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by Edward Lee

  Augie held his breath for a commendable amount of time.

  Brice was the odd man out, however. He scarcely noticed the blonde, or any of the dancers, really. He appeared deaf to the thundering music, and blind to the array of erotic festivities ensuing about him. Instead, he sat depressed at the table, nursing a beer. Every man in the place, it seemed, was having a good time…every man but him.

  He was glumly peering at the photo gallery on his smart phone. Why don’t I delete all these? he asked himself for the hundredth time. He could never calculate an answer, save for the evident possibility that he was an unknowing masochist. The snapshots, of course, were all of Marcie: Marcie sunning herself at the Hamptons in a killer bikini, Marcie all decked out in her ski outfit the time they went to the Ellicotville slopes on the one-year anniversary of their first date; Marcie in a diaphanous black evening dress at the Christmas party Brice’s firm threw—she was blowing the camera lens a kiss. Lastly, Marcie curling her finger at him, in the bedroom, dressed in her $700 Guia La Bruna bra and panties.

  Brice had deleted most of the pix of she and him together, though.

  Get over it, you wuss, he told himself. You got used and dumped, like lots of guys. Be a man and get over it.

  Easier said than done when his own friend jammed the knife in his back. Back in college, one of Derrick’s ex-girlfriends made a play for Brice and he turned her down. She had been beautiful and intelligent, but he chose loyalty to his friend, because that’s what you were supposed to do. Yet Derrick swooped in to take the Bryson account from him, and worse yet, Marcie. And all he had were these pictures of her and some guy who looked like him, but was way too happy, too trusting.

  He put the phone away in a daze, looking around at the hot hayseed strippers, barmaids flashing their breasts, and naked strippers spinning like tops on the ubiquitous brass poles. This sucks, he thought but when he leaned over to ask Augie when they might be leaving, his face was still completely submerged in the blonde’s awesome cleavage. And Clark was still feeding bills to the stage girls via his mouth.

  Doesn’t look like they’re gonna want to leave any time soon.

  Brice, in his glum fugue state, nearly jumped in his seat at the sound of the waitress’s lilting southern accent. “Wow, hon, didn’t mean to startle ya!”

  Brice released a long breath. What’s WRONG with me? Only now did he notice the young woman, a late-20’s blonde with girl-next-door good looks, and an overall attractive vibe that didn’t suit a rowdy strip joint. Off the top of his head, Brice would’ve guessed she worked here only because more respectable jobs weren’t available. “Sorry,” he finally replied. “I’m kind of out of it today.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered. Her blue eyes were so dark they looked like sapphire. “I guess this really ain’t your kinda place. To tell you the truth, it ain’t mine either. Ready fer another beer?”

  “No. Yeah. Uh, I don’t know…”

  “Now that’s what I call makin’ a decision!”

  Brice laughed genuinely for the first time in a while. “Sure, I’ll take another, thanks. I’d ask my brother there if he wants another drink but, as you can see, he’s not really capable of answering questions right now.”

  The waitress chuckled when she glimpsed Augie, whose head was still half-devoured by his companion’s bosom. “I’ll bring him another anyway; I have a feelin’ he’s gonna need it when Junie’s through with him.” She leaned a little closer to Brice. “You must be one’a the New York City fellas, huh?”

  “Yep. Word travels fast.”

  “In this one-horse town? You bet it does,” but then her gaze took on an edge of concern. “You feelin’ under the weather. Ya look like you’re not havin’ the best time.”

  “I—”

  “None’a the ladies ta yer likin’?

  Brice’s sensibilities seemed to drift off in multiple directions; he’d barely heard her, and was barely cognizant of his answer. “The ladies are beautiful. It’s just that…I guess strip joints have lost their charm for me by now. I’d much rather have a drink with you somewhere else, when you’re off work.”

  The girl smiled more brightly than ever. “I hate this place too, just work here as a side job. And, dang, I don’t get off till two, then I got somethin’ else ta do.”

  At once Brice felt like a perfect ass. “Sure, I understand. And I’m sorry. I guess every guy who walks in here asks you out.”

  “Pretty much. But so far the only one I’d wanna go out with is you.”

