Excerpt for Peace, Love, Banjoes, and Murder by St. Wishnevsky, available in its entirety at Smashwords
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Peace, Love, Banjoes, and Murder
The Tchevy Chronicles
St. Wishnevsky
Published by Stephen T. Wishnevsky at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Stephen T. Wishnevsky
Discover other titles by St. Wishnevsky at Smashwords.com
The Parable of the Hellhound
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Volume I
Sugar Hill
A Fable
Sometimes you just have to ask yourself; "What the fuck am I doing here?" This very she asks me that very question a lot. I hope she is asking herself that exact thing, or at least once she gets my dick out of her face. She looks a little abstracted at the moment.
She is doing what I am doing; having something resembling sex with a person I don't particularly like, half way up a hill suffused with the smell of rotting windfalls, and hopefully in the telescopic sights of a random rogue cop madman. It's one of those long stories.
It started, or re-started, in a puke beige college classroom in Connecticut, first day of school.
Chapter One
If I had no horse to ride, I’d be found a-walkin’,
Up and down old Toenail Gap, T’hear that gal a-talkin’
“Young man... Exactly what is that object in your pocket?" Johnny stopped, half into his seat, tugged at the offending cloth.
“This here? Mam, this here’s a bandanna." Johnny’s accent broadened under stress. It was in fact a bandanna, but blazoned with the Rebel Battle Flag. It was viewed as a simple touch of color back home, but back home was a long way from here and now. The professor, a strong-featured Afro-American woman, clouded up and began to storm.
“My name is Takeesha, Professor Takeesha, and I recognize a handkerchief when I see one. I also recognize the symbol of the perpetrators of the racist Holocaust of my people when I see it. There is no room in this institution for white, racist, murderers or their symbols."
“Mam, I ain’t... am not a racist. Why, there’s not but a couple of dozen colored in my home county, and I set table with most of them."
"What did you say?"
“I’m a-trying to explain...”
“You may explain to Campus Security. They will explain to you that this is Middlesex University, in the progressive state of Connecticut and not some Klan Meeting in some backward hellhole down in some god-forsaken swamp down South." Takeesha strode to the phone on her desk, punched numbers and began to speak forcefully, even before a connection could be made.
"Mam, I don't come from no swamp, we're hill folks…" His voice trailed off onto the realization that he was wasting valuable shitting and gitting time. He scooped up his brand new books and ran from the classroom.
The other students watched him depart, with varied expressions of glee, hate, horror, and idle amusement. These expressions correlated closely, if not exactly, with the colors of the faces that bore them. The object of their diverse emotions was oblivious to all but his internal dialogue, as are we all.
His went. "Good going, you dumb-ass hillbilly! You just set a goddamn record. Thrown out of this fine ass Yankee College before you could even set your dumb hillbilly ass down in your first class. If you had gone to Archer County Community College, where they allow coon asses like you, you’d be right at home with all the other goddamn stupid ass ridge runners and not be up here, pissing off your betters." His essential good nature could have been deduced by any hypothetical telepath who would have noted that the boy didn’t even use the "N" word until the third paragraph of his internal jeremiad. He was a good boy and had been raised to hate no one. No one but Yankees, then only as a matter of regional solidarity.
He clanged down several echoing flights of steel stairs, and out a cinder block hallway to the parking lot, where he looked for his car. It wasn’t hard to find.
It was probably the only American-made vehicle in the whole lot and surely the oldest. It was also the only vehicle that could have been described as a "ride”. It was an old Chevrolet Camaro, it shone in the watery Connecticut afternoon with all the hand-rubbed glory of its lovingly applied Electric Blue Metalflake Lacquer. It suited Johnny perfectly and like him, it was terribly out of place here.
Johnny strode up to his prize possession, raked long fingers through sun streaked chestnut hair. It was a little too long, as was he. All his appliances and aspects matched perfectly, were just as perfectly out of accord with his surroundings. His jeans were honestly battered, not stone washed, hung a little too low on his hips. His plaid shirt was western cut and denim, not flannel. His shoes were the worst. Black canvas slip-ons, they were obviously cheap, obviously worn and obviously he could have cared less if he was wearing shoes or not.
Johnny groveled a set of keys out of a pocket. The tag was another Confederate flag. He opened the door, went to cast his books into the back seat. He relented and laid them carefully on the seat beside him. The seat, in contrast to the splendor of the paint job, was covered with a worn and colorful blanket of the type known as Indian, or Mexican. It had come from the Wilco gas station, cost him $8.99.
