I’m the son of a car dealer, and I don’t know a dipstick from a chopstick. I have a surprising disregard for automobiles in general.
I got my driver’s license the Monday after my sixteenth birthday. By that Thursday, I had totaled my first car. It was the family car even—a brand-new ’87 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser station wagon with simulated wood grain paneling. I took a turn at about thirty-five miles-per-hour in a rainstorm, hit the sidewalk on my right, the median, and a Bradford pear tree on my left. I busted three of the four axles. I worked half the summer at the dealership pro bono to pay it off. And yet Dad still saw fit to give me Grandpa’s restored ’68 Oldsmobile 442 Coupe.
“The Beast” isn’t your average Oldsmobile. A couple years back, Grandpa Fred traded it in for a newer Cutlass Supreme. Dad sent the old car over to the community college so the students could experiment on it. They had plenty to work with, most notably the 455 CID engine backed by a modified W-45 rated at 390 horsepower. In order to generate more rpms, they retrofitted her with cylinder heads from the W-30 and the camshaft from the W-31. They also installed new bucket seats and a Hurst Dual-Gate shifter in her walnut mini-console. Granted, I have no fucking clue if what I just said is accurate, but Dad kept a laminated copy of the’68 442 brochure in the top drawer of his office desk that I halfway memorized just so I would sound cool. The Beast’s finishing touches were largely cosmetic: her deep-maroon paint job restored to its factory-original sheen, her faded vinyl top replaced with a textured black lid that smelled of shoe polish and great expectations. A white vertical stripe ran up both sides of the car just behind her front wheel wells, the number “442” bisecting the stripe like a watch on a watchband as if to say, “Time to get some pussy and kick some ass.” If only Dad had not installed an obnoxious air horn that played the chorus to “In My Merry Oldsmobile,” each note fractionally diminishing your pussy-getting, ass-kicking potential until you were just another lonely teenage boy with a cool car and a cramped hand.
Dad took the Beast away from me before the summer was even over. A doctor had run a stop sign in front of me. The police report and the insurance companies said he was at fault. No argument from me. But I could have been going a little slower than sixty-five down a residential street, and I could have let off the gas in lieu of cutting the good doctor’s Honda Accord in half. Although it didn’t look it, the Beast was almost as unlucky with a cracked engine block and a buckled frame.
The Subie is a fire-engine red ’77 Subaru DL Station Wagon; her distinctive feature a massive white steel brush guard running the full width of her front bumper. I’ve had her almost a year. When we got our first real snow in December, some friends and I tested out the four-wheel drive by sneaking onto the airfield at the Empire Ridge Municipal Airport. We hit the iced-over runway at about sixty miles an hour, at which time I jerked the wheel hard to my left. The Subie stayed on her feet, but she slid off the runway a good hundred yards into a cornfield. I found random pieces of cornhusks under my car for weeks.
I have to hand it to the Subie. Up until a lovesick dumbshit tried to punch a hole in her ass last month, she’s survived me fairly unscathed. Four of us are piled into her at the moment. There’s a party tonight at Martin Neff’s house. Neff is our age, but he lives with his older brother. Translation? Booze, and lots of it. There’s even rumor of a keg.
“How’s your hand?” Beth asks.
Hatch and I started hanging out with Beth Burke and Claire Sullivan a couple weeks ago. We’ve known them since we were freshmen together but, like all high school boys, endured our customary two-year waiting period during which freshmen and sophomore girls hang out exclusively with upperclassmen. The irony, of course, is that Hatch and I are now those upperclassmen making time for them and the freshmen and sophomore girls.
Our first night out together started after Claire flagged us down at McDonald’s. Beth was trying to break up with her boyfriend in the parking lot of the First Baptist Church, and he was being, according to Claire, “uncooperative.” Hatch and I swooped in to the rescue. Beth’s boyfriend was berating her, refusing to get out of her face. Tyler was his name, yet another Prepster. After a couple veiled threats, spoken while I held a not-so-veiled baseball bat, Beth was soon very much single.
Hatch sits in the front passenger seat of the Subie. Beth and Claire sit in back. Beth sits behind me.
“How’s my hand?” I echo.
Beth leans forward and points at my hand. “Yeah. How’s it feel?”
I flex my fingers, but I know Beth’s question is not exclusive to my hand. “I feel good.”
The doggedness of youth. A plunger, a half bottle of peroxide, and a couple cute girls can repair your car, your hand, and your self-esteem.
We’ve been at the party maybe ten minutes, and Claire is already flirting with somebody from Prep, a hockey player I don’t recognize. This annoys Hatch, because Claire is the great love of his life even though she’ll never think of him as anything more than an annoying, overprotective brother.
I can see the attraction, not just to Claire but to her whole family. From top to bottom, Claire has inherited everything from her mother—smallish breasts, a tight ass, some slight curves below the waist, slender legs, long but delicate feet. Claire’s sister is a year behind her in school and almost as hot. I’ve had several fantasies involving the three Sullivan women, the mother in a supporting role as her daughters’ wise, and always naked, teacher.
