“It’s like I always say,” the man said solemnly, “some people are the Caddy, and some are the motor home. Do ya see what I’m sayin’ here?”
“I uh … I think so,” Vivian stammered uncomfortably. Her pump had clicked off ages ago.
“Let me explain myself,” the man nodded. “On the one hand you’ve got people like the ‘53 Eldorado. They’re flashy and slick, and everybody wants a piece of them just because they’re so damned beautiful. But a lot of these classic cars are all chrome and polish with nothin’ under the hood. All glitter and no horsepower, right? Then on the other hand you’ve got folks like the ol’ mobile homestead here.” He threw a glance as if indicating the motor home, but his mournful eyes were obviously focusing on the obtuse lump in the passenger seat. His speech had taken on a well-worn cadence, as if he had mused through these points a thousand times before.
“Sure, the motor home here ain’t a looker, but it’s real reliable and comfortable. It’s got all the comforts of home on the inside, so it don’t have to be beautiful on the outside. Smart people know better than to just buy the Caddy because of its looks. They think about what’s really important and hold out for the real deal. Anyone would be damned lucky to get a solid, down-to-earth motor home like that instead of some flashy, troublesome Caddy. Damned lucky. Do you see what I’m sayin’?”
“I think I may have picked up your deftly woven subtext,” Vivian muttered. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
“That’s right,” the man nodded wisely. “So don’t you go turning this boy of yours away just because he’s the motor home and not the Cadillac.”
Vivian blinked.
“Oh, no, you misunderstood,” she said. “This boy is the Cadillac.” The man’s eyes widened, and he took Vivian by the shoulder with a confidential whisper.
“Shoot, missy! If you’ve got the goods to get yourself a Cadillac, quit yer whinin’
and go ride it to paradise!”
A vision of paradise jiggled in front of Trent and Bobby’s mesmerized eyes as they began their third round of drinks. Sunny vigorously shook a silver cocktail shaker, causing her physique to bounce in the most pleasing way imaginable. Trent took in the show with drooling glee as he continued trying to talk her out of her sarong.
“Girl, it’s a sin seeing an angelic creature like you all penned up behind that bar. You should be out dancing under the stars from which God dropped you. How about after you close down this dive you and I hit the beach, yo?”
“I’d really love to,” Sunny lied. “But after work the only thing I’m going to be hitting is the books. I’ve got a lot of studying to do if I intend to pass the summer term.”
“Oh, so you’re a little schoolgirl, eh?” Trent smiled smarmily. “What institution of higher learning would be so cruel as to keep a sassy little co-ed like yourself all cooped up in the school house all summer long?”
“It’s just community college,” Sunny said humbly. “I’ve been taking classes to become a nurse.”
“In that case, I’d be more than happy to help you with your homework,” Trent grinned. “What do you say you come back to my hotel and we play doctor for a while, girl?”
Sunny smiled insincerely.
“With my grades, playing doctor is about the best I can do,” she sighed. “I’m thinking about quitting school and just working the Martini full time. After all, I’d still be giving shots-I’d just be trading in needles for glasses.”
She poured her silver shaker into a pair of shot glasses and pushed them across the bar toward Trent and Bobby. Before she could retrieve her hand, Trent took it in his own and spoke in a smooth, reassuring tone.
“Don’t give up on your dreams so easily, girl,” he said. “If you’re half as smart as you are sexy, I guarantee you’re gonna be the best doctor in the world before you know it.”
Sunny returned Trent’s hand to the bar gracefully.
“Well thanks, but a whole lot of doctors are going to have to die before I can claim that title.”
Bobby downed his shot without a word. He had a real “live and let live” kind of attitude toward other people’s lives. He didn’t care if Sunny failed out of school or not. As far as he was concerned, he would rather have her at the Bikini Martini serving drinks than hidden away in some sterile hospital ward anyway. When Sunny excused herself to the other end of the bar, Bobby’s gaze drifted past her and onto the disgustingly familiar scene unfolding near the submarine. A stout and muscley-looking frat boy with a red face staggered toward the sub, escorting a skinny, drunken co-ed who seemed to have lost the ability to stand unsupported. A table full of his Greek brothers were cranking their arms in the air, barking and making deeply unintelligible catcalls.