He fired up the big V-8, carefully let it warm for thirty seconds. Then he slid the floor shift into drive and took off, just a little too fast. He was a good boy and loved his car, but it had been an awful day with no relief in sight.
He had never been away from home before, had not allowed for the casual horrors of city traffic. As a result he had been late for everything, had gotten registered by the skin of his teeth, found his dorm room by the Grace of God. The hurried indifferent competence of his fellow students baffled and obstructed him. He had wasted valuable time trying to converse with them. He had been late for his first class, had thereby humiliated himself. Worse, he had humiliated his home county and his people. The loss of his scholarship and years of savings seemed a minor difficulty compared to letting his people, his Ma, and Tchevy down.
He was snatched from his gloomy reverie as bare white legs flashed in front of his windshield, way too close. He slammed on the brakes. Only good maintenance and youthful reflexes saved a smallish girl from injury. He had a flash of purple hair and a brown case draped across the nose diving-hood, as the Camaro screeched to a stop. He had it in park and was out of the door before the heavy car stopped recoiling.
"Are you all right?" Clichés are rapid transmitters of vital information. Intense blue eyes peered at him from under purple hair. They clashed fearfully and flashed angrily.
"Fuck you, asshole, where’d you learn to drive?”
"Are you hurt? You ran right out in front of me." He peeled her from the hood, inspected her closely. His first impressions were validated. It was a girl... a young woman. She had on a plaid shirt, five sizes too large for her in full accordance with the most modern dictates of style, a firm chin and two large blue eyes full of tears.
"If you busted my Hopf, I’ll kill you." He didn’t doubt it, even if he didn’t know what she was talking about.
"Your what? Here, wipe your eyes." He handed her the handkerchief of doom. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose on the sacred symbol of Southern Pride. He turned his away from the dreadful sight, noticed a pair of clunky horn-rimmed glasses on the hood of the Camaro.
"Here, your glasses look a'ight."
"Fuck that." Nevertheless, she took and inspected them, cleaned them on the long-suffering bandanna and donned them. Things looked better.
"Look, I’m sorry. I’m like, upset." She smiled. His heart did a flip.
"That’s a’ight, lots of that around this evening." She cocked her head, inspected him. She made no comment on her observations.
She placed the case on the hood, snapped snaps and zipped zippers. Johnny found himself watching her hands closely. They were several sizes too large, moved deftly, filled him with wistful lust. He decided that he approved. The girl opened the case, drew out an ancient violin, which she inspected closely. She plucked each string while holding her ear to the back, tapped the belly.
Satisfied, she returned it to its habiliments, was snapping the last snap when a car came up behind the Camaro and beeped its horn.
“Fuck off, asshole." The girl snarled at the interloper.
“Can I give you a ride, Mam? You want to go to the nurse’s?”
“I’m all right, I think... But sure, why not? I’ve already been molested once today, and you’re a lot cuter than she is."
They climbed in and eased away.
“Molested?”
“Damn near raped. That’s what I was running away from, back there."
“You want me to kick his ass for you? I could purely enjoy kicking some ass right now. Who was he?"
“It was a she and I pushed her on her ass good and hard. Fuck her."
“I don’t reckon I understand what all you’re telling me.”
“I was talking to Mother on the phone, and she was on me as usual, to find a partner, and Khrynn, my roommate came in on the conversation.”
“Uh huh.”
“So I was telling my mother that she couldn’t dictate my sexual preferences, that it was my ass, and I’d decide who I wanted to share it with and Khrynn thought I was standing up for my right to be gay. She hugged me, said she understood what I was going through and then she tried to stick her tongue down my fucking throat. So, I smacked the shit out of her, grabbed my violin and my student ID and ran for it. And here I am. "She glared at him from where she sat huddled up against her door. "Any fucking questions?”
“I still don’t understand. If you want to be gay, why hit Ol’ Khrynn?”
“First, she’s fat and dumb and smells bad. Second, nobody sticks nothing in me unless I ask them to. And third, I’m not fucking gay, my fucking mother is."
“Oh." Johnny felt further from home than ever, but at least life was getting interesting.
"At least that's what she wants people to believe." Johnny decided that bitter statement was best left un-commented upon. He felt a kinship toward the girl’s spirit and a growing interest in small female persons who talked dirty.
“You reckon marijuana would injure your condition?"
“Shit no.... want me to roll?”
“I got a pipe. It’s in the glove box. He’p yourself."
“Look at this fucking bud! Where did you get this shit?"
“I grew it back t’home."
“You grew this shit? Are you married? Are you for real? Where’s home?"
