by C. D. Payne
“Parents suck, Sheeni. They’re not to be trusted.”
“You did a nice job on your makeup, Rick, but my friend Nick makes a better-looking girl. Your features are a bit too masculine. Oh, I never noticed you had pierced ears.”
“Uh, yeah, I had a girlfriend once who liked that look on men. Please excuse the cheesy earrings.”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“I’m Deirdre. She’s not too bright.”
“No girl’s very bright if she winds up in this place.”
“Don’t worry, Sheeni. Just play along with everything I say.”
Our faces now done, we applied the red rash to our necks and chests, enabling me to cop a cheap feel for old time’s sake. My Love didn’t seem to mind. When we finished, we stepped back and checked each other out. At least to a couple of laypersons, we looked decidedly unwell.
“That’s great, Sheeni. Now try to raise your temperature.”
“How do I do that?”
“Think about your deceitful father. And remember to puff out your cheeks so you look like you have swollen glands.”
Ditching the pens in the tank of the ancient toilet, I sent Sheeni ahead to rouse the Fairchilds while I lurked in the hallway. I heard a commotion of voices from their bedroom, then a moment later My Love returned looking ill but happy.
“I have to get dressed,” she whispered. “Eugenia’s taking me to the hospital. Waldo went out to bring in the dogs.”
I gave her a thumbs-up sign, puffed out my cheeks, placed a weary hand against my feverish forehead, and shuffled down the corridor to the front entry where a grim-faced Eugenia was tossing on her coat.
“Ooh, I don’t feel so good,” I moaned.
“Not you too!” she exclaimed. “Damn, I better go check everyone. You stay here.”
Five minutes later My Love and I were hurtling along the deserted, still-dark streets in Eugenia Home’s large rusty van—an angrily muttering Eugenia behind the wheel. For being so devout, the woman sure can sling the profanities. Waldo stayed behind to supervise the preparation of the morning gruel.
Despite the earliness of the hour, the emergency department of the hospital was bustling with disease and distress. After waiting what seemed like an eternity, but by the clock was only 20 minutes, Sheeni and Deirdre were summoned to the counter and asked a lot of probing medical questions by the admitting nurse. Then we had our temperatures and blood pressures taken, were handed green hospital gowns, and were escorted down a corridor to adjacent examination rooms, where we were directed to strip and put on the gowns.
Since Sheeni was the actual paying client, Eugenia accompanied her. I sat fully dressed on the cold examination table in the sterile room and forced myself to count slowly to one hundred. Then I dashed into the room next door, where my feverish love was clutching the open-backed gown to her naked torso and a glum Eugenia was sneaking an illicit cigarette.
“Mrs. Fairchild!” Deirdre exclaimed breathlessly. “Your husband just phoned! Your house is on fire!”
Eugenia turned a pleasant shade of Arctic White. “Oh my God!” she gasped.
“You go on ahead,” I said. “We’ll be OK here.”
“Don’t you dare leave,” she warned.
“I’m not going anywhere,” moaned my puffed-out love, playing her part wonderfully. She lay back on the examination table in a swoon as Eugenia snuffed out her cigarette on the floor and rushed from the room. I watched as our guardian paused to speak to a nurse, then hurried out through the double exit doors.
“OK, let’s go.” I said.
“Wait, Rick! I have to put on my clothes.”
“No time, Sheeni,” I said, grabbing her neatly folded stack of frumpy Eugenia Home raiments. “You can dress in the car. Let’s go.”
I peered out the doorway, saw that the coast was clear, and waved her to follow me. We headed up the corridor away from the nurses’ station, and went through a door marked “Authorized personnel only. No admittance.” This put us in a room full of buzzing medical machines. We crossed the room, went through a door, darted down another corridor, and came out in a hospital ward, where we were stopped by a beefy male nurse.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“A man in the emergency room!” I shrieked. “He’s got a gun!”
