The header on Bo's FaceBucket page had her in sweats, doing some kind of jazzercise. It was a tasteful pic; energetic and classy. Not revealing. Over her picture, there was a quote in a light blue cursive script that said, "When you move with me, you give me energy." Seriously. That sounded hot. But it also sounded strangely familiar. I had heard it before. On TV. When I used to stay with my Aunt Rose a few years back, there was some show her youngest kid had watched. What was it called? "Bo on the Go." That was it. Yep. I got it. She had made Bo her icon. I could think of worse.
I scanned the comments from her friends like a true cyber-stalker, and found one that said, “Thanks a bunch, Bonnie!” So there it was. My Bonnie. My Bo. My future girlfriend. Or not.
***
My dumb-as-fuck rang, interrupting my daydreams.
At least I could choose my own ringtone; it wasn't too stupid for that. “Sweet Home Alabama.” Robby thought that was a dumb ringtone for someone living in Georgia, but he loved Skynard too. He said it at least should have been “FreeBird,” but I thought a 14 minute ringtone might turn off my callers. (Yeah, they did a 14 minute version. Duh. Check your All Time Greatest Hits album.)
My phone had no caller ID, so it did not tell me who was calling, not even the number. That meant I was required to answer it ‘less I wanted to miss something important. But it was probably Robby.
I was right. It was Robby.
"Man. Where the fuck are you? I thought we were hangin' later. It's like twelve past later."
"Got busy. Lost track of time. "
"Yeah?" I could hear that smirk on his face across the phone. "Goin' through your secret stash of vintage porn?"
Actually, it was my Pa's secret stash. Since Ma had blocked the internet, the collection of dirty rags had continued to grow over time. And I had found the hiding place. Robby knew about it, and liked to remind me every chance he got. Because he was a dick. And he was jealous. He wished he had had a stash like my old man's.
"No," I was honest. I knew I was going to tell him all about "Bo on the Go" - but for right now, it felt like a fragile secret. I tried to offer him a token bite. "I met this girl today. And I've been trying to figure out how to meet her again. I didn't get her number. Not exactly."
Without thinking, Robby blurted out, "Phone calls are for losers."
We nodded and paused only long enough to let the irony set in, then we busted out laughing. It was understood: the ‘cool people’ texted.
Robby started in on me again. "Do I have to come over there in The Beast and drag your ass myself?" The Beast was the nickname for his big ugly brown van, his old bachelor pad that had gotten a mess of mileage in more ways than one.
"Yeah. Ok." My heart wasn't in it, but that was how I ended my first attempt at searching. I know I could have tried to ‘send her a private message’ or ‘friend her’ on FaceBucket, but – ironically – I thought that seemed kinda weird and creepy, and I was afraid the message would be lost in the red tape of message filters.
[ Just Hit Send ]
Robby had swiped some beers from his house, and we sat on the hood of his van drinking them.
I was thinking of Bo, while he went on about his boring day job, working for the town. He was pissed at his boss for some reason or other.
"Shee-yat,” he said. “I should probably get some brass knuckles. You know whereabouts I can get brass knuckles?"
"Thrift shop?"
"Nah. Looked." He had thought this through a little. That was disturbing.
"eBay?" I asked, thinking of Bo.
He nodded, agreeing, and spit some tobacco, then drank some more beer. "Yep. Can get nearly everything on eBay, I reckon." He thought, then pointed a finger down the street and said, “Sammy over at Mo’s, maybe.”
"Yep."
“Think he can get you them drugs, roofies, too.”
I looked at Robby for a second, scowling, “Now why would you possibly want them?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t say I did. Just sayin’.”
We sat in silence for a minute, just drinking and enjoying the sounds of the insects in the trees.
Suddenly, I had an epiphany. "eBay!"
Robby was startled. "Yeah. You said that already."
I remembered that eBay had a ‘send message to seller’ feature on the items that were for sale. I could try to get hold of her without seeming quite so much like a loser. (Randomly trying to ‘friend’ someone you didn’t know on FaceBucket was just creepy. I wasn’t a friend, after all. But I might be a buyer. Maybe. If I had some money.)