“Le’s see now. Yankees sure talk fast, no offense. That’s a yes, a no, an 'I reckon,' and Sugar Hill. That’s in Archer County, No’th Carolina."
“Didn’t think you was from here. This is great shit." She hacked, daintily.
“Thank’ee kindly. You from Connecticut?”
“Yeah, and it sure sucks."
“Pretty country. Crowded."
“Crowded with my fucking mother.”
The pipe passed in companionable silence, was refilled once more. The Camaro cruised four lane Route 5 in light fast traffic, a shark among bait fish.
“You play that fiddle?"
“Naw, I just carry it around so I’ll grow up all lopsided... Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I got such a wicked mouth on me... My Mother is a cop and her bad attitude rubs off on me." She smiled a little and scooted a little bit closer to Johnny. A very little bit closer." I’ve been taking lessons since I was six. It’s the only thing I’m good at."
“You play that classical stuff?"
“Sure. Lately I’ve been studying some Celtic Music." She pronounced a hard "C.”
“What kinda music?"
“You know, Irish, Scots, Breton. Celtic."
“I always thought that was Seltic... like the Boston Seltics. Live and learn. I pick a little guitar."
“You... No it’s Keltic... I don’t know why... seems silly when you think of it that way.... You play that awful Country Music or Rock or Alternative?"
“Neither one... I mess with a little Old Timey music."
“Is that like, Bluegrass?"
“Well it’s kinder sorta like that. It’s older. You know ... fiddle music. You could learn, it’s fun."
“I don’t play without sheet music."
“That don’t sound like fun."
“Well, maybe not, but it’s my ticket out of this fucking place." She paused, pipe in hand. "You want another taste?"
“Maybe one more. I’m higher than a Georgia pine." She torched the bowl, put it to his lips, but fumbled, dropped the burning embers in his lap. They both grabbed at his crotch and succeeded only in making the car swerve across the double yellow line. There was a screech of metal and a tinkle of glass and a sudden payment of attention.
“Shit, motherfucker, we just side-swiped a police car." She kneeled backward on the seat and watched in horror as the prowl car skidded and swerved. The driver hit the blue light and siren.
“Goddamn!" Johnny booted it, the Camaro leaped forward.
“No dammit, we gotta stop... we’ll really be in trouble if we run." She glanced at him, then snapped her attention back to their pursuers. She was just in time to see the Police Car pull a perfectly executed bootlegger turn. "Jesus Fucking Christ Almighty...." The perfect U-turn brought the black and white directly under the chrome bumper of a fourteen-wheel dump truck, which wadded the police car into a crumple of steel and glass.
Profanity failed the girl. "Please stop... just stop."
Johnny slammed to a halt right there in the middle of Route 5, they ran back, leaving both doors open.
The driver of the dump truck sat in his seat, stunned and blank. The police car was reduced to half its width, almost on edge on the driver’s side. There was a mess of blood and blue fabric on what had been the passenger’s side. The driver was visible, moved feebly as they approached. The girl got a good look at the crumple of flesh in the right side of the police car, immediately knelt down and vomited violently on the glass scattered across the blacktop. A pale blue plastic card slipped unnoticed from her shirt pocket, fell to the asphalt.
Johnny knelt down at the shattered windshield.
“Mister... Officer, are you all right?”
Instead of answering, the Officer struggled to free his right arm from the bloody shreds of the airbag. His hand came into sight, clutching a gray steel automatic pistol. It wavered into view, as he fought for focus. Johnny’s instincts took over. He scrambled to his feet, scurried away, grabbed up the helpless girl, ran back to the Camaro. Shots blasted after him as he threw the limp girl into his car, slammed the door, dove over the hood and vaulted into the driver’s seat. He blasted off in a cloud of blue tire smoke, relying on momentum to slam his door. An instant of clarity in his rear view mirror showed the dump truck driver scribbling furiously on his windshield with a finger. He turned toward the girl as the speedo needle climbed.
“Girl, you got any more cuss words, you better dig them out."
She just stared... He just drove.
They tell you that "What you don't know won't hurt you." Demonstrably false. A wiser man said. "Mystery relates to the facts as the foam relates to the beer." One little $1.98 handkerchief and the first domino topples. What was I doing? I was putting strings on a banjo and working down a mental checklist. My biggest worry? Would I have to change the oil in my peach school bus? Screw it, it's only a half hour’s drive. Lalalalalala. No bliss like ignorance. Proverbs are so helpful. One hundred and eighty degrees wrong, but helpful, nonetheless.
Chapter Two
If you miss the train I’m on,
You will know that I am gone,
I’m nine hundred miles from my home.