The alarmed nurse raced off in one direction; we fled in the other. Down another corridor, through two more doors, into some kind of locker room, out the employees’ entrance, up a concrete ramp, and we were in the parking lot. Ducking low, we wove our way among the parked cars, traversed a landscaped expanse of grass, crossed the street, turned a corner, and darted up a side street. There, still parked at the curb where I had left it, was my rad Escort. I could have kissed its rusty essence. I even found my keys in Deirdre’s purse and the door locks still worked. Feeling optimistic, I shoved in the clutch and turned the key in the ignition. Futile grinding noises.
“Rick, it won’t start!” exclaimed My Love.
“Don’t worry,” I said, shifting the stick into neutral and grabbing a can of miracle fluid. “When I give the signal, you turn the key.”
I opened the hood and fed my hungry carb a big gulp of starter fluid. Then, just to be on the safe side, I sprayed a second generous spritz. At that moment I heard the starter click over and a billowing red cloud of flame erupted from the carburetor. It seemed like I had forever to contemplate its fiery roilings as it rose up, expanded, grew progressively nearer, and then inexorably engulfed my face and head. I felt an echoing eruption of pain as my flesh seared, my glasses melted, and my polyester wig ignited. I knocked off the smoldering glasses and clutched my hands to my raging face; someone screamed nearby and I felt a hand pull off my burning wig.
“Oh God, Rick!” My Love exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
I was not all right. I flung open the passenger door, reached inside, found Sheeni’s folded dress, and pressed it against my tormented face. The raging pain eased slightly.
“Oh God, Rick, should I go get some help?”
“No, Sheeni!” I slumped forward in the passenger seat. “I’ll be OK. You’ll have to drive.” At least my sadistic engine was idling like a top.
“But, Rick, I’ve never driven before!”
I heard a siren in the distance.
“It’ll be OK, Sheeni. Shut the hood and let’s get out of here!”
My Love climbed in behind the wheel. I told her to press in the clutch, as I shoved the gearstick into what I hoped was first. It wasn’t. The engine stalled when Sheeni released the pedal. Fortunately, the engine had warmed up enough that it restarted on the second try.
This time I pushed the stick over further to the left. “OK, Sheeni, ease out on the clutch as you press down on the accelerator.”
My nervous love tried her best but seriously over-revved. We burned rubber as the car lurched forward. Sheeni swerved just in time to dodge the car parked in front of us; we barreled down the street at some improbable RPM as her right foot froze on the accelerator. Fortunately, I had guessed right this time and we were in first gear.
“Oh God, Rick, we’re coming to a stop sign!” she cried. “What’ll I do?”
“Just press in the clutch. Now step on the brake.”
Miraculously, the car stopped without impacting anything.
Though it hurt like hell, I eased the cloth aside enough to peer out with one eye. Good news: I wasn’t blind.
“OK, Sheeni, we have to turn left here and go down to the main street. There’s no other way. Take your foot off the brake, ease out on the clutch, and don’t press on the accelerator so hard.”
My Love followed my instructions to the letter. We progressed slowly down the street in first gear and stopped at the intersection with the main highway. We turned, accelerated, Sheeni pressed in the clutch, I shifted into second, she released the clutch, and we were chugging along at a legal and respectable 25 miles per hour as Eugenia’s van passed us going about 85. She w
as headed back toward the hospital.
“Do you think she recognized us, Sheeni?”
“I don’t think so, Rick. It’s pretty dark and she was going too fast. Oh God, it feels like I’m going to sideswipe the cars along the curb.”
“You’re doing fine, Sheeni. Just stay in your lane. That’s why they paint those stripes on the road.”
I had a mild heart attack as a deputy sheriff’s car roared by, followed a moment later by the Highway Patrol. It looked like all the law in the area was converging on the hospital. Better that they should be looking for a madman with a gun than two runaway girls with measles. I pointed this out to My Love.
“You’re such a genius, Rick. I thought you had seriously miscalculated when you said that to that nurse. But the cops will be looking for us soon enough. Where exactly are we going?”
“It’s not much farther. We turn left at the next intersection.”