  A mild shock gave Brice a nudge. “Oh, cool. But didn’t you just say you had something—”

  “Gotta stop by my grandma’s tonight, get her medications straight. But I’m off at ten tomorrow. We can do somethin’ then if’n ya want.”

  Brice had to shake out of disbelief when he realized she’d accepted his offer. “My name’s Brice, by the way.”

  “I’m Sarah May, and I’ll be right back.” Her down-home smile turned with her as she spun round and departed for the bar. Brice sat in a warm daze. How do you like that? I just got a date…with a redneck waitress.

  At that moment a gasp resounded, and Augie’s face was finally separated from the blond stripper’s monumental cleavage. “I think you just set the record, sugar!” she exclaimed. Augie nodded, still huffing; he tipped her a fifty and off she went.

  “Thought you’d never come up for air,” Brice remarked. “You should take up snorkling.”

  Augie wore a dizzy grin. “It was like being eaten…by tits. Ah, but I see you’re still sitting there like a bump on a log. Have you even gotten a lap dance yet? Quit moping!” but his depreciation dissolved when the waitress returned with their drinks. Augie became all eyes.

  Sarah May plunked Augie’s drink down without a word, then gave Brice his beer. “There ya go, Brice.”

  “Thanks. Sarah May, this is Augie.”

  Augie was at his leering, immature best. “Ah-OOO-gah! A beautiful name for a beautiful woman!”

  Sarah May smirked. “Hon, that line and a buck won’t even get’cha a happy-hour draft in this place.”

  Augie deflected the slight. “So, Mary May—”

  “It’s Sarah May, like I said,” then she leaned closer to Brice. “Your buddy here don’t listen, does he?”

  “Sarah May,”Augie corrected. “Sorry. So. When can you and I go grab a lap dance?”

  “I just wait tables, fella. Don’t do none’a that lap-dancin’. But if I did, it ain’t likely I’d do one with you.” Back to Brice, she half-whispered, “’S’shame yer buddy here’s such a butthole.”

  Brice laughed. “Actually he’s my brother, and he’s got an excuse. He’s a stockbroker.”

  “Yeah,” Augie added. “I gamble with people’s retirement accounts!” and then he swallowed half his drink in one pull.

  Brice shook his head. “Say, Sarah May, let me ask you something. What or where is Backtown?”

  The very word, Backtown, seemed to throw Sarah May into a controlled state of alarm; at once, she was distraught. “Oh, Brice, please don’t’cha be goin’ there. It’s a bad place, mostly just a bunch’a creekers’n, alkies and cock-fightin’n dirty stuff. The place ain’t nothin’ but trouble, so please don’t go. Full of nothin’ but redneck bad-asses.”

  Augie barged in, no surprise. “We can take care of ourselves, sweetheart.”

  “No,” she declared and grimaced at him. “You can’t. Not in Backtown. Don’t care how big’n strong ya are—and, mind ya, you don’t look that big’n strong, sweetheart—but them rubes in Backtown are bigger’n stronger. Last summer, couple of pro football players stop here on account they heard about Sallee’s, but then those big dopes got wind of Backtown, and I told ’em, just like I’m tellin’ you, I told ’em not to go cuz they surely get more’n they bargained for, and them boys just laughed and went anyways, and—”

  Augie barged in again, with his usual clunker wit. “And let me guess! They were never seen again!”

  “Oh, they were se
en again that same night down at Doc Houghton’s all-night clinic, with black eyes, busted lips, and broke teeth. Those big stoops got their asses up’n kicked. Them Backtown boys sent ’em packin’. They drove out’a here in their fancy hot rods, cryin’ for their mommies.”

  “I’ll bet they were with the Patriots!” Augie said and guffawed.

  Brice took her arm. “Ignore him, Sarah May. We appreciate the tip, and I can tell you, one place we won’t be going is Backtown.”

  She bought a hand to her chest in a gesture of relief. “Thank you,” she said. “I got more tables now, sweetie, but I’m sure lookin’ forward to seein’ ya tomorrow fer our date.”

  “Believe me, I’m looking forward to it too.”

  Sarah May gave him a peck on the cheek, then whisked off with her drink tray.

