function as an icebreaker at somebody’s house who has cats. Other’n that, I don’t see the future in it.”
She leaned over the truck, patted the water mattress. There were two inches of road dust caked on the bumpers, and she tried not to lean on the dirty parts.
“You know,” she said, over her shoulder, “if you shaved those crappy goatee whiskers off, you wouldn’t look half bad.”
“Not half bad, huh.”
“Cute,” she said. “You’re not that young, but without those whiskers I wouldn’t see you so much as not that young. More as just cute, period.”
“I reckon I’ll run in and shave this minute.”
That got her to laugh, and laughter is the opening wedge to carnal tomfoolery, so my lower parts actually experienced one or two anticipatory throbs.
“Come on now, Doyle. We’ve got work to do.”
She said it like she meant it, and she did.
Those water beds take a long wait to fill. Damned Spot kept coming around, making herself available for petting, but I’d had a surfeit of dog interaction. I went into the house and fetched a can of Stag from Big Annie’s fridge. Smoke and Big Annie were in the front room, laughing hard at some show they’d pulled in off the satellite dish. It might’ve been Arsenio Hall, because Smoke said, “That brother’s jokes hit splat on my funny bone. More so than them white boys. I don’t know why.”
I left them to their beamed-in mirth, went back outside. I stood there, sipping beer, while Niagra sat in the truck with the door open. Over at the porch light a jamboree of june bugs and so forth were tapping out an insect jig against the light shade and the screen door. At one point, for some reason, Niagra told me she’d been named not for the honeymoon spot but for the movie of that title. I didn’t know the flick, but we chewed the fat that way for a bit, listening to water gurgle into the mattress.
At some likely moment I inquired as to why she didn’t have a fella.
“These fellas hereabouts are just too un-fuckin’-couth,” she said. She sidled over, took a sip of my beer. “Plus, I just look around at how folks here wind up, and alls I can say is, Thank God for Greyhound, you know? I see girls I know here and there, and now they got double-wide butts and bad hairdos and off-kilter kids they take government money for. The husbands all seem to not wash too often, but they’re tush-hog masters in their own trailer homes, you know, and don’t ever take no guff off their women. So you see the women at the IGA with jacked-up eyes and split lips ’cause they couldn’t wash the skid marks out of hubby’s rancid undershorts, more skid marks in there than you see at the Indy 500.” She took another sip of my beer, then sighed and fell back against the truck. “It just ain’t been heart-rendering for me to say and say and say, ‘I’m washin’ my hair tonight—I think I’ll pass.’ ”
I said, “That’s something I don’t ever have, skid marks in my undershorts.”
“That’s ’cause you don’t wear no undershorts.”
“How in the hell can you know that?” I asked, and I was sincere.
“Oh,” she said, “the way your pecker lays out against your leg, there. Plus, Smoke is the same way, so I recognize the look.” She smacked the water mattress then, and the smack made a deep sound. “That’s full enough,” she said. “Let’s do the job.”
9
CAST A GOOMER
THE MONEY GARDEN had been planted in an idyllic spot. Niagra showed the way, steering the lugging Toyota down the rock road a half mile at first, which was the part of the course where the chance of accidentally being spotted was highest. Then, at the slab bridge over a seasonal creek called Gum Creek, she steered down the bank and onto the dry bed. Gum Creek only runs on rainy days and was full of rocks, every different size short of huge. Niagra killed the headlights but knew the way blind. She kept the pace down and bounced us along in low gear.
I’m not sure how
She leaned over the truck, patted the water mattress. There were two inches of road dust caked on the bumpers, and she tried not to lean on the dirty parts.
“You know,” she said, over her shoulder, “if you shaved those crappy goatee whiskers off, you wouldn’t look half bad.”
“Not half bad, huh.”
“Cute,” she said. “You’re not that young, but without those whiskers I wouldn’t see you so much as not that young. More as just cute, period.”
“I reckon I’ll run in and shave this minute.”
That got her to laugh, and laughter is the opening wedge to carnal tomfoolery, so my lower parts actually experienced one or two anticipatory throbs.
“Come on now, Doyle. We’ve got work to do.”
She said it like she meant it, and she did.
Those water beds take a long wait to fill. Damned Spot kept coming around, making herself available for petting, but I’d had a surfeit of dog interaction. I went into the house and fetched a can of Stag from Big Annie’s fridge. Smoke and Big Annie were in the front room, laughing hard at some show they’d pulled in off the satellite dish. It might’ve been Arsenio Hall, because Smoke said, “That brother’s jokes hit splat on my funny bone. More so than them white boys. I don’t know why.”
I left them to their beamed-in mirth, went back outside. I stood there, sipping beer, while Niagra sat in the truck with the door open. Over at the porch light a jamboree of june bugs and so forth were tapping out an insect jig against the light shade and the screen door. At one point, for some reason, Niagra told me she’d been named not for the honeymoon spot but for the movie of that title. I didn’t know the flick, but we chewed the fat that way for a bit, listening to water gurgle into the mattress.
At some likely moment I inquired as to why she didn’t have a fella.
“These fellas hereabouts are just too un-fuckin’-couth,” she said. She sidled over, took a sip of my beer. “Plus, I just look around at how folks here wind up, and alls I can say is, Thank God for Greyhound, you know? I see girls I know here and there, and now they got double-wide butts and bad hairdos and off-kilter kids they take government money for. The husbands all seem to not wash too often, but they’re tush-hog masters in their own trailer homes, you know, and don’t ever take no guff off their women. So you see the women at the IGA with jacked-up eyes and split lips ’cause they couldn’t wash the skid marks out of hubby’s rancid undershorts, more skid marks in there than you see at the Indy 500.” She took another sip of my beer, then sighed and fell back against the truck. “It just ain’t been heart-rendering for me to say and say and say, ‘I’m washin’ my hair tonight—I think I’ll pass.’ ”
I said, “That’s something I don’t ever have, skid marks in my undershorts.”
“That’s ’cause you don’t wear no undershorts.”
“How in the hell can you know that?” I asked, and I was sincere.
“Oh,” she said, “the way your pecker lays out against your leg, there. Plus, Smoke is the same way, so I recognize the look.” She smacked the water mattress then, and the smack made a deep sound. “That’s full enough,” she said. “Let’s do the job.”
9
CAST A GOOMER
THE MONEY GARDEN had been planted in an idyllic spot. Niagra showed the way, steering the lugging Toyota down the rock road a half mile at first, which was the part of the course where the chance of accidentally being spotted was highest. Then, at the slab bridge over a seasonal creek called Gum Creek, she steered down the bank and onto the dry bed. Gum Creek only runs on rainy days and was full of rocks, every different size short of huge. Niagra killed the headlights but knew the way blind. She kept the pace down and bounced us along in low gear.
I’m not sure how
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