Under the Covers
A Memoir
By Michael F. Larson / aka Max Q. Baker
***
This is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance between the characters
and persons living or dead is purely coincidental, etc.
***
Copyright 2014
Michael F. Larson / Max Q. Baker
All Rights Reserved.
***
Thank you to everyone who read the early versions of this story and provided support along the way. A very special thanks to Melissa Ingram for detailed feedback, editing, and insight on both the original and the revised versions of this book.
I.
This is a story about me and my girl, Bo.
Except it isn’t.
[ Discovering Bo ]
Atlanta was sweltering, that middle of May. I saw her at the gas station where I worked. She drove up in one of them cool BMWs; a Mini Cooper. Silver. That color represented a mysterious side; sensitive and emotional-like. She didn't have to step out of the car for me to know that she was way out of my league. Me, with my greasy garage clothes and sweaty hair. It was a sure-shot she’d be looking down on me faster than a hawk on a field mouse.
Who am I? Call me Waylon-Willy Billy-Bob Bowden, a down-home Georgia boy with a slippery drawl; 21 years old, going on 16. When my Ma was pregnant, my folks couldn't decide on a name, so they did a mash-up of their favorite singers and actors. Waylon Jennings. Willie Nelson. Billy-Bob Thornton. It all had a weird, rock-star, party-guy kind of vibe, and it was hard to say the name without smiling. Or being smiled at. That came in handy with the ladies. Usually.
She popped the gas lock and got out of the car, holding up her phone, as if looking for better reception.
I smiled and said,"Mornin',” then asked what she'd like without so much as an obvious innuendo.
She was cold, immaculate, and beautiful in a white sleeveless blouse buttoned up right near to her neck, her brown hair curling over her shoulders in waves. Her black pants reminded me of Chinos, but were probably European, or from some multi-syllabic department store in New York. She didn't even look at me. Her smart phone was apparently more interesting.
"Unleaded," she said. Her accent was a bit Northern, but I didn't hold it against her. Much.
"Fill 'er up?" I asked.
She paused and glanced at me from the side, sizing me up without the expected judgmental, dismissive eyes. "Yes," she replied. She watched me, as if she were trying to figure me out. We were about the same age, but I’m sure I didn’t look like much in my oily garage clothes, and short dirty hair with my under-nourished goatee. My hair was just long enough to comb, though I always used my hands and fingers to shape it after a shower. On a good day, it gave it a wind-blown look. On a sweaty work-day, it just made me look greasy.
The truth was, I wasn’t just a grease monkey or gas station attendant. I was unambitiously attending community college for Communications. My chain-smoking, beer-guzzling folks didn’t have much money, but my dad had some special grant through his work that helped cover the tuition as long as I placed high enough with my grades. A job in the business world might have been a better occupational choice for me, right then, but sometimes I got into a laziness, or a holding pattern, and I didn’t try too hard to better myself. I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do with my life. Everything was tentative. Even college. Maybe I felt like it was a joke even attending college. It was hard to picture myself in a suit, filtering my talk, and learning how-all to be “appropriate” and professional-like.
An unexpected benefit of the gas station was that I had a captive three-minute audience while I pumped the gas and cleaned the windshield. Trying to put a positive spin on it, I asked myself, what better way was there to prepare yourself for life than with the endless equivalent of three-minute interviews? I could try out jokes or flirty lines. Breaking news and gossip. I could find out what intrigued people. What made them stop and listen. This was perfect for someone learning Marketing. How great it was to have that opportunity before being thrown into the shark tank of the inevitable corporate interview. Leastwise, that’s what I told myself. The job actually kinda sucked, truth told.
