Micky-Mick’s face seemed illumined in excitement. “Oh, naw, Unc. It’s this new tek-knowler-gee. This li’l movie machine here? Don’t need ta plug it inta mothin’!”
“Then how the fuck’s it work!”
“It runs…,” and Micky-Mack’s voice quieted as if in veneration…, “on a battery.”
Helton threw his hands up. “Well then, balls, boy. If’n we’se gonna watch a movie, then make the blasted thing work.”
Micky-Mack fiddled with some buttons—for, like Dumar, his reading skills were barely existent—until he inadvertently pressed one that read PLAY, and again, like magic, the little drawer closed…
And the screen lit up.
Dumar sat down next to his father. “Aw right! Looks like we’se gonna watch ourselfs…a movie!”
(II)
Archie leaned forward, elbows propped up on the well-stocked cellphone counter; he was hamming it up with his boss, one Mike Anthon, a snide, too-good-looking-for-his-own good 30-year-old who fancied himself a cocksman and a smooth-operator, and there was little untruth in that fancy. Both men were eyeing Veronica’s rump as she leaned over the camera counter, showing a customer (whose t-shirt read EVEN JESUS HATES THE YANKEES) the latest variety of Dynex-brand mini memory-card readers.
Archie had spiked hair that looked less 2010 Me Generation and more early-‘80s post punk, though neither actually appeared in keeping with a town like Pulaski where buzzcuts comprised the majority of men’s hairstyles. Mike, on the other hand, had short, dark, punctiliously trimmed hair and impenetrable dark eyes, and looked rather like a modern, darker-haired incarnation of Nick Adams (for those who even remembered Nick Adams), and this might explain the veritable posse of young women who seemed to revolve around him as if through some cabalistic sexual gravity. (The previously mentioned Veronica was one such woman in that same gravitational field.) It was Mike who essentially ran the Pulaski Best Buys; Archie was his floor manager, while Veronica worked the camera department, and now that that’s out of the way, we can listen in to the discrete and notably sexist conversation between the two men.
“Not bad looking—not bad at all,” Archie regarded.
“Yeah, but for a package like me, not bad means not good enough,” Mike replied. “Chicks have to take a number to go out with me, and most of them are tens. Veronica’s maybe a six.”
“Six? Oh, come on. That bod’s way better than a six, you cruel motherfucker!” Archie laughed.
“All right, let’s break it down. I’d give her tits a solid nine, maybe even nine-point-five—hands down, it’s a killer rack. And, damn it, I’d be lying if I didn’t give her ass a nine to go along with the tits. Serious.”
“What about the hoonanny?”
Mike crossed his arms. “Gotta give that a nine, too. Perfectly formed, you know, none of that turkey skin shit hanging down. And she’s got this ass-kicking racing stripe, man. It’s the same color as her hair—that real, real light brunet.” Mike shrugged. “Her pussy rocks too. Can’t complain about any of it.”
Archie pursed his lips. “Then how come she’s a six overall?”
“Well, I’d have to give that mousy face a six, and the thick glasses don’t add to the party.”
“Your math’s all wrong, man. Average three nines and one six and you’ve got eight-point-five.”
Mike shook his head. “Tangential circumstances. That’s why I’m dumping her.”
The revelation came as a surprise to Archie. “But she’ll be heartbroken. She’s nuts about you.”
Mike smirked. “Archie, I hate to tell you this, but all girls are nuts about me. And not just nuts but I mean goo-goo-ga-ga, mushy, gushy crazy-in-love nuts.”
“It’s your modesty that attracts them, I’m sure.”
“Seriously, Veronica was just a booty call,” Mike went on, “and there wasn’t even any booty.”
A canted look from Archie.
Mike continued, “What good’s a pussy that ranks a nine if you can’t fuck it?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? I mean she doesn’t fuck. She’s a virgin; she’s got this weird virgin-thing—won’t fuck till she’s married.”
“I didn’t think they made girls like that,” Archie commented. “Especially in Virginia.”
“She’ll suck my dick day and night but won’t fuck. The only way my battleship gets into that port is with knock-out drops.” Mike looked suddenly irked. “And she won’t let me ass-fuck her, either.”
Archie flipped a hand. ‘Well, I’m not into the ass stuff myself. I don’t want to get some chick’s shit packed up my peehole. I mean, think about it. Say you buy a girl dinner on Saturday night, then on Sunday you fuck her in the ass. The shit that gets packed up your peehole and caked around the rim is from the same food you bought her the night before. It’s fucked up.”
Mike frowned at his friend. “Whatever. And the tit-fucking gets old fast, even with a class rack like hers.”
Archie stole a glance to Veronica, then seemed to imagine the possibilities. “At least she lets you do it. Some girls are fussy about that. Don’t know why.”
“It’s almost like a consolation prize, like she’s doing me a favor letting me tit-fuck her. I mean, you can only do it so many times before it becomes monotonous. Fuck, I slop all over those tits. They look like rum buns by the time I’m done.”
“But if she sucks your dick day and night? Sounds all right to keep on the side, even without the pussy.”
Mike appraised his Guccis, having already written poor Veronica off in his mind. “With every girl, you get the good with the bad. Veronica’s worth money—”
Archie’s attention snapped to. “Money? Like, how much?”
“One of her uncles won the Michigan Lottery, bagged, like, a hundred and twenty million, but set 20 million aside for Veronica on two conditions. One, she has to get a college degree and, two, she’s gotta be married by age thirty. That’s when she gets the dough if she meets the conditions.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-three.”
“And how’s her college smarts?”
Mike’ brow tittered. “She already graduated with honors from VT, got her degree in Plasma Physics.”
“Fuck. Smart chick. With a degree like that, she can write her own ticket once this fuckin’ recession’s over.”
“Yeah, and that’s what she wants to do even though she gets all that money when she hits the Big Three Oh.”
“If,” Archie reminded, “she’s married.”
“Right. And she’s already told me to my face: the only guy she ever wants to marry is me.”
Several moments of silence followed, Archie cogitating. “Twenty million? Man…you’d never have to work again.”
“You think I haven’t thought about that?”
“And, shit, if you’re married, then she’ll fuck you.”
“Sure, but she wants to have kids. I got no desire to raise kids.”
“Then get a nanny! With twenty fuckin’ mil, you’ll be able to afford it.”
“Yeah, yeah, but see, I gotta a gut feeling that once Veronica starts fucking me, she’ll be a lousy lay.”