Rhonda, some time the previous fall – still day eleven, early evening
Bryce Wilson carefully guides the Jetta up and over Bear Spring Mountain Road toward Walton. Along the way, he points out the radio station’s big, lighted sign.
“WLUV, huh?” says Rhonda. “Pretty slick…Not!”
“Hey,” says Bryce, “I didn’t name it. I just work there. But, it is slick as shit, if I don’t say so myself.” They both have a laugh, and Rhonda snuggles closer to the disc jockey.
A couple of miles later, and Bryce slides the Jetta into a narrow spot in the parking lot, behind Antonucci’s Pizzeria, in downtown Walton. When he first came to New York State, after leaving Detroit (somewhat in a hurry, if truth be told), it took him over a month to find decent pizza. But, the wait was worth it, and now Antonucci’s has become his “go to” pizzeria whenever the urge for a pepperoni pie should strike. Somehow, the craving always seems intensified when he makes the acquaintance of a new “hottie”—like tonight.
Rhonda figures there’s no big rush to get to North Carolina, so why not scrounge a free meal or two. The two exit the Jetta, and start for the back door.
“How old did you say you were again?” asks Bryce. He’s still a bit wary—but, not so much that he won’t take a chance.
“I told you. I’m eighteen.”
“Good.”
Once inside, Rhonda excuses herself, and heads for the ladies room. Bryce orders the pizza and a cold antipasto “to go.” He almost always gets his order to go; that way, he doesn’t have to leave a tip. If the pizza’s cold by the time they get back to the radio station, he figures he can always throw it in the microwave.
A few minutes later, he sees Rhonda emerge from the bathroom. It’s amazing, he thinks, what a broad can do with a few minutes and a comb in a restroom. And, not only that, but bleached blonds have always been a special turn-on. Rhonda looks terrific.
“Oh,” he says to the waitress, “and, give us a couple of ‘Jennies,’ too. But, don’t take ‘em out of the fridge until the pizza’s ready.” Cold beer and hot pizza, he thinks. Nothing better—except a hot babe.
Fifteen minutes later, Bryce steers the Jetta out of the lot, makes a right turn, and heads back up Route 206, towards the studio. Rhonda has the box containing the pizza and the antipasto on her lap, and the bag with the two Genesee Ales between her ankles. The radio is blasting a Reggae melody by Bob Marley, and the car is rocketing toward the radio station. What could be better? thinks Rhonda.
Bryce couldn’t agree more.
Once inside the radio station, Bryce takes the box with the pizza and antipasto, and heads for the little galley kitchen in the back of the studio. “Put those beers in the freezer,” he calls over his shoulder to Rhonda. “That way they’ll be nice and cold when we have our pizza.” Rhonda does as he suggests. Damn! Why do I always get so freakin’ horny when I eat pizza? The answer is obvious. Maybe it’s because you always order pizza when you’re horny, dumbass. Can’t beat logic.
Bryce pops the pizza into the microwave oven, and pushes the button marked “One Minute.” As the carousel twirls noisily within the microwave, Bryce grabs a couple of paper plates from the cabinet below, along with two plastic forks for the antipasto. “Here,” he says to Rhonda. Put these on the coffee table over there by the couch. And, here’s a couple of napkins.” He hands her the utensils, paper plates, and napkins, and turns back to the microwave, which is just now beeping.
By the time Bryce brings the pizza over to the couch, Rhonda has divided up the antipasto, and poured the cold beer into some foam cups she found in the bathroom. Despite the effect of the microwave, which causes the pizza to lose some of its crispiness, the pie holds up remarkably well; and in short order, all that’s left are a few scraps of crust. Rhonda picks one up, and nibbles idly while sucking down the remains of her beer. Bryce is thinking of nibbling something else. He wants to behave himself, but watching the nubile, young teenager is almost more than he can bear.
“How about another beer?” he asks, opening the refrigerator door. “I’ve got enough ‘Jennies’ to keep us going for a week.”
“Sure,” says Rhonda. “Why not?”
Bryce opens a beer for himself, and unscrews another for Rhonda, who walks over and takes it from his outstretched hand, letting her hand slide over his arm, and sending goose bumps up his spine. Finally, he can’t take it anymore. He puts down his beer bottle, walks over to the broadcast console, and puts a CD into the auxiliary player he keeps there for just these occasions. The soft strains of Rod Stewart singing “The Very Thought of You,” wash over the studio through multiple speakers scattered around its perimeter. Bryce uses the rheostat to soften the lighting, and beckons to Rhonda to join him in a dance. Soon, the two are shuffling slowly around in a compact box step, the alcohol working its magic on the unsuspecting girl.
Fantastic, thinks Bryce.
Just fantastic.