*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
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"God damn it, okay, Briah, what makes you think I know how fix this piece of shit car?" the woman was yelling at a cute girl as they stood in the Burns & Burns Grocers grocery store parking lot.
Randy Wilson paused his stroll from pickup truck to front door of the grocery store when he heard the woman's tired complaints. He watched as she struggled to open the hood of the old car; Randy wasn't sure what make and model or the age of the rust bucket might be. It was an American automobile, the pride of a bygone Detroit era.
The girl appeared to be nine or ten years old. There was a boy approximately the same age standing by the girl; obviously her brother. Both kids had the same light brown hair and deep brown eyes and haggard expressions on their cute faces.
The woman, all Randy could see of the woman was her sweet bubble butt and her thick legs and round hips as she bent, trying to figure out how to open the hood. Randy did like those thick legs and round ass. He liked her denim cutoffs and the few tendrils of brown pubic hair he could see as he approached them.
"Hi. Mind if I take a look?" Randy asked.
"I yeah, go ahead," Heather Aucoin sighed, exasperated.
"Okay, first off, what's it doing or not doing?" Randy asked as he deftly opened the hood.
"Whoa! How'd you do that?" the girl asked, amazed.
"Right here? There's a latch," Randy pointed, showing Briah Aucoin where the latch was. "Push it up and the hood pops open."
"Cool!" the boy smiled.
"It, it just kind of grinds," Heather said, soft brown eyes begging with Randy to perform a miracle and get her car started.
"All right, mm hmm, and, go ahead and see?" Randy asked as he fiddled with the engine.
Heather scampered to the driver's door and opened the car.
After a moment, the car gave a reluctant gurgle, cough, then started. Randy moved the rod aside and verified that neither child had their hands near the hood. He slammed the hood shut and gave the woman a wave before walking to the store.
"Hey, Mister," Randy heard as he was looking over the selection of honey crisp apples.
"Yeah?" Randy smiled at the cute girl.
"My momma said give you this," Briah smiled, handing him a piece of paper.
'Heather Aucoin' and a phone number was on the piece of paper.
"Tell your momma thank you and I'll call her tonight," Randy smiled.
The girl gave him a big smile and giggle before scampering away. Randy smiled as he continued to pore over the selection of apples. The kids had been dressed in clean clothing. A little plain, and their feet had been shoved into cheap tennis shoes, but they'd been clean, their clothes had been clean.
The mother was a little on the chunky side, had her some meat on them bones, Randy's Uncle Jack would have said.
Uncle Jack wasn't really his uncle. He'd been a good man that had seen a pretty woman with a rebellious adolescent boy and had done his best to lift both mother and son up. Janice Wilson had been grateful, and Randy had just been surly and obnoxious.
And when that surly and obnoxious attitude and behavior had put Randy behind bars, serving five to eight years in Stratton Medium Security Penitentiary, Uncle Jack drove Janice the ninety four miles from Oakleaf, Texas to Stratton every other month so she could visit Randy. Uncle Jack never spoke down to Randy, never disparaged Randy. He did point out to the no longer arrogant young man that the penal system had programs designed to help Randy and encouraged Randy to take advantage of these programs while he was behind bars.
"Shit, boy, not like you got anything else to do, huh?" Uncle Jack said.
So, Randy obtained his GED while behind bars. Then he studied welding. The Alejandro Lopez Grant, set up by Senor Alejandro Miguel Lopez, Jr. in his father's memory paid for the training, with the state of Texas matching the grant dollar for dollar. Thanks to the training, as well as keeping his nose clean, Randy was released three years and four months after entering the prison. The grant did not stop after the bars clanged shut behind the freed prisoner; they helped Randy secure employment with a factory that fabricated frames for vending machines in Lowridge, Texas.
Hey, Wilson," the shop floor manager called out one morning. "Holmes wants to see you."
Watson Holmes was the owner of the factory; Randy wondered why the man would want to see him. Other than his first day on the job, Randy had never spoken with the man.
In the man's cluttered office, Randy wasn't even offered a seat. He was simply told of an opportunity to go to work for a company out of Baylor Lake, Louisiana that provided welders for off-shore oil rigs. Watson had noted Randy's attention to detail, so had recommended Randy for the job.
"When do I start?" Randy asked and Mr. Holmes smiled.
Chris Fontenot was a good man to work for, as long as you worked. Chris was quick to weed out any slackers, or any people that didn't know what they were doing. Hard work was rewarded. Chris recognized those that put in the effort, and recognized those that were trying to look as if they were putting in the effort. Working with Fontenot Equipment & Services, Randy was making a good, honest living.
Now, two years after being released from Stratton, Randy had a pickup truck, a nice apartment in the Magnolia Courtyard Apartments and a woman's phone number in his pocket. His cell phone had a few numbers, a few fuck buddies he could call whenever the mood struck him. If the first number was unavailable, Randy would just move on to the next one in line.
That night, ice cold St. Elizabeth Lager in hand, Randy did call Heather Aucoin. She teased him about butchering her last name; apparently he was not from around here.
"OH kwah(n)," Heather giggled.
"Oh what? How you get OH kwah(n) out of Aw coin?" Randy laughed.
They agreed that Randy would come over the next night for smothered chicken, a way of thanking him for fixing her car. Randy did not say anything about Heather's address being a trailer park; he'd grown up in a trailer park.
Calling his mother, Randy got her to give him her apple crumb cake recipe. Uncle Jack wanted to hear about Randy's shift on the oil rig; Uncle Jack was fascinated by the act of drilling for oil off-shore, in open waters.
Heather Aucoin's trailer was similar to Heather Aucoin's automobile. Randy hoped the steps would hold him as he stepped onto them. The door was weathered and splintering and gave a hollow 'thunk' when he knocked on it.
"Hi," a cute girl answered.
"Hi; you're Briah?" Randy guessed.