Johnny drove by instinct and his instincts were good. The only road he knew was the Interstate he had come to Hardwick on. He found it, headed west and south. It was coming on toward quitting time, he hoped the increasing traffic would mask his progress, hinder the police. As a country boy, he wasn’t used to hiding in crowds, but he wasn’t about to hole up in strange country. He wanted home and he wanted it bad.
“Where are we going?" The girl spoke up, purple hair brave above her pale face.
“Honey, I’m gettin’ and I don’t much care where. If you want to get let out somewheres, you just let me know. I’m gone."
“Why was he shooting at us? We didn’t make him crash?"
“Damned if I know. All I know is we’re in trouble... deep."
“No shit." She looked at him, came to some decision."My name is Sid.”
“Sid?"
“Sid." She looked at the floorboards. "It’s really Sidney, but I hate it."
“Sid... Sid. What you want to do about this mess?”
“I guess I’m with you. My Mother’s a cop. She can’t help me. They’ll destroy her. Anyway I know the rules. She said, that if I come home addicted, pregnant, or busted, I’m on my own."
“I can’t even calculate how much trouble we’re in, ’ceptin’ it’s a bunch."
“I know how much...we’re facing the death penalty. If that cop dies...”
“He’s already dead."
“Sure?"
“Dead as a hammer.”
“So we’re fucked. If a law officer is killed in pursuit of a felon, the felon is responsible."
“So it won’t matter if we become Federal Fugitives too?”
“Not much. Why?"
“New York border’s about twenty miles ahead. If you get out now, you’re free and clear.”
“No way. My ID isn’t in my pocket. It must have fallen out when I was heaving my guts.”
“Happens in the best of families."
“I don’t come from the best of families."
Less than fifty miles east, a bright yellow Mercedes coupe pulled into the driveway of a battered ranch house. Immediately a cacophony of barking erupted from inside. The eager noses of three large shaggy dogs pushed up the shabby curtain over the picture window. The window was already clouded and mottled with historical layers of doggy nose prints. An indeterminate number of cats stropped outside the driver’s door. The barking crescendoed.
The driver’s door opened, long blue clad legs swiveled out. These legs were attached to a pair of slender hips, that in their turn led up to wide shoulders encased in a blue tunic. The torso was slim and nearly breastless, but not at all masculine. It was capped in turn with a strong, feminine head. The entire ensemble totaled almost six feet in height including an inch or two of stiff brushed, red hair.
Cats began to curvette around the woman’s legs. She spared them a few strokes, before she heaved herself to her feet and wearily clomped to the trunk of the little car. She opened it and removed a fifty-pound bag of dog food.
Despite her evident weariness, she easily hefted the bag to her shoulder, walked to the back door. The joyous barking followed her to the door, nails scrabbled a greeting on the inside. She keyed the door open and entered in a seethe of felines.
“Back Up, you furry assholes! You know the drill. No walkies till I get my shoes changed! Back the fuck up!" The dogs frolicked around her in an dorgasm of greeting. Just as the woman put the dog food on the galvanized trashcan that was its home, the wall phone rang. "Shit, what the fuck is it now!" She strode to the phone, shouting the dogs down.
“What the fuck do you want?"she barked into the receiver.
“Lee, I’ve got bad news." It was Sergeant Giappolli, her supervisor on the South Hardwick Police Department.
“If you think I’m pulling another shift tonight, you’re crazy." Lee tucked an unfiltered cigarette into the corner of her mouth, lit it with an automatic motion.
“No, this is serious. Lee, it’s your daughter."
“Where is she? Is she hurt?" The hand holding the Lucky did not tremble; the white paper remained uncreased.
“We don’t know. It’s a mess. In Hardwick, on 5, a couple of miles from the campus.”
“What’s a mess? Dammit, what’s going on?"
“We’ve got an Officer down and another hurt, not too bad, there’s been shots fired and your daughter’s Middlesex University ID was found at the scene. We’ve got an eyewitness account of a female Caucasian, about five two, one hundred pounds and bright purple hair."
“Shit."
“There is also a male cauc, brown/brown, six even, one sixty, in a blue Camaro, out of state plates, NC STW 0453." There was a pause on the line. "All we have now is the report of the truck driver. Injured officer is still in the hospital."
“I don’t make the Camaro or the male perp." The cigarette sizzled across the room into the sink. Another was lit before it stopped hissing. The dogs were gathered around, staring at Lee with big eyes." What the fuck is going on? Was Sidney a hostage?"
