by Edward Lee
“The hard way,” all four brothers said in unison and broke into a round of laughter.
“Now git with it, boys,” Eamon cracked, and gestured to the still-quivering Dutch. Tucker bulled up first, pants already down, erection already bobbing, and—one, two, three—
Started humping away.
CHAPTER FIVE
“There it is!” Augie enthused, looking out the window. “My favorite road in the whole world!” The comment was made when Brice’s SUV passed a bent, bullet-dinged road sign, TICK NECK ROAD.
“Lets get ready to rumble!” Clark exclaimed.
The next sign they idled past read BACKTOWN PARK. Brice made no accommodating remarks when he pulled his $80,000 vehicle into an unpaved parking lot full of dented pick-ups and old, hubcapless cars. Members of the indigenous population—namely rednecks—meandered to and fro, some inebriated into stupors, some riled, others keen-eyed and focused for a night of down home entertainment. Hoots, hollers, and rebel yells resounded in the distance.
Minutes later, Brice, Augie, and Clark were walking down a dirt road lined on either side by dilapidated mobile homes. It was a neo-medieval scene: before many of the trailers, fires burned in metal drums over which rednecks cooked skinned squirrels on racks. Chattering, smudge-faced children in holey clothes scampered in all directions; bent-backed old women trudged along with sagging bags of groceries or buckets of well water. Dervishes of country music were aswirl, one song melting into the next so that only a mishmash of notes could be heard, and none of them intelligible, just a sustained wave of twang and plucking. Countless elderly people in wheelchairs stared outward from make-shift porches. Some tamped pipes, others clutched beer cans or jars of clear fluid in crabbed hands.
“Hey, Clark, look,” Augie said. “There’s your dad! Aren’t you gonna say hello?”
“Funny fella, your brother,” Clark said to Brice.
“Tell me about it.”
Brice thought about the old codgers across from Krazy Sallee’s earlier in the afternoon and wouldn’t have been surprised if some of the sentinels out here had been among their number. They looked interchangeable with their scowling expressions, and while initially it seemed like they were offended by the presence of people who knew wi-fi wasn’t something you got from Chinese take-out, Brice noticed they were actually ignoring the three of them completely.
Mangy dogs scuffled about, and rats of alarming size could easily be glimpsed cavorting beneath trailers, and amid piles of trash, broken furniture, rusted cars up on blocks. Brice winced at the sudden revelation of reality. This was America’s Third World, a tragedy of poverty that most never saw, and few cared about. Jeez, I better never forget how lucky I am, he thought.
“Looks just like 5th Avenue to me!” Augie guffawed. “Say, was that a Burberry shop we just passed?”
“The haves and the have nots, that’s what this is,” Clark said. “Lucky for us we’re members of the former.”
Augie smirked. “Not lucky, Clark. We’re superior.”
“You’re so compassionate, Augie,” Brice muttered.
“Hate to tell you two libs that it’s our predestination to be better than these broken down hayseeds. They haven’t done anything with their lives. We have.”
“Humanitarian of the Year.”
“Best to just sterilize this cut of society. Save billions in fraudulent disability payments and government subsidies. Shit, no wonder the U.S. Treasury’s broke. Every one of these old fucks is sucking America’s tit dry, and if it’s not them, it’s the illegals and the fuckin’ anchor babies and the damn ghettos and the fuckin’ homeless bums.”
“That’s what I like about Augie,” Clark jested. “He’s full to bursting with charitability and love for his fellow human beings.”
Augie gave a sardonic snicker. “Fuck that, man. These genetic rejects aren’t my fellow human beings.” His eyes gestured several trailers down, where a group of young pregnant women sat barefoot on teetering front steps, yacking away and smoking cigarettes. “And check out those flop-tit fat tramps. Bet they’ve been perpetually pregnant since they started growing hair on their cuts. They just pump one fuck-baby out after another to up their fuckin’ food cards that we gotta pay for so they can stuff their faces with every fattening thing in the grocery store while their kids run around rack-skinny.”
“Is he always this ugly when he’s got a few in him?” Clark asked Brice.
“All that and more…” The worst part was Brice knew his brother was dead serious in his views. “We better find some hookers and get Augie off his Orwellian kick.”
