There Are No Rules for This by JJ Elliott

Author:JJ Elliott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press

The Time I Sprung Her from the Pokey

Four years before

I am startled out of sleep by the ring of my cell phone sitting on the nightstand. Mid-sleep phone calls always send my adrenaline through the roof, and this is no exception. I snatch the phone up and see that it’s Feeney calling.

I hit the accept button and ask under my panicked breath, “Are you okay?”

“I’m in jail. I need you to bail me out,” she responds, in a tone of voice that suggests she’s royally pissed.

“Oh God.” My mind reels and then catches on something. “It was the van, wasn’t it?”

“I snapped. It was parked on our street again tonight. I gave it a major mastectomy.”

“With?”

“Black spray paint.”

Feeney has been on a rampage about a sexy maid service van that keeps parking on her street. It’s Pepto-Bismol pink with giant photos of busty women in French maid outfits plastered on the sides. She calls it “Satan Tits” because the phone number emblazoned on the side is 1-800-666-BUST. She’s been talking about how she wants to deface it for months. Apparently it wasn’t the idle threat we all assumed it was.

“What did you do?” I ask, cringing.

“I took it from PG-13 to G. Or perhaps I should say from DD to A. Take a look for yourself on your way over here.”

“Oh God. Okay, where do I go? The police station downtown?”

“You’ve lived here your whole life and you’ve never been hauled off to jail?” she says. “I’m beginning to rethink our entire friendship.”

“My bad.” I’m hunkered under the covers so as not to wake up Drew, in a cozy tent that only fits myself and my incarcerated friend.

She sighs dramatically at my lack of a criminal past and says, “Yes, I’m in the pokey downtown. Come spring me.”

“I’ll be there in less than ten.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, then hangs up.

I sit there for a minute processing everything, then laugh to myself and swing my feet onto the floor. Leave it to Feeney to introduce me to my friendly neighborhood police station.

On my way to the station, I make a side trip down Feeney’s street. The van is parked toward the end of the street, I can see the pink glowing in my headlights. As I get closer, I see that every girl is now wearing a black, spray-painted turtleneck. One has black eyeglasses, another has a black bow in her hair. They all look decisively unsexy. I feel a flash of pride for my vandal friend.

I flip the car around and as I do so, my headlights illuminate the windshield of the van. I audibly gasp. Feeney had spray-painted two crude pigs’ heads onto it in a way that looks like they’re driving. On the hood she had written in big block letters, “OINK! WE’RE PIGS!” My pride grows.

I pull up to the station, a brick building nestled next to the office of the local newspaper and across the street from a restaurant we often go to when it’s one of our birthdays.

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