Fried Pickles and the Fuzz by Calico Daniels

 
Sunday
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    Sheriff Bronson Andrews released a long breath , slammed the door of his aging department - issued black and white SUV , and walked slowly up the well-lit sidewalk toward the Fried Pickle Café. As the recently appointed sheriff in Big Creek County , he was determined to up hold the law. Granted, it was n’ t hard to do in the small, sparsely populated W est Texas county. He’d been welcomed with open arms by the residents. Made to feel like one of their own even though he came from about two hundred miles away and had never even been to Big Creek before taking office.
    And he like d it.
    Wel l… most of the time.
    Like any law enforcement officer , he had days when his job made him feel like he was really making a difference. Then there were the days when he pondered his choice of profession and the wisdom of the decision to make it a career . While most of the calls he had responded to during his time as sheriff could truly be classified by his fellow officers as “real police work” , the guys back in Austin would have a h e ar t y chuckle if they knew he also spent a number of hours herding cows on county roads and settling disputes between neighbors about who rightfully owned the wisteria growing along a shared fence line.
    The brass be ll above the door to the café ja ngled as he stepped out of the s weltering summer evening and into the air-conditioned haven. True to its name, fried pickles were on the menu, along with about any other southern battered and deep- fried goodie he could think of , r ight down to fried green beans and fried green tomatoes.
    Bronson pas sed bright red upholstered booths and tables with red - and - white checkered tablecloths , returning greetings to a few lingering townsfolk as he weaved his way to the counter. Pulling out a faded stool, he took up his regular spot at the end near the kitchen. As far as he was concerned , it was the best seat in the house. From his vantage point , he could clearly see the entire café, the main street out the front window , and he could listen to Heather sing along with the radio in her slightly off - key manner from the kitchen .
    One of the many things he ’ d learned during his short time as sheriff was that very little ever changed in Big Creek without a fight . The Pickle still resided in its original spot , smack dab in the center of downtown, and the deco was reminiscent of a time that had long ago faded away as the younger generation began to spread their wings and leave the relative comfort of the nest and the small community . Big Creek might still be the tight - knit ranching community it had started as , but with the years had also come some progress , technology , and a regular stream of tourists brought in by many of the newer, vacation - friendly businesses. Many of which the hometowners had strongly opposed. They wanted the town to stay the same. Safe and protected in a bubble.
    They relished in sharing stories about the b lack - and - white photos of the town in its early days that dotted the cream walls all around the interior of the café. They took comfort in the fact that Erma, the evening waitress, had been waiting the same tables for nearly fifty years. And every year just before school started again , the town would have its weeklong birthday celebration. Residents , current and past , seemed to look forward to the festivities almost as much as children anxiously awaited Christmas. It was a time for friends and family. Homecomings and reunions. Merrymaking and good , old - fashion ed redneck fun.
    This would be the first of many he planned on being a part of. As s heriff, he ’ d head up the parade and oversee all of the events that would take place during the weeklong fiesta. When he ’d seen the list of his Big Creek Days ’ duties , the sheer number of activities had floored him. The parade was just the tip of the iceberg. Once that was over , there was a lawnmower