One of a Kind

Keith sighed heavily from the driver’s seat of his Toyota Tundra, which unfortunately doubled as his personal vehicle and work truck. Although his family built the town over 130 years ago, the beloved city of Bluebonnet was not in a position to purchase him an official law enforcement vehicle. The Baileys owned almost every square inch of Bluebonnet and held every official governing position the city had to offer. It was a true monopoly over the town and its residents, and the word ‘democracy’ was an absolute joke around those parts. The 800 residents of Bluebonnet knew this, but they were uneducated, poverty-stricken, and disenfranchised. Most were either too scared to speak against tyranny or completely complacent. They were fine with how things were as long as their day-to-day lives didn’t change, and they could bitch and moan once a month at the town hall meetings. Oh, and they could have their guns. The Second Amendment was about the only one that the gun-toting residents of Bluebonnet could recite by heart, and all the others be damned. Around here, the Constitution didn’t matter unless it was used to directly benefit a Bailey. Bluebonnet never once claimed to be the home of the brave and the land of the free.

It was Keith’s first official year as the town’s sheriff, and he wasn’t even sure that he received the position of his own merit. Yes, other names were on the ballot, but no one dared to check any box other than Keith Bailey. During his campaign, his uncles visited the residents’ homes who didn’t sport ‘Vote for Keith’ lawn signs and banners and made sure to set them straight. By the time they left the property, the homeowners either had a ‘Vote for Keith’ sign in their front yard or his opponent’s sign was no longer in sight. They also went as far as gently threatening those who didn’t seem to get with the program quick enough with the possibility of increased property taxes or unemployment. They planned on hitting the uncooperative residents where it hurt: their already struggling pocketbooks. Bluebonnet was easily the poorest city in Texas, and it definitely showed. Those threatened barely had a pot to piss in and knew that Keith’s Uncles Ken and Klark would make good on their promises.

Keith wasn’t made aware of this until after his uncles bragged and took credit for him winning the election, and if he had known, he would’ve gracefully bowed out. Well, he would’ve liked to think that he had the courage to do so, but just like the townsfolks he swore to protect, he was a hostage himself and wasn’t free to make his own decisions. His father, the town’s mayor, allowed Keith a little taste of freedom when he permitted him to attend college in South Texas, but once he crossed that stage and received his degree, Keith was called back home. Keith knew that he didn’t have a choice. It was either return home willingly or have his uncles find him and drag him back. With Percy Bailey, there was never any room for compromise.

His father had been on his ass lately about finding a suitable woman for himself and settling down. Keith would happily remain single if his only pick of the litter was from Bluebonnet. At that point in his life, he would much prefer to be a doting uncle instead of coming home to a loud-mouth wife and crying children that drove him to drink.

That’s how most of the women of Bluebonnet were: belligerent, loud, uncouth, not to mention desperate. Keith damn near had to wear riot gear when he responded to calls for a “female in distress.” Of course, when he arrived, there was always a single woman claiming to have seen someone lurking in the window or trying to break in her back door. He would come, and nine times out of ten, they would be seductively dressed and have a meal fit for a kin,g coincidentally laid out on the table. They would thank him profusely for responding quickly, ask if he’d eaten, and comment that they knew there wasn’t a Mrs. Keith Bailey at home, so he might as well grab a bite. Keith declined every time, hoping they would eventually get it through their thick skulls that he’d eaten so many secret recipe homemade apple pies that they’d all started to taste the same. Theirs wouldn’t get him to put a ring on it.

Of course, that also started the messy rumor that he was gay to explain why he hadn’t partaken in anything that the “fine” women of Bluebonnet offered. Why did he have to be gay because he didn’t want to settle for the bottom of the barrel? Not to mention, all the women looked the same, and there was no variety in the slim pickings. If the women weren’t blonde, then they dyed their hair blonde. The problem with that was that they were too poor to even maintain proper hair maintenance, and their brunette or sometimes red roots would come back with a vengeance. They couldn’t even go to Susie, the town’s only hairdresser, because she wasn’t licensed, and Lord help her, but she didn’t know how to read higher than a fourth-grade level, resulting in her mixing some products that caused poor Emma Jean’s brunette curls to fall out in clumps in Susie’s porcelain rinsing bowl. Keith remembered that day as if it were yesterday. He received a frantic call from the town’s barber, Mr. Lennox, who reported an assault in progress. Keith arrived to find Emma Jean on top of Susie, banging her head on the floor. Everyone in town knew that Emma Jean loved her lustrous curls more than life itself, so none of them were shocked that Emma Jean was charged with attempted murder but later released.

