The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

by Stephen Hand

  Erin held the emery board in her right hand and was using it to smooth the nails on her left. But she’d barely finished when Kemper took hold of her left hand and kissed it. That was sweet, but it didn’t stop her singing. She had her foot up on the dashboard, her scuffed brown platform shoe resting just inside the windscreen. This was a test of their relationship. Kemper could see her foot alright and Erin knew it was pissing him off. But who was it gonna be, the van or her? Lucky for Erin, sex was Kemper’s numero uno greatest pleasure. And hadn’t he just kissed her hand?

  “If you don’t know what I mean . . .” bawled Erin, pausing to pull her long, light-brown hair back behind her ears as it spilled out from beneath the grimy white Stetson she knew she looked good in. She also wore beat-up flared jeans that were held in place by the kind of thick leather belt even her daddy would have respected. Nothing about Erin was showy. She was young—turned twenty last month—and naturally attractive, so she didn’t need to put on the fake chrome and bullshit that Kemper welded to his van.

  The only reason Erin was showing her midriff and shoulders right now was because it was so damned hot. She’d lifted up the bottom of her white cotton tank top and tied it into a tight knot between her breasts. The two other guys in the van knew not to mess with her, not because she was Kemper’s girl, but because if there was an award for Miss Texas Tomboy, Erin would win it and she would kick their sorry little asses.

  A voice came from back inside the van: “Would somebody please make her stop?”

  Morgan sat rolling a joint. He was sprawled on a beanbag facing the side door which made the journey kind of interesting each time Kemper hit a bump in the road or hung a bend too fast. And now Morgan had to suffer Erin ruining a perfectly good tune. He didn’t know where to put his face. He could stare out across the middle of the van and gaze out through the side door windows at a big expanse of nothing. He could turn left and get an earful of Erin killing Lynyrd Skynyrd up front, or he could look right and suffer the frustrating sight of Andy and Pepper making out on the long backseat, which was just in front of the luggage space next to the rear door.

  Some deal. Kemper and Erin up front, Andy and Pepper down back, which left Morgan flying solo. It was a total downer. Why Pepper chose to waste her time on Action Andy was way beyond Morgan. It wasn’t as if the two lovebirds even knew each other.

  So right now in the land of Morgan, confusion was king and Erin’s lousy stinking noise had just been crowned queen. Hence the weed.

  Not that Morgan needed an excuse. After all, the reason they’d just come up from Mexico was because Kemp—

  “Won’t you stand up and scream?” Erin blasted, not giving a damn about Morgan’s whiny complaint.

  Kemper smiled. He was the same age as Erin, both of them two-zero, only he had spent his last decade in a state of car-crazy dementia. As long as he could remember, automobiles had been practically his whole life. When he was a kid, he spent all his money on car magazines and books and he had a fine collection of toys and model four-wheelers of all kinds. Then as soon as he was legal, he passed his test and bought his first car—a good-for-nothing Volkswagen—but he had started messing with engines long before that. In fact, he’d lined up his first job as a mechanic long before leaving high school.

  Kemper was a natural, and now he spent most of his waking hours fixing, tuning, restoring and customizing automobiles. Which went some way to explain why his clothes were always covered in oil stains, and why the black lines in his hands were soap-resistant.

  Take now for instance, he was wearing a mixture of clothing from home and stuff from work. His dark denim shirt came straight from shop, which is why his sleeves were torn off at the elbow—to give him freedom to work—and there was a white and blue patch sewn in place just above his left breast pocket with the word “Kemper” embroidered in fancy letters. This suited Kemper just fine; he was proud of who he was which is why you never saw him without his baseball cap with its big monogrammed “K” dead center of his forehead. The black T-shirt and baggy utility pants he wore only completed the image of a totally dedicated gearhead.

  God, if only he could do something about the heat. They had all the windows open, even the small square skylight near the back, but Kemper was still sweating some. His long, sallow face gleamed with perspiration and his black hair—always in need of a cut—was slick and sticking to his skin. Even his goatee beard, thin moustache and long sideburns were damp. Fact is, anywhere Kemper had hair, he was retaining saltwater. Which was not good.