“We don’t know that. The truck driver is in shock. He says the male carried her into the Camaro, but she didn’t struggle. Look, I know how you feel, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know. You just sit tight. I’ll let you know the minute word comes in. Captain Wilkerson is in charge in Hardwick, but there’s no sense in bugging him. Nobody knows shit, and what we do know don’t make a whole lot of sense. Just hang tight, Lee, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Yeah, sure."
“I mean it. I’m about your only friend on the Department, but I can only do so much."
“Don’t flatter yourself." The phone clicked off. Lee went to check her message machine and caller ID. Nothing. She sank to her perpetually unmade bed and cursed softly. She began to unlace her issue shoes. A doggy nose peeked around the doorframe. She wanted to call Faro over and bury her face in his long tawny coat. Weep for hours. Instead, she finished changing her shoes for cross-trainers, peeled off her tunic, lit another choke, looked around for the leashes. Dogs had to be walked, regardless.
Feeling a wisp of late night auto-induced intimacy Johnny turned a thought over and over in his head until he just had to speak.
"Looky here?"
"What?"
"I was wondering, you don’t have to tell me, if you don't want to…"
"Don't beat around the bush…please." He had the insight that the 'Please' was a major concession, but he pressed on.
"You said your momma wants people to think she was one of them Les'bens?"
"Put an "I" in it. Lesbian."
"Sorry. No offense." He waited, hearing the tires rumble over the expansion strips. "But why would she want to do that?"
"What?" The girl was had gone into another dimension in the time of his ruminations.
"Why would she want people to think she's a lesbian?"
"It's safer."
"So men won't hit on her?"
"That's just part of it. She is a very complex person trying to look like a very simple person. Everybody loves her on sight and she can barely stand herself." There was a sigh so deep he could hear it over the burble of the glass-packs. "She…She needs the adulation and hates the commitment. She loves the cachet of belonging to an 'oppressed minority group' and hates being taken for granted. And most of all, she totally hates being predictable."
"Sounds like you had an…interesting childhood."
"Shit. I don't sign up to raise my mother. I had all the childhood I could stand." A rustle from the corner near the door. "And you didn't?" She asked, ungrammatically.
"My momma had lots of stuff happen to her. She's a'ight."
"You say that word a lot. What letter does that start with?"
"That starts with an 'Ah'."
A few miles later she asked, "Do you hate lesbians like most men do?"
"Naw. There's a few women that hang out together at the festivals. Some moved down here. Makes no never mind."
"Is that odd? Women in Old Time music?"
"No, they's lots. Lots of banjo players, and fiddlers. Lots of them Yankee women come down to play some. They mostly keep to themselves, but they's a'ight."
"Really?"
"Tchevy says any kind of love is hard to find."
"Ain't that a fucking fact."
It was well past dark when the Camaro started to run low on gas. Johnny decided to take a few precautions, suspecting that night would bring a greater chance of interception. They had spent silent hours together, stunned with their predicament through most of New York and part of Pennsylvania.
“How you feeling, Sid?"
“Jesus..."She stirred and roused herself. "All right, I guess." She peered out the window. "Where are we?"
“In trouble." She silently gave him the finger. "Near Scranton, Pennsylvania."
“Now what?"
“We try and look honest, get gas, eat, and go on."
“Plan." She stretched. "I could use a bathroom."
They exited the highway, found an older strip mall. It was crowded with after dinner shoppers and moviegoers.
“I’ve got tools in back. I want to trade plates. Look for another Camaro like this one."
“Is that what this beast is? I wondered. Everybody I know drives Toyotas.”
“Welcome to the U.S.A. You got any money?"
“Not a bean." She grimaced. "Look! Over there, is that a Camaro?"
“Good eyes, Sid. When I park, go in that Super K and find a can of paint to match this car and a side view mirror. Can you handle it?"
“Don’t teach a city girl about spray paint. You’re talking to the graffiti phantom of South Hardwick."
“Good girl, All I’ve got is this hundred Tchevy gave me for walking around money. I’ve got a big ol' check, but I can’t cash it."
“Too right." She took the money. "May I buy a couple of sodas? My mouth tastes like cat shit."
He only winced a little. "Sure, Sid, get what you need. We’ve got six hundred miles to go, and it’ll gets eighteen miles to the gallon on the highway. So fifty-sixty dollars ought to get it. They want ID at motels so we’ll save money and sleep in the car. Can you drive?"
“No....I’m sorry... What is your name?"
He actually blushed, pretty as a girl. She blushed in sympathy. "I’m Johnny. Johnny Blevins.”
“John?”