Keith sat outside Dusty’s Tavern, trying to find the willpower to go inside and wrangle his 70-year-old grandfather off the rickety barstool closest to the jukebox he’d claimed. No one dared to sit in Old Man Jefferson Bailey’s seat, or they’d have to face the consequences of being banned from drinking at the only watering hole in town. Old Man Bailey was just as set in his ways as his father and was ten times harder to deal with sober, let alone inebriated.

Keith’s lips curled in disgust as he stared at his grandfather’s brand-new truck that was worth more than triple his yearly salary. How could the people who built and led this town hold so much wealth and watch as their people survived off scraps? At least half of the city was on welfare, and the other half wished they were because they were barely over the eligibility cutoff. Another reason women threw themselves at Keith was because they thought that, like his uncles and his father and grandfather, he was swimming in dough, which wasn’t the case. Keith did okay for a single 29-year-old man, and everything he owned was earned through his hard work. He worked throughout college and saved, knowing that once he graduated, he would want a nest egg to rely on until he found the right job.

The townsfolk believed that Keith's status as a Bailey meant he had a substantial bank account and was living the good life. However, in reality, Keith would remain just a couple of thousand dollars above the poverty level until he took over as mayor after his father's retirement. Keith didn’t want the money, and he sure as hell didn’t want the job either and prayed that Percy Bailey was nowhere near retirement. Keith never wanted to enter law enforcement and had actually gone to school for accounting. He was always good with numbers and dreamed of becoming a CPA. Keith knew that one day he would have the courage to leave the backwater town of Bluebonnet, but he didn’t see that happening soon.

Bluebonnet was, of course, named after the beautiful blue flowers that rampantly grew throughout the town. They had fields upon fields of bluebonnets in the spring that would attract out-of-towners who arrived in droves to take pregnancy, graduation, and engagement photos in the fields. Truthfully, the bluebonnet tourism was the town’s primary source of income. The visitors would come and take their photos, and their curiosity would lead them to peruse the rest of the dead-end town. They’d end up eating a meal at Martha’s Diner or buying fresh jams and baked goods from Ms. Judy, who owned the town’s local bakery. Then they’d travel to the general store and purchase assorted knick-knacks or shirts with the word ‘Bluebonnet’ splashed across the front of the cheap cotton with their town’s motto: “Bluebonnet...the bluest city in Texas”. Those shirts were overpriced and of the poorest quality, but Keith would guarantee that every person in that household bought one of those $20.00 t-shirts, only for the stenciling to peel off after the first wash. The awkward tourists would even brave going to Dusty’s Tavern for a refresher, only to soon realize it wasn’t their scene and quickly pay their tab and leave.

The residents of Bluebonnet were eager to have the tourists...the white tourists, that is. Anyone who was any shade other than fair, ivory, alabaster, or somewhere in between was quickly informed they weren’t welcomed and shown the way back out of town. Keith always thought the town’s way of thinking was asinine. Instead of collecting the revenue that would help feed their children and keep a roof over their heads, they turned away people who were different from them. It was 2020, and the residents behaved as if they lived in a perfect sphere, isolated from the rest of the world they believed threatened their existence. Truthfully, they were all illiterate rednecks who couldn’t even attempt to spell the word illiterate if their child’s life depended on it.

“Just go inside and strongly suggest that it’s time for him to go home because Nana is waiting on him,” Keith muttered to himself as he slid out of the cool truck into the sticky heat of the afternoon Texas sun. He entered the poor excuse of a bar and instantly wished someone would retire the busted jukebox in the corner that struggled to play whatever Kid Rock song was on repeat that day. And, of course, his Grandpa was sitting right next to it, drunk as a skunk, bobbing his head to the beat.

“Afternoon, Sheriff. You here for yer daily pick-up?” Dusty chuckled from behind the bar. Keith stared at him with a blank expression on his face. This was almost a daily task for Keith, and that little joke became old after the first three times Dusty told it nearly a year ago.

“Afternoon, Dusty,” Keith managed to say as he made his way to the barstool beside his grandfather.

“Sumthin’ to wet yer whistle, Sheriff?”

“No, thank you. I’m still on shift,” Keith responded. He wouldn’t dare accept a drink from the tap there, nor did he trust that the glasses were clean. The place was hazardous to the brave occupants’ health, and if the state cared enough to send the health department their way, then the bar would likely be condemned. The roof leaked when it rained. Dusty refused to replace the roof and resorted to poorly patching it instead. Keith was convinced that black mold ran rampant in the ceiling and walls and was probably why Grandpa had difficulty breathing in the first damn place. His lungs were undoubtedly riddled with mold spores, hence why he was attached to a breathing machine at night. It was damn near guaranteed that by the time Dusty fixed your drink and slid it to you down the bar, there would be a gnat or two doing backstrokes through the filmy foam of your Budweiser. Everything in the building was sticky, from the bar top to the floor. When it came to the bathroom, it was best to go outside and relieve yourself rather than chance whipping your dick out for something to jump on it as soon as it contacted the air. The barstools were rickety, and the leather booths were worn with permanent butt impressions, gashes, and cigarette burns. That was another thing about Dusty’s: you ain’t going home without smelling like you just smoked a carton. Keith was forever grateful the seats in his truck were leather. Sadly, he resorted to undressing in his garage each night and tossing his clothes into the washer before entering the house.

