Butte La Rose

Bonjour!
I’m encouraged by my son Steve’s improvement. Thank you all for asking. He is becoming more aware of what’s happening to him. When his family visits he’ll ask when they’ll return. Now it bothers him to be wearing a diaper. Good changes are happening with his mind and memory. Trying to piece his tortured mind back together, he asks questions about his past to his daughter, Maria, Signs of healing. One of his injuries to his brain is his short term memory. His grandson Sean tells him, “Paw Paw, as soon as your legs get stronger, I’ll take you fishing.” He needs to hear that.
Tiona, continued: All the other drivers were all sooooo nice to me. They motioned me to sit with the gang. One of the drivers called in – no dispatch. Mid-afternoon, we dropped off our tanks and bobtailed down to “The Barn” in Deer Park, another small hangout along the highway south of Houston where truckers and refinery workers go. I tagged along.
We sat at a long table. I had coffee. One of the drivers said, “Cookie, we have to apologize to you. “Jelly Belly (a driver out of Butler) told us you came to work for the company not only to drive but with the intentions to prostitute.”
They agreed with each other on bits and pieces, saying they realized I hadn’t known what they were leading to when they were making me offers of the motel and talking about pimping. They’d all heard the same about me, but the other drivers remained silent. They’d also made gestures toward me.
They’d all been very right – I did not know what was going on. I told them I was very glad this day is over. Forever and ever, this woman (me) had to be on the lookout and defending herself. There’s no telling how long this would’ve gone on had they not told me.
Needless to say I did not tell the company about this encounter. I told these drivers just like they delivered Belly’s message, bring him one from me. I’m calling him Yellow Belly and our paths will cross somewhere someday.
A month later, back at the Fina, I recognized Belly’s truck on the fuel isle. Coming towards me was a short, plump, croaking driver, hands waving. All excited, he said “Cajun Cookie, I wanna tell ya, I ain’t never badmouthed you. The drivers are all lyin’.”
I played like I did not know who he was. “Who are you?” I asked.
“You know me, I’m Jelly Belly.”
“No, I don’t know ya. Come to think of it, I do know of you. You’re the one who put out my name in every truck stop parking lot in the country.”
He spread his hands and pinched up his face.
“So all the Tiona drivers lied? It’s best you walk away from me. I don’t want to see your ugly face.”
I finished my business with my truck, went in, signed my fuel ticket. Belly was leaning against the wall, drinking a Coke. I walked up to him and said, “Belly,” I got a new name for you. It’s not Jelly Belly, you’re Yellow Belly, because you are a yellow-bellied son of a b***h.”
When I said that everyone stopped talking to hear what I’d said. Buddy, I gave them an earful (too much for my column). “I do not have a husband to stand up for me and I don’t need one.” I was punching him on the chest with my finger. He had tears in his eyes. I said, “If I hear any more from you, our encounter will not be over. Now live down that a woman stood up to you! A Cajun!”
The end!

Cousine Hélène
337-280-1988.
helenboudreaux@juno.com.