Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

  “Do you have protection?”

  “Shit! Left them in the nightstand out in the bedroom.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Really?” I ask. Knowing Laura’s near-manic fear of pregnancy and her new penchant for two-plying my Johnson during her more fertile times of the month, I don’t understand her insouciance. But hell, I’ll run with it.

  “Easy, trigger. Not in the sense that you think it’s okay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well…” Laura fiddles with the curls dangling down the side of her head. “We could always do other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You could go down on me for a change.”

  Oral sex. As much as guys enjoy receiving it, we’re reluctant to return the favor. Cunnilingus represents that tenuous line a heterosexual woman straddles (literally) between being bi-curious and full-blown lesbian—maybe even the one thing girls covet more than shoes. You would think we’d be a little less ambivalent about putting our tongues down there, and yet I’ve only done it a few times to Laura. Okay, maybe once if I’m being honest. And I think it was by accident.

  “Sure.”

  “Sure?” Laura acts surprised.

  “Why not?” I say.

  I crawl into the large whirlpool tub. We kiss for a few seconds, but the cold, hard porcelain of the tub diffuses the notion of any extended foreplay. I run my mouth down Laura’s neck, through her cleavage, then down over her navel and in between her legs.

  I ask Laura what she likes. My voice is muffled, obviously. She puts her hands on the back of my head, encourages me higher rather than lower. “I like the sucking more than the licking.”

  “It would help if I knew what the hell I was supposed to be sucking or not licking.”

  “Feel that thing in your mouth right there?”

  She pushes me deeper to where all I can do is nod. And suck of course. “Good, right there! Suck on that, but do it gently. And try to concentrate on keeping your tongue more to the top right. No, your right, not mine. Think of it as a clock, and you want your tongue to hover around one o’clock.”

  After a few stops and starts, I find one o’clock. I get into a nice rhythm. Laura’s knees lock my head in a vice grip. Her back arches. There’s almost no circulation in the bathroom. We slip in the tub, coated in each other’s sweat.

  “Oh my God,” Laura says.

  My tongue is numb. My jaw a little sore. But I don’t let on. “I do what I can to please my woman.”

  “Your woman?” Laura giggles.

  “Well, yeah, of course.” She giggles again. There’s a knock at the door.

  “Come on already!”

  It’s a girl’s voice. Judging by her tone, she’s been waiting to get in here for a while.

  Laura and I slide out of the tub. I throw some soap and cold water on my face, washing Laura’s scent off me as best I can. We get dressed.

  I grab the doorknob. “You presentable?”

  “Not really…” Laura looks at herself in the mirror. “But my face isn’t going to fucking glow any brighter than it is right now.”

  We kiss one last time. I open the door. A petite blonde in a florescent-pink bikini bottom and a cut-off University of Illinois T-shirt stands in the doorway.

  “Nice, guys,” Beth says. “Real classy.”

  Laura takes three steps forward, nearly nose-to-nose with Beth. “What’s your problem, Beth?”

  “Problem?” Beth says, pointing at herself. “I don’t have a problem.” She looks at me. “Should I have a problem, Hank?”

  Laura pushes Beth in the chest, I’m hoping harder than she intended. Beth stumbles backwards. “Your problem is with me, not Hank. You need to let him go, you fucking slut.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, a hand reaches for Laura’s ponytail. Enter the drunk whirlwind formerly known as Claire Sullivan. Everything seems like it’s in slow motion as Claire swings Laura across the room by her ponytail.

  “Touch my best friend one more time, you fucking cunt,” Claire says, dragging my girlfriend by her head. “I dare you.”

  I grab Claire’s wrist just hard enough to make her let go of Laura’s hair. With her free hand, Claire punches me in the groin. I fall to the ground.

  “Hank!” Laura says, pushing Claire out of the way.

  Beth grabs Claire just as she balls her right hand into a fist. “Easy, Sullivan.”