Feeling a new confidence in her driving, Sheeni made her turn without yielding to the giant oncoming semi. I heard a blast of diesel horn, saw a pair of blinding orange headlights rushing directly at me, and witnessed through one horrified eye as the skidding truck jackknifed across the highway and flipped its trailer over, sparking and grinding across the asphalt and missing us by the width of a hydrogen atom.
“Sorry, Rick,” said My Love, accelerating up the road. “Shouldn’t that truck have stopped?”
“I’d say the guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But now the cops will be after us for sure. Are you ready to try third gear?”
“Let’s do it.”
We did. We barreled up the winding road at speeds I felt certain took several years off my life span. I was almost thankful for the distracting facial agony.
I knew exactly where we were going; I had driven it on two practice runs the day before. The eastern sky beyond the black forested hills was warming to soft pink as we successfully pulled in at the small local airport. We parked in the deserted lot, and Sheeni helped me retrieve my pack, laptop, and other gear from the trunk. She led the way toward a compact twin-engine business jet—its wing lights flashing brightly—that was idling on the runway. I kept my free eye open to see where I was going and got a nice view of My Love’s divine ass through the open back of her hospital gown.
Connie came down the foldout steps to help us aboard.
“Rick, what happened?” she exclaimed.
“Got my face a little charred,” I replied. “Have you been waiting long?”
“You’re right on time. We just landed a few minutes ago.”
That talented deviate Dogo Dimondo was at the controls. He wasted no time in getting us airborne. Everyone kept their eyes forward as Sheeni went back to the third row of seats and changed into a fashionable ensemble Connie thoughtfully had provided. A swab of cotton dipped in nail polish remover cleared up her rash.
I decided to stick it out as Deirdre with the measles until my face felt better. I discovered that by removing the cloth from one small area of my face at a time, I was able to tolerate the stinging torment. By the time we were beginning our descent into cloud-shrouded Grants Pass, Oregon, the cloth and the worst of the pain were gone. Connie checked out my savaged face.
“Well, Rick, you lost your eyebrows. And you toasted your nose and forehead. But it doesn’t look that bad.”
“He was very brave,” said My Love, squeezing my hand.
“Sheeni, you didn’t wait for my signal before starting the car,” I pointed out.
“Poor communication, Rick,” she replied. “You didn’t specify the signal, so I had to use my own judgment. What will happen to your curious car?”
“With any luck,” I replied, “the guy I bought it from will be charged with felony hit and run.”
“My Rick thinks of everything,” said Sheeni. “Where exactly are we going?”
“Our ultimate destination is Mississippi,” I confessed.
Sheeni smiled. “You’ve been talking to Apurva, Rick. OK, darling, I’ve always wanted to see that state. I hear their marriage laws are shockingly lax.”
“That reminds me,” said Connie. “I have some wonderful news. My mother filed for divorce yesterday.”
“Congratulations, Connie,” I said. “You have successfully broken up your parents’ marriage. It is the modern child’s ultimate revenge.”
“Not hardly,” scoffed My Love. “I almost had my father killed.”
Let’s hope our own gifted children act more charitably toward us.
The flight plan Dogo filed in Los Angeles listed Grants Pass as their destination. With any luck there will be no record of their brief stopover in Crescent City. While our plane was being refueled in Grants Pass, Dogo filled out another flight plan for a cross-country jaunt to Atlanta. My three companions grabbed a fast breakfast in the airport snack bar, while I changed out of my Deirdre clothes and sneaked into the men’s room to wash my mutilated face. I hope I haven’t done any permanent damage to Rick S. Hunter’s Gallic good looks. Soap alone did nothing to remove my measles, so I had to resort to Connie’s caustic chemical. More racking torture, and I still came out looking like a recent atomic holocaust survivor.
8:45 p.m. It was late afternoon when our plane touched down at a deserted rural airstrip somewhere in the wilds of Mississippi. All the snow had melted and it was hot as blazes. Dogo, at least, seemed to know where we were. Unloading our gear, he told us to walk down the dirt road to the highway and catch the next bus south to Yazoo City. After thanking our benefactors and assuring Connie that if we got caught, her assistance would never be revealed (kidnapping is a federal offense), we waved farewell as their small but fleet plane soared off toward the east. I put my arm around My Love and contemplated the alien green landscape.