Keith didn’t want to be in the bar longer than necessary, but he knew getting his ornery grandfather out of the bar would take at least thirty minutes. “Boy, why is you here?” his grandfather drawled disdainfully.

“Grandpa, you know why I’m here. It’s the same reason why I’m here every day. Nana has dinner on the stove, and it’s time for you to go home.”

“Well. You can call up Nana and tell her that she ain’t the boss of nobody, and I’ll make it home when I see fit!” he huffed. Keith rolled his eyes, knowing that he would have to spend the next thirty minutes listening to the regulars bitch and moan about how life wasn’t fair and blame all their financial woes on minorities and the past presidency.

Emanuel Snyder, one of the biggest deadbeats in town, swore up and down that America would never recover after Obama ran the country into the ground, and poor President Trump just had his hands tied fixing all of Obama’s errors, and that’s why America wasn’t so great right now and also the reason why he stayed broke. Keith wanted to open his mouth and tell him that he was still broke because he couldn’t read worth a hill of beans and never even graduated middle school, and therefore was mostly unemployable. The jobs he was qualified for were manual labor, and of course, he thought he was too good for that and once claimed that he wasn’t doing a spic’s or a nigger’s job. Instead of worrying about making America great again, he needed to worry about the town he claimed to love and try to do something to contribute. Maybe then they could all make Bluebonnet at least decent. Great was too much of a stretch and probably would never be achieved in Keith’s lifetime.

“Come on, Grandpa. I’ve had a long day myself, and I’m ready to get home. Let’s go.”

“Boy, ain’t nuthin’ finna get me out my seat. Goodbye.” Keith was about to respond when Mike Pandor busted through the dilapidated front door, panting and gulping for air as if he had been chased for five miles by an angry mob.

“Jesus, Mike, take a seat. What’s got you so outta sorts?” Dusty asked, sliding him a glass of dirty tap water that was most likely teeming with harmful microbes and metals. Keith grimaced as Mike shakily gulped down the unfiltered water and was grateful that he had invested in a water filtration system at home.

Mike slammed the glass down and ran his hands through his unruly hair, tugging harshly at the roots. “You know we s’pose to be gettin’ that new principal, right?” The men in the room nodded in agreement. “Well, I have been speakin’ to her ‘bout renting Widow Cooley’s place that’s just been sittin’ dere since he left. She sounded like a real, real nice lady on the phone and really smart, too. Her name is Tatyana Lee, but I just got done meetin’ wit her, and she is not related to our good hero and friend General Robert E. Lee if you catch my drift.”

Confused, the men looked around the room, waiting for Mike to expound. “I fucked up. She done moved in already because I sent her the key after I received her deposit along with the first and last month’s rent, and we gonna have a hell of a time gettin’ her out.”

“Why would we want to run away the new high school principal?” Keith asked, curious as to why Mike seemed so scared.

“Because she’s a got damn nigger! She fooled me on the phone, talkin’ all proper with her white woman soundin’ voice!”

Keith’s mouth dropped in shock. Not because Ms. Lee was a Black woman but because he knew the dusty podunk town of Bluebonnet was about to raise all kinds of hell. Keith already felt sorry for the woman and knew that the town folk would run her out before the sun set and the stars were visible in the sky. The sound of wood scraping against wood caught his attention. He turned to his right and watched as his grandfather threw a couple of bills on the bar top and placed his Stetson on his head.

“Tell Nana I’mma be home much later than I anticipated. Tell her that sumthin’ just came up, and me and the boys have to go handle that.”

“I’ll get right on that, Grandpa,” Keith answered, frantically dialing his phone to reach the station. Keith ran out of the bar before anyone else and jumped in his truck, knowing that word would spread through town about their new resident and social unrest would soon begin.

“Hello?”

“Trevor, it’s Keith. I need you and Finn to meet me at Widow Cooley’s property as soon as possible.”

“Oh, is this about the Black woman movin’ into town?”

“You got it.”

“Awright, we’ll be there as soon as we can. Hopefully, she’ll be all right until we get there.”

Yeah, no shit, Keith thought as he tossed his phone into the cup holder and picked up speed, flinging gravel and loose dirt behind his vehicle. He opened his center console, pulled out a Red Bull, and popped the tab. “It’s gonna be a long fucking night.