The frat boy pressed a wad of sweaty bills into the hand of the bouncer stationed beside the sub, and the burly man pulled open the watertight hatch. The frattie swung his date’s limp body into the land-bound vessel and then stepped in behind her, making one last bellowing call to his friends before the bouncer closed the door behind them. As the portal clanged shut, some yellow siren lights on the sub flashed weakly, and crackly speakers emitted a fake diving klaxon mixed with a sound bite of Steven Tyler crooning, “Goooooiiiiiiing doooooown.” The fraternity brothers again exploded into testosterone-charged hollering. Bobby shook his head in disgust and returned to his unfinished beer.
“Hey, B-Dawg,” Trent said suddenly, apparently addressing Bobby. “See that fly honey over there?”
Bobby looked across the bar in the direction in which Trent was pointing. Sitting at the other end of the bar was a full-figured blond vixen in a tight red leather dress. She was making a good show of herself, despite the fact that she was obviously in denial about her actual age.
“The burned-out Loni Anderson chick?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah. I bet you twenty bucks I can get her phone number before you do.” Bobby burst out laughing.
“Why would I want her phone number?” he snorted. “She looks like Brett Butler in a porno movie!”
“Older women just have more experience in knockin’ da boots! ” Trent said, leaning back and banging the chunky heels of his wingtips together in the air.
“Okay, you’re on,” Bobby said. “I could use your twenty bucks to buy some better drinking buddies.”
“I’ll use your twenty to buy that hoochie some breakfast!” Trent bragged. He jumped off his stool and strutted over to the woman as if listening to a song with an entirely different beat from the amateur reggae that was actually playing. She noticed him coming and smiled. Trent returned her smile and oozed an introduction.
“Damn, girl, is your daddy a thief?”
“No, why?” asked the woman, sounding suspiciously as if she was trying to hide something.
“Because I just wanted to know who stole the stars from God and put them in your eyes.”
The woman laughed the hoarse cackle of a seasoned smoker.
“That’s cute; I like that,” she said, running her long, red fingernails up Trent’s neck and around the back of his head. “But you know what I would like more?”
“A bottle of fine merlot, my hotel suite, and a ‘do not disturb’ sign?” Trent offered.
The woman grabbed his ear and forced his head down to the bar with an empty thud.
“I was thinking more along the lines of four steel shackles, my fourteen-inch black strap-on, a tube of Astroglide, and your sweet virgin ass,” the woman growled, flicking her tongue stud against her teeth. “But we can forgo the lube if you like, slave.”
From the other end of the bar, Bobby could see the color drain from his adversary’s face as he wriggled out of the savage grip of the lusty dominatrix. The rhythm had dropped out of Trent’s step as he hurried back over to his stool.
“So where’s her number, hotshot?” Bobby asked.
“I don’t want none a’ dat ass!” Trent said, staring blankly into the bar.
“I didn’t want any either, but you wanted
to make the stupid bet. Pay up.”
“I don’t think so, home-dawg! I don’t have to give you nothin’ if you can’t get the digits.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll be right back.”
Bobby’s barstool breathed a creaking sigh of relief as he slid off of it. Trent watched in anxious anticipation as his rival strolled with casual indifference toward his fate. From this end of the bar, he couldn’t hear what the two of them were saying, but he could see every move that they made.
Bobby tapped the woman on the shoulder and said something, thumbing at the door. The woman nodded her head and looked slightly alarmed. Bobby made a sort of comforting gesture with his hands and continued to talk to her. The dominatrix waved a summons to the bartender. Mike came over and gave the woman a pen, which she promptly used on a cocktail napkin.
Trent’s jaw dropped to the bar. Not only had the husky loser managed to get her phone number, but he didn’t look at all alarmed about the unholy reaming that would ensue if he used it.
