Bill laughed then. He was a snorter, and that made Sylvia laugh too. The alcohol was settling in again.
SYLVIA
I mean really. Think of how many people would get shanked just for the right to own her! The numbers would be astronomical. And, the more I think about it, the more I figure it would probably be exactly the same in girl prison.
Bill laughed again, but Sylvia noticed he looked around the restaurant. Was he embarrassed by her? She knew that she was getting loud, but if this was enough to bother him, then she should probably call this whole thing off. Shame, she really was liking him.
BILL
You gotta stab a bitch to fuck a bitch, know what I'm sayin'?
Sylvia laughed until she lost her breath and then just made an open mouth face, no sound coming out, cheeks turning red. She was drunk, true, but she had nothing to worry about with Bill. Bill was good people.
SYLVIA
I'm not so hungry anymore, Bill.
BILL
No?
SYLVIA
Not at all. Did you get the bugs out of your bed?
BILL
What?
SYLVIA
Never mind, I don't even care anymore. Do you want to get out of here?
BILL
Will you still be there in the morning?
SYLVIA
It would be ridiculous for you to care.
Bill smiled at that and called the waiter over. He gave his apologies, but something had come up and they would be unable to stay for their meal. As Sylvia sipped her last glass of Pinot, and watched the man sitting across from her, she felt good about the night. Then, she tilted her glass back a full half inch away from her lips, the wine pouring down onto her blouse. She missed so badly, if she were on the outside looking in, it would have almost looked purposeful
BILL
Oh no! Here.
He handed her his napkin, and the waiter handed her a towel from his back pocket. She dabbed at the spill a few times, then stopped.
SYLVIA
You know what? Fuck it. I have another shirt at your place.
* * *
When her eyes cracked open and she felt his arm around her waist, Sylvia didn't jump out of the way as she normally would. She was not entirely comfortable with the intimacy, but at least she wanted to be. She lay there for a few moments and looked out at Bill's bedroom. It was cluttered, but not the messiest place she had been. She saw her clothes then, this time piled in a nice neat little heap near the foot of the bed.
Last night, they had not just jumped right into bed as she had planned. She had sobered up a tad before they had gotten back to his place, and they just talked. For hours, there was nothing but conversation. She had not talked to another human being for that long in maybe her whole life.
Then, of course, the sex. It was cosmic.
Bill's breath hit the nape of her neck, and his snore was very soft, like how she thought a rabbit might snore. After a few more minutes, her eyes closed again. She focused on the warmth on her neck and let the little bunny snores soothe her back to sleep.
TWENTY SIX
Simon was still quite sore at Larry for not letting him chat up the lizard at the last stop. Larry was always hurrying him along, but on this trip, he had seemed particularly on edge. He never seemed to sit still; like he had lightning in his pants. And, he was always chomping down on those damn sunflower seeds. Simon hated those, but this trip he decided not to complain, he didn't want to upset Larry.
Right now, Simon really needed to get some sleep, but he had chosen to sit up front with his brother a while. He was sure going to make certain that Larry knew how sore he was.
“Stop your sulking,” Larry spat after Simon had let out a particularly exaggerated sigh, “We only have a couple more days. I promise that we'll take it easy on the way back.”
Larry had always referred to the paid company of a lady as taking it easy.
“All right, Lar, but you have to admit, you ain't been quite right on this trip. What bug crawled down your jeans?”
“Hell, I don't know,” he said, spitting yet another shell onto the floorboard, “Just anxious I guess. I want to put this one behind us. I don't know if I want to haul this far again.”
“It's all just a bunch of road, wherever we go,” Simon interjected.
“That may well be, but I prefer the road on the east coast. Out here, there's just too much empty space. I can feel it on my skin. Too much nothing sticks to me like catch weed. Shit, we go ten hours sometimes without laying eyes on anything but the breeze.”
“I kind of like it. It's peaceful.”
“It's about as peaceful as the white walls in a loony bin, by which I mean nerve racking.”
Simon clicked on the radio just as the last few piano notes of a song played.
“That was Supertramp with Asylum, from their album Crime of the Century. You're listening to 'Deep Cuts' on the Eagle,” the DJ wailed, playing the sound of a screaming bird of prey over his words.
“Damn, missed it. I love that song too,” Simon proclaimed. He turned the volume back down to miss the commercials.
“I'll never understand your obsession with Supertramp,” said Larry.
“They rock!”
“So you keep saying.”
Larry smiled at his brother, and Simon returned the look. He had already forgotten about the beaver at the last stop.
Larry continued to crack his sunflower seeds, and Simon went back to his own thoughts. That's what life on the road was. A topic would come up, and they would talk it out to the end before settling right back in to silence. You just can't talk to another person twenty-four hours a day.
Nobody is that interesting, Larry thought.
“Maybe it's you,” Simon said, out of the clear blue.
“What?”
“Maybe my purpose is to look out for you, and yours is to look out for me.”
