Dewey wasn’t religious and thought this guy was a nut, but this particular sermon troubled him. He feared it might be true, minus the part about religion and sin.
He’d never told anyone about that hitchhiker and never would. It was on a night when he was driving around alone, not real long after Shannon had gotten married and was spending a lot of time at home. He’d been drinking at a bar supposed to be a place to pick up girls, but he didn’t know anybody there and nobody came up to talk to him or anything. If they had, he probably wouldn’t have handled it well anyway. So he’d sat by himself and got kind of loaded and was on his way home when he saw this girl, short and slender and not bad-looking, it seemed at the time, in jeans and a halter top at the side of the road with her thumb out. Why not, he’d thought. She got in right away, was real friendly and talkative, though now he couldn’t remember too well what she was talking about, school and her parents being a big drag.
Her name, she’d said, was Chelsea. She had kind of a spiky honey-blonde punk hairdo, wore a lot of makeup and a black choker ribbon around her neck, and had long pendant earrings. Her voice was a little husky like she had a cold. Before long she’d said something about having to pull down her pants and pull up her pantyhose, and somehow from there—how drunk had he been?—they ended up parked behind a closed-down strip mall and together in the back seat.
There wasn’t really enough room, the seats weren’t designed for stretching out. It was pretty awkward getting clothes off and all, and he was surprised when she rolled over, like she wanted to do it doggy style, and directed his dick up to what he knew right away, despite his limited experience, was not her vagina. It was really tight and did this milking thing that felt great, made him cum in ecstasy. But just after that, he realized there was no other opening and Chelsea wasn’t really a girl. He didn’t get mad but must have acted appalled because she, or rather he, had acted wary of him and said, “I can walk from here,” and he didn’t object or say goodbye. He could see him walk off under the street lights and thought he didn’t really look that much like a real girl after all.
After that, Dewey was scared he might have gotten AIDS but didn’t want to go to the doctor about it. He figured he would have gotten sick by now if he had. There was also some cum smeared on the seat where Chelesa had been lying face down, which he cleaned up real carefully like it was plutonium or something. He worried maybe Hobie Lautenschlager would be able to tell, since he’d heard homos had “gaydar” and could perceive stuff like that. Hobie might even know Chelsea, seemed like they all knew each other. He particularly feared Shannon finding out. Not that Dewey thought he himself was gay, he’d never been interested in guys, but what really bothered him was he’d gotten off better that time than ever before. And there hadn’t really been a time since, though he lied about it to Shannon. In jerking off, he stuck to pictures of girls in skin mags, but after Chelsea he almost always fantasized about anal sex.
Following these thoughts, Dewey ordered a fourth beer. The guys playing Ms. Pac-Man had left and another old buzzard had come in, tried to get into a conversation with Fred, but Fred brushed him off with “Yep” and “Nope” and kept watching Dr. TL until the guy gave up. Before he’d finished half of his beer, he saw Shannon’s car pull into the parking lot. Finally.
Shannon came in, sat down at the table with Dewey. “Yo,” he said, picking up the bottle of beer Dewey had emptied into his glass, and looking it over. “Yeah, I need to get me one of these. Where’s Heather?”
“Not here.”
“I wonder who’s boning her right now,” said Shannon as he got up and went to the bar.
Dewey thought about how maybe he ought to pursue Heather himself. His only hesitation was that Shannon would make fun of him over it. He’d never hear the end of it, in fact. Should have asked Shannon to get him another one.
When Shannon came back, turned out he’d gotten Dewey another. “Well, I met those kids and sold ’em the shit,” he said.
“Were they mad?”
“Yeah, but fuck it. They got over it. Nice to get a little loot.”
“Do you owe Todd now?”
“Yeah, he’ll get it.” At that point, Jaime Tales came in, glanced at Shannon warily and hurried past him to the bar. “I think I better talk to this asshole,” said Shannon. “Or should I?”
“No,” said Dewey. “I wouldn’t bother.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Well, Roni is pissed, so I don’t feel like going home. You wanna play some Ms. Pac?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. It’s something to do.”
They went over to the machine and began to play. Shannon dug into his pocket to get some change, pulling out his car keys and putting them on the machine. After they’d played a few desultory rounds, Dewey really had to piss, and headed for the restroom. “Same here,” said Shannon.
They went to the men’s room, and one took the toilet and the other the single urinal. “I swear, I love beer but one thing I hate about it is the way it makes your piss smell,” said Shannon. They zipped up. Dewey washed his hands and followed Shannon out.
Back at the Ms. Pac-Man machine, Shannon said, “Damn, didn’t I leave some change on this machine?”
“You left your keys there too.”
“My fucking keys! Where are they?” He went through his pockets.
Dewey looked out the window. “Man, where’s your fucking car?”
Shannon looked at the bar, as did Dewey. No Jaime. “You gotta be shittin’ me!” yelled Shannon, as Fred and the geezer turned from the TV to look at him in alarm.
PART
IV
CHAPTER 18
TODD, HAVING FAILED
Sky lay back, smoking a cigarette, and Todd sat up on the edge of the bed, feeling more awkward than he had in many years, maybe since puberty in junior high. He might even have wept, had he been alone, but stifled it hard.
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little nervous, I guess. It’s like, my wife left and, you know, it’s been a long time.”
She put her hand on his, squeezed. She smiled dazzlingly. “Hey, it’s no problem. It happens.”
He forced a laugh. “It’s embarrassing.” There was no way to be cool about this.
“Don’t be, it’s fine. I like just making out sometimes.” Her voice was soft and breathy. She rolled over and sat beside him, put a leg between his, grasped his shoulders and turned him toward her in an embrace, then pushed him back onto the bed, squirming over him, herself on top. She made pecking kisses all over his face, tongued his ear, rubbed the top of his head and set her hand gently on the side of his face, as a mother might do to console an unhappy toddler. Face to his, she studied him for a moment, pouted cutely as if to say he still looked sad, put her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth, nibbling at his lips, pushing her tongue into his mouth and friskily twisting it around. He submitted to it all, like she was the guy and he was the girl.
She reached into his open pants, fished around for his dick, gave a soft squeeze. He felt some stirring there, but not enough, not nearly enough. She withdrew her hand quickly. God, how humiliating was this going to be?
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay.”
“You’re awfully understanding.” He sounded a bit sarcastic, without meaning to.
“Sure, why not? After all, I love you.”