When the woman was done writing her number, Bobby apparently wrote his number on a napkin and gave it to her in return. After the exchange, the woman left the bar, and Bobby returned to his weary stool.
“Here’s her number,” Bobby said, taking a swig of his beer and tossing the napkin in front of Trent. “Go knock yourself out … or let her do it for you.”
“Daaaaaamn, B-Slice! How did you work that so fast?”
“I told her that I ran into her car and we should exchange numbers so my insurance company could pay for the damage.”
“Oh, shit no, dawg!” Trent contested. “That’s not cool! You tricked her! You didn’t convince her that she wanted to blast off on your love rocket!”
“The bet I made was twenty dollars for a phone number,” Bobby shrugged.
“You’ll have to raise the stakes if you want to make S&M part of the deal.”
“Ooooh, cuuuuuuuwl whip!”
Harry Stokes’s tiny hand darted to a dusty shelf of He-Man action figures, snapping up a whip-toting Beast-Man and stuffing it into his pocket without a hint of subtlety. Almost before he had released his grip on the figure, Erik’s bony fingers had plucked it away from him.
“Oh no you don’t,” he chirped. “Don’t steal Beast-Man, Harry.” With no apparent recognition of Erik, Harry grabbed another figure from the shelf.
“Cuuuuuwl axe!”
Harry made a motion to stuff Ram-Man into his coat. Erik snatched the figure with his empty hand.
“Don’t steal Ram-Man, Harry.”
“Cuuuuwl cwossbow!”
“Don’t steal Hordak, Harry.”
“Cuuuuuuwl goat stick!”
“Don’t steal Skeletor, Harry.”
Erik held his fully laden arms clumsily across his chest as he attempted to keep half the population of Eternia out of Harry’s shoplifting grasp.
“Whoooa, cuuuuwl swowrd!”
Before Erik could tell Harry not to steal He-Man, he realized that the shelf was already bare. He turned his eyes to the manic youngster just in time to see him hauling a full-sized sword out of a Superman III garbage can at the end of the aisle. This bin contained an assortment of wooden and plastic costume weapons, but Harry’s discriminating eye had gone straight for the only steel blade in the bunch.
“Izaawesome! I’ma Powa Waynja! I’ma Powa Waynja!”
“Harry, no! Put that down!” Erik squeaked.
He dropped his armful of plastic musclemen to the floor with a clatter, but his desperate lunge was too late to catch hold of the youngster’s tiny arm. Harry bolted across the store, brandishing his heavy blade in a lurching, off-balance swing. He teetered down the next aisle, coming to a stop next to his sister’s upturned backside. Debbie was on her knees with her head lost beneath an eight-foot-tall shelving unit.
“Don’t be scared, kitty! I’ll get you out!” she called urgently. “Come here, kitty! I love you!”
The heavy steel shelves teetered menacingly as Debbie attempted to cram her round little body underneath them. Rows of ancient Looney Tunes and The Great Muppet Caper drinking glasses tipped over and rolled in meandering arcs as their shelves bounced and hopped erratically. But a mewling hiss stabbing from under the shelves suggested that Debbie was in more immediate danger from feline-related injuries than from falling glass.
Erik leapt between the siblings and threw a skinny hand on each of them.
“Harry! Give me that!” he snapped, yanking the sword out of Harry’s tiny fist.
“Debbie! Get out of there before you kill yourself!”
He grabbed Debbie by the belt of her little pink jeans, hauled her out from under the shelf, and dropped her on the carpet. Her mousy brown pigtails were covered in dust and cobwebs, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Harry! Quick!” she squeaked, clutching her chest. “The kitty needs help! Get under there and get the kitty out!”
“Owigh, Debbie! I saveda kitty!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Harry dropped to the floor and began to shimmy under the shelves, sending them again into a swaying bounce. Erik caught the first falling glass in his left hand, then caught one in his right, then could only watch in horror as the third and fourth smashed on the thin, padless carpet. He quickly returned his rescued merchandise to safety before snatching Harry out from under the unit and plopping him down on the floor next to his sister.
