by phuc
"Uh-oh, hurt your feelings. I'm just saying I'd like to find out if you're . . . smart."
"I'm smart enough to see where this is going. And that's what I'm doing, going."
"Guess I said something wrong, showed my ass?"
"Yes, you have—in more ways than one. And it's very white and not very good-looking. I think I saw pimples on it."
"You did see . . . ?"
"It was hard to miss."
"Look, I was just trying to impress you— "You have, all right. Go fish for your radio."
"Look, look, don't walk off. I fell. You saw my ass, and then I tried to impress you with my suave recovery, and I was doing okay until I had a male chauvinistic relapse, the stuff about your legs. But I mean . . . you wouldn't wear that if you didn't want men to look . . . shit."
"Open mouth, insert other foot." She bent to pick up a large blue towel from the beach.
"That yours?" he said, and immediately regretted it.
"No, I steal these when I come across them. Sew them together and they make fabulous bedspreads, great Christmas gifts."
"I don't seem to be doing so good."
"No, you don't." She began walking away.
"Hey," he said, bounding after her, "you can't walk away like that."
"Oh no, here I go."
"You can't do that. Don't walk away like that."
She turned a furious face on him, slung the towel over her shoulder. "How about like this?" And she began taking long, ridiculous strides.
Montgomery couldn't help himself. He began to laugh.
She went a few more steps, turned with her hands on her hips, then she laughed.
"Hey, you," she said, "walk this way," and she started off across the sand taking those ridiculous strides, and Montgomery followed mocking her walk, and pretty soon they were side by side laughing.
They stopped walking.
"Look," Montgomery said, "I'm sorry. Let's start over."
"All right."
"My, but don't I know you from somewhere?"
"No. My name is Becky Shiner."
"And my name is Montgomery Jones."
"Have you considered changing it?"
"Often."
"That's one of the worst names I've ever heard."
"Not quite. The middle name is Buford."
"You're pulling my leg?"
"I wish I were . . . shit."
"Maybe later."
"Yeah?"
"Down boy."
"Sorry."
"Montgomery Buford Jones. Hummm. God, that's awful! Are you a second or a junior?"
"Actually, I'm a junior, but forget that."
"Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr—"
"You're not forgetting."
"—will you buy me a hot dog?"
"You kidding? I'll rob the goddamned stand if you want me to."
"I'll settle for you buying me a hot dog. We'll knock over a filling station later."
Not long after, Montgomery got money from the glove box of his car. They bought and ate hot dogs, they walked along the beach holding hands, and talked until the sun pooped out and the moon checked in. They discussed everything. Politics. Religion.
He told her about his part-time job and she told him about her part-time job, and he told her how he was finishing up college in a year at the University of Houston, and she told him she was doing the same and wasn't it amazing that they had never met, and he said, I'll say, and wouldn't it be nice if we took some classes together, and she said yeah, and then he told her things about himself, and how he had tried out for sports in high school and had fallen down a lot, and she told him how she had been on the track and swim team and had been quite good at both, and for him not to take this personal, but it didn't look as if he had become any more athletic than before, considering his dramatic entrance into the water today, and he laughed at that, and they continued to talk about anything and everything until it was very, very late. They went to his apartment in Houston that first night.
........
on me.
on me, Monty.
"Monty. Oh, Monty."
"What?"
"Remember me, your wife? The girl lying next to you on the beach towel? Will you put some suntan lotion on me?"
"Shit, I'm sorry. I was daydreaming."
"About long, brown legs, I bet."
"Yep."
"Well, you shit."
"About yours."
"I bet."
"I was."
"Don't snow me, Mr. Montgomery Buford Jones, JR."
He put an arm around her. "I was thinking about how we met."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh, and how was that? I don't seem to remember.
Seems you've always been with me. Like a birth defect."
"There's always plastic surgery."
"You'd just leave a scar."
"I hope so."
"Were you really thinking about my legs?"
"Yep."
"Do you ever think about other women's legs?"
"God forbid."
"Monty, come on."
"Sometimes?"
"Do you ever think about more than the legs?"
"Sometimes."
"Shithead."
"Sometimes."
"Well, did you know I masturbate to Tom Jones albums when I'm home alone? I just think about that gyrating hunk of man and blammo, double, triple orgasms."
"Sounds nice."
"It is."
"Right there in the living room, huh?"
"Yep, on the couch."
"I see, and I thought that smell was cat piss on the cushions."
"You shithead."
"Sometimes."
"All the time. Here, put this lotion on me."
"How's that?"
"Ummmm."
"Becky?"
"Yes."
"What did you ever do with that black string bikini?"
"It's at home."
"Can you still fit into it?"
"I ought to slap your face, Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr. You know I can. I've gained a pound or two, but nothing that would spill out. Or haven't you noticed?"
"I notice."
"I bet you don't even look at me anymore."
"I look. Why didn't you wear it today?"
"I haven't worn it in years."
"Why?"
"I'm old-fashioned."