  Kemper flicked his dark eyes up to the rearview to see what was going on up back. The inside of the van looked real cool. He’d put thin drapes on all the windows, the seats had fabric covers and he’d hung some pretty neat stuff up on the walls. Sit in the not-too-cramped space in the middle of the van, look up, and you got a picture of Alfred E Neuman smiling right back down at ya. I’ll tell you what, Kemper had put together the kind of vehicle most kids would die to cross country in. What, with the turbocharger, the near-slick tires and this sort of cross-border interior design. Sure, okay, Erin had helped a little. So what?

  In the mirror, Kemper could see Andy and Pepper turning up the heat, with Morgan trying hard not to look at them with a great big hunk of green-eye. Either that, or he was just too busy rolling his joint.

  Kemper also saw something else. He smiled. Then noticed Erin was watching him.

  “Tell me how much you love me. How much?” he grinned.

  Now that she’d finally stopped trying to sing, Erin spoke with a voice that was surprisingly rich, low and mellifluous.

  “This much,” she replied, and held up the thumb and forefinger of her left hand a mere inch or so apart.

  “That much?” he smiled.

  “This much,” she confirmed.

  He lifted a hand off the wheel and spread his own thumb and forefinger as far apart as he could. “That much,” he said, then they kissed.

  Up back, everybody laughed. It was a good moment. Even Morgan had to stop for a moment to enjoy the camaraderie and the obvious double meaning to what Kemper and Erin had just been measuring out.

  As the laughs subsided, Pepper and Andy started to pick up where they’d left off, before the girl suddenly paused to pull her lips away. “Can you believe we didn’t even know each other yesterday?”

  They sat holding each other real tight, Andy’s right hand fully appreciating the smoothness of Pepper’s moist thigh, and then her calf right down to her cowboy boot. He’d have gone higher if her thin, knee-high, pale, floral skirt hadn’t bunched up and got in the way.

  Pepper was eighteen, lively and damned hot. She was the reason Free Love was invented—everywhere she went, guys wanted to screw her, which was okay but sometimes it could be a real drag.

  “Just amazing,” agreed Andy, then he grabbed hold of her head and pulled her lips back into close combat.

  “Know what’s even more amazing?” interrupted Morgan, finally sealing the paper on his joint.

  Almost breathless from kissing, Pepper lifted her face away from Andy and looked inquisitively over at Morgan. Unlike Andy, she genuinely wanted to know what Morgan had to say.

  “Each day,” smirked Morgan, “thirty-three thousand people get a sexually transmitted disease, and,” he paused for effect, “two-thirds of them are just about your age.”

  The perky smile quickly evaporated from Pepper’s face and she wriggled out from Andy’s arms. Maybe Morgan had a point, you can never be too careful with VD. And what about crabs? She’d known Andy less than twenty-four hours.

  Morgan lit up his joint with smug self-satisfaction. He’d stopped them in their over-excited, panting little tracks. Mission accomplished.

  Behind Pepper’s back, Andy grimaced and flipped Morgan the bird. He knew exactly where his so-called friend was coming from—which didn’t stop Pepper straightening up her pink, backless camisole top.

  As always, Andy’s eyes were drawn to the row of tassels hanging beneath the bra cup
s; they somehow reminded him of the stage curtain at a strip joint. Sure, Andy had been to strip joints. Lots of them, and so what? It was perfectly normal for a corn-fed buck like him to enjoy the fruits of womankind.

  And he knew a place that was only five bucks to get in. He even took Morgan with him some times, though Morgan tried to pretend that he didn’t like adult entertainment. Which was bull-crap.

  But that’s what Andy and Morgan’s friendship was all about: contrasts.

  Andy was well-built through years of lifting—while Morgan was gangly and freckle-faced. Andy wore plain shirts and jeans. Morgan went for busy cotton flares with vertical stripes and a T-shirt bearing the tourist slogan “New York”, as if Morgan was somehow hip or going places. Andy had neck-length, wheat-colored hair, framing a face full of thick rough stubble. Morgan sported a mess of black curls with a center parting and a scrawny moustache that looked totally lame. And one last thing: Morgan wore glasses and talked bullshit.