“Hookers! Yeah!” Augie yelled and turned a few heads.
Clark was looking around. “Speaking of hookers, where are they? And where’re the cock-fights and moonshine?”
Brice rolled his eyes. “What, we just walk up to somebody and say ‘Pardon me, but where’s the whorehouse?’”
“Why not?” Augie said. “You think these scum fucks will be offended? Half of them will probably tell you they’ll service you right where you stand.”
Brice pointed farther down, where the lights were brighter and the sounds of revel louder. “Looks like things are picking up down this end.”
In moments their steps took them deeper into what Brice could only think of as an abyss of flashing lights, staggering drunks, shouts, laughter, and run-down-looking women giving them sultry looks. He thought of the midway of a carnival, only here the carnies were indistinguishable from the patrons. Rednecks to the left, Brice thought, rednecks to the right. Sitting on the porch of the next trailer were beaming-eyed girls in halters and cut-offs. One pushed her tongue against the inside of her cheek in a gesture of oral sex; another lewdly and deliberately parted her legs wide. And a third had the word SWALLOWER printed across her top.
“Did you see that?” Augie asked with some enthusiasm. “There’s a party!”
“Augie. Look at them. They’re in their early teens. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I know, I ought to be.” Then he cracked a laugh. “But I’m not!” He turned to the girls and called, “Up late for a school night, aren’t you?”
Their countenances all displayed nearly identical expressions of confusion, although the one girl’s tongue was still rather comically planted in her cheek .
Augie hooked a thumb over his shoulder as they passed by. “They probably dropped out when Bush was still president.”
“Which one?” Clark asked. They both snorted laughter.
Another wave of rednecks shambled by, swigging beers and drinks, back-slapping. It was odd how none of the locals seemed to take note of the trio of New Yorkers in their Dockers khaki shorts, Tommy Bahama shirts, and $200 tennis shoes.
“It’s kind of like Bourbon Street in New Orleans,” Clark observed, “only—”
“—only instead of tourists,” Augie elaborated, “it’s clogged with rednecks.”
Clark drew on some sarcasm. “Come on, Augie. Where’s your political correctness? We don’t call them rednecks anymore. They’re rural lower-economic-status Southern Caucasians. It’s mean to call them rednecks. Words hurt, Augie. Rednecks are people too.”
Augie trumpeted laughter. “Sorry! I mean Americanus White Trashus!”
But just then Clark held his hand out, slowing them down. He, as well as, his comrades had all noticed the same thing: a stunning girl with long shining hair, a short jean skirt and bikini top, with body contours akin to a centerfold’s. But they could only see her from behind.
“Talk about a brick shit-house,” Clark said, wide-eyed, and even Brice had to raise a brow at the woman’s perfect curvature.
“Finally, pay-dirt,” Augie said. “Watch me bust a move…” and then he parted from the group, approached the shapely woman from behind, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, lovely lady. Me and my friends are looking for some fun. How about the four of us go and find some?”
By the time the woman had turned completely around, Brice, Augie,
and Clark were rendered speechless, until one of them muttered under his breath, “Holy shhhhhhhh….”
The head connected to that perfect body was warped. Her forehead was swollen, and her eyes were misaligned and way too close together. And her mouth—
“Holy shhhhhhhh….”
Her mouth hardly resembled a mouth at all; instead it was a twisted up aperture of flesh. Brice thought of the garlic knots he’d ordered recently at Il Mulino last week.
Some facsimile of a smile seemed to twitch into her face, and then the woman said this: “Gwuh-gwuh-gwuh.”
Augie was understandably taken aback. “Um-uhhhhh…”
“Ga-ga-ga-ga…gaaaaaaa!”
Brice and Augie looked down.
“Holy crap,” Brice whispered. “She’s all messed up.”
“Hydrocephalus,” Clark diagnosed, “autism, fetal alcohol syndrome. Poor girl’s a dart board for congenital birth defects.”
“There’s the salt of the earth for you,” Augie spat. “Her mother probably knocked back moonshine through the whole fucking pregnancy.”
