“Look out,” Mike said in a stage whisper. “It’s the fag hag.”
“Ignore the troll in the corner booth, Lance,” Deb said. “Hi, guys,” she said to the twins, whom she had met the previous summer.
“Hi,” they said.
“Are you painting houses again this year?” she said.
“No, Ma’am,” Zeb said. “We’re both working at McDonald’s for the summer.”
“And we’ll be going to the beach a lot,” Zeke said.
“Deb,” I said, “are you working on yet another role?”
“You noticed,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I think that in my mother’s day, you’d have gotten arrested for being dressed like that.”
She was wearing the shortest short shorts I’d ever seen with a halter top that amounted to little more than a bandana, its ends tied between her boobs. Her ample cleavage was barely contained.
“Holy shit,” Mike said. “You’re playing Daisy Mae Yokum.”
“Either that, or Daisy Duke,” I said.
“Give the man a cigar,” she said. “Lance is producing a musical version of the Dukes of Hazzard.”