I unscrewed the gas cap, chose the unleaded grade from the pump, and inserted the hose. As I squeezed the handle, I knew the ‘timer’ had begun. The three-minute interview. Two-minutes, actually, judging from the looks of this girl. She probably never let her tank get too low. Didn’t want to run of gas out on a dead-end road, at the darker side of midnight, on the wrong side of nowhere. I ran through my head for an appropriate opener. Talking about the weather (hint: it was hot) might have been a classic ice-breaker for most people, but I fancied this girl would be bored by such trivial jibber-jabber. I didn’t want to annoy her by interrupting her apparent need for Social Networking with something utterly and hopelessly forgettable. So, with a boyish smile, I took a stab at something completely random and mysteriously intriguing.
"Did you know that the number '17' is the world's most common random number in English speaking languages, at least when given a choice of 1 to 20? Coincidentally, or not, it also happens to be my Ho-Shoe Number." I liked sharing that. I’ll talk about the Ho Shoes later on. For now, I chuckled to myself and waited.
She was busy tapping on her phone. Suddenly she looked up. "I'm sorry. Were you talking to me?"
My eyes met hers and she was radiant. I was a deer in the headlights, already struck before the actual impact. I was a leaf on the wind, already lost in that out-of-control breeze sucking me down to the flames of her fire. Her flawless skin and carefully drawn eyeliner with precision pink lipstick momentarily made me forget who I was. I swooned. That had never happened before. All I could do to stammer something, anything, was to blurt out, "Hot one today, idn't it?" I had tried to sound funny. I failed. I looked away. Down.
I spotted her shoes. They were a flat-bottomed closed-toe black shoe with a small flower tassel adorning the front. She had a small pin, like a kid show’s cartoon character, attached to the top of the shoe. The shoes themselves could be worn casual or dressy, but not too dressy. They were comfortable and practical. This was what I called ‘Ho Shoe #31.’ Not an impossible fence to jump, but you were going to have to be prepared to do the work, and put in the time. It spoke of a need for appearances, but under the covers, like with that unexpected pin decoration, she was more casual and spontaneous than her clothes revealed.
She nodded, but went back to her phone.
I couldn't help but notice she had not given me that condescending look that said, 'I am better than a stupid gas station attendant.'
My throat was dry. My mind, blank. I searched for something else to say, but nothing came. I had failed my three-minute interview in under 60 seconds. I would be replaying those moments over and over in my head for years to come, like my sports coach in the locker room. "What went wrong? What went right? What could we have done better?" Everything went wrong. Nothing went right. I was an idiot, unprepared for her beauty. She was prettier than a glob a butter on a stack a’ cornmeal griddle-cakes.
But according to one of my Sales books, this actually had been a GOOD interview. The kind where you learn something you hadn't known before, to better prepare yourself for future interviews. That was little comfort, since this was still the interview I had wanted to ace.
The pump rolled to a stop. She handed a credit card without looking at me. I could imagine her thinking, "Don't make eye contact. Don't encourage him." I glanced at the name on the card. "Heather Robinson." It was a good name. She looked like a Heather Robinson.
Still reeling from the crash-and-burn, I pushed the card back. "No, that's ok. This is on me." The words were out of my mouth befor
e I realized what I was saying. Maybe what people said was true; I really didn't have filters. It was like we were at some dive-bar serving gasoline, and I was offering to buy her a drink. A $47 drink. What was wrong with me?
She rejected my offer, pushing the card back to my hand. "No, that's ok," she said. She flashed an enigmatic smile that bordered on amused.
Instantly, I found myself crunching the numbers. She didn't want to owe anybody. She didn't want a free ride. She didn’t want to engage the freaky low-life gas-station guy.
I took the card and ran it through the magnetic telecom strip. Moments later, the transaction was approved. No embarrassing credit card decline to increase the chance of successful small talk.
Genuinely curious, I asked Heather, "So what do you do?" It wasn't a brilliant line, but I figured I couldn't do much worse than I already had. At this point, I just wanted to know.
"I'm an artist." Then she added with a twinkle in her eye that looked right into my soul before she got back into her car, "And the rest of the time, I study spontaneity. And fun."