“That may be so, but then, when we're both dead and buried, we wouldn't have left any kind of mark on the world at all. As much as I love looking out for you little brother, I want to think that we'll make some sort of impact that remains after we're gone. Even if it is just a little one.”
“That's true. I'll keep thinking on it.”
Then Simon turned his head again, looking out into space.
“What makes you think that we just get one anyway? One purpose I mean,” asked Larry.
“I'm glad you asked, because I've been thinking on that too.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Sir. I figure if we had more than one, say we had lots, then that would mean our whole life was already picked for us. Like we didn't get to choose to do anything at all, because we would just constantly be fulfilling our purpose. I can understand us having one, because then we get to make our mark, and the rest of the time we get to do whatever we want. There has to be a reason for being alive. I'm sure of that now, but I just can't believe that everything I do isn't my idea.”
“That makes a sort of sense. I think.”
“Even God says we get to choose what we do, right? I don't know much about him, but I'm sure I've heard that before.”
“That's right. He granted humans free will.”
“See? I figure that we make all of our own choices right on up until we do what we're meant to do.”
“Do we just die after?” asked Larry.
“No, not necessarily. It ain't like the baby pigs. If we died right after, then that would mean everyone's purpose was just to die, and that can't be right. Maybe if someone ate us after, but that doesn't happen I don't think. After our purpose is done, I think we just go right back to doing whatever we want to do again.”
“I can get behind that idea. You sure are surprising me with how much thought you've put into this little brother.”
“Thanks, Lar.”
Simon was beaming. He could not hide the grin on his face if he put a bag over his head. Then he reached down and turned the radio back up. The Talking He
ads were singing Qu'est-ce que c'est?
“Oh no,” Simon's smile faded, and he turned the radio completely off.
“What was wrong with that song?
“I just don't like how they make running from a psycho killer so catchy.”
“Fa fa fa fa fa. Fa fa fa fa fa,” Larry sang mockingly.
“Shut up, Larry! I think there is some stuff that's just not worth writing about.”
“You know that Supertramp song you love is about a psycho, too.
“Yeah, well,” Simon said, opening another can of soda, “They get a pass.”
TWENTY SEVEN
Harry didn't want to wear one of the suits that he'd been alternating between since he got to Hennington–the actual name of the town as it turned out. Love had already seen him in both of those suits more than once, and though Harry had resigned himself to the fact that their date was probably just a friendly dinner between colleagues, he still wanted to look as good as he could. At his age, the best he could look tended to be when he covered up as much of his body as possible in new, stylish clothing.
And, who knows, maybe Love actually did like him a little. Just a bit. The fool always gives the impossible a hope. Harry thought he'd heard that said before from someone smarter than he, though he was most likely paraphrasing.
Hennington didn't offer much in the way of men's fine clothing beyond Macy's and a Wal-Mart, so Harry borrowed Officer Jesse's personal Miata to drive to Davenport. The North Park mall had a Dillard's and some of the newer, trendier specialty shops in which Harry had never set a foot. By the time he was finished, he was carrying three large bags stuffed with more clothes than he had bought in the last decade. Sara used to buy all of his clothes, and he was never as grateful for that as he was now. He was exhausted, and most of what was in his bags was probably worthless.
Back in his motel room, new clothes splayed across the bed, his suspicions were confirmed. Everything that had seemed to make a cohesive outfit in the stores now looked more appropriate for a career in the circus. Why had he bought so much green? He couldn't remember ever wearing a single piece of green clothing his entire life.
You need help, Harry. In fact, you may be blind.
Sitting in his chair, hands on his head, he considered canceling. He could say he didn't feel well, or had too much work to do. Ha! Love would know for a certainty that last one wasn't true.
Then, the proverbial light bulb appeared. It eluded him in his professional life these days, but now there it was hovering above his head and shining like a beacon of hope.
The front desk clerk of his motel was a young woman. He had never bothered to get her name, but if he smiled and maybe slipped her some money, she might come back here and tell him what to wear.
Yeah, or maybe, she would think you were a creepy, old rapist and call the cops.
He would have to take that chance, and besides, he was the cops. Harry rushed so fast to the front lobby that he actually slammed his entire girth into the glass door before he managed to open it. He was pushing when he should have been pulling, and that reminded him of a great band that he had caught live one evening while working a case down in Austin, TX. The lead singer had been smooth, and had a full band backing him up, all in black suits. The name of the band escaped him, but they had a song called Pushin' on the Pull Bar. The music swung, and the ladies swooned.
What Harry wouldn't give to be that singer.
He rushed up to the girl at the desk so quickly that she actually backed her chair up a little.
“I'm sorry if I startled you, Miss. I've been staying in room 3A.”
“Yeah, I remember. The spook.”
“That's me,” Harry said, ignoring the slur, “Listen, I'm going to lay it all out there and ask you for a monster sized favor. I've got a first date with a girl that I've liked for a long time, and honestly, I haven't had any dates in even longer than that. I went out today and I bought a whole bunch of new clothes, but I have no idea what to wear.”