Beth hasn’t left my side. The music is turned low, as one would expect from a party of underage drinkers in the middle of town. Too bad. The song playing right now is Scorpions’s “Rock You Like a Hurricane.”
“Turn this shit up!” Martin Neff says. He’s drunk and loud, but hey, it’s his party. He cranks the volume, following it up with some air guitar. He sees me and toasts his beer to the ceiling.
I toast Neff back. “You fucking know it!” He rocks like a hurricane down the hallway.
Beth hooks my arm with her hand. “What was that all about?”
“Monsters of Rock.”
“You got tickets?”
“Yeah, Neff and I, couple other guys.”
“Who’s playing?”
“Kingdom Come…” I pause for a sip of beer, halfway into my third drink already. “Dokken, Metallica, Scorpions, and Van Halen. Noon to midnight, baby.”
“Kingdom Come?”
“Zeppelin cover band. Decent.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Exhaustingly kick ass.” My bravado impresses no one, least of all Beth. “He’s a genius, you know.”
“Who, Neff?”
“No, Klaus Meine, Scorpions’s lead singer.”
“How so?”
“It’s his vocals. The guy is a miraculous wordsmith.” I lift a single finger in the air, turning my ear toward the stereo. “Hear that?”
“The chorus?”
“Not just any chorus. If you or I spoke the words, ‘Here I am, rock you like you a hurricane,’ it would sound clunky. And yet Klaus magically rhymes ‘here I am’ with ‘hurricane.’ A lot of Scorpions’ songs are like this.”
Beth indulges me. “Name another.”
“How about ‘Bad Boys Running Wild’?”
“Not familiar with the song.”
“Bad boys running wild—bump bummmp—if you don’t play along with their geeeems.” I sing the Rudolph Schenker guitar to great effect. “Bad boys running wild—bump bummmp—and you better get out of their weeee.”
“Is that even English?”
“That’s Klaus Meine. Except in this example, the actual words games and way do kind of rhyme, and Klaus still molds them into completely new words—geeeems and weeee—not found in any language.”
“And that makes him a lyrical genius?”
“A genius with a fucking killer skullet!”
“A skullet?”
“That’s when someone with a receding hairline grows a mullet.” I point to the balding thirty something standing by the stereo. “Like Big Neff over there.”
Big Neff is Martin’s much older half-brother. I can’t recall his real name. His hair begins at a widow’s point a good three inches back from his forehead and ends in a ponytail that runs down to his waist. If possible, his goatee is even worse, the mustache Burt Reynolds-thick but the beard uneven and growing in patches all the way down to his chest hair. Skullet or no skullet, Big Neff is a saint on Earth; he’s purchased at least half the beer I’ve consumed in high school.
At the moment, Big Neff is pissed at Little Neff. “Shit, Martin. Why don’t I just mount a neon sign on the roof saying, ‘arrest our fucking asses’?”
Neff garbles something from the front porch. He’s pissing on a bush. His brother disappears without a response. What the hell is his name anyway?
I nudge the volume back up again. No one notices. I pause before the fourth beer hits my lips. Beth is still standing next to me. She starts bouncing to the music. She looks bored.
“You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be fine.”
Beth’s smile disappears. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Well, I just figured that, you know…”
“I came out with you to have some fun, Hank.” She yanks my fourth beer from my hand, takes about half of it down in one swallow, and leaves the other half on both our shirts. “And have some fun is exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Did someone say fun?”
It’s Hatch. He has in his hands an unopened fifth of Jim Beam and a shot glass. I respond with a mock puking noise.
“Relax, Fitzy. I brought us a chaser. Fire in the hole!” Hatch zips a two liter of Mountain Dew at me. It hits me in the balls, as was intended.
“Hatch…” I gasp for air. “You’re a fucking dick.”
The unrecognizable Prep hockey player and Claire join us. Claire sits on the hockey player’s lap. This bugs the shit out of Hatch. He drinks two shots of Beam for no apparent reason other than the jealousy he wears on his sleeve like an oversized cufflink.
“Scoot back.” Beth turns her ass to me and starts to bend over.
A fifth of whiskey between five people is just enough to be dangerous. I’m not full-on wasted, but I’m getting there. “What?”
“I said scoot back. Let me sit on your lap.”
I like Beth, a petite but athletic blond, five feet tall, and a full four or five inches shorter than Laura. She has an omnipresent smile framed by high cheekbones and straight blonde hair that ends just below the small of her back. She’s more cute than sexy, more natural than made-up. Whereas Laura’s bare skin, though tanned, hides behind a sheen of cosmetics, Beth has to remind herself to put on makeup. She’s a state champion gymnast, as advertised by her figure—small but firm breasts, noticeable hips and rounded buttocks, muscular thighs, and obscenely defined calves.
