Approximately 14 minutes later, a neon green Cadillac with flames painted down the side shrieked through the calm, elegant streets of Southern Vista, the most exclusive neighborhood in town.  Bursting through the iron gates and racing up the driveway, the Cadillac skidded to a stop right next to Dallas Jean’s hot pink VW bug, which was a sight of terror for most people in their area of East Texas.

Leaping out of the car, a stout woman with flaming red hair and bronze skin marched into the house, carrying a crucifix in one hand and a margarita glass filled with a bright red liquid in the other.  Adelaida Autumn, Dallas Jean’s best friend and sometimes lounge singer, was a half Mexican-half Creole transplant from Louisiana who spent her days trying to read palms and help relatives speak to loved ones on the other side.  She was only successful enough times to convince her she had a true gift.  When she wasn’t with Dallas Jean, she spent her time soaking her feet in her front yard in a wading pool dressed in a mumu and sipping Big Red out a of margarita glass while giving her Chihuahua, Fez, a running commentary on the events of the neighborhood.

Her husband is a well-respected senator who never discusses his home life.

“Dallas?’ Adeladia shouted, barreling over three of Dallas Jean’s dachshunds, known as Larry, Curly and Mo.  She also had two Great Danes who guarded the veranda named the Lone Ranger and Tonto, and a mastiff named Mr. Ed.  “Dallas Jean?”  She sniffed the air, catching a whiff of chocolate chip cookies.

“Hello, Adelaida,” Grayson squeaked, peeking out from behind a wall.  He had never gotten over the time Adelaida tried to exorcise the spirit of Napoleon out of him after he tried to reduce Dallas Jean’s spending habits.

“Grayson.”  Adelaida’s face curled into a snarl as she whirled around.  “You dirty rat, running for politics.  How dare you!  How dare you sell your soul and your family’s freedom!”

“Your husband is a senator,” Grayson pointed out, sliding further behind the wall so only the whites of his eyes were visible.

“Precisely!” Adelaida bellowed, flinging her arm out.  Big Red sloshed over her margarita glass and sprinkled on the floor.  Larry, Curly and Mo raced over, their stubby tails wagging as they eagerly lapped it up.  “Listen, Grayson,” Adelaida warned, narrowing her eyes.  “Get out of this why you can.  I know that manager of yours is turning your head, filling it full of grand ideas.  But politics change people.”  A smirk crossed her face.  “Give me your palm.”

Grayson slid back so only his eyebrows were visible.  “Uh, perhaps another time.”

“Hey, Aunt Adelaida.”  A miniature version of Dallas Jean, sauntered into the room, dressed in blue jeans and a polo shirt without a trace of her mother’s garish make up.  Her sleek blond hair shimmered in the light, her unadorned lips curled into a smile.  At fifteen, Clementine Jane was far too serious and focused on world events to consider fashion important.  “Mom’s in the kitchen baking.”

“Baking?”  Adelaida’s nose twitched.  “That means she’s in a good mood.  Why is she in a good mood when this traitorous, yellow-bellied”–

“Watch it,” Grayson warned from his post behind the wall.

“Personally, I think it’s wonderful Dad is running for office,” Clementine Jane replied.  “I’ve always thought that this family should become more involved in changing our environment.  I’ve already secured the scoop for my internship at the paper.  I can’t wait to help with the campaign.”

Shivering, Adelaida backed away slowly.  “You’re possessed.  You’re demented.  You’re insane!” she shouted, turning and running into the kitchen.  Skidding on one of Dallas Jean’s flowery kitchen rugs, the rest of her Big Red splashed all over the floor, much to the delight of Larry, Curly and Mo.  “Dallas Jean!” she bellowed as her friend pulled a fifth pan of cookies out of the oven.  “What the hell is wrong with your family?”

Dallas Jean shrugged and dumped the pan on the marble counter.  “Everything I suppose.”

“Your daughter, the journalist, wants to get involved in the campaign!” Adelaida shrieked.  “Have my own offspring not served as a warning to the perils of political life?”

“You don’t have any kids,” Dallas Jean drawled, wrinkling her forehead.

“Precisely!” Adelaida shouted.

“I was thinking about getting involved myself,” Dallas Jean mused, ignoring her friend’s shocked expression.

“WHAT?” Adelaida shrieked.  “When you said help, I assumed you meant burning down buildings, shipping your husband to Mexico, things like that.  Dallas Jean, you hate politics.”

“I do,” Dallas Jean replied.  “I really do.  Which is why if my husband’s going to be involved, I might as well like it.”

Adelaida’s eyes glowed.  She twirled her empty margarita glass in her hand.  “Explain.”

“Well, Norman Wellington wants me to be the perfect candidate wife,” Dallas Jean spat, pursing her lips.  “He wants me to wear dull pantsuits and host luncheons, cut ribbons at charity events, read to poor children, visit the ill…”

Adelaida almost puked in her Big Red cup.

“Exactly,” Dallas Jean said, her voice rising with excitement.  “But do we care about any of that?”

Adelaida shrugged.  “Maybe the old people.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Dallas Jean said.  “I do care.  I care about poor children without a home, I care about people that haven’t seen their family since they were dumped in those terrible places.  I care about animal shelters and domestic abuse victims.”

Adelaida wrinkled her nose.

“But,” Dallas Jean said emphatically, “I don’t want to do anything for press.  I don’t want to hand out money to programs who aren’t really helping.  I don’t want to press flesh, take some pictures and pat myself on the back.  If I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it.  Like that time we gave all those old folks puppies and kitties so they’d have a friend.  Before that stupid mayor made them give them all back.”

Adelaida sighed.  “That was the best day of my life.”

“Exactly!” Dallas Jean cried.  “So what I’m thinking is, we go straight to the horses’ mouth.  If they want me to help and be active in the community, we’ll do it.  But we’ll do it our way.”

“Our way,” Adelaida repeated, a smile creeping over her face.  “I like it.  What are you thinking?”

Dallas Jean picked up a cookie and bit into it.  “Oh, I got a plan,” she grinned, her smile sprinkled with chocolate chips.  “And it starts with that new petting zoo on Evers Road.”

Adelaida giggled and clapped her hands like a school girl.  “Tell me.”

As Dallas Jean recounted her plan to her friend, she didn’t see her 15-year-old daughter behind the kitchen door, holding a recorder to the wood.  Shaking her head, Clementine Jane clicked off the recorder.

“This won’t do at all,” she muttered, shaking her head.  “This really won’t do.”

To be continued….

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends! Tomorrow we have a brand new creative person in the Pond–very different than you’ve seen before!  Then we’ve got a new week of whimsical fun!  Stay tuned!