“OK.”
“Can you help me?”
“Oh, I don't know. I'm not supposed to leave my desk unless there is someone to relieve me, which there isn't.”
“I promise it will only take a minute, and if your boss gets on your ass, just tell him that the F.B.I. forced you to help them with a case.”
“Yeah, I don't know, Man.”
“I'll give you twenty bucks.”
That did it.
Back in the room, she looked down at the sea of shirts, ties, shoes, and pants for longer than Harry expected. Her first move was picking up a blue, short-sleeved shirt that had a flower pattern across it. “Burn this,” she said.
“I thought maybe, to be more laid back.”
“Burn it.”
Harry tossed the shirt near the door. Next, the girl picked out a pair of black slacks, and then discarded a separate pair of black slacks with the flowered shirt.
“Never pleats,” she said.
Harry didn't question her this time, though he thought he might wish to write these things down.
The clerk then shoved all the rest of the clothes to the side of the bed save a dark navy dress shirt, still in its package, and a pair of new black loafers.
“Wear these. And, get yourself a cerulean blue tie. No designs, just solid blue. Macy's should have one.”
“Which blue is cerulean?”
“Think baby blue, but just a bit darker.”
“Which blue is Prussian?”
“Prussian is a much darker and deeper hue.”
“Oh.”
“Did you know that in the process of making Prussian blue, cyanide is created?”
“I didn't, no,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Something new every day, right?”
She ignored him. “And get yourself some new socks. Black. You may think you can get away with old socks in a new outfit, but you can't. She'll know.”
“Thank you so much. What should I do with the rest of this stuff?”
“Wear them when you aren't trying to get laid.”
“I wasn't…”
She put her hand up to stop him. “Please,” was all that she said.
Harry handed her two twenties instead of the agreed upon one, then she thanked him and went back to work.
Harry had forgotten to get her name.
He changed as quickly as he could. If he hurried, he had just enough time to make it to the department store.
Love was staying in a nice hotel in Des Moines, about forty-five minutes outside of Hennington. She had offered to come to him, but he said that was nonsense. There was better food to be had in Des Moines, anyway.
He made a point to pick Love up at her door, a detail that he felt was lacking in modern culture. When he bought the tie and socks, he had stopped back by the motel, paranoid that he had gotten his blues mixed up. When the clerk peered over the top of her paperback and gave him the thumbs up, his confidence skyrocketed, and that carried over all the way to just outside Love's door.
Now he could barely remember his own name, let alone what confidence was, and he could feel the dampness build in his shirt collar. Harry had elected not to bring flowers or a gift of any kind. He figured that a friendly date didn't call for such things. Now, the part of him that still had a hope for more than friendship thought not bringing flowers might have blown his only chance. Could flowers make or break a budding relationship? God he hoped not. Love didn't seem the type that would want flowers anyway.
Stop stalling and knock on the damn door!
He knocked twice, but was worried that the knocks had been too soft. Could she have heard that? Maybe he should knock one more time to make sure. Though, wouldn't that seem overly excited or impatient? She had not answered yet. He needed to knock louder.
While raising his hand to knock once more, the door swung wide, and he nearly knocked on her nose.
Love stood before him in a long, form fitting black skirt and red satin blouse with a neckline that dipped down far enough
to tempt fate, yet high enough to stay its hand. It dawned on Harry that this was the first time he had ever seen Love without her blue plastic suit.
“You… You're breathtaking,” he stammered.
She placed her right hand gently on his chest, and then straightened his tie.
“You're rather pretty yourself,” she countered and grabbed a small black handbag. Then, she led the way down the hall. Harry closed the door and followed.
He loved that she had taken the lead, and just then, he thought he'd follow her over a cliff if that's where she wanted to go.
TWENTY EIGHT
“I never would have pictured you as a Miata guy, Harry. What happened to that old clunker you used to rock?” asked Love.
“Susie died and was buried. This is actually the personal vehicle of one of the locals who was nice enough to loan it to me. I guess that I'll need to buy another one of my own soon.”
“You seem like a truck kind of guy to me. Maybe a Dodge or Toyota.”
“I'll think about that.”
“Then maybe you could haul your chair around yourself.”
Harry had not known that Love, or almost anyone for that matter, knew about his chair. He let the subject lie, though, because he felt talking about the importance of a chair somehow aged him.
They pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant called Mercutio's. There was valet and Harry took it, though normally he would have found his own place to park. Something about another person parking his car made him feel like a plantation owner.
“Wow, you picked the swankiest joint in town didn't you?” Love asked rhetorically.
That's right, Harry. Tonight you really are the man. You can do no wrong.
Inside, the ceilings were high and covered in chandeliers. It was the kind of place that was all tables and no booths. The kind of place that required the use of three forks, at a minimum.
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