"You weren't old-fashioned when I saw you in it—what there was of it."
"I was shopping then."
"My goodness, that doesn't sound very liberated."
"Truth."
"So why don't you wear it now?"
"Like I said, I was shopping. I've got you nabbed now, for what that's worth.
Besides, doesn't this one look nice enough?"
"There's too much of it."
"I believe that was a male chauvinistic remark, Mr. Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr."
"Definitely."
"What will all your liberal pals say?"
"May I look at your wife's ass, probably."
"Monty."
"I'm not kidding. Have you seen their wives? Yetch, right out of the pound.
Besides, what am I, a eunuch? I like the way you look in that thing."
"Okay, I'll wear it for you next time we come to the beach."
"No way."
"You're impossible."
"You could wear it tonight, at home. That way I'd get to see you in it and Galveston Beach wouldn't have to have its sand dried out."
"What?"
"From all the saliva these male wolves would drip on it when they saw you in that thing."
"Would you like a poke in the nose?"
"How about a kiss?"
"Close enough."
"Lower."
"My God, Monty."
"Not that low."
"We're saving that for home too?"
"You bet, sweetheart. Now kiss me. On the lips."
"Not bad. Now will you finish with rubbing the suntan oil on al
ready?"
He began rubbing the oil on her back, copping a bit of breast feel around the sides.
"Stop that, Monty."
"Okay."
"Don't you dare . . . Monty?"
"Hummmm?"
"We'll never let anything come between us, will we?"
"What could come between us?"
"We never will, will we?"
"Hey, why so serious?"
"Just answer me."
"Come on, what could come between us?"
"Promise me nothing will. No matter how bad things might get, promise nothing will."
"Things aren't going to get bad. Another couple of years we're going to be chasing little rug rats around until they're grown and we'll probably die in bed at one hundred and six while performing sixty-nine."
"Seriously, promise." She rolled over on her side to look up at him.
"Okay, baby. I promise. Nothing, no matter how crazy, how bad, how terrible, will ever come between us. And you can tuck that in a sock and store it."
Later that day, back at their apartment, Becky wore the bikini for Montgomery.
But only for a little while. They made long, slow, sweet love through the rest of the afternoon and there were no problems. Becky thought it was the best ever.
So by the grace of the sun and the sea and their memories, they had renewed their love and the summer fled on, dragging behind it the good times, running wild, not knowing where the future led.
And the Dark Side Clock ticked on.
(3)
THE CAULDRON BUBBLES
ONE
From the May 22 edition of the Galveston News, page 1.
RAPIST RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN
The fifth in a series of brutal, unsolved attacks on women occurred last night at 304 Strand Street.
The latest victim was 26-year-old Lena Carruthers.
Police say the method of attack, rape and murder by slicing the victim's throat, fits the pattern
established by the last four attacks, the first of which occurred late October. New evidence suggests that the Rapist Ripper, as he is now called, may in fact be
more than one man. Police . . .
TWO
From the journal of Brian Blackwood, entry date, May 23.
Last night I awoke and didn 't know where I was. Just woke up and couldn't put it together, and when finally I get it figured that I'm staying over at The House, I roll over and there's Clyde standing by my bed without a stitch on. He's just looking down at me, and I say, "Hey, what's up?" and he doesn't say a goddamned word. Just stands there by the bed in the dark, looking, not doing anything, just looking at me, his eyes all crazy and zombielike, and then I get it figured. Clyde's a sleepwalker.
I didn't know what to do. Heard that you don't wake a sleepwalker on account of he might die. I don't really believe that shit, but I didn't want to take any chances, yet didn't know what else to do. Finally I think, get off the superstitious crap, so I say his name. He didn't do anything the first time, but when J called it again, a little louder, he says, "It's so lovely, the blood and all. Just damn fine."
And then I realize he's talking about what we did last night, and that he's still not awake.
But by then he turns and walks out of there leaving me feeling like we just shot a scene from one of those second-feature, drive-in, Z brand movies.
Gave me the goddamned creeps, I'll tell you, Mr. Journal, but that's between you and me.
I kind of liked it too. I mean, that's the thing with Clyde. He's always doing the unexpected. Nothing normal happens around the guy and the unusual is starting to happen around me too.
Neat.
THREE
This headline from the June 12 edition of the Galveston News: RIPPER KILLS AND RAPES SIXTH
FOUR
June 15
"I've been watching her."
"She look good?"
"Oh yeah. You know her. She's from the high school."
"Yeah?"
"A teacher, Mrs. Jones. Teaches some sociology and history."
"Oh yeah, I know her, all right. What a piece.
But she knows us."
"So? You, me, Stone and Loony are the Rapist Ripper, remember? There's the ripper part too."
"Yeah, right. Of course. When?"
"Tonight."
"We're doing them kind of close, aren't we, Clyde?"
"You trying to work with the full moon or something?"
"No, just worried about the cops some."
"Say, Brian, if we do them months apart and they can't catch us, what makes you think they can catch us any better if we do one a day?"
