Somewhat Saved (5 page)

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Authors: Pat G'Orge-Walker

BOOK: Somewhat Saved
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“I'll be there,” Sasha replied. “Where do you live, again?”
Bea stopped moving and with the hem of her long blue pleated skirt still swirling about, she pulled out a pen from her pocketbook to write down her address on the back of an old bingo card.
Sasha took the card gingerly and smiled at Bea. She winked and folded the card in half, tucking it down between the folds of her breast.
Not sixty seconds passed before Sasha forgot where she'd placed it and patted her lower front pocket to make sure the card hadn't fallen out. Her breasts were so long she didn't know where her bra ended and her front pocket began.
It was almost nine o'clock. Completely exhausted, the Reverend Bling gave the benediction and a few more warnings of secrecy to the mothers.
Five minutes later, the church doors closed and the remaining people scattered. The reverend limped off into a waiting car, leaving the two old women standing on the sidewalk. He'd had enough drama for one night. Offering them a ride was out of the question, and although killing them might be the only way to gain peace of mind, he wasn't ready for a prison ministry.
Ignoring the apparent slight from the reverend, Bea laid a finger between the folds of her two bottom chins and asked impishly, “Do you think he was serious about us not telling anyone about the trip?”
“It's hard to tell. I don't think he's ever serious about much,” Sasha answered. “But he'd better be about this trip.” She stopped and shifted her Bible and cane from hand to hand before continuing. “It don't matter if he was serious about us keeping quiet; I can't. I have a couple of folks I need to brag to.”
I can't wait to tell that know-it-all Sister Betty how God blessed me tonight. She ain't the only one He blesses
. The smile crept across her face as she reveled in the moment of bringing down one of her oldest church enemies.
“I wanna tell her, too.” Bea chuckled. As another wave of hot outdoor air enveloped her, she fanned her face, only stopping long enough to wave for a cab. One finally pulled up and the women decided to share the ride and split the cost.
During the cab ride the two old women shared further thoughts and space without bickering. That was until they got about two blocks from the adjacent streets where they lived, and Alzheimer decided to let them know that he was riding along, too. They suddenly started fighting about everything from what was the best brand of bladder control diapers to whether or not they would be among the 144,000 caught up in the rapture.
5
The plane trip from the Greenville-Spartanburg Airport to Las Vegas was uneventful. Sasha and Bea were so exhausted from the previous week of packing, arguing, and other senior-related issues, they'd fallen asleep immediately after boarding. By the time they'd landed, they were well rested and ready for their adventure.
“G'bye,” repeated a stewardess with a creamy-colored Barbie doll body and teeth white enough to rival the color of new fallen snow. She stood at the aircraft door and said over and over, “Thank you for flying Closet Air. Please come again.”
“G'bye to you, too.” Sasha smiled and waved.
“Isn't she just too pretty?” Bea giggled and pointed back.
“Yes. She's just as pretty as a picture,” Sasha cooed. “I betcha you were probably that pretty, too, when you were younger.”
“Much prettier,” Bea replied, laughing again.
As they walked away, they shifted the pocketbooks in their hands and locked arms for support.
Between the temporary memory lapse of their feuding relationship and the Las Vegas scenario, the old women were suddenly behaving like the Christian women they claimed to be.
They were deep in conversation as they oohed and aahed over the airport sights. Even as they passed crowded rows of nickel slot machines with ever hopeful tourists' imprisoned hands glued to the levers, they oohed and they aahed but kept their change in their pockets. They looked like mismatched cherubs dressed in white, clutching their pocketbooks and Bibles in the busy baggage area.
“How are you holding up, Bea?” Sasha asked as she reached up and gently patted the clammy arm of her current best friend.
“I'm doing just lovely, Sasha dear.” Bea chuckled. “I can't wait to see what wonderful transportation the reverend arranged for our ride to the hotel.”
“If it's anything near as grand as the plane ride, I'm sure we will enjoy it.”
As soon as they and the skycap ventured through the revolving airport doors and onto the sidewalk and into the warm sun, they saw a tall, thin, young man with mocha-colored skin and acne clusters holding a placard with their names. He stood several feet away between a late-model, white stretch-limousine and a dark blue 1998 Beetle.
“Pray Onn and Blister,” he called out slowly, several times, as the shadow from the hot sun silhouetted his pocked face.
“Oh, listen, Bea,” Sasha gushed. “That young man standing over there is calling our names.”
“I see,” Bea replied. She then turned to the skycap and pointed to the man with the placards.
“Good, please follow me.” The skycap pushed the luggage car and the women followed.
“You see, dear, the reverend took care of everything,” Sasha said softly, pointing straight ahead. “Don't you just love that white stretch limo at the curb?”
“Sure do. I can't wait to get inside with all that cool air-conditioning,” Bea said as she slipped a five-dollar bill to the skycap and directed him toward the limo.
The women donned their sunglasses and strutted, as best they could, like movie stars with plenty of attitude to make folks think they were.
At the same time the young man with the placard approached the old women and the skycap started pushing his luggage cart toward the limousine, as the passenger door to the limousine opened.
And the old adage
never let the devil ride 'cause he'll wanna drive
took on a new meaning.
6
While Bea and Sasha were trying to gain entry to the limo, squads of airport security police dashed through the Las Vegas airport terminal with their weapons drawn.
“Get down!” the police yelled, causing droves of screaming passengers to dive for cover, knocking over trash cans and rushing to the restrooms for safety.
Four police officers crashed through the revolving doors leading to the front of the passenger pickup area.
With rifles shoulder high, they screamed at the old woman hunched over with one knobby knee placed firmly on the back of a fallen man wearing a dark uniform. The man was screaming and clutching a placard.
“Madam, release the man and step away,” one of the police officers demanded. “We'll take it from here.” She was close enough for him to forgo using a bullhorn.
“Oh, thank the Lord, you've arrived,” Sasha responded while clutching her heart. She let her fingers spread wide as though she were trying to prevent her heart from escaping her scrawny chest. She nodded toward the curb. “That's my best friend, Bea. She's been holding that craggy piece of flesh until y'all arrived,” she explained.
“Madam, please move back. We'll handle it,” repeated one of the officers, a portly black man in his twenties who looked unattractive both physically and mentally. As he approached Sasha, he pushed his gun back into the holster, then quickly but gently took her by the elbow, attempting to pull her to safety behind a nearby column.
He had no way of knowing that all his actions would send hell into overtime.
 