  I stand up, wincing from the pain. I look at Beth. Bowing, I offer the bathroom door to Beth with a wave of my hand. “If you need to go, then go.”

  Laura tugs on my elbow. “But what about me?”

  “You should go get dressed,” I say. “I’ll take you out for some crab legs or something.”

  Claire flips me off. “Fuck you and your chivalry, Fitzy!”

  “That’s enough,” Beth says. She grabs Claire, pulls her into the bathroom. She shakes her head back and forth, her eyes more disappointed in me than anyone else.

  I stand outside on the beachfront balcony of our condo. It’s almost sunset, and my stomach is bloated with crabmeat. Laura is inside sleeping off the three-way combination of too much booze, sex, and seafood. I look down and see a tiny figure walking along the beach by herself.

  It’s Beth. She has on a tie-dyed tank top and denim cutoffs with a straw hat. She’s barefoot, dipping her toes in the cold Gulf water, pulling them back when a wave comes too close. Every now and again, she raises her hand to hold her hat in place against the breeze.

  I have to admit, Beth and I have fun together. The great thing when I’m with her is that everything doesn’t have to be everything. With Laura, I count every second she and I aren’t together. I want every moment to be ideal, even the bad ones. I want to give Laura the postcard-perfect dawn and the postcard-perfect dusk, even if it makes me miserable doing it. With Beth, maybe that postcard might not even happen, but at least I don’t fool myself into believing a sunrise or sunset is any less beautiful without her in it.

  Why doesn’t some guy see what I see in Beth? Why doesn’t someone come along and sweep her right off her feet? A decent guy. A guy who looks at Beth’s subterranean self-esteem and her limitless capacity to forgive and says, “Beth, you’re a fucking catch, now act like it. I love you!”

  I love you.

  I love you.

  Wait, what?

  I love Beth.

  So there it is. Maybe it’s always been there. But that’s not the point. The point is I don’t deserve Beth. I’m flawed and broken and can only bring her heartache. Laura and I make sense together almost out of necessity. Two people that self-absorbed and self-destructive can only be trusted with each other.

  I place my hands on the balcony railing. Beth sees me. She stops and waves up at me. I wave back.

  Fuck me. The sunset is more beautiful with her in it.

  Chapter twenty-eight

  I’m getting kicked out of Disney World.

  “Security is on its way, sir.”

  The Disney employee is a skinny little twerp, more nondescript than clean cut. He looks to be college age, early twenties at the oldest. I’m confident I can kick his ass. I stand near the exit of the “It’s a Small World” ride, the Disney employee blocking my path.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

  At the end of the ride, when our boat approached the final turn and just as that Orwellian menagerie of psychotic singing puppets faded from view, a bright flash went off. I noticed everyone screaming and gesticulating, so I got creative when the flash illuminated our boat. Only when we rounded that final turn and saw the massive white screen perched above the canal did I realize what was coming—a larger-than-life projected image of an eighteen-year-old-kid in a Notre Dame tank top giving the “It’s A Small World” crowd of parents, pre-teens and toddlers…the finger.

/>   Laura stands beside me, holding my hand. She’s crying. I’m trying to reassure her. “Don’t worry, babe. This is all one big fucking joke.”

  The nondescript guy gives me another look. “Kindly refrain from that language while you remain in the park, sir.”

  Laura won’t stop crying. “Just apologize, Hank. Or at least be nice until your parents get off the ride and can talk to him.”

  Mom and Dad love Laura now, more than I love Laura. They insisted I invite her along for summer vacation or, as Mom declared it, “The last real family vacation with all my babies.” She’s such a melodramatic freak.

  The end of high school came and went—spring break, Senior Prom, graduation, all that shit. After going almost an entire school year without coming home, Laura spent much of April back in Empire Ridge and then came back again for a weekend in May so we could finally get our prom night together. I made it onto the prom court, securing the Jock bloc and most of the Future Farmers of America, but I didn’t have enough of the hood or bandie vote to snag the kingship. I skipped the after-prom party at Martin Neff’s house because Beth was there. She and Hatch went to prom as friends. I lied and said I wasn’t jealous. Hatch came to my house the next day crying because Claire lost her virginity to Bobbie the hockey player.