"Yeah, guess you're right."
"You know I'm right. Tonight then?"
"Right. Tonight."
FIVE
June 15, 7:45 P.M.
"Did you palm that bishop?"
"Shit! Caught me."
"Tsk, tsk. If you're going to cheat at chess, Eva, you're going to have to do better than that."
Eva held up her left hand. "Does that mean I have to give back the pawn too, Beck?" She opened her hand. A white, plastic pawn lay in the center, with the bishop.
"You shit. How long ago did you do that?"
"Back when you took my rook. It just didn't seem right, you mopping up the board and me not getting anything."
"If you'd quit trying to play the pieces like checkers, you'd do better."
"Then let's play checkers."
"No way. You're too good at that, and I don't palm checkers half as well as you do chess pieces, bad as that is."
"Unfair, you won't play my game."
"My apartment, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah."
"Still unfair."
"Put the bishop and the pawn back, Eva. Not there—where they belong."
"Happy?"
"Uh-huh, checkmate."
"Good, I'm glad to have it over with."
"Another drink?"
"No, I'm driving."
"Yeah, couple of teas and you go all to pieces."
"Not kidding, Beck, caffeine eats me up. Tears apart what brain I got left."
"Okay, I'll have another."
"Oh, what the hell, I'll live dangerously. Make it two sugars and don't hold back on the lemon."
Becky rose, went to the little kitchenette.
"You know, Beck, it's sort of fun to get away from the guys for a while. I love my old jackass, but it sure is good not to hear him bray for a bit."
"It's fine unless you have to stay by yourself for a couple days. Did you say two sugars?"
"Right, two. True enough. I'm going home to my jackass, but yours won't be around. Say, you want me to call Dean and tell him I'm staying over?"
"No, you've got to go to work in the morning. Me, I'm free as a bird."
"Lucky you."
"Yeah, lucky me. We took the summer off just like we could afford it. I probably should have taught summer classes, Monty too. Our bank account is taking the summer off too."
"Well, Monty's getting paid for that thing he went to in Houston, isn't he?
Whatever the hell it is."
"A conference for sociologists. Bunch of speakers on juvenile problems, stuff like that."
"Why didn't you go? Your field too."
"Didn't want to. You know, Eva, I've got a confession. I want to quit teaching."
"Be a housewife?"
"Not hardly."
"Good, you haven't got enough practice. This place looks horrible."
"Wrong. The panty hose on the shower rod is avant-garde decoration. You're just not with it."
"That the case? Hey, are you having to grow and cure the tea leaves over there?"
"No, but I am boiling them. It's the way tea's made. Would you like a couple tea bags to suck on while you wait?"
"No, but the part about the bags reminds me of an incredibly filthy joke, but I'll refrain."
"Thank God for small favors."
"You still haven't told me why you want to quit teaching. I was tr
ying to be discreet and not too nosey because I thought you were going to work it into the conversation."
"I don't know . . . just don't enjoy it that much lately. Seems like to me the kids just don't give a damn. And there are some that are just creeps; they scare me. When I was a kid the whole idea of scaring a teacher would never have entered my mind, wouldn't have believed it possible. To me teachers were gods of a sort, those who give thee information.
But now . . . sometimes just looking at my students, at their eyes, gives me the creeps."
"Makes you wonder if all the nasty stuff in our food these days is causing mothers to give birth to a race of evil mutants, huh? Makes me think of this movie I saw once where a whole village of children were somehow affected in the womb, and they all grew up with super powers and stuff, scared the shit out of the adults."
"Well, they don't have to have weird powers to frighten me, they do quite nicely without them— some of them. Lot of good kids too. I'm just hard-pressed to think of one at the moment."
Eva laughed.
"But it's not just that," Becky continued. "I just need a change. Nothing new is happening in my life. I'm not unhappy. Monty and I are fine. I'm just bored with what I do is all."
"I sort of know what you mean . . . We've come a long way from when we were going to save the world, haven't we, Beck?"
"You said lemon?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, we've come a long way. Wish I could be as idealistic as I used to be, as Monty is.
He truly believes in his fellowman, that man is basically good, and that if you could just get enough people to listen they'd try to be good and kind to one another, and the world would change and be a wonderful place to live."
"Sounds like a Disney movie. Do you believe that?"
"No."
"Good, It's a crock of shit." Becky brought the tea over, sat back down. "He was telling me that if there was a shortage of food, a sudden thing where the grocery stores were emptying out, that there would be a bit of rioting, some chaos, but that most would reason and try to hold together, and they'd make an effort to see that everyone was fed and taken care of. So on and so on."
"Now we're talking Bambi picture. Maybe at one time it might have been that way, I mean to some degree. But man is a meat-eating beast, and I think if you tried to stand in front of a bunch of hungry, crazed folks you'd wind up with shoe prints on your head, and maybe end up half-eaten."
"So do I. I'm even beginning to think those Survivalists aren't that crazy. I mean, I used to look at them like they were kooks. But I'm not so sure anymore."