"Robby, I got to go."
"Why?"
"Had one a them epiphanies."
"Is that when you get that burnin' sensation when you take a piss?" He flipped his thumbs through the belt loops on his pants and wiggled his hips like he was doing target practice with his dick.
I still didn't want to talk about Bo. "Something to do. Forgot to do it earlier. Sorry."
"... is what it is." Spit. There went his tobacco. Big black splotch on the sidewalk.
***
When I got home, I fired up the laptop. Sometimes, I called it the Book of Job, cuz that thang was as old as the bible and suffered the miseries of the damned.
Several minutes later, I was on eBay, looking at her seller’s site. There were a few paintings she had done, but the one that caught my eye was a self-portrait. The name of the painting was "In the Style of Monet." It was a close up of Bo’s face, in an impressionistic style. It wasn't very expensive, about forty-five dollars, but I couldn't afford it. I mean I could, but I couldn't completely justify it. Actually I was scared. And I was bummed. I actually wanted it. It reminded me of her, and it was pretty. But I still didn't want to spend the money. The little amount of cash I had needed to last, and I was dumb enough (or smart enough, depending on how you looked at it) not to own a credit card.
Then I saw it. The link. "Send a message to seller."
I typed out a short message. "Met you at the gas station in town today (I pumped your gas.) I love your painting. Wish I could buy it, but I can't right now. Can I trade an old laptop for it? It's not worth as much as your painting."
I was standing on a cliff, and I was going to jump.
At the bottom, there were
either
rocks that would kill me,
or
an ocean and I would learn to swim.
But I wouldn't know which it was
until I had taken that leap.
Before I could stop myself. I hit send.
I was bad like that. I did things impulsively, when I really should have stopped and thought it through. It all seemed to make sense at that moment, but I had no concept of stopping and counting to ten. In my case, it might have taken ten-THOUSAND to keep from doing bone-headed things. But that was just me. Life had to be lived. I reckon I trusted my gut. I expected my gut to understand what was meant to be in the ‘grand scheme of things,’ and sort it all out before-and-after it ever got to my head.
I wondered what I would do if she said ‘yes’ to the laptop offer. But that seemed the least likely outcome of all.
And then I started the painful wait.
[ Meeting My Girl ]
I have to admit, as I got to know Bo, I wondered if she were an insecure tease, enjoying the attention but unable to commit; genuine in her friendship, but playing a dangerous game that left many hearts in the balance.
But you can be the judge of that. I am getting ahead of myself again.
***
I was at my job, depressed and frustrated. Days had gone by since my 'email to seller.' I did not know if it was a coincidence or not when I saw a silver Mini-Cooper pull into my fuel bay. I choked. I froze. Oh, God. She was here. I guess it made sense. If she had gotten gas here before, she might get it again. What should I say? She never replied. Had I sounded like a psycho stalker? Do I ask if she got the message? Do I pretend it didn't happen? Do I piss my pants and hope she doesn’t notice?
She
stepped out of her car and looked at me, not quite sure what to say. "It's you."
I nodded, digging my hands into my pockets deep into my overalls, then asked, "Fill up, unleaded?"
"Seriously?" She asked. "That's all you've got to say?"
I could barely breathe. I didn't consider myself to be shy, but I had never done anything like this before, and I was terrified. I startled rambling, unintentionally revealing all the cyber-stalking I had done while trying to find out more about her. Stammering a bit, I explained, "You seemed real nice, and I know I don't look very impressive here in my dirty rags, but I knew your mother's name from the credit card, and found her and your FaceBucket page..."
"FaceBucket?"