Now the woman fisted her hands and stamped her flip-flopped feet as if aggravated. “Yuhl-yuhl-yhullllll,” she blabbered.
Brice, Augie, and Clark stood amid the uncomfortable scene, shuffling their feet. Suddenly, however, a big muscular upbeat redneck appeared. He stepped before them. “Dang it, Babba! What’choo doin’ botherin’ these boys?”
“She wasn’t bothering us,” Brice assured.
“My name’s Loger, boys, and this here’s Babba,” the big man introduced. He couldn’t have been a nicer guy, with a big friendly shucksy grin. “See, she done took the wrong turn on her way back ta her pa’s house. Does it all the time.” At this point, Loger gently turned Babba around back toward the entrance. He made a brief gesture with his hands, and at this Babba drooled and nodded her head yes.
“All right, I thought so. You always take the wrong turn at the ole cemmuh-tree where Uncle Septimus be buried. That way, Babba,” and Loger pointed down the road. “Understand now? That’s how ya git home. Go on now.”
The young woman stared, drooled from the knotted twist of a mouth, and blinked. She looked down the road with her pushed-together eyes, then nodded. Awkwardly, then, as if slightly palsied, she began to walk down the road.
Loger faced the three Manhattanites. “’S’shame ’bout Babba,” he explained. She just didn’t come out her mama’s belly right. Ole Unc Septimus, he used ta have this fancy way of sayin’ it, ’bout how Babba was borned as what they used ta call a Natural, and how, lemme see if I can remember the ’zact words… Babba be one that ‘proverdence didn’t see its way fit ta endowin’ with all her intellect, nor the aspect commonly bestowed.’”
“Will she get home all right?” Brice asked. “I’d be happy to drive her if you gave me directions.”
“Aw, that’s mighty neighborly of ya, friend,” Loger said, “and I’se ‘preciate it, but Babba, she’ll git home just fine, always does.” The man addressed them more directly. “So you’se must be the fellas from New York City, huh?”
“Yeah, we got in earlier today. And we heard—”
Loger grinned. “Shore. Yawl heard ’bout Backtown. Ever one does. Plenty’a good times ta be had in Backtown.”
“We’re just looking to have a little fun, that’s all,” Brice said, but then Augie tipsily interrupted, “Hell, man, we’re looking for the whorehouse! We wanna put the blocks to some redneck whores—”
Brice gritted his teeth and nudged Augie away, where Clark took him aside.
“Sorry, man,” Brice said. “As you can see, our ill-mannered buddy is a little drunk.”
Loger maintained the same shucksy, down-home grin. “’S’all right, we’se all git that way sometimes. But this ain’t where the action is, ‘tis down that way, at the end.” Loger pointed farther down the way and lowered his voice. “We got some real purdy gals trickin’ out their trailers, and just about anyone you pass’ll sell ya some good ‘shine, and if it’s gamblin’ ya want, just you go knock on Marley’s double wide and tell him Loger sent ya.”
“Thanks, Loger. And, again, sorry about our pal.”
Loger dismissed it with a wave of hand. “Just you ferget it. Have fun now.”
Loger walked off. Brice rejoined Augie and Clark, who were standing off a bit, then smirked at Augie. “Damn it, Augie. Do you want to get all our asses kicked? You don’t come to a place like this and start calling people rednecks!”
Augie sighed. “All right, sorry. Guess I’m a little off the hook. I need to get laid, man. I want some down and dirty pussy.”
“What’s with you and all this down and dirty stuff? Are you a damn cave man or something?”
Clark was bemused. “Your brother’s referring to our primal limbic selves, following our basic impulses, our very ids. Brice, there’s a caveman in all of us. It’s unhealthy to repress that.”
Great, I’m gonna have trouble with you too?” Brice shook his head. “You and your fuckin’ cavemen. We really are out of our league here, guys. I hope you both realize that.”
“Nonsense,” Augie replied, chuckling. “We came here for a kick, so let’s get it. And, shit—did you get load of the drop-dead-gorgeous bod on that mush-face retard?”
“You’re out of control, Augie,” Brice snapped. “For God’s sake.”
