Dusk had settled over the parking lot, and we were there to witness it - as always - on the weekends. These were the halcyon days of youth, wherein most were spent washing and re-washing the vintage '76 Chevy step-bed before squandering the remainder guzzling down rotgut whiskey in paper sacks in the lot. Sometimes we would catcall the summer girls, tan and supple and always in groups of threes in their compact cars, as they whizzed down the cruise route.
It was always the same: The girl behind the wheel was the hell-bent one, young and wild and never sure what would win out that evening; the piss or the vinegar. Ponytailed, they delighted in torturing the letter jacket crowd, whispering promises of finishing the job their hands began until they gauged the length of the issue before laughing and heading off to the next "conquest," never following through on their oaths.
The passenger was always the best friend, shyer than her companion but not as plain in appearance. Occasionally, faint glittering would appear from the King James cross that always adorned their necks, proof - in the old standard before trinkets like purity rings and Jesus bracelets - that their parents never had to worry about her giving up her virtue to the ugly wolves that pranced and waged make-believe combat with their companions, all in hopes of winning that elusive pound of flesh from some starry-eyed young thing with more desire than sense. She wore a little rouge, but never for concealment, which was the main reason her friend often wore collared shirts. Raven-haired, slightly freckled, she had no idea how much upheaval her world was in store for upon her moving away to attend some mid-level state college, and her first cup of frothy beer handed to her by some scoundrel in his backwards hat.
And finally, always riding the pine in the backseat, the anchor. The one who attempted to compensate for her girth by being loud and obnoxious. You could often hear her from our vantage point, laughing in a squeal and shouting louder than the radio, which always seemed to be blasting one Eagles song after another. She shopped at the same boutiques as her friends, but the world of skirts and halter tops was forever out of reach, so she opted for dark jeans and long-sleeved shirts, sometimes with a vest, all in some vain attempt to break up her outline like some sort of hormonal ghillie suit. Never realizing she was the "escape route," she tried to act like the driver, much to everyone's dismay.
It was their tenth or so lap when my friend Dave, a deviant who was training to become a coroner, retrieved a plush cat doll from the morass of his backseat and chucked it in their window as they sped past. Peals of playful screams rang out as the car squalled to a halt in the lot. The car gave a series of lurches as they leaped out, a small shudder to the left, followed by a similar one to the right, followed by large ones as the anchor attempted to extricate herself from her prison in the backseat.
The driver's smile melted away at the sight of her attackers, not the idiot boys in their rusted street cars but something else entirely, and slowly descended into a defensive smirk. "What the hell? You tryin to make me wreck?" dripped from her lips, already bored with the situation and scanning the horizon for a fresh kill.
"I don't think you have any problem slowing down," Dave replied, his gaze settling on the rear of the car, as with Herculean effort it finally regurgitated its final passenger.
"Besides, it's never bad to have more pussy."
Like a coliseum combatant realizing the lion was closing in, the driver tried to hatch a scheme to leave in the fastest manner possible while saving face. Their conversation was lost to me, though, as I busied myself with her friend. She never enjoyed the candy story machismo that her friend relished, and her guard actually seemed to lower here rather than increase.
"Hello, Kim," I said as she fidgeted with her necklace. Her eyes would drift to the ground as we made small talk. Eventually the anchor, fed up with being ignored, played her trump card. "I have to go home soon," she repeated, her voice sharp as the creases the straps on her flats dug into her feet. The driver pretended to roll her eyes in annoyance, saved by the bell around the anchor's neck.
"Guess we gotta go," she said, getting no satisfaction from Dave's bumbling attempts at innuendo.
"Let's go, Kim."
Kim shot me a glance. It was obvious she wanted to be freed from her role for a few hours, so I obliged. "Want to do a few laps around town?" I asked her. The driver, horrified at the prospect of having to spend time alone with the anchor, protested. "C'moooooooon," she pleaded, her veneer cracking for the first time. Kim was having none of it though, and agreed to join me.
As we crawled through town, we talked about the future. I'd always been one of those people guidance counselors wrote "has potential, but won't use it" about in their notes. I managed to squeak my way into the main state college, and she was headed to it's sister college, referred to as "Little Blue" for the student's loyalty to the larger institution. She was going to be a physician's assistant, I was going to be me. She was two weeks out of a relationship, one she was doomed to repeat at college until she finally outgrew the poor sod. I felt pity for her realizing that so much of her life revolved around the guy that she had scarce else to talk about.
"So, what are you looking for now?" I asked.
"A little closure, I guess."
"Closure's my specialty," I replied.
"Is that right?" she laughed.
"Well, that and bullshitting," I said, as I watched the needle on my gauge slowly climb into the red. When my father gave me the truck, he forgot to mention the temperature gauge on the engine had snapped off, which caused the thermostat to close, which caused my truck to overheat in the warmer months. To my surprise, she agreed to my feigned offhand suggestion to head out of town for a little while. I parked the truck on top of the hill overlooking our strip-mine of a town. Neither of us belonged there, but only one of us was destined to leave and stay gone.
Steve Earle and The Dukes quietly played on the radio as we talked about her ambitions, The Saviour occasionally glinting in the moonlight as if concerned about where all of this might be headed.
"You aren't really like those guys you hang out with," Kim said. "Why are you with them all of the time?"
I told her the truth. "They never ask me for anything."
She looked at me with something I took for envy. "I wish I had friends like that," she said.
"You will," I lied.
"I need a new start," she sighed. "A clean break."
"That's my specialty," I joked.
"Bullshit," she laughed.
At that moment, I leaned in and slid my hand up the side of her neck and kissed her still laughing lips. Startled, her gaze deepened, and the cross around her neck could not compete with the emerald glinting of her eyes. She grabbed the lapels of my jacket and pressed hard against me. I leaned into her, and we slowly lowered to the hard wooden planks that lined the bed of my truck.
Then I got all up in them guts.
Fucking on the bathroom counter(Read 30914 times)