  Graduation was a blur. I got drunk out of my mind on the last day of school. It was Hatch’s bright fucking idea to raid my parents’ liquor cabinet and mix everything that was clear into one giant Thermos. Several reliable witnesses informed me later I was conscious, there were balloons, and I appeared to be having a good time. I gave the senior speech at commencement, making a less-than-veiled reference to my arrest that earned a standing ovation from the senior class, a tepid laugh from the crowd, and a look of disgust on my principal’s face that I will forever cherish. My father got drunk for the third time in his entire life at my graduation party. He kept shouting to everyone who would listen that he wasn’t drunk as long as he could say “Johnny Mathis,” right up until he burned off both eyebrows and all his forearm hair while grilling hamburgers and bratwurst.

  Today is our first day at Disney World, and I’m exceptionally grumpy after yesterday’s seventeen-hour road trip from Empire Ridge. At the last second this morning, literally as we stepped on the tram in front of our hotel, we decided to go to Magic Kingdom instead of Epcot. And by we I mean we took a vote, and I was overruled, which has made me even grumpier.

  Mom and Dad arrive at the exit of the ride. Dad steps into the fray. “Excuse me, this here’s my son, and I apologize for his actions. In his defense, he didn’t know he was being photographed.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell—”

  Dad holds up his hand. “Look, I can vouch for him being a decent kid, and you have my word he’ll be on his best behavior as long as he’s anywhere in Disney World—Magic Kingdom, Epcot, MGM, anywhere.”

  There is a tenuous silence, apart from the not-so-distant chorus of multiracial animatronics. Mr. Indistinct steps aside. “Thank you for the explanation, sir. Just tell your son to watch himself. This is a family park, and we intend to keep it that way.”

  “Understood.” Dad grabs me by the elbow. “Let’s go, son.”

  We exit the ride to the stares of a hundred pairs of presumptuous eyes waiting in line. Apparently, they need to get in one last good dose of uninformed judgment before the cleansing redemptive power of “It’s A Small World.”

  Laura pats my father on the back. “Thanks, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  “What are you thanking him for?” I say. “I had everything under control.”

  “Son, I wouldn’t call getting banned from Disney World having ‘everything under control.’” Dad laughs. “But it was worth it.”

  Mom slaps Dad in the chest. “John Henry Fitzpatrick!”

  “What? You gotta admit, that was funny stuff.” He makes a goofy face, raises both hands in the air, striking my same on-camera pose. Dad being Dad, he raises his two middle knuckles.

  Chapter twenty-nine

  “What is going on?” Laura asks.

  Today is my girlfriend’s nineteenth birthday, a fact I probably should not have pointed out to my father. I shake my head. “It’s out of my hands at this point.”

  After much whining from my sister Jeanine, we decided to attend tonight’s Main Street Electrical Parade in the Magic Kingdom. I didn’t notice Dad disappear into the crowd, but I sure as hell noticed his reappearance. Everybody did. He’s standing in the middle of the Peter Pan float, microphone in hand, singing the Johnny Mathis rendition of the song “Laura.”

  “Is your dad for real?” Laura says. She blows him a kiss.

  I watch my father on the stage. He’s smiling at Mom and Jack, smiling at me, smiling at Laura, smiling at complete strangers as if he’s known them his whole life. That’s John Fitzpatrick for you. I can’t help but be a shadow against a light that bright.

  I almost don’t pay attention to the lyrics—she gave your very first kiss to you, that was Laura, but she’s only a dream—but how could I not?

  Chapter thirty

  We managed to squeeze in one more day at Magic Kingdom, a day at MGM Studios, a couple days poolside, and then today finally made it to Epcot.