  Kemper flicked his eyes up to the rearview one more time. The guys were at it again. Now they were fighting over that girl they picked up yesterday. What was her name again?

  Pepper was sitting upright beside Andy now. She was all straight and was combing her hands through her tousled brown hair.

  Andy watched her admiringly. She said she was eighteen which made it legal. He himself was twenty and Morgan only nineteen, which gave Andy seniority no matter what crazy shit Morgan said about the clap. And if seniority wasn’t enough, Andy could always give Morgan a punch in the mouth. Or maybe he could just confiscate the idiot’s joint—that usually worked.

  Suddenly, Andy could smell Pepper. And he could feel the warmth of her skin as their bare arms touched.

  “You’re so damn beautiful,” he said, full of heartfelt desire for her. Morgan had stalled Pepper’s engine. Now it was time for Andy to restart it, only he popped the clutch too fast and she ignored his approach.

  “What are the odds you guys passing through Laredo just as I started to hitch?” she asked with wide-eyed amazement.

  Trying to hide the disappointed scowl on his face, Andy let Pepper’s question pass. Instead, he called up front. “Hey, Kemper. Can’t you do something about the air-con?”

  Andy’s voice was more than a little hacked off, as if it was the heat that was bugging him. But Kemper was having none of it. “If you or Pepper get too hot,” he replied playfully, “just take your clothes off.”

  Erin nudged her boyfriend in the ribs. What was he saying? Did he want to see Pepper naked or something?

  “You are such a perv,” she said admonishingly. And then she noticed where Kemper hoped to get his satisfaction from: the rearview. So she lifted her foot from the dash and stretched out to tap the mirror, knocking it to face any direction other than the back of the van. If Pepper and Andy were stupid enough to take Kemper’s advice, Erin wasn’t going to be stupid enough to let him gain from it. But just in case, she called back, “Don’t listen to him, Pepper.”

  “Why?” Pepper was now as cheerful and irrepressible as she had been before the thought of syphilis had raised its dripping head. “I think he’s funny.”

  Erin groaned. If there was anything a man with Kemper’s ego needed, it wasn’t—

  “Yeah,” agreed Kemper, looking Erin in the eye. “She thinks I’m funny.”

  Strike!

  “She’s only known you for nineteen hours,” Erin shot back, before turning again to Pepper. “I’ve lived with him for three years. Trust me, he’s not funny.”

  Strike Two!

  Morgan vs Andy, Erin vs Kemper, and every which way, Pepper was caught in the crossfire.

  Morgan sparked up another joint. The first doobie had floored him, he could barely stay on the beanbag. But the second was wiping him out completely. He stared vacantly at a colorful piñata that hung from the van roof above him. He appreciated its tinsel and gaudy plastic wrap as only a true stoner could, but he couldn’t make out what the hell kind of thing the papier-mâché container was supposed to represent. Not that it mattered—appearances weren’t everything, right?

  Up front, Erin was still swaying to the sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd. She picked up the case of the eight-track tape that read: “Lynyrd Skynyrd: Pronounced Leh-Nerd Skin-Nerd.” It was kinda funny: Skin-Nerd.

  Andy and Kemper were skin-nerds, as was Morgan, but with a different kind of skin. She looked at the track list. This was the Skynyrd’s debut album. It had hit the stores only recently and had already been hailed a rock classic. And now Erin and the gang were going to Dallas to see the band live in concert. How cool was that?

  “I hope they play “Free Bird,” she said.

  “They better,” replied Kemper, also hoping to hear the song that would go on to define an era. “These tickets cost me a fortune.”

  Erin looked out through the windshield at the vast, lonely landscape. It crept for miles ahead of them. Hard to believe that in time this remote backwater topography would give way to the glass towers and concrete of the city.

  A plastic figure stood on top of the dash. It was an ornament of a dancing hula-girl who swayed this way and that, in time with the rocking of the suspension. The hula-girl wore a permanent fixed smile even though her mouth was painted and her molded body was full of metal springs.

  A thick cloud burst over Erin and Kemper’s heads. Kemper grinned and took in a deep breath: pot.

