Granny Toots

Be honest. How many of you have lost your car in a parking lot? You were in a hurry. The seven-acre lot was packed. You took the first open spot you could find. Then walked the length of the Appalachian Trail to get to a store, ballgame, or nearest bathroom. When you came back out, your car had decided to play a prank and moved to an undisclosed location—without leaving a forwarding address.

How rude!  Now, you’re wandering up one row and down the next praying this isn’t the early onset of dementia. Finally, you spot your car, hunkered between two giant SUVs, laughing its bumper off. Don’t feel bad. Happens all the time to people your age.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our traffic controller, who sometimes poses as a parking meter,  is Snookie LaRue Wisoff-Fields.  If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

Bubba and TJ rolled out of the truck and ambled inside Granny Toots. 

Trixie Burke, a dishwater blonde, escorted them to a table.

“You boys look thirsty. What’ll it be? Cans, bottles, or a pitcher?”

“Make it a pitcher.” Bubba glanced toward the pool tables. “What’s the special tonight?”

“White beans with ham, cornbread, and green onions. Or brown beans with bits of pulled pork, cornbread, and sliced onions.”

Bubba scrunched his face. “They both sound like they’d make some real eye-burners.”

Trixie shrugged. “Like Granny says, ‘This is the only filling station in town where you get free gas.’”