Pie, anyone?

We had a rather interesting 4th of July weekend. An old friend of Bill's spent a couple of nights with us.

Like Bill, Jerry is originally from Alabama but has lived in Chicago for years. Divorced since 1972, he never remarried, but he has had several girlfriends through the years. His current 'significant other' accompanied him on this trip.

A tall, thin woman of 67, Joyce sported a platinum blonde Shirley Temple hairdo, and wore tight, low-slung jeans topped with a hot pink satin blouse. Tucked in. Her make-up was golden and thick, and later in the evening as we sat on our deck, her face seemed to glow in the dark. Her blue eyes were lovely, but they were lined with black-as-coal eyeliner, lashes coated with several layers of black mascara. They resembled the legs of a spider. A stocky spider.

They whizzed into the driveway in Joyce's black Monte Carlo, the SS Dale Earnhardt Signature Edition, complete with dual exhausts and spoiler. It's her pride and joy, Jerry later told us, and when they stay in a motel, Joyce insists on a room directly in front of the parking spot, so she can "watch" it.

Before we opened the door, we could hear Joyce's very loud voice, "Should we bring all the bags in now?"

"Whatever you want," said Jerry.

"Or should we wait until later?"

"Whatever you want to do."

"We could bring a few in and get the others later."

"Whatever you want."

That night, Joyce spent an hour in the bathroom, exiting in pink satin pajamas and high-heeled house shoes trimmed in feathers. The feathers waved merrily in the air as she zipped back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom.

Bill, Jerry and I tried to talk between Joyce's frequent interruptions.

"Jerry! Did you lock the car?"

"Yes, Joyce," Jerry said, raising his eyebrows, "I locked the car."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Do you think we should have brought the rest of our bags in?"

The next morning found us at a Paducah restaurant ordering breakfast.

"I want two fried eggs, well-done" Joyce bellowed, "What kind of sausage do you have?"

Everyone in the restaurant stopped talking, forks poised in mid-air, and the waitress glanced around, obviously looking for a quick getaway, "We have patties and links."

"What kind of sausage is it?"

"Ah...pork."

"Pork?"

"Yes, pork."

"Okay, I'll have pork sausage."

"Links or patties?"

"What?"

Jerry leaned forward, brow furrowed, "Joyce, do you want link sausage or patties?"

"Which do you think I should get?"

We were about half way through our meal when Joyce spotted the desserts. "Just look at all those pies and cakes!" she said, "I'm going over there and look at them!"

Everyone in the place stared as she got up, stretched, tucked in her satin blouse and clicked to the counter on her stilettos.

"What kind of cake is that?"

The waitress behind the counter jumped, "It's pineapple."

"And what's that?"

"Chocolate."

"Dark or milk chocolate?"

Jerry was rolling his eyes and shaking his head by the time she returned to the table.

"I don't know if I want that chocolate pie or the pineapple cake," she said, digging back into her sausage and eggs, "Jerry, which one should I get?"

"Whatever you want, Joyce," Jerry said.

"Bill," she said, "What kind do you like best?"

"Doesn't matter to me, "Bill said.

"Brenda?"

"Either one sounds good," I said.

Should I get a few pieces, or the whole pie or cake?"

"Maybe you should get a whole one."

"Would we eat it all?"

By the time we finished and Bill, Jerry and I were at the register, Joyce was back at the dessert counter. "How much is three pieces of that chocolate pie?"

People were lining up at the register. "I have to check out those people," the waitress said, a frantic look on her face.

"Alright, then," Joyce said, placing her hands on her thin hips and taking a deep breath, "I'll just take the whole pie!"

We said goodbye in the parking lot of the restaurant. They were heading on to Kentucky Lake, where they would stay with friends. But they planned to come back and spend Sunday night with us before returning to Chicago on Monday morning.

When we drove off, Joyce and Jerry were placing the pie in the trunk of the SS Dale Earnhardt Signature Edition Monte Carlo. "Be careful, Jerry," she said, "No! Don't put it there; it'll get smashed!"

"I've heard so much about that pie that it makes me sick to think about it," Bill said as we headed home, "I'm glad we don't have to hear about it anymore."

He was wrong.

Sunday afternoon, on their return, we went out to greet them. "Jerry," she said, "Get that pie and put it in the fridge."

A look of panic slid over Bill's face, "That's okay; Brenda made a dessert."

Jerry laughed. "Sorry, Bill, she's going to bring it in, come hell or high water," he said, "Wish I'd thrown it in the lake when I had the chance!"

Later that evening, as Joyce was preparing for her nightly ritual in the bathroom, she pulled the pie out of the refrigerator.

"Anybody want a piece of pie?" she said, "I froze it while we were at the lake, but I think it's still good."

She set it on the dining table, alongside her satin pajamas and a black scarf, and went into the bedroom to fetch her feather-trimmed house shoes.

I quickly snapped the above picture before she returned.

Pie, anyone?