“Alright, you little mother fu-”
He took a deep breath.
“Alright, you little monsters, ” he revised. “This is a place of business. This is not Romper Room. You can’t just hang around here all night and play with Do Bee and wait for me to look at you in my magic mirror!”
The siblings looked at each other quizzically. Erik continued.
“So either buy something or get-”
Suddenly he noticed Debbie was clutching some tiny object to her chest.
“Debbie, what’s that in your hands?”
“Nothing,” Debbie said innocently.
Erik’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He held out his hand.
“Give it to me.”
“No!” Debbie snapped. “It’s mine!”
“Whatever it is, it’s not yours,” Erik argued. “Now give it to me.”
“No!”
Erik thrust out his hand.
“Debbie Stokes,” he roared, “whatever that is, you give it to me now! ”
“Fine!” Debbie screamed. “Take my present away! See if I care!” She unclasped her hands and defiantly slapped a dead mouse into Erik’s outstretched palm. Erik’s face instantly bleached white as the smashed rodent’s blood leaked warmly through his fingers.
“Eeeaugh!” he recoiled, dropping the carcass with a tiny, wet splat. He grabbed a nearby box of tissues and frantically wiped his palm. He continued to wipe long after the blood had been cleaned, as if trying to erase the stain from his mind.
“Ew, ew, God,” he chattered. “Oh God, ew. Ew.”
When he had exhausted the entire box, Erik finally turned on Debbie.
“Debbie, what’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Where did you get that?”
“The kitty gave it to me!” Debbie cried. “The kitty gives me presents because she loves me!”
“Twiki gave this to you?” Erik squeaked. “Well, she’s a bad kitty!” He reached his long arm under the shelves and grabbed Twiki by the scruff of her neck, pulling her out and thrusting a trembling finger at her bloody mouth.
“Twiki!” he snapped. “I told you to stop killing mice! It’s disgusting! No more dead mice, Twiki! Do you understand? No. More. Dead. Mice!”
Whether she understood or not, Twiki was not the kind of cat who liked to be lectured. In a flash of feline muscle, all of her front claws were once again planted in Erik’s chastising forearm. He dropped the cat with a yelp, and she darted away into the shadows of the dusty aisles, closely pursued by a giggling, bloodstained Debbie.
“Man, I’ve gotta quit doing that,”
Erik whimpered stupidly, rubbing his scratched arm.
He turned to clean up the dead mouse but found that it had suddenly gone missing. He dropped to one knee and held out his empty tissue box toward the five-year-old.
“Hand it over, Harry.”
Harry opened up his coat, guiltily pulled the dead mouse from an inside pocket, and dropped it in the cardboard makeshift coffin. Erik shook his head.
“What is wrong with you, Harry? Why are you trying to steal a dead mouse?” Harry shrugged.
“A’cause Debbie tolme to.”
“Debbie’s not well, ” Erik said disgustedly. “Don’t listen to her. If Debbie told you to jump off the Skyshine Causeway Bridge, would you do it?”
Harry’s eyes grew wide as a smile spread across his tiny face.
“Debbie ses I can jump offda bwige! Cuuuuuwl! Lesgo for swimmies!” Erik shook his head in disbelief.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to live to see your sixth birthday?”
“Well, happy birthday to me, ” Trent grinned, making goo-goo eyes across the room. “I do believe that business-suit beauty over at that table is checking out the T-man’s goods!”
Bobby glanced over at the bony, straitlaced woman perched like a crane behind a nearby table. When she noticed the boys looking at her, she turned away with a fierce scowl.
“Ally McBeal with PMS?” Bobby asked. “Yeah, go get her, stud boy.”
“Oh, I’ll get a piece of that,” Trent nodded. “But first how about another friendly wager? Double or nothing you can’t get her phone number.”
Bobby squinted at Trent.
“You don’t even have my twenty, do you?”
The Oblivion Society Page 11