“Johnny.”
“Charmed, I’m sure. I’m Sidney Shaheen. You can call me Sid."
“Or you’ll kill me."
“Don’t forget it."
“You forgot to call me asshole."
“Yeah...Does this car have a name?”
Johnny was puzzled. "Does everything have to have a name?”
“Maybe it’s a girl thing." She reached out and patted the dash. "I dub thee Sir Rumblepuppy." She chuckled to herself. "Arise, Sir Knight."
Johnny found a parking spot, not too near the target Camaro, fished a combo screwdriver and a pair of Vice Grips from the trunk. Sid scampered off. Johnny assumed a casual air and eased toward the other Camaro. It was toward the dark side of the lot. Probably the car belonged to a worker at the mall, he hoped that no store would close for the few minutes he needed.
He was screwing on the front plate, when Sid came back, bag in hand. She was quite pleased with her own small self.
“I had to use my feminine wiles. They wanted to not let me in, because I didn’t have shoes. I got some seltzer to drink and lifted some Hershey bars and some Beef Jerky. Also some hair dye. I spent twenty-five dollars."
“Good enough. Good thinking."He paused, "What’s seltzer?"
“It’s fizzy water. It’s good. It’s cheap."
“Good enough, ‘long as it’s wet. "Quickly he sprayed over the scar on the driver’s door. It was a reasonable match, at least covered the bare metal. He screwed the new mirror into the holes left where the collision had torn the old one away. They filled up at a nearby gas cheap. He checked his oil and fluids, although he knew they were fine. It was the trained reflex of a good mechanic. If you make sure, you’re rarely taken by surprise. Even though the perversity of machinery tends towards the infinite, precautions can be taken. While he worked, Sid monopolized the restroom. She emerged as a dark brunette, less conspicuous and more competent appearing. They stoked up at Greasy Mac’s, burbled off toward the highway.
“You still got that pipe, Sid?”
“You don’t want to get high again?"
“Nope, I was going to throw it away. We don’t need the temptation."
“Seems like a shame, but you’re right. This ain’t the fucking movies."
“Sid, you are so right. I hate it. My friend Tchevy made that pipe for me for my birthday years ago, but we sure don’t need no police seeing us toking up."
“Who is Chevy? You mention him a lot."
“He’s this old hippie, does for my Mom.”
“Does what? Screws her?"
“Well, not since I’ve known what screwing is. They might have could. They’re real close. He lives down the road a piece and does odd jobs. He’s a good friend. He gives me weird books and stuff. He got me into Middlesex University. He’s from up there in Connecticut."
“Why do they call him Chevy?"
“It’s Tchevy with a silent "T”. It’s like a joke."
“Huh?”
“He’s some kind of Polack. His name is Taras Tchevchenko, but nobody t’home can’t pronounce that, so most folks call him Tchevy."
“Oh, cool, Hey stop!" They were passing a fringe of shabby residential houses just before the highway. There was a dark-skinned man walking between two of the frame houses. He had a rainbow knitted cap on his head that was puffed out with his hair. Johnny frankly stared. Sid rolled down the window.
“Hey, Rasta-mon." She hissed. The man ambled imperturbably toward them.
“Evenin’ Sista’."
“Would you like some ganja?”
The man just chuckled wisely.
“Here." She handed him the bud and the pipe. The man fearlessly opened the bag and stuck in his nose. He inhaled deeply and grinned like the sun rising.
“How much you want, Sista Mon?”
“No charge, Bother.”
“The Blessing of Jah, be upon you, Sista’, and your journey. Good evenin’.” The bag vanished and the Rasta ambled on as if there had never been any interruption in his journey.
“What kind of n...Afro was that?”
“That’s not a African American, that’s a Jamaican. There’s a big difference. Jamaicans are cool. Lot’s of Rastas in Hardwick."
“You can explain later.... I ‘spect It’s another one of those long stories. Let’s scratch some gravel.”
Sir Rumblepuppy putted up the on ramp and they bid fair Scranton, Pa. farewell.
The reason that sex is not a spectator sport is that it looks pretty damn silly. One of those internal sports like dropping acid, or mental arithmetic. You don’t usually have to worry about the audience, unless you're a porn star. This is not a consideration for people as old and fat and ugly as myself, although my partner was fairly presentable, for an older woman. Good thing she couldn’t hear my thoughts; I was in deep enough shit already. The only good thing was that my state of terror was maintaining the best erection I had had for years. More's the pity.
Chapter Three
Hush little baby,
don’t you cry,
You’ll be an angel,
bye and bye.
