Olie, being a man of his word, was up bright and early. 7:30am! I agreed to leaving at 9am which means sleeping until at least 8:30am, but apparently what Ollie didn't disclose last night was that leaving for the track meant leaving Bojangle's for the track not leaving the house for the track, which would include a stop for biscuits on the way. It's worse than dealing with my father who prides himself on being able to get one over on people purely through semantics. It is the kind of thing you can't even get upset about, because you are the fool who didn't ask the right questions upfront and assumed that you were dealing with a normal, rational human being.
Anyway, the day started out the same as any other tailgate. Luke and Olie unloaded the trucks while Janey, Beth and I got the tables and chairs set-up. By 10 am we were all settled in with our first beers, enjoying our handiwork as the American and Dale Jr. flags wafted overhead. Olie is the only person I know with a full-size portable flag pole.
Several of Olie and Luke's high school buddies showed up not long after and they all wandered off to toss the football around before the lot filled up. Beth, Janey and I sat around trading recipes and laughing at the guys as they tried to relive past gridiron glories in the middle of a sun baked grass lot.
A little while later, Red arrived with 5 shirtless friends, all sporting farmer's tans, loaded in the bed of his Tacoma. We could hear them hootin' and hollerin' from a quarter mile off. These guys are always entertaining. They are the type that always hold the door open for you, but talk about your ass as you go by; in an appreciative way.
They all piled out of the truck, cranked up some Johnny Cash and set about assembling the smoker for the "drunken" chickens. This is Red's contribution at every tailgate; chickens and the washer boards. As soon as the chickens were safely closed in the smoker the boys started playing washers, accepting challenges from all comers. There was a father and son, a couple of middle-aged good ole' boys drunker than a go-or-go-homer the morning after failing to qualify, a couple of waffle-bellies (girls who think they can find their future husband by pressing themselves against the track fence and yelling at drivers), and a chain smoking granny with her oxygen tank in tow who handed the guys a serious beating.
Somewhere around noon, a gaggle of silly little girls appeared. I say "silly" because some were wearing mini-skirts, others heels, to stand in a field drinking or sit in camp chairs showing their business. SLUTS. But they are everywhere else in the world, so why not at a race.
These girls, let's call them Slut 1, Slut 2, Slut 3, Slut 4 and Lolita, were extra special though. Sluts 1-4 bounced around annoyingly generally getting in the way and constantly whining about something or other to Red and his friends. Lolita, on the other hand, was on a mission to stir things up, and so she did.
Lolita started off as the most sensibly dressed of the group, but she soon fixed that. Her shorts were, well short, but covered everything. That is until she bent over to pick something up, and she seemed to constantly be dropping things. Soon after her butt cheeks started making their appearances, Lolita was compelled to ditch her long sleeve t-shirt. While standing inches from Olie and Red, who were taking a rare chair break, Lolita arched her barely legal back and pulled off her shirt revealing a 3 sizes too small tank top that read "SLUT" in big red letters. Lolita had been blessed/cursed by the mammary gods and was erupting from her top. Her solution was to lean down in Red and Olie's faces and shake the "girls" back into her bra.
Beth was not pleased.
It was about time to fire up the grill, but Olie was getting drunk pretty fast, so I ended up manning the grill for the endless rounds of burgers and brats. Everyone piled plates high with their meat of preference, salads, beans, chips. We had a little of everything on the table. Personally I had 2 pork sandwiches and a brat. I didn't actually get to finish any of them though. Red stole each one from my plate after I had taken a few bites.
"Seriously!! Make your own!" I boomed.
"But you already made this one just right," Red shot back.
I fussed at him each time, but there's not much you can do once Red decides to start in on you accept wait him out.
Sluts 1-4 and Lolita toned it down a bit at that point, but we soon learned that Lolita had further plans. Somewhere in the midst of all of us eating, Lolita decided to plant herself on Olie's lap. Olie who was so sauced he had given himself a timeout from the keg.
Beth was not pleased.
Then Lolita thought it would be a good idea to whisper in Olie's ear and lick the side of his face as he sat there like a deer in headlights. Specifically, his wife's.
Beth was pissed.
"Slut!" she screamed.
"Who? Me?" Lolita asked with false innocence.
"Bitch! What the hell do you think you are doing?" Beth fired back. "Who invited this whore!?"
Still on Olie's lap, and not knowing when to keep her trap shut, Lolita replied, "I'm with Red."
"Not no more," Red said as he pulled her up. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You need to take ya'self on outta here."
Beth took a walk to cool down while Red supervised Lolita gathering her things. Sluts 1-4 had already found a more receptive audience in a group of frat boys nearby.
"But I didn't mean to upset her. I just get really friendly when I'm drunk," Lolita pleaded.
Lying little…I hadn't seen her touch a drop since she got there.
"Just let me talk to her. I'm really not THAT girl," her protest continued.
"Any girl who says 'I'm not THAT girl' IS that girl," Red interjected. "Get on up outta here!"
Beth wandered back around this point and Lolita made a bee-line for her.
"Bess! Bess! I'm so sorry," Lolita gushed. "I didn't mean to start anything. Honest I didn't!" Eyes batting the whole time.
As she reached for Beth's hand, Beth jumped back, looked her up and down exclaiming "My name is Beth, B-E-T-H, you little idiot! Don't you dare get in my face with your lies, you skank!" You could see Beth's dander rise, "I thought she was told to leave!?"
Red grabbed Lolita by the arm and drug her over to her friends and left her there, not uttering a word the whole time.
Red might be a redneck, hence the nickname, but he is also one of the most loyal people I have ever met. Red will push your buttons, six ways from Sunday, but if any one messes with one of "his people", he is the first to come to their defense. It is startling how fast he can go from country bumpkin and southern gent.
Things calmed down after that, thankfully.