“Bullshit. I’m tired of dicking around, and I sure as shit didn’t come all the way from Upper West Side to lollygag around a trailer park. I want a sloppy, big tit white trash whore with a clump of pussy hair bigger than the divots you leave at Bethpage Country Club…speaking of playing with a handicap.”
Augie and Clark laughed out loud, high-fiving.
Brice, as usual, could only frown. These guys are hopeless.
««—»»
As the next hour ground on, Brice felt more and more detached from everything. He’d thought that doing this road trip with Augie and Clark would get him out of the dumps and help him forget about Marcie. Too much time had passed; he should’ve been over it by now. Nevertheless, for whatever reason, mostly what filled his mind were images of her. Not even a redneck trailer park in full party-mode could buff the edges off. This road trip was a huge mistake, he thought. I can’t believe I let Augie talk me into it.
Brice remained at the edge of a gravel sidewalk, tapping his foot in utter boredom. The hoots, hollers, and crush of music had doubled in the last hour, pounding a headache into his brain. Where the hell are they? he thought, looking at his watch. It can’t possibly take this long to get laid, but finally a long, loud “YAAAAAAAAAAA-HOO!” shot out of the trailer, in Augie’s all-too-familiar tone of voice. He and Clark staggered down the sidewalk toward Brice, Augie grasping a pint bottle of what could only be corn liquor.
“So how was it,” Brice asked. “You guys finally get your minimum daily requirement of ‘down and dirty?’”
Augie guffawed. “Shit! My girl hauled my ashes like they never been hauled, and she had two nipples on one of her tits!”
“Sounds enchanting.”
Clark grinned, catching his breath. “And-and-and my girl - her name was Betty Sue—”
“Why am I not surprised?” Brice remarked.
“—and, and she could put both knees behind her shoulders, man! And I swear I got her off!”
“Sure you did, Clark. A couple times, probably, right?”
Augie shoved the pint bottle toward Brice. “Try it, bro! I bought it from some guy inside. It’s the real McCoy!”
Brice made a hesitant face, took one sip, then spat it out with a grimace. “That shit could run a lawn mower, man! It’ll give you brain damage!” and then he threw the bottle away.
“Hey!” Augie objected.
“No more for you! You guys have had your down and dirty fun, so let’s get out of this wasteland.”
“Aw, no way, Brice!” Clark said. “We’re just getting started!”
“Yeah! We’re gonna take another crack at some more
girls,” Augie boasted.
Brice laughed. “You’re dreaming. You guys are too drunk; you’ll embarrass yourselves.”
“No way, Jose. We just need some time for…what’s it called, Doc?”
“Erectile refraction sufficient to restore ejaculatory competence,” Clark reeled off.
“Yeah! That’s it!” Augie said. “We’ll do a little gambling till the ole Johnsons are up and ready again!”
Augie and Clark high-fived yet again, and Brice moaned. He begrudgingly followed them deeper down the main drag. To their left, a drunk redneck girl with a bombshell body in cut offs and halter staggered by in the opposite direction. Most of her exposed skin was covered with tattoos.
Augie sniggered. “Get a load of the tramp-stamps on this shit-faced floozy.”
“She must’ve fallen asleep on the funny pages,” Clark chuckled.
The hugely bosomed girl staggered to a halt, then leaned on a post, evidently to keep from falling. Brice didn’t at all find tattoos attractive but there was something about them that always induced him to look. This particular woman’s skin was littered with a mess of skulls, “Freebirds,” hearts with knives through them, and the like. Around her navel was the most elaborate tattoo visible: that of a girl bent over and grinning over her shoulder. Where her anus should be was the woman’s navel.
“Classy,” Brice said. “That’s a keeper if I ever saw one. I don’t even want to think what might be on her crotch.”
“She’s too drunk to fuck,” Augie said. “Come on.”
Brice made to follow his friends but at the last moment something snagged his eye and held him in place.
It wasn’t the drunk woman; it was a man who passed her, probably just as drunk: a big, muscular working-class redneck with a tractor hat, grass-stained jeans, and work boots. He was shirtless, and when he turned, Brice glimpsed the prodigious tattoo emblazoned on his back. I HATE WIMMIN, and below that was a tattoo-drawing of a male stick figure inserting its penis into the skull of a female stick figure.