I shook it off, and continued, "And then when I went to your seller’s site, I saw all your pretty art, and I really liked it. I wasn't kidding about that." I wanted to shut up, but I couldn't now. My mouth was going, and there was not a damned thing I could do about it. "And my laptop sucks. But I didn't know what else to offer you for it, because I really wanted to see you again, and I don’t have a credit card, and I didn't know how else to go about it. And I'm really not a stalker, and I’m usually not weird like this, not really, but ... I am so sorry. You have to forgive me. I am not a dangerous individual, I promise." I had run out of steam, and took a breath, feeling as if tears wanted to burst from my eyes. Another interview blown. I was destined to be pumping gas for life. Alone.
"I see," she said. "So you're apparently a professional cyber-stalker and amateur art-critic outside of your impressive gas-station cover job. Very convincing. And as flattered as I am to be one of your cyber-stalking victims, you haven't even told me your own name yet."
“What?” Somehow that hadn’t gone where I thought it would. "My name?" I stumbled again. "Me? My name?" I started pumping her gas.
"You do have one, right?" She looked at my overalls for a badge, but I didn't have one of those.
I took a deep breath and rebooted my brain. Now this was more my familiar territory. She hadn't blown me off. The interview wasn't dead. She was asking my name. Of course, maybe it was to report it to the police. Her Ma, after all, was an attorney. But at that point, I didn't care.
I smiled a great big smile and brushed back my hair with the palm of my sweaty right hand. "Little lady, it is my greatest pleasure to introduce you to Waylon-Willie Billy-Bob Bowden." I flashed another smile, because I knew my name couldn't help but bring a grin to her lips; even if I was a cyber-stalker. And she did not let me down.
It was all she could do to suppress a laugh, as she rolled her eyes. "You're not serious."
"I am." I said with a solemn nod, wanting to own that smile of hers.
“They really name people stuff like that down here,” she added, amused.
“ ’parently,” I agreed.
She shook her head, still grinning madly, her eyes twinkling with the suppression of a laugh. "I mean, how many hyphens do you use exactly? Isn't there some sort of statutory limit on the number of non-alphabetic characters in a name in these parts?"
"I reckon it's three," I joked. I pretended to think. "Yeah, three. So I'm good. We could, like, get married, and I could actually hyphenate my last name with yours, and still be well within the legal limits." I cringed. Had I said that out loud?
She groaned. "Wow. You already have us married. Do you have a shrine to me in your bedroom, covering three of the walls?"
"Sorry, I've only been able to collect enough pictures from the web for one wall so far, but I'm still trying to friend some of your friends, so I can get access to more pictures." It wasn't true, and I know I shouldn't have said it, but by now – well, you get my whole unfiltered impulsive problem. The words just kept rolling while I stood there grinnin’ like an idiot.
And for whatever reason, she didn't seem to mind. "That's wicked weird," she said with her slightly northern accent.
I chuckled politely. "Much obliged."
She clucked her tongue. "That wasn't a compliment."
"Everything you say sounds like a compliment to my ears," I tried to flatter her.
"Dirtbag," she teased, accepting my challenge.
"Say it again." I was undaunted.
She searched for something rude, but was caught between going over-the-line, and not rude enough. After a moment, she gave up and laughed. "You're crazy, Wuh way ..." She tried to say my name.
"Waylon-Willie Billy-Bob Bowden," I helped her.
"Don't you have anything shorter? What's your dad call you?"
"Little fuck."
She hadn't expected that, and laughed out loud. My eyes lit up. I loved her laugh. Suddenly this interview was going much better than my first one. It's not often you bomb your audition, and get a call-back.
"How about your mother?" she asked.
"Lonnie," I replied matter-of-factly.
Bo threw her hands in the air, disbelieving. "Seriously? Another name? Or is that your mother's name?"
I tried to draw a picture in the air, framing my words with my hands. "It's kind of like a long 'Lonnie', for the 'Lon' in WayLON."
She grimaced.
I added, "Or Will. Sometimes Waylon, when she's mad. Or the whole damned thing when she's REALLY mad. My friend Robby calls me Way." I defended myself. "But don't hold it against me. I promise you I did not name myself. I could neither write nor talk when I was born."
"I'm not so sure you can talk right now," she teased, making fun of my accent or something.