Johnny pulled the Camaro off I-81 just past Natural Bridge, eased it on down the blacktop. It was far past midnight; both were glassy eyed and yawning. Their last traces of adrenaline had long since worn off, leaving glassy tiredness behind. Johnny’s rule seemed to be to take the smallest road available. He clicked off the radio and let the big V-8 just burble. Soon enough they were on a dirt road, then under trees, stopped before a locked red iron cattle gate. Johnny backed and filled, got the Camaro pointed out. He shut down the engine and the lights. He stretched violently, swore gently.
“Goddamn, honey, I’m whooped.”
“Sid..." She said.
“Yeah. Sorry. Sid. I’m still whooped.”
“Whadda we gonna do?”
“Well..... I reckon we’ll find a place and change cars and get down home and figure out what we’re gonna do for the rest of our lives."
“No, asshole, I mean right now. I mean us..."
“Try and get some sleep, get up before some farmer or police finds us, and go on till they catch us.”
“You’re not too fucking reassuring”
“Honey... Sid, I mean... I’m not no damn hero from no damn book, you know. I’m just some poor fool trying to get out of trouble, he never wanted to get into in the first place.”
“That’s right, blame me... everything’s always my fault.”
He gently placed his right hand on her thigh. He felt bare skin and started away. Sid lay her hand over his, held it down against her skin.
“I’m sorry”, she said, "It really is mostly my fault. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be back in your dorm by now.”
“Don’t fret, Sid, we’re just on an adventure. It’ll be a’ight. Let’s snooze a little.”
She plucked at the Indian blanket that covered the seats."This thing come loose?”
“Sure, It’s just laid on.”
“Let’s go outside and actually lay down for a while.....They got bugs and snakes here?”
They found a soft spot near the gate and spread their blanket. The night sounds resumed, the Camaro emitted reassuring clicks and creaks as its metals cooled. A few late lightning bugs competed with the fewer stars that peered through the foliage. Autumn scents of greenery and cow shit perfumed their soliloquies .
“It’s pretty late in the summer for many bugs.... Snakes sleep at night.”
“I’m sure you know better than I... Let’s go. Johnny, we gotta get me some levis and shoes. I was so mad at Khrynn, I ran off with just my shirt and panties. And my violin."
“Well that’s no problem. I still got some of that hundred and I might could get some boot for the Camaro. That fiddle might come in handy.”
Sid wasn’t sure what ‘boot’ might be, disliked hearing her Hopf referred to so casually, but she had another thought on her mind. Several related progressing thoughts that inexorably to her left hand creeping into Johnny’s. Johnny’s mind was still hung up on the word ‘panties’, but he did notice her hand. He explored her fingers, lingering on the calluses that tipped each one. These calluses became precious to him. He had similar deformations on his own left hand. He knew how dearly these tiny pads were won.
“Well?”
“Well, what?" Although a surmise became a certainty somewhere low on his spine.
“Well, are you going to kiss me or are you just going to play with my fingers all night?”
“Is that an invitation?”
“I think it’s more of an order.”
“Yesermam.”
“That’s Sid.”
“Yes Sid. Shut up...Sid.”
Their clothes seemed to melt away, not that they had more than six garments between them. Her body was revealed as solid and substantial, with all requisite equipment in sufficiency, if not overabundance. He realized that she had left her glasses in the car. He realized that his other lovers had been skin, but Sidney, Sid, was flesh and blood and brain and sweat all the way through. Her thighs had a pleasing heft and weight in his hands; her lips were closely connected to a wily brain, full of mischief and sin. Revelations were coming thick and fast and he liked it. The acceleration of his concepts was beginning to make him dizzy. She stuck her tongue in his ear, in an experimental manner, he lost the last traces of his rational mind. He swung between her legs and his penis head located cool moisture with promise of steam heat right below.
“Stop!”
He paused. The world paused over his shoulder. The creaks from the Camaro became very prominent. Many questions pressed the inside of his larynx. He swallowed them all.
“Thank you, Johnny. I just wanted to see if I could trust you." She gave him a small, sisterly kiss on his parted lips. "You may continue." She clamped her teeth deep into his lower lip, clutched his buttocks hard with both hands. He plunged in, deep into her, with all his might, plus a little for aggravation.
He came immediately, but held his thrust as she curled beneath him, like a fish worm on a fishhook. He held his breath, desperately, knowing that if he exhaled he would collapse on her in a heap.
“Don’t. Stop. Now. Johnny.”