  Augie slapped Brice’s back, hard. “Why, you old dog, you! All this time I thought you were over here moping about Marcie but you’re actually putting moves on the hottest chick in the bar! How’d you get a date with her?”

  Brice shrugged. “I asked. And before you get any ideas…I don’t think she’s a hooker, and she’s definitely not your type. She’s too nice for you.”

  Augie nodded contemplatively. “Yeah, you’re right. Nice girls don’t dig me.” Then he perked up. “But I wonder what she meant by the ‘dirty stuff’ in Backtown.”

  “Don’t know, don’t care, and we won’t find out because we’re not going. We’re outsiders here. We’d be morons to put our noses where they don’t belong.” Then he looked around, distracted. “Where’s Clark?”

  Augie laughed, pointing to the main stage. “He just paid a c-note for a three-girl floor-dance.”

  Brice frowned at the spectacle. Just now Clark lay prone on the edge of the dance floor while three naked strippers slithered all over him. Redneck applause rained down.

  “He’s definitely in his element.”

  “All those breast exams get him hornier than a jackal,” Augie said.

  Brice excused himself for the men’s room. The trek forced him to wend through the crowded bar and politely fend off strippers asking for dances. One girl rubbed his crotch, another grabbed him and tongue kissed him, but Brice pulled away. He just wasn’t in the mood. When he finally pushed into the men’s room, he was grateful for the reduced volume of pounding music. But the quiet was short-lived. Suddenly, a male voice boomed from one of the stalls, “Ooo, hail-yeah, baby! That’s the dang best mouth-fuck I ever had! You could out-suck a fuckin’ milkin’ machine, you could!”

  Brice heard a female giggle in response, then the stall door open and out limped a generic redneck fastening his belt. He was followed by a barely dressed redhead stripper, who grinned, popped her dentures back in, and compressed her breasts for effect. “Hey, babe. I’ll suck yer doo-dads right out’cher blammed pee-hole!”

  “Uh, no thanks,” Brice said. “I gotta drive.”

  She frowned and stalked out right behind her previous client. Brice smiled, bemused, at his surroundings: wood-plank walls, rubber machines on the wall, and a smell worse than most gas station bathrooms. While urinating, his eyes had no choice but to scan the various graffiti on the smudged wall, mostly hand-scrawled phone numbers and less-than-erudite remarks such as NEED A BLOW? CALL UP JOE! and CODY DRUCKER SUK HIS DOG’S DICK! and DRINK BEER, PEE BEER and WHAT’CHOO LOOKIN HERE FOR? THE JOKE’S IN YER DADDY’S HAND!

  But Brice’s gaze was arrested by the next graffito: a crude hand-scrawled sketch in black magic marker. A male stick-figure stood with an obvious erection, while a female figure lay prone as if levitating. She had circles for breasts, dots for nipples, squiggles for pubic hair. Her eyes bulged and her tongue stuck out. But the male figure…

  Brice squinted as if the drawing might be illusion.

  The male stick-figure appeared to have its erection half-buried in the crown of the female’s head. Below was penned: LINETTE KYLER DESERVS A HEADER!

  Brice’s eyes narrowed at the sight. Crude and amateurish as the sketch clearly was, he found the after-image deeply disturbing.

  The door banged open behind him, sending a jolt up his spine.

  Standing before him was another preposterously well-endowed stripper. She wore dime-sized pasties over half-dollar-sized nipples, and a g-string about the size of a Dortito. She snapped gum and cocked a hip. “Hey, City Man, how’se about I hook my mouth right up ta yer nozzle’n swaller yer business? Twenty bucks. I’ll spit shine yer fuckstick so good, you’ll see yer own reflection in it!”

  By now Brice was annoyed, even though he shouldn’t be; after all, he was in a backwoods strip joint. However, her intrusion had grated his nerves. He’d been contemplating the bizarre graffito and its disturbing overtones.

  “No, thanks,” he replied rather gruffly. “I’m, uh, I’m on leave from divinity school…” and then he squeezed by her out of the ramshackle john.

  At once he was re-swallowed by raucous clamor and headache-inducing music. But when he’d shouldered his way back to the table, he found it empty. Sarah May walked by with a tray of beers; she winked at him.

