the shift sisters

It will have to be explained on the Last Day what caused the Shift Sisters to turn out as they did. These girls cruised Leaksville by night and by day. Fashion magazines spontaneously combusted when they drove by. Pasty, frail and fiery, they smacked juicy-fruit and wore loose, skimpy threads that made the boys lean and look. Stolen shop-rags stuffed their back pockets. Dixie flag bandanas were worn tight, cutting off the circulation to their brains. This made for a constant expression of pride and confusion. Blood-sister pinecone pinky rings were reminders of when they saw Maynard Grubbs get cut in the woods. Dirt impacted choke collars will stay past eternity. Their motion-proof, airtight jeans had ketchup and valvoline stains down both legs. They spoke tersely to hide their teeth. If something was funny, they'd change the subject.

Their identity was in their car, a souped up black Plymouth Fury. Wrapped in heavy chrome and red vinyl, it sat like a cheap casket. Decals of mean woodpeckers and backyard metal shops dotted the back glass. A set of mags stayed stacked on the rear seat to be "put on later." Crushed Sun-Drop cans and Burger Chef bags littered the floor board.

With a skinny leg pressing the clutch, the Plymouth crept forward, just enough, keeping your feet nervous. The engine idled at a deafening roar, like a rocket on a launchpad. Fuzzy dice, hanging from the rearview, would vibrate and spin. The whole ground shook and you'd just nod your head to whatever they were saying. The plastic dog in the back window froze traumatic from looking sideways at high speed. You'd be afraid this car was gonna get ya, like a bald man in the woods.

They'd drive up to a group of people they knew, slowing near a stop to build drama. Clenched fists popped out the windows. Stomping the clutch hard, they'd stare straight ahead, stiffening their necks. With tires pouring smoke and bodies pressed into the seats, the back of the car almost grazed the pavement. Bowl-cut mullets swung, as on a hinge, with each gear change. The crowd raised their fists, watching the car getting as small as their thoughts. The exhaust and tire smoke dissipated and normality returned. What did all this mean? Maybe it meant something was going on, like a gig finger to nothing going on. It had to mean something. Hopefully, for all their trouble, for the Shift Sisters, it did.