“This is kind of scary, Rick.”
“Don’t worry, Sheeni. You’ll feel better after we’re married.”
“Somehow, Rick, I don’t think that’s the solution to all of life’s problems.”
We trudged out to the highway, the bus eventually came, we found a motel in Yazoo City willing to rent us a room, we ate dinner in a Chinese restaurant, and now I have to feign extreme fatigue in order to prevent my amorous love from discovering my still-lingering scrotal scab. I’ll also have to change into my pajamas in the bathroom because numerous bright lights outside our window are blazing in through the too-sheer drapes. This is not a motel room conducive to premarital modesty.
I’m not complaining. Hallelujah, brother! I’ve reached the promised land at last!
THURSDAY, May 6 — American motels always have such oversized mirrors. They must think we’re a nation of traveling narcissists. Not good when you’re missing your eyebrows, and the skin on your nose and forehead has turned brown and scaly. I had to brush my teeth this morning with my back to the sink. At least my facial impairments provide an excuse for economizing on wedding photos.
First stop after Dixie donuts was the local hospital for blood tests. We passed. The intern said my burned face was looking OK and asked Sheeni if she knew she was pregnant. She said isn’t that the usual reason people get married in Mississippi?
We paid our $35 at the courthouse, and through some clerical fudging got in just under the waiting-period wire for their Saturday afternoon wedding special. We’re scheduled at 1:30 after two other couples. I used my fake driver’s license for my ID, and My Love used her genuine passport—grudgingly brought along by me from California only for that purpose. To throw off Mr. Saunders’s bloodhounds we both made slight misspellings in our last names on our license application—crucial errors the chatty clerk didn’t spot. As far as Mississippi knows, Miss S. Heridan Sanders is wedding Mr. Rick Shunter.
After lunch we went shopping for nuptial necessities. Hundred-dollar bills were sucked out of my money belt like condoms from a high-school vending machine. I now have a southern-style poplin sport coat and a 14k gold wedding band. Sheeni has a very pretty azure dress (“not bad for Mississippi,” she commented), matching
shoes, lots of gauzy underthings, an executive luggage set, and the companion ring to mine.
Despite the brightness of our motel room, the balance of the afternoon was devoted to passionate lovemaking. I was able to indulge in this activity because I’d soaked off the last of that pesky scab in my morning bath. Sheeni finally got a good look at Rick S. Hunter’s scrawny bod, though I kept my mole-bearing nether regions under the sheet as much as possible. Her only comment was to express puzzlement over my absence of disfiguring motorcycle scars. I said they must have faded away in the beneficent Ukiah climate.
FRIDAY, May 7 — My last full day on the planet as a bachelor. Lest anyone think I’m rushing things, let me note that I am nearly fifteen. When Gandhi was my age, he had already celebrated his third wedding anniversary. I hope his kids behaved well at the party.
While showering this morning, I felt such a sense of joyous anticipation that I found myself warbling a medley of Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits. Sheeni complimented me on my excellent singing voice, but Rick S. Hunter must guard against such obvious Twispian displays.
Having exhausted genteel Yahoo City’s limited sightseeing opportunities (and finding the heat and humidity oppressive), we spent a good part of the day in our air-conditioned motel room’s king-size bed. Sheeni has taken to Southern Life by flouncing about in her slip and talking like Blanche Dubois. When she’s not pining away for a mint julep, she’s mewling for “those boys” who are ever calling out to her from the dark. So far, at any rate, the only boy doing that is me—though she has been causing a stir among the teen redneck crowd on our walks to the nearby Chinese restaurant.
SATURDAY, May 8 — Sheeni and I were married this afternoon in the chambers of Judge Josephine Jackson. My Love thought it was very progressive of Mississippi to provide us with an African-American judge. I was much more nervous than I had been at Trent and Apurva’s wedding, but I managed to blurt out the words, slip the ring on her slender finger, and kiss the bride.