At first there was a hesitant pause where she considered me and I considered her, neither one of us saying anything. And then she reached into the pocket in her blouse and pulled out a card, handing it to me. She announced brightly, “Buy one of my paintings!” Then she waved with a wiggle of her fingers and drove off.
I noticed the license plate, Georgia, confirming she was from around here despite the accent. And I was pretty sure I was in love with that girl; that Heather Robinson: someone I didn't know, who was way out of my league, and who I would never see again. Maybe. Probably.
Love, as Shakespeare sadistically enjoyed demonstrating, was hopeless and doomed.
But - to be fair - Shakespeare came from a different age, and my more modern Sales book had told me that for each failure I was one step closer to success.
So I smiled.
Because, by bombing that most critical of interviews, I was definitely one step closer to landing the girl of my dreams. Even if it wasn't Heather.
But there was no rule that said it couldn't be Heather. And that was something.
I glanced at the card. It said her name was actually Bo Robinson, or at least that was what she went by. And it had a link to an eBay seller site.
She had told me to buy one of her paintings. Now, that’s what I call a grass roots campaign strategy. How could I refuse?
[ Late Introductions ]
Let me back up.
When this story began, I was living at home with my Ma and Pa. My pocket change – as you know - came from pumping gas, and I was attending Community College for Communications, because I was fascinated with the idea of motivation, image, and change. More like I was trying to find a way to motivate and change myself. Can’t say for sure. But it wasn’t working.
I was not rich. I was not ambitious. But I had a love-hate relationship with luck. Most often it told me to bend over and like it, but sometimes I got that lucky bounce, and everything was dripping sweet like an overripe Georgia peach on a cool summer day.
They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but you can; leastwise, you should be able, if they've done the cover right. A good cover lets you know exactly what to expect. And people - just like books - have covers. Their covers, their first impressions, are how they present themselves. Appearances, for one thing, are like whether the hair is long, short, shaved, colored, or permed. What size and style glasses they wear. How many - and what kind - of piercings do they have on their face or body? What shape is their bush? Natural or dyed? What clothes do they wear? Flirty, punk, playful, nerdy, or plumb-near insane? It's all right there on the cover. (Maybe not their bush.) The first impression. The presentation of “Self” that people construct for others to see. It's a calling card, and if done right, it lets others know exactly what to expect. If people complain that others treat them the wrong way without knowing a thing about them, maybe they should look in a mirror and do a serious self-reevaluation.
My best friend, Robby Puckett, and I had fairly simple covers. We had known each other since we were kids, and lived only a couple miles apart. We were blue jeans guys, through and through. Robby topped off his jeans with his unbuttoned plaid shirt. He kept his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. I wore a black t-shirt and cheap dragon necklace on a two dollar chain. I had big dirty high-top sneakers with the laces removed. He was more of a Jack Boots kind of guy. (Shoes are important, but that comes later.)
I wasn't one of those guys who worked out all the time. I was slender but had a bit of sinew. The girls thought of me as rock-music trash, which isn't really bad if I got pegged with a bad boy image I didn't have to earn. Hell, I couldn’t even play an instrument, but I could scream a lot if I wanted some attention. Sittin’ in traffic on a hot day, screamin’ along to Jason Aldean or Blake Shelton with the car windows rolled down. Yeah. I was that asshole. You’ve heard me. I know you have.
A lot of girls thought I was easy. Maybe I was. Funny how that works. I never saw myself that way. I didn’t pursue every skirt I saw, like Robby did, but I didn’t turn down the right opportunity neither. Robby was a bad boy; with an endless parade of women marching through his streets. And he showed a lot less respect than me. My Ma raised me to be respectful. But a guy is a guy is a guy, and a hot day and skimpy halter top with cutoff jeans was an invitation to impure thoughts, God bless us all.
And let me tell you. There was something about the southern heat.