  Erin was not so impressed. She whipped round in her seat and fixed Morgan with a steely pair of eyes.

  “Jerk!”

  Morgan sat waving his joint in the air, laughing. He’d only wanted to share and Kemper seemed happy enough. The stoner laughed even more when he saw Erin lean her head out through the passenger-door window in search of some fresh air.

  Almost immediately her face was thick with sweat. The draft from the speed of the van was doing nothing to cool the superheated air. The heat waves rising up from the baking highway made Erin feel as if her head was inside a pressure-cooker.

  Kemper looked back in the direction of the fresh joint. “Hey, how about sending that my way?”

  Morgan was perfectly happy to oblige. He slid forward off the beanbag and stumbled up behind the driving seat, where he thrust his face into the fog of grass he’d blown there a moment earlier. The fumes were thinning but there was still enough free-floating fun time for Morgan to inhale as he handed the joint to Kemper.

  “Careful. This shit’s potent.”

  Her face boiling in the open air, Erin quietly decided that dope was shit.

  Sure, she liked the odd joint much as anybody but she couldn’t understand why some people made such a big deal over it, like it was all-important or something. It’s just a damn joint: light it, smoke it, and shut the hell up. This dope culture was just a load of horseshit.

  Beside her, Kemper pinched the joint in his fingers and squeezed it tight between his lips. The paper squeaked as he sucked on it and the charred end glowed with the red of sudden oxygenated flame.

  The fumes entered his mouth, his throat, his lungs.

  He then exhaled.

  “I think I can manage, college boy,” he mocked. But then he’d only had the one toke.

  “You go to college?” Pepper asked Morgan with badly concealed surprise.

  Morgan pulled his eyes away from the joint and turned to face her. “Berkeley.”

  “With all the other communists,” laughed Kemper taking toke number two.

  Pepper went wide-eyed.

  God, her smile was loaded with such enthusiasm. It was as if simply living was the ultimate rush for her.

  “That’s really cool,” she enthused, nodding her head in emphasis.

  After toke number three, Kemper found himself having to stifle a cough. He prayed to God that chicken-shit Berkeley Boy didn’t notice, but he had to agree with Morgan: this was potent shit.

  Finally, Kemper could hold back no more. “Damn!”

  “Told ya,” bragged Morgan. “If Mexico made weed their national pr
oduct, they’d be the richest nation on the planet.”

  Erin still had her head out the window. From what she’d seen during their brief cross-border trip, Mexico could do with all the money it could lay its hands on. God, it was so depressing: the poverty and the deprivation. Compare that to Texas.

  Kemper looked across at her. He watched the wind blowing her hair, the serious set of her face and the way she’d tied her tank neatly below her tits, pushing them up. But something was wrong. Why was she making a big deal over this? Sure, a few days cooped up in a hot van with Morgan was enough to drive anyone nuts, but wasn’t that just another reason to get stoned? A puzzled frown settled on Kemper’s brow. It was still there when he tapped Erin on the thigh and offered her the joint.

  “Erin?”

  She brought her head back inside. “No thanks, I’m nauseous.”

  She said that in a weird way, almost prim like a pissed schoolteacher or something. But Kemper knew what her problem was. Erin was smarting because she was embarrassed. She hadn’t listened to him back in Mexico and now she didn’t want to admit it.

  “Montezuma’s Revenge,” he declared knowingly. “I warned you not to drink the water down there.”

  Erin was stony-faced. “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t drink the tequila either,” Kemper rebutted, almost as an attack.

  “Maybe I didn’t go to Mexico to watch you get shit-faced for four days,” she fired back. And suddenly they were serious.

  Erin thought Kemper had acted like an asshole in Mexico, while Kemper thought she’d spent the whole trip stressed out and uptight. She didn’t join in anything like she used to. She’d been holding back all the time they were down there.

  “That’s what people do there,” he countered. “What did you expect?”

  “A teardrop diamond ring.”

  Wow, where did that come from?

  Kemper turned to look at her and saw the most wonderful girlish grin on her face. God damn it, she’d done it again. How could a guy argue with someone like her? She always did that to him—disarmed him in an instant with a smile, with a joke, with her can.