"That's ‘wikkid weird’," I repeated back to her in my best Yankee, pretending to be insulted, and trying to get a jealous rise out of her. "All the other girls around here say I have a 'way' with words."
"As in WAY-Lonnie?" she asked, using air quotes. Yep, she actually used air-quotes. Only one hyphen, though. That was definitely permissible in this conversation.
But I was getting bored with the name puns. I wanted to move things along. "Hey, I don't care what you call me, as long as you call me for a date." I may not have been slick, but cheap lines worked more often than not with the girls I was used to.
She pretended to knit her brows, deeply contemplative, deliberately making fun of my accent. "Furry-Date. That might be stranger than 'Waylon-Willie'..." she started to stumble again, forgetting the rest of my name. "... frikkin', what?"
I skipped repeating my name. That was old now. But I liked what she had said. If I could get her to give me a pet-name (one hyphen), then I was definitely in the game.
"Furry-Date. You can call me Furry-Date, ok? You won't forget it because I have this finely-crafted moustache and beard here, see?" I pointed to my lips. I wanted her to look at my lips. I was leading her now. Or trying to.
"You mean that peach fuzz?"
Ouch. Involuntarily, my eyelids dropped; some wind taken out of my sails. She was kidding, but that was the wrong thing to say. Nothing is a greater buzz-kill than hearing a girl you like say the same thing your mother says. I tried to recover gracefully without revealing my frustration. "I could shave it, but then you'd have an awfully long time explaining to your friends why you call me Furry-Date." See, I was trying to do the ‘sales’ thing I was learning about. I was projecting myself into her life with everything I said.
"Longer than it takes you to explain your name is Waylon-Willie Billy-Bob Thornton?"
"Close enough," I smirked, not correcting her.
"Wait." She realized her words. "Did I say Thornton?"
"Doesn't matter. Are you gonna call me or not?"
"Furry-Date?"
"Yeah."
She hesitated. "Why don't you call ME? Or couldn't you find my phone number when you were cyber-stalking?"
"I found it," I lied, a little bored.
At this point, I just wanted to know if all this clever wordplay was actually going somewhere. The foreplay was done.
She paused thoughtfully, then began, "I know my mother would advise me to be deeply afraid of you…" Suddenly, she offered, "...but me, and some friends of mine
, are going out tomorrow night, to the city. You want to meet us?"
And there it was. I was in. Just like that, I was in. I nodded slowly. "Where and when, Bo. Where and when."
"Give me your email."
I wanted to point out she could just reply to the message I had sent her on eBay, but I liked the idea of giving her my actual email address. While the gas finished pumping, I wrote down my email on a scrap of paper.
I still wondered if this were a trick to get me arrested, or beaten up by her friends, but I wouldn’t know if I didn't try. I hadn’t really done anything wrong, but some people could be sensitive.
The very first time we had met, she had told me she was spontaneous. She wasn’t kidding.
I glanced at her shoes again and suddenly blurted out, “Hey! By-the-bye, what’s that on your shoe?” I had a thing about shoes. Me and Robby had created a website for fun called “What’s Your Ho shoe?”
She glanced down and smiled, that twinkle returning to her eye. “A ‘Bo On The Go’ charm.”
Her answer and expression brought a happy grin that slid right across my face. “Makes sense.”
She took the scrap of paper with my email address and got into her car, saying, "You can buy my gas this time. You offered last time, but this time I think you owe me."
I rolled my eyes, and thought, "shit," but let it go. "Ok. My pleasure. Nice meeting you again. Looking forward to getting the directions and the time."
[ Elation ]
It is hard to describe the elation I felt after that unexpectedly successful meeting with Bo.
I was happy, smiling, and whistling. For the rest of that day, I was the friendliest gas station attendant this side of the Mississippi.
I knew there were still some hurdles. I needed to receive the email from her, with the when and where - assuming she was really going to send it. I needed to have the guts to show up. I needed not to get ambushed by her friends, dumping me in a ditch and telling me not to be a stalker. But at that moment, those were minor details and nothing more.
Under The Covers Page 2