Drive

by Rob Roberge

  I hold my hand out and he takes it. “One bad game,” I say. “Couldn’t hurt you that much. You’ve made some noise here.”

  “I guess,” he says.

  “See you at practice,” I say.

  48

  “So what turns you on?” she says.

  “Listen,” I say. “I’m still a little uncomfortable with this.” I sit on the bed. “You go first.”

  “A lot of things turn me on,” Sean says.

  “Pick one.” I lie flat on by back and stare at the ceiling. The line hums for a moment.

  “When I was in school, I used to see this guy, Tom—a bartender—every Thursday night,” she says. “It was nothing serious. Every Thursday, at midnight, I’d go and meet him and we’d go back to his place and fuck. We did this for a couple of months and, it was nice, but, it was nothing special and I was going to break it off.”

  “But you didn’t?” I say.

  “There was this other guy I knew from school. Nice guy. We’d have coffee every Friday before a film class and he kept asking about me and Tom—how we did it, where we did it and so on. He seemed really interested. So a couple months go by, and I’m about to break it off with Tom. And Stone says he wishes that I wouldn’t.”

  “Stone?” I say.

  “That was his name, OK? I didn’t name him. Anyway, he tells me he has a confession. Tells me how much he looks forward to our little Friday discussions about me and Tom. How he goes home and jerks off thinking about us. And then—and he looks real shy—he asks me if he can come over to my house on Thursday nights. He wants me to tie him up—chain him to a bed or some furniture, go fuck with Tom for a few hours, and come home and tell him all about it. No sex. No touching.

  “And?”

  “And I did it. Stone would come over at eleven-thirty. I’d tell him to strip, and lie on the bed. I’d chain his legs and handcuff his hands. I’d get dressed in front of him and head over to meet Tom. And I’d fuck Tom, knowing the whole time, I had a guy chained up and home thinking about what we were doing.”

  “You didn’t break up with Tom?” I say.

  “Not then. It was fun. Every time I’d come home, there’d be Stone, all stretched out on my bed, chained up, with dried come all over his stomach. That turned me on, Ben. So, I’d undress in front of him, tell him what I did with Tom, and—more often than not—he’d come again. I’d untie him and he’d go home.”

  “You never slept with him?” I say.

  “That wasn’t our relationship,” she says. “Then, Stone moved, and I broke it off with Tom.”

  “This is true?” I say.

  “Of course.”

  “Who’s telling me this?” I say. “Cassandra?”

  “Sean,” she says. “The story’s true. Your turn, Ben. What turns you on?”

  “That story did,” I say.

  “What about it?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “You ever been tied up?” she says.

  “A couple times,” I say, and think of the last time—I was on a residential job and slept with the woman that lived next door to the job we were doing. She said she couldn’t come unless I was tied to the bed, so I let her. “Not like that, though.”

  “And you liked it?”

  “I did.”

  “You ever been spanked?”

  “Spanked?” I say. “No.”

  “It feels great,” she says. “Would you like to spank me, Ben?”

  “You’d like that?”

  “I would,” she says.

  “If you’d like it, sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it turns you on,” I say.

  “Good answer,” she says. “But we’re still talking about me. So, you like being tied up. Do you like taking orders?”

  I think for a moment. I’m worried that any of this will sound stupid and mundane next to Sean. “When I was sixteen, my sister—she’s two years older than me—went to this language school in Vermont. Eight weeks, and they weren’t allowed to speak anything but Russian, or French, or whatever they were studying.”

  “What was your sister studying?”

  “Russian. Anyway, she finishes her eight weeks, and brings back two friends she met there. One. I forget, the other was this woman named Sasha. She was attractive, and older.”

  “Older?”

  “Eighteen, nineteen. Older at the time. They stayed at our house for a couple days, and I was nuts about her—made a pest of myself, following them around. Showing off. Being a jerk, pretty much. I figure there’s not a chance—big difference between sixteen and nineteen, you know?”

  “True,” she says.