  “If you’re lookin’ fer yer buddies…” She finished by pointing to the stage

  Augie and Clark were both lying on the stage as no fewer than six gorgeous strippers crawled all over them. The crowd was roaring.

  Brice rolled his eyes. “What else can you expect from Harvard grads, huh? Look, I’ll be right back, I’m going outside for some fresh air.”

  Sarah May’s smile beamed. “Don’t forget our date tomorrow!”

  Brice could’ve laughed. “Sarah May, no force on earth could make me forget that.”

  She shuffled away, shot one more smile over her shoulder, and disappeared into the crowd. Brice found the door, nodded to a bouncer, then stepped outside.

  The inexplicable disgruntlement followed him out. Perhaps he was just tired. He muddled around outside the bar, glancing errantly at the crowded parking lot. A low moon hung over the treeline. Crickets trilled en masse.

  A date with Sarah May. His elation at the prospect faltered slightly as he tried to imagine how they’d fill up a whole evening with conversation. Small talk in a cacophonous bar was one thing, but how well would he really relate to someone who didn’t have the advantages and upbringing he did? They might hit it off, but it wasn’t like he’d start driving ten hours to Hicktown every weekend to see her. Anyone back in the real world would die laughing at the idea, Marcie especially. It was a charming distraction, but surely a dead end.

  Next thing Brice knew he was eyeing more snapshots of Marcie on his smart phone. He didn’t even remember taking it out of his pocket. It was like he thought the right picture at the right moment would allow him to travel back to that moment and do everything all over again. Keep the Bryson account, keep Marcie, spare himself all the moping and depression.

  “Hey, fella. What’s goin’ on?”

  Half-alarmed, Brice looked up and saw the long-haired, tacky redneck standing before him. The guy seemed amiable enough.

  “Not much. Just kind of loud inside.”

  “Aw, yeah, man, Sallee’s is one rockin’ joint, and the gals?” The long-haired man whistled. “I ain’t never seen so many gals that great-lookin’ all in one place.”

  “Yeah, they are pretty hot.”

  Now the man shuffled his feet, ran a hand over some serious five o’clock shadow. He seemed suddenly awkward. “Look, friend, I ain’t no bum’re nothin’ but I just lost my job at the farm co-op, the damn economy, ya know? Now, I got me another job part-time warshin’ dishes at the ‘Roads but I don’t get paid till tomorrow. Could you hit me with a buck-fifty just so’s I can go in and get a draft?”

  Brice had to push his sentience past the pervading dreary thought. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered, found a ten in his pocket, and gave it to the guy.

  “Man! Thanks! You city fellas rock! Look I’ll pay ya back, serious.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Brice told him. The guy seemed genuinely down o
n his luck. “But let me ask you something. What’s the deal with this Backtown place? What is it, a bar?”

  The man reacted as if surprised. “No, man, it’s a park—a trailer park. Gotta bad rep but it ain’t all that bad. Craps, cock-fightin’, cards—other stuff too, ya know? The gals ain’t as good-lookin’ as here but they’ll do anythin’, fer cheaper. “

  “Oh, I get it.”

  “But if ya go, don’t fuck around with no drugs’re nothin’. They ain’t into it. Don’t ask for nothin’ like that, not even weed. Serious.”

  “We don’t do drugs. Never have, never will.”

  But now the man flashed grin. “But they got dynamite ‘shine!”

  “Shine?”

  “Moonshine, man! Panther piss! Shit’ll grow hair on the bottom’a yer fuckin’ feet, man!”

  Brice smiled. “I think I’ll stay in my element and stick to Bud Light.” At that instant, however, the bizarre bathroom graffito came to mind. “But let me ask you something else. I just saw something weird. It said something about…a header?”

  The man stalled. “Where, uh, where’d you hear that?”

  “Inside, in the john. It was just some graffiti. Don’t know why but it kind of bothered me. What exactly is it?”

  The man made a hesitant expression. “Aw, a header’s just…it’s just this thing. A local…hell, I don’t even know what to call it.”

  “Like a local legend? A backwoods myth?”

  “Naw, well, it ain’t no myth neither. It’s a thing folks do ta get back at other folks who done ’em wrong.”