The war referenced in this story is fabricated in order to make the ages and time-lines work.
At thirty she had it all, didn't she? Five years earlier her appearance on a television reality show had quickly brought her worldwide attention and fame. As cheesy as the experience had been, it had opened many doors for her. It hadn't hurt that she was beautiful...sexy.
While she had always struggled with her weight, she was one of those lucky women with the height to carry a few extra pounds. She believed her butt was too big but her ass seemed to ignite male fantasies wherever she appeared or was photographed. Her tits certainly did. She couldn't remember the last man who hadn't stared at them. Her absurdly long legs, shining tresses and "come hither" smile certainly didn't hurt. She was a household name, both adored and despised, depending on the fan base.
A major pop culture weekly had included her in their list of the 100 most beautiful women in the world. Every grimy detail of her life, many exaggerated or patently false, covered the Internet. Her first album had quickly gone double platinum in spite of garnering scathing reviews as "unfocused" or "a muddy mix of pop wannabe and unfulfilled promise." Looking back she had not been pleased with that first effort; it was over-produced and hardly memorable. Her crystal clear voice with its remarkable range and power was often drowned out by over-mixed instrumentals and backup singers. She had attempted to take control of the project---to make it more "current"---to appeal to those who had supported her. Her instincts had been inaccurate or at least inexperienced.
Instead of being perceived as a serious artist, she had become what she so despised---a pop star---or worse. The "worse" was being compared to other marginally talented "pop tarts" who seemed to dominate the current music scene. She knew that she was better than that---knew she "had the music in her" and the ability to stun an audience with her vocal prowess and interpretation. She had done so on isolated occasions but had unfortunately gotten a reputation for being inconsistent and "not living up to her potential."
Her second album had been pure pop---and had also gone multi-platinum. It had garnered even more scathing reviews in spite of producing two number one hits and a Grammy nomination. "Forgettable," said Rolling Stone, and that had been nicer than some others had been. Yet, her label had been ecstatic as the CDs leapt off the shelves and the download sites listed it in their top ten for almost six months.
The constant scrutiny had taken its toll. She certainly knew that her taste in men, as illustrated by several dreadful failed relationships in the previous five years, was abysmal. Prior to becoming famous her record in romance was equally awful. Men certainly wanted to date her---fuck her. She was drawn to men much older than she was. All had been reasonably attractive and moderately successful. All had controlled her...attempted to remake her...shape her to fit their needs. She had let them---encouraged them to do so---and then hated them for it.
'Face it, Taylor. At thirty you are a complete basket case' she thought. 'You're insecure, needy, clingy and neurotic. A string of therapists have had little if any impact on your mental state. You've gone through eating disorders, dabbled in wacko religions and almost ended up in rehab for alcohol abuse. You've been photographed in revealing poses while hanging out with the most notorious pop sluts. The more tawdry the event the more in demand you became---accompanied by a surge in sales of your two decidedly "forgettable" albums.'
Her tours had been a mixed bag. They sold out quickly in spite of the fact that last minute cancellations blamed on laryngitis---but in fact the result of anxiety attacks---were an all too common occurrence. With the right audience and the right frame of mind, she could thrill and dazzle...leave them breathless. Too often she was just going through the motions, allowing the pyrotechnics, a solid band and strong backup singers to carry the load.
The best thing she had done over the previous five years was save most of her money. Taylor had grown up middle class and did not fall prey to the "spend it now" disease that afflicted too many young stars who are enjoying real wealth and false security for the first time in their lives. She had a degree---even had a minor in business. She could quit; she could accept the fact that she would never be considered a serious artist. She could take her money and run. In fact, that was essentially what she had done; she had packed up a few things, gotten in her car and started to drive.
Her label desperately wanted to re-sign her; she had balked, unconvinced that they really cared about her art. She had left that one in limbo. She'd fired her management and furloughed her band. While she still had a contract with her agent and publicist for a few more weeks, she doubted that she would extend it. She had told no one where she was going; she hadn't really known herself. She had made periodic calls to her mother, often simply leaving a message that she was okay but not giving her location.
A little over 2,000 miles later she had taken a detour to a small city with a regional state university in a state which, while south of the Mason-Dixon line, had a decidedly Midwestern ambiance. She'd been attracted to the name of the town in question; she knew absolutely nothing about it. After driving around for several hours, she decided she wanted to stay for a while. Her car was now situated just off the roadway; it had stopped running. She'd opened the hood, more to indicate to passers by that she had car trouble than with any sense that she could fix the car.
***
Jake was tired, sweaty and smelly. He had just hauled the fifth and final load of horse manure to his small spread as part of a vegetable garden project which he had been thinking about for some months. He had stopped at a truck wash to clean up the small, ancient but mechanically sound dump truck before returning it to a friend. He almost didn't stop; hell, whoever it was had probably already called the auto club. At the last second, he hit the brakes and pulled in behind the disabled import, to the consternation of the SUV following too closely behind him whose driver leaned on his horn in expression of his or her ire.
'Jesus, that lady is all legs!' he mused, for it had been the alluring rear view of her tightly clad form which had caused him to stop. Big girl...easily five-nine or ten...a deliciously full rump...not fat by any means but delightfully full figured. "Sturdy" his father would have observed. He climbed down from the cab and ambled toward the legs.
"Hi! I'm Jake. I'd shake your hand but then you'd smell as bad as I do and that wouldn't be right. What seems to be the problem?"
"Taylor. I'm Taylor. I'm not really sure. It just stopped and then I think I ran the battery down trying to get it going again." Taylor was her given middle name; she had adopted her first name professionally even though some record producer had said her middle name sounded more "interesting." Today she was just Taylor, not Katherine.
Taylor quickly perused her new acquaintance. He was tall, easily six-four, sporting at least a two day growth of facial hair, bib overalls over a worn tee shirt and well aged boots. His unkempt hair was decidedly blondish; his shoulders were broad and his arms well formed. His smile was not threatening; in any event it was broad daylight on a well traveled stretch of road. He was obviously a man who worked with his body rather than his mind. The truck was an antique but certainly well maintained. To her surprise she did not find the strong smell of horse manure offensive. She had learned to ride at an early age and knew that she was in the heart of horse country.
"Taylor, do you know something about cars---any thoughts on what might be wrong?"
"Not really. I guess I thought if I looked at it long enough---the engine, I mean---it might start out of pity."
Jake knew something about engines; he examined the engine, checking for a possible loose wire, connection or hose.
"Taylor, is there the slightest chance that you ran out of gas?"
"The gas gage can be a little erratic...I wasn't really paying attention."
"Okay. I've got a can of gas in the truck; let's try that but I'm going to have to drive down and turn around---you need a jump and the cables in the truck aren't that long."
Jake added two and a half gallons of gas to her tank, then climbed back up into the truck. It took almost a mile before he found a place to turn around. Returning he pulled it in front of her vehicle as close as he possibly could. As he was hooking up the cables a police cruiser pulled in behind the stalled auto and turned on its reds and blues. Jake instantly recognized the deputy sheriff as he approached; they'd shared more than a few beers and the occasionally humorous war story at the VFW hall.
"Hey, Mike!"
"Hey, Jake! I thought it was you. You got everything under control here?"
"We're about to find out, Mike. Do you mind doing the honors? I'm pretty sure Taylor here would never get the smell out of her car if I got behind the wheel."