 
Three hours later, they all stood before a judge in a Las Vegas courthouse. The judge was a stoop-shouldered, elderly Caucasian man with paper-thin hair. He wore an ill-fitted black robe, no doubt from his days before legal burdens forced his shoulders into submission.
“Unbelievable,” the judge said as he leafed through the mound of papers placed in front of him by the law clerk. His eyes grew wide and then narrowed, making it seem as though he thought he must've done something wrong in his previous life to deserve the chaos now in his courtroom. “I'm too old for this crap.” His supposed muffled declaration traveled loudly around the courtroom because of the mounted microphone.
“Is there an attorney present for the accused?” The judge continued to let his head rest in his hands as his elbows slid back and forth across the bench.
“Sammy Coch, of the Coch, Roach, and Spray Esquires, located at One-oh-six Strip Row, Las Vegas, Nevada.” His voice was deep, and yet a bit effeminate. He was a tall, middle-aged, Asian man whose courtroom antics and the amount of cases won were legendary in the Las Vegas legal community. Just like any good legal hound dog, he'd followed the smell of money and another opportunity to embarrass the court when he thought the old women were wealthy movie stars.
Neither Bea nor Sasha knew who the man was who'd stood up for them and at that moment, they didn't care. Instead, they stood like misunderstood angels with their hands cuffed in front. They were so much in sync that even raising a cuffed hand to dab at an invisible tear was done at the same time.
“I'm misunderstood,” Sasha sobbed softly. She stopped suddenly and leaned on her cane for sympathy. Somehow the security personnel wrongly thought the cane was not a problem.
Sasha even went so far as to let her bottom lip quiver. But that only lasted a few seconds because those false teeth were about to make an involuntary court appearance, too.
“He misrepresented himself,” Bea added haltingly, with loud sobs accompanying each word.
The judge was so put out he'd not raised his gavel once to silence them.
And then Sammy Coch did his thing. By the time the attorney finished explaining the situation with a bunch of “to wits and ergo's,” he was treading on the judge's last good nerve. “Whereby, your honor, with the court's permission, I plan to prove that these poor old women are the victims of a simple misunderstanding.”
“Didn't I just say that?” Bea was trying to whisper to Sasha and was doing a miserable job of it. A stern look from the judge caused her to shut up.
“. . . When these sweet elderly women arrived in Las Vegas . . .”
He's got one more time to call me old,
Bea thought angrily,
and I'm wrapping his behind in a wonton
. But she was smart enough to keep tears in her eyes, the same eyes she kept trained on the judge, who had his trained on her as well.
“. . . they thought they were about to be kidnapped,” Sammy Coch droned on, ignoring the look of confusion on the judge's face. “They reacted appropriately by beating the accuser. They thought a limousine was to pick them up and instead that man—”
Sammy Coch stopped and dramatically pointed his finger at the chauffeur who stood with bloodshot eyes, mentally tattered, and still clutching his placard to cover his torn pants zipper.
“That man, a man much younger, much stronger, and with a much longer criminal record.” Sammy Coch really didn't know whether there was a criminal record involved, but the accusation usually worked. He continued, “He physically tried to force these innocent old women into another car, which was obviously too small. Naturally, the women tried to defend themselves.”
The judge had seen and heard enough. He bucked forward from his chair, letting it rock loudly, and banged his gavel. He'd made up his mind, which was prompted by the fact that he had a golf game shortly. He rustled a few papers, which included the arrest record of the driver. He shook his head in disgust and blatantly ignored the fact that the long criminal record was actually just one charge, and a sealed one at that, and went ballistic on the poor driver.
“How dare you take advantage of a tourist?” The judge banged the gavel again and raised his voice. “These poor old women without knowledge of the streets were just putty in your hands. Weren't they? Thirty days in county!”
The driver looked around to see if another case had started and he just wasn't aware.
The judge summoned the bailiff. “Cuff this criminal and get him out of my sight. And I'd better not see you back in my court.”
By the time the driver caught a clue that he'd been railroaded by two old women, only the back of his behind, and his cuffed wrists, could be seen.
And, instead of thanking the judge and their attorney, Bea and Sasha sucked their teeth and admonished them for calling them “old” in public. As usual, Bea waddled away with her back bent over, making her look not only like a darkened Quasimodo, but an angry one as well. Sasha did what she always did when she wanted to have the last word. She grasped her cane, snatched her Bible off the bench, and shook what used to be her “money maker,” and was now only worth a few pennies, at the judge and left.
“Ow,” Bea winced, “my back is killing me.”
“I'm in pain, too,” Sasha shot back. “Putting a li'l sumpthin' extra in my switch caused a shooting pain up my hip bone.”
So the two old women who dared anyone to refer to them as such hurried off as fast as they could, to find some salve and heating pads.
During the time it'd taken for the court procedures to happen, Sister Betty had also arrived in Las Vegas. Two representatives from the Las Vegas Crossing Over Temple met her at the airport. In between, the several hallelujahs, church greetings, and her need to hurry out of Sin City and back to Pelzer, Sister Betty rode sulking to the Luxor Hotel.

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