  “This isn’t as dramatic as your tied-to-the-bed-come-on- the-stomach story,” I say. “But it applies in the taking orders sense. It’s not very dirty or dramatic.”

  “I’m interested. Go on.”

  “The last night Sasha and this other woman are at the house, we’re all in the basement watching a movie—Scarface.”

  “The original?”

  I shake my head, even though I’m on the phone. “De Palma. Pacino. So my sister and her friend fall asleep and it’s just me and Sasha. Somehow, I never saw it coming, we start to make out. And it’s nice—you know? Quiet and kind of secretive. After a couple of minutes, she pulls away. I had one of those sixteen year-old boy mustaches, you know?”

  “Fuzzy. Thin,” Sean says.

  “Right. So she pulls away, and very nicely, but very firm, she says, ‘I don’t like that. Go shave and come back.’ I go upstairs and start to shave and I notice that I’m excited, more excited than when we were just kissing. It was very direct: Do this and it will please me. I shave. I’m excited, and bump some things on the counter and when I get back downstairs, my sister’s up. She stays up and watches the movie. I’m still hard and frustrated and Sasha keeps looking over at me. She’s in my dad’s big chair—the dad chair—and she’s got an afghan over her lap and, after a while I realize she’s masturbating under the afghan. She stares at me the whole time. Her hand moves faster and faster. Finally, she closes her eyes and shudders and comes. First time I’d seen anyone have an orgasm. The chair creaks a little, but my sister doesn’t seem to notice.”

  “I like her,” Sean says.

  “So did I. After she’s finished, she’s blows me a kiss. The other friend wakes up, and I’m ready to kill her and my sister. Sasha goes upstairs to the kitchen. I think about following her, but figure it’s too obvious. She comes back down and leans down to my ear. ‘You look great,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’ And that was it. She took off the next day.”

  The line is quiet for a moment. “You like taking orders, then?”

  “I guess I do. In a sex sense, not a life sense.”

  “Shave between your legs before our next date.”

  “Really?”

  “I said it nicely, but firm,” she says. “I thought you liked that.”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Then you’ll do it.”

  “If it’s what you want,” I say.

  “Isn’t this fun?” she says.

  “Yes and no,” I say. “But mostly yes.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” she says, “At the gallery?”

  “You’ll see me tomorrow.”

  49

  After practice, I find out Darnell’s knee, which they thought was tendonitis, has a weak anterior cruciate. He’s going in for more tests tomorrow, but he’s definitely gone for two weeks and maybe longer. I drive to The Bunker and tell Terry.

  “Bad news,” he says.

  “Worse,” I say. “Chucky tells me there’s no interest in him anywhere.”

  “None?”

  “Apparently.”

  Terry shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I was hoping he’d prove me wrong and make it.”

  “Season’s not over,” I say. “He might still impress somebody and get a call.”

  “Not wearing a suit on the sidelines, he won’t.”

  “Tru
e enough.” I eat pretzels and watch the TV. Terry wipes down the bar.

  “How’s it going with your new lady friend?” he says.

  “Good,” I say. “Very good, I think. She’s interesting. Never met anyone quite like her.”

  “How so?”

  “She doesn’t seem to get embarrassed. There’s no shame in her.

  “Opposites attract, huh?”

  “She had me call her on her phone sex job.”

  “She does phone sex? And you called her?” he says.

  “She does and I did.” I take a sip of coffee.

  “And?”

  I shrug. “And we talked about sex.”

  “What about it?”

  “What she likes, what I like. Traded stories.”

  He gives me this I-like-you-but-you’re-nuts look and smiles. “As long as you’re happy.”

  “I might be,” I say.

  50

  The art gallery is downtown on fourth street. I go with Sean and Hedda, wishing Sean and I were alone and staying in for the night. Sean drives—no one wanted to take my car. We park and head up to the entrance. Sean’s wearing a short black mini-dress—I think it’s silk—with spaghetti straps, and a pair of cowboy boots. Some well dressed people smoke out front—it seems to be a suit and dress crowd. I’m wearing one of my two coaching sports jackets and feel a bit out of place until I see Bone. He’s got on a torn T-shirt with paint splattered all over it and a pair of hided Levi’s with sandals.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says to us.

