap held chew in his bottom lip while he ladled a lime-green drink from the garbage can into plastic cups.
    I slid my hands into my pockets and leaned over the liquid in the can. “What’s the concoction?”
    “That’s bathtub dew,” Katie Lee said. “Around here, the Ray’s are famous for distilling grain alcohol. But be careful. It goes down easy, but will seriously knock you on your ass.”
    “I could use a good ass-knocking,” I said, in what I thought was a whisper.
    Among other gifts, Nash had bionic ears. He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but Katie Lee nudged him. “Don’t go there.”
    The libation that lurked in the garbage can intrigued me, and I asked Patsy, “Are you having one?”
    Patsy motioned her fingers. “Hey Bubba, two dews.” Clinking her cup to mine, she toasted, “Welcome to The Bern.”
    Nash passed on the bathtub dew, so I asked, “Why aren’t you having one?”
    “Dew is too sweet for my likin,’ but don’t let me stop y’all. Drink up,” he said, pinching a grin.
    The bathtub dew had the kind of kick that could stimulate chest hair to sprout under a bra. I managed to sip mine without drawing extra attention to myself, but when Patsy swallowed a gulp, she puckered her face into a wince and let out the biggest holler I’d ever heard. Her yell gathered momentum, and others in the barn shouted their own hoots and yips. My ears rang, and I couldn’t help but link the yelling to a coyote howl after a fresh kill. I elbowed Katie Lee, “What’s Patsy doing?”
    “Haven’t ya ever heard a rebel yell?”
    Patsy slapped my back. “Let it out darlin’.”
    Down here, a need to scream was considered party-etiquette, so I released my vocal cords and belted out a “Yip-yip, yeahhhh-haw.” It felt damn good.
    Nash shook his head. “Nice coonhound imitation.”
    Katie Lee winked. “You carried that clear outta Craven County.”
    Patsy roosted on the tire wheel of a tractor, and I joined her. She pointed out who dated whom, and who had slept with whom. As far as I could tell, New Bern was an exceptionally active town, sexually speaking. I hoped it would increase my chances of meeting someone as hot as the guy in my Psych class. I didn’t tell Patsy my mission but inquired about potential availability of a few cute guys at the party. Seeing someone outside the barn she wanted to talk to, Patsy leapt off the tire. “Come on. I’ll introduce you around.”
    “What about Katie Lee and Nash?”
    She draped her arm around my neck. “They’ll catch up.”
    With a re-fill of dew in our cups, Patsy talked to some friends about the crushing football game and then we relocated to a pair of metal fold out lounge chairs in a strip of mowed yard between the house and barn. A steady stream of introductions acquainted me with most of New Bern.
    “Whatcha got on that plate?” Patsy asked someone.
    “Billy Ray’s grillin,’” was the reply.
    Mid sip, Patsy swatted my arm. “Come with me and say hey to one of New Bern’s finest. I guarantee you’ll never meet anyone like him.”
     
     
NOTE TO SELF
Patsy McCoy masterfully expresses the English language in ways I never dreamed possible.

Alcohol referenced as, “bathtub dew” is deceitful. It didn’t taste at all like Mr. Bubble.

Redneck yell--completely therapeutic.

Drinking in the middle of no-man’s-land eliminates the worry of getting into trouble with the law.
     
     

7
    S hag, N ot A C arpet
     
    I didn’t have a reason not to go with her, but as we tromped through the high grass, Patsy’s unprovoked giggles made me think this wasn’t the best idea. Walking made me dizzy, and I wished I’d stayed in the lounge chair.