No matter where you go or what you do – there is no escape. You are in an oven, baked slowly. A pressure cooker, waiting to pop. It sticks to your clothes and skin and burns your fingers when you touch something you left out in the sun. It burns your neck and legs when you sit in your car, the vinyl seats surprising you by not melting on the spot. It suffocates you for a few minutes while you wait for the AC to bring down the temperature just a degree or two while the heat burns off the oxygen. It makes you tired, and it makes you horny too. The heat gets between your legs, and it stays there, sticky and uncomfortable. It also makes you impatient, and more than a tad bit aggressive at times.
As my Pa often said, "Never cross a man when he's hot and holding a beer."
My Pa also said, "Don't let anything grow on your face that grows wild around your asshole." Ma never liked that talk much, so she shot him that cold icy Southern stare that said fire and brimstone would rain down hard on his soul if he didn’t watch his mouth. And then he would sulk back into silence and submission, cracking another Miller. But the point was: neither one of them liked my goatee.
My Ma called my goatee ‘peach fuzz.’ That really got me going. I was 21. Peach fuzz is for pre-pubescent boys.
So that was my cover. Not a very good one.
All in all, I reckon when people looked at me, they saw a low-class fuck up; a guy who made mistakes. I was a work-in-progress. I still am.
But I was encouraged by that Sales book I mentioned from one of my Community College classes. It insisted that every failure brought you one mistake closer to success. That spoke to me. It was a great idea. Keep fucking up and you are bound to win eventually. But maybe there should have been some fine print somewhere there that said you had to be doing it kinda right in the first place for that to be true. Or that you had to have the common sense to learn from your mistakes and not repeat the same stupidity over and over. Like some people I knew.
But honesty never sold a book.
Or got a man elected.
[ Searching for Bo ]
Robby and me, our folks wouldn’t let us have phones that required the additional cost of a data plan. Or a messaging plan. We had to pay-per-send for texts, so we never used them neither. We were strictly forbidden from adding additional costs to the phone bill until we could afford to pay for them ourselves. We didn’t even have Caller ID. “Phones are for emergencies only,” to quote my Ma.
Our phones were dumb. 'Dumb as fuck' phones, we called 'em. Or simply, "Our dumb-as-fuck." Our phones were 'flunked t
hird grade dumb.' By contrast, Bo Robinson's phone was way out of my phone's league. Hers was a college phone. Fancy and sophisticated. My phone had been kept back for so many grades, that when Bo Robinson's phone had graduated high school, mine just gave up and got its working papers.
And a job at a gas station, ‘parently.
But back to the story.
As soon as I got home from that chance meeting, I knew I would be scouring FaceBucket and Twatter for hashtag this and update that. (We actually had worse names for those sites, but FaceBucket and Twatter were my favorites.) I was reasonably enthused. I already knew her name. And her eBay seller site. But I wanted to know everything I could about her. How much harder could it be?
I fired up my Wal-Martyr Special and started browsing the web. It was a slow laptop, really designed for a student, about a hundred years ago, back before they had modern things, like books. Or written language. But it got the job done. If you had the patience. And my folks, meaning Ma - because Pa didn't get too involved, had also installed some Parental Lock software on the computer. That slowed it down even more. Apparently, the idea was to keep me away from offensive and corrupting websites. It didn't matter that I was 21 and way beyond the days of innocence. I had probably seen more dick and snatch by the time I was 15 than my mother still has today.
***
I wondered what Bo was short for? Bobbie-Jean? No, she sounded way too Yankee for a name like that. PlaceBO? 'Course not. (That was a joke.) BoJangles? No way. She was way finer than a bucket of greasy chikn wangs.
I clicked her picture and bookmarked her FaceBucket page. Scanning her friend list, I hoped that all the good-looking college-aged guys were her brothers. I gathered a few more names and public facts. For instance, I learned that “Heather Robinson,” the name from the credit card, was actually her mother, who happened to be a successful and highly-rated attorney in Atlanta. There was no mention of a father.
Under The Covers Page 1