  “How’s it going?” Hedda says.

  Bone shakes his head. “They’ve got me with a painter and a performance artist,” he says. “Which is good, in a way—there’s nothing to compare my work to.”

  “So what’s the problem?” I say.

  “The performance artist,” he says. “You’ll see when you get inside.”

  Sean says she wants to have a cigarette first. Bone takes Hedda in to show her around and I hang back with Sean. I can see the outline of her nipple rings through the silk, and I watch the fabric slide over them as she raises her hand to bring the cigarette to her lips. I start to get a hard-on, which feels strange after I’ve shaved—the skin is much more sensitive, and I can feel my cock and balls more than normal. She-raises her arm, and shows me her armpit, which has a short growth of hair.

  “I quit the cleaning,” she says. “Letting it grow back.”

  “Looks nice,” I say. Which it does—with the dress, it has a kind of a I-don’t-care-what-you-think sexy arrogance. I look down and try to stop imagining us fucking.

  “What’s wrong?” she says.

  “Can we go home?” I say.

  She takes a drag of her cigarette, leans close to me and grabs my ass. “You want to go?”

  “I do.”

  “Later.” she says. “We promised we’d come look. You can wait, can’t you?”

  “I can,” I say. “I just don’t want to.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” she says.

  I look toward the gallery. “I don’t like friend’s art,” I say. “Friend’s writing. Friend’s children. Don’t like anything I have to offer an opinion on.”

  “Friend’s children?” she says.

  “Anything they love that I have to judge. It’s awkward. It’s that anticipation, you know? If it sucks, what do I say? I don’t want to be a jerk.”

  She lights another cigarette. “You really have a problem with what other people think of you, don’t you?”

  I lean against a big potted plant. It’s an attempt to look casual, but the plant is top-heavy and it wobbles when I lean on it and I lose my balance for a moment. I think of all the people I’ve known who I disappointed, who hate me. They all liked me once, and I’m worried I’ll fuck me and Sean up before it starts. I decide to try to be honest with her. “I do. Even people I hate, I want them to like me. I could have no respect for them or their opinion, but if I find out they don’t like me, it bothers me.”

  Sean says, “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That’s kind of sick.”

  “I know,” I say.

  We’re about to go in, and Lewie Keller comes up with a woman. “Lewie,” I say.

  He shakes our hands. I introduce Sean.

  “This is my wife, Kendra” he says.

  I shake her hand. I try to think of something to say other than hello. “How do you like Sarasota?”

  She seems quiet and shy. Lewie’s one of the world-travelers in minor league ball. He’s played in Turkey and Israel. Two or three stops in the states in two or three leagues. Pretty common resume, but it must be hell on families. “It’s fine,” she says.

  “We need a new apartment,” Lewie says. “Got to get away from those Mennonites.”

  Sean says, “Are they bothering you?”

  “Strange people,” he says. “We move here, I’m looking at maps for the best way to get around—I’m a map guy,” he says and looks at Kendra.

  “A map nut,” she says.

  “A map nut. And it looks like Twelfth Street is the center of it all, so I take a big apartment there without looking and the real estate people don’t bother to tell me we’re dead center in Mennonites.”

  “I hate Mennonites,” Sean says. “Repressed lunatics.”

  “They are odd. Don’t know if I hate them, but they make life difficult.”

  “They ride horses down our street,” Kendra says.

  “Horses?” I say. “Are they Amish?”

  “They’re Mennonites,” Sean says. “It’s the same, but different.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You’d have to ask them,” Lewie says. “They seem pretty Amish. They don’t like power tools—that’s a pretty Amish thing to do. Dress like every day’s a funeral. They hand out the leaflets, trying to get my kids to study at their school. Spooky folks.” He shakes his head. “I want to move, but we’re only here four or five more weeks.”

  “You know there’s an Amish home page on the internet?” Sean says.

  “Really?” Lewie says. “I don’t get it.”