  Mom, Dad, Jeanine, and Jack have been asleep for the last half hour. Laura volunteered to read Jack his bedtime story and put him to bed. He’s only five months old, but I could swear Jack has a crush on Laura, and the feeling seems mutual.

  We’re watching MTV on the pull-out couch. Laura seems distracted. I’m not exactly focused myself. “Jack go to sleep pretty easy?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Laura answers. “He’s such a beautiful little boy.”

  I nod. “The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

  Cheap Trick’s “The Flame” comes on. Laura scoots next to me. “He gets it from his brother you know.”

  “He gets it from his dad,” I say.

  “He does?”

  I’m a little shocked, maybe even flattered, with Laura’s disbelief. But I appreciate her gesture. “Well, of course he does.”

  “Not that your Dad isn’t fantastic,” Laura says. “That stunt on the float was right out of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Does anything fluster him?”

  “That’s more like it,” I say, just as Laura starts kissing me on the throat.

  She stops kissing me. “What did you say, Hank?”

  “Nothing.” I kiss her back. Laura runs her hand up my shirt. I grab her hand. “Laura, wait. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Laura backs up. She pulls in her knees, holds them close to her chest. “Here we go.”

  “Here we go?”

  “Just get to what you have to say. I’ve seen this coming for weeks.”

  “You have?”

  “You’ve been distant and cold to me. Go ahead and say it. You want to break up.”

  “Break up?” I reach, squeeze her hand. “I don’t think I want to do that.”

  Laura lets go of her knees and straightens her legs. She looks relieved. That is unfortunate. I squeeze her hand again. “You might want to break up with me, though.”

  “Why?” The concern returns to Laura’s voice. Concern is a good thing. Maybe she’s seen this coming.

  “I kissed Sheila.”

  Laura stands up from the pull-out couch. “My best friend, Sheila?”

  “It was just one kiss,” I say, ready with the justifications. “And you and Sheila haven’t talked in about six months. She told me. It was no big deal.”

  I leave out the part about Sheila and me being in the tent together. The part where Sheila said, “I just really want to kiss you right now.” The part where I obliged her request without hesitation. The part where Hatch was listening outside the tent and barged in on us only ten seconds later. The part where I knew Sheila and I would have done a lot more than kiss if
not for Hatch’s impeccable timing, again. (The guy fucking loses his virginity to my scraps, and he can’t show the common courtesy of letting me destroy a relationship and a lifelong friendship?)

  “When and where did this happen?” Laura asks.

  “Two weekends ago.”

  “When I was back at Bucknell for early registration?”

  “Yes, that weekend. We were all camping out near Empire Quarry. Everybody was pretty drunk. You should have seen Cash. He got drunk and then started tripping hard on acid. He spent half the night in a yoga position saying, ‘Touch me, Hank, just touch me.’ I kept having to walk over to him and touch him on the shoulder, or else Cash would start screaming hysterically. Not that big of a deal, except for the fact that the Indiana State Police Scuba Team was conducting practice night dives about two hundred yards away from us.”

  Cash Digsby graduated with Laura. He’s a year older than me. An unmitigated stoner, he’s the comic relief to almost any story in which he’s referenced. Overall, I have to say that Laura seems neither amused nor relieved.

  “You kissed one of my best friends, Hank.”

  “I realize that, Laura. I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And it was just one kiss? Nothing else? Nothing more?”

  “That was it, I swear.”

  Laura sits back down on the pull-out couch, slides her hand over to mine. “What does Beth think about all this?”

  “I’ll take non sequiturs for eight-hundred dollars, Alex.”

  “The girl is in love with you. You know that, right?”

  “Apparently I don’t.”

  Laura wipes one solitary tear out of the corner of her right eye. She sits back down on the pull-out couch, slides her hand over to mine. “Keep lying to yourself and lying to me. I probably deserve it.”

  “Deserve what? Am I in the fucking Twilight Zone or something?” I stand up, walk to the television, and turn up the volume to drown out our conversation. “Look, Laura, if you think my behavior is somehow justified by how everything went down last summer, then I can—”