With an effort that proved that Johnny Ralph Blevins was of that stuff of which heroes are made, he cycled another thrust, willing hardness on himself. Tchevy had told him to count his strokes to help maintain control. He gave it his best shot. By the third stroke, his erection became painfully huge, by the fifth, he felt his being entirely contained inside her, by the seventh, he knew that his life was entering into a totally new dimension. With the ninth stroke she started to whimper. He quit counting. He felt fatherly, brotherly, loverly, aged and newborn all at once.
“Scream, girl, scream it out and let it in...”
She screamed like a Valkyrie in pain and triumph. He echoed her and their muscles turned to water, to puddles, as they fell into each other.
She felt floating, weightless, even though a hundred and sixty pounds of Johnny rested on her. Their sweat cooled in the night and smelled as sweet as the grass crushed beneath their blanket. Johnny kissed her, said into her mouth. "I decided."
“What... when...”
“I decided that’s the last time you’re gonna be so contrary...”
“Sorry."
“No, really. Remember when you started screaming?”
“You were screaming too.”
“That’s when I decided...I decided that you’re mine now...forever...maybe I’ll let you be contrary for your seventieth birthday party, but that’s ‘bout it.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Try me.”
“Try you? I’ll wear you out.”
“That’s a’ight, prolly will. But you’re mine, now. And I’m yours. That’s all there is to it.”
“You’re serious.”
“Try me.”
“Oh shit, and me without a handkerchief. I hate going on adventures without a handkerchief."
He knew it was from a book, and he almost had remembered what book, when she took him at his word and tried him. Again. This trial was even more satisfactory than the first, as they were becoming acquainted with each other’s tastes and textures and tempos. They were not innocents, but they were not sophisticates either. They were just at that stage of life when their interests equaled their expectations and their appetites did not exceed their energies. They reveled in their youth and their shared peril only added to their exaltations.
But even youth must rest. One pause found him with his head resting on her smooth, solid, albeit slightly sticky, belly. He was pensively engaged in toying with her nether hair while she stroked his cooling brow. His right ear was pressed to her navel as to a telephone.
She moved her attentions to the nape of his neck. It was as much a wonder to her as the rest of him was. The hairs on the back of his neck were silky beyond metaphor, beyond belief. She desired to share her innermost fantasy with him, but feared ridicule. She remembered that she had decided to trust him. In for a penny...
“Can you hear them?”
“Them who?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy." She lifted his head and used lover’s levitation to bring their faces together. "Sometimes I think I can...I actually hear my future children, inside me. They want out."
He kissed her lips. "Crazy like a fox. I mean vixen." She was not to be sidetracked.
“Ever since Sex Education in Grade School... I’m not saying this right. They told me...us that every woman, female, is born with all her eggs already in her ovaries, ready to go, just waiting for a sperm to fertilize them and make babies."
“Making babies, yum yum. Let’s go.”
“Idiot." She swung herself into closer connection, and moaned a little, but persevered, undaunted. "I was very young, but that night I couldn’t sleep. I was so scared. All these people inside of me. Alive. My eggs were talking to me. Demanding things.”
“What do they sound like? Alvin and the Chipmunks?" He moved this, spread those, and eased her back on her shoulders.
“Slow down, please. This is important to me. Even if it is nuts." He gentled down, transferred his attentions, without ceasing them. She sighed, gloriously. "You’d think so, wouldn’t you. Little squeaky voices. Inka Dinka Doo Skiddoo. But these are big people, world shakers. They can’t wait. They have plans, they are impatient. It’s like having Albert Einstein inside me. Genghis Khan. Mahatma Gandhi. Monsters. They want life.”
“What do they want to do, conquer the world?”
“Bigger things. The universe.”
“Life, the Universe and Everything?”
“Exactly right.”
“You’re serious?”
“It may just be a fantasy, but yes...Serious." She slid onto him a little more and opened herself totally, welcoming him home.
“Can’t keep Genghis Khan waiting. Might get ill. Don’t want no ill Mongols inside my woman. Here you go, Gheng. Welcome to Planet Earth.”
Against all the odds, they did get a little sleep before dawn.
There is a school of thought that does not allow for the existence of coincidence. This school of thought is called paranoia. But then sometime you meet people who seem to defy the concept of random selection, of a blind reshuffling of genes. They have this air about them of always having existed, off in some intergalactic wormhole uterine hyperspace just waiting for the right zygotes to finally hook up and get it on…"That's my sperm, that's my egg, that's my me! Yay me! It's about fucking time.
Chapter Four
I will pawn you my gold watch and chain, love,
I will pawn you my gold diamond ring,
I will pawn you this heart in my bosom...