  “The Amish don’t do it,” she says. “Some guy maintains it—it’s full of Amish facts and history. Kind of interesting.”

  No one talks for a moment. Every time that happens, I remember this one woman I knew in college who, whenever there was a lull in the conversation, would say, “Seven minute lull.” People, at first, would ask her what she meant. She’d say that studies showed people couldn’t talk for more than seven minutes without a silence. Whenever it happened—I knew her for a couple of years—she’d say, “Seven minute lull” when people were quiet. I can’t remember another thing about her, not even her name.

  It hits me for a second that I’ve known an awful lot of people in my life and I have no connection to most of them. No earth-shattering revelation—just a quick sad thought that goes away, but leaves an impression. Like when you’re driving down the highway and-—for no reason-—you know, not just feel, but know you’ll be dead someday. It’s not news, but it leaves you kind of flat and dulled for a while.

  Sean puts out her cigarette. “Should we go in?”

  “Yeah,” Lewie says. “Let’s see what that crazy maintenance man is up to in his shed all night that keeps Money awake.”

  “This is a big night for Bone,” Sean says. “The Peterson Gallery’s a big deal.” She looks at me. “Be nice. And be patient.”

  “I have no problem being nice,” I say.

  51

  The performance artist is, I’m told, a woman. You can’t tell, though. She’s dressed as this strange mouse/rat creature. A big fuzzy suit with a rope for a tail. Furry slippers. She wears a fencing mask that has a tube out the side. The tube, Bone tells me, is so she can drink. The creature’s name is Furry Friend. The gallery has the main room—with Bone’s work and the paintings—and a back room where Furry Friend lives. She’s done this room in a kind of frightening Appalachian cabin look. The
inbreeders of “Deliverance” would feel at home.

  “She lives in the gallery,” Bone says. “Whenever she does a character, she stays in character the two weeks before the show, and the week after it.”

  “She’s been in that rat suit for two weeks?” I say.

  He nods.

  Furry Friend is annoying. She doesn’t talk, but she seems to enjoy wandering around making these honking noises. Sounds like a seal. Honk, honk, honk. People in three-piece suits put their wine glasses down to hug Furry Friend. We wander around the gallery and people say:

  “Have you seen Furry Friend?”

  “Isn’t Furry Friend great?”

  Bone and I seem to be alone in our dislike of Furry Friend.

  “That kind of crap cheapens what I do,” he says. “That’s what people think art is.”

  “It’s stupid,” I say. “But how does it cheapen what you do?”

  “It cheapens everything,” he says. He makes a stupid face talks like a moron, “I’m dressed up like a rat, isn’t that brilliant? Where’s my NEA?” He shakes his head. “Don’t get me started. I’m going to grab a smoke. Want to come?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m going to look around.”

  He walks outside. I go to the bar and get a glass of water. It comes in a plastic cup with one ice cube. They give me one of those mini-napkins and I don’t know what to do with it, so I put it in my pocket.

  Bone’s work, to my relief, is interesting. It’s all made out of stuff he finds at junkyards, scrap houses, and in the garbage. Sean’s in the corner by a piece called “Science.”

  The piece is built around two of those old chairs you used to see in beauty parlors—the kind with the big turquoise bubble that goes over your head. The two head bubbles are connected with wire and neon lights so that it looks like one of those brain-trading machines from an old science fiction movie. In one of the chairs is a mannequin. In the other is a mounted moose head. I think it’s moose, anyway. It looks bigger than I imagine a deer to be, and the head is jammed up into the head compartment of the chair.

  The chairs have newspaper and magazine articles glued to them. Like decoupage. I look closely—there’s an article about the walking catfish—a scientific mutation. Another one is about a “Rambo-Fish” that marine biologists brought from Australia to lower the amount of Starfish on the coral reefs. The fish didn’t have any natural enemies, it killed all the starfish, and then they found out starfish keep the coral reefs alive. The article is ripped, and that’s all there is to it. There are headlines from tabloids and reputable papers. Mother Gives Birth to Giant Eye, says one. What Would Lincolne’s Brain Tell Us? says another.