I push my chair away from the table. I nod to Beth, bowing almost. “I’m all yours.”
Hatch suggests a game of euchre to Claire. “Fitzy and I versus you two.”
The hockey player and Claire move to opposite sides of the table. Beth’s ass remains attached to my lap.
Hatch peels the beer-sodden cards off the table. He and I exchange the barest hint of a smirk. Nobody catches it but me. Well played, my friend.
We’re up 2–0 before I even know what’s happening. The hockey player, whom we’ve now identified as Bobbie, comes out of the gates way too aggressive. Hatch turns up the nine of hearts. Bobbie orders him up, gets euchred with the first three tricks.
Bobbie looks at Claire. “I was two-suited with the left and the queen. You’d think I could count on my partner for one.”
Claire does not appreciate the condescension, and Hatch notices. “Or in this case, Bobbie, two or three,” he says, handing the deck of cards over to Claire. He smiles at her. She smiles back. Claire shuffles the deck, offering a cut to Hatch.
“No, thanks. I trust you.”
Another exchange between friends, only this time Hatch and I are more obvious about it. I have a legitimate smirk on my face. Nicely played again. Claire turns up a jack of hearts. I have a crappy hand: one low trump and an ace of hearts, plus an off-suit ten, queen, and jack. My best bet is to see what my partner has, or else hope it goes around again and maybe bait Bobbie into making it diamonds, smack him with another euchre, or else call black for my partner.
I don’t really care about my hand. All I care about is that Beth is dry humping me.
“What do you call, Hank?” Claire says.
“What?”
She takes a shot of Jim Beam, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand that’s holding her cards. “I said, what’s your call?”
Maybe it’s the whiskey, but I missed a lot during that first game of euchre. I missed Beth sliding her ass a little farther back into me. I missed her propping her foot against the table leg. I missed her pushing against the table leg with her foot. I missed her relaxing her foot. Push and relax.
Bobbie is irritated, too. “Hank, do you want to fucking pass or pick it up?”
Push and relax.
All I know is I want out of this game. Beth looks at my cards, contemplates. It’s an awful hand: no trump, no support, no nothing. “Your call,” I say.
“Hmm…” Beth says, pushing against the table leg and holding this time, while rotating her ass harder into me. “I think we’ll—”
“Pick it up!” I shout, my raised shot glass affirming my transparent conviction.
Push and relax.
Hatch’s eyes open wide. “Really? You sure about that, Fitzy?”
Push and relax.
Bobbie leers at Hatch. “No fucking table talk.”
Push and relax.
Hatch almost pulls the hand out all by himself. But Bobbie drops the hammer down on the fifth trick.
“Euchre, bitches!”
That’s how the next five games went. A few whiskey shots, me going out of my way to lose hands. Push and relax. A few more whiskey shots, Hatch growing despondent with my recklessness. Push and relax. Bobbie and Claire were in the barn, up 9–2 and only one point away from victory, when the whiskey ran dry. Hatch dealt himself a loner to get the game to 9–6. Push and relax. Claire turned up another red jack, this one a diamond. Push and relax. I had no diamonds in my hand and looked at Beth, who saw my cards, squeezed my knee, and shouted, “Pick it up!” We were predictably euchred in the first three tricks. Beth and I were already halfway out the front door as Hatch yelled behind us, “What the fuck did you call that on?”
We walk toward the Subie. Beth hooks her arm inside mine again. I struggle with my keys, dropping them on the ground.
Neither of us is in any shape to drive, but that’s not the plan. Beth picks up the keys and unlocks the front door. She opens the door, reaches around, and unlocks the back door. We hop into the back seat together. I still have one foot outside the car when she kisses me.
Beth is a much more aggressive kisser than Laura. Laura was always frugal with her tongue. Beth’s tongue is all over the place. Laura’s kisses were light, uncertain. Beth’s lips are strong, committed. She smells like lavender.
This isn’t Beth’s first time in the backseat of a car. She grabs my left hand and shoves it under her shirt. She slides my hand up to her right breast. My thumb grazes her left nipple, and Beth moans between kisses. I open my hand, encompassing her small breast, and slide my fingers underneath her bra strap. Something bites me.
“Ouch!” I jerk my hand out of her shirt.
“What’s the matter?” Beth leans forward, panting a little.
“I pinched my finger on your underwire thingy…” I’m panting, too. “On your bra.”
“Oh, is that all?” Beth reaches inside her shirt and behind her back with both hands. She brings her hands forward, her bra in her right hand. “Is that better?”
I nod, smirking more than smiling. We start kissing again. Beth is playful, nothing at all like Laura.
“Okay, you fucking horndogs!”
Hatch’s timing, as usual, sucks.
Claire says she hasn’t been drinking, which is a lie. I let her drive anyway. She and Hatch are screaming at each other in the front seats. Hatch caught her making out with Bobbie on the kitchen table.
Beth nibbles on my ear. She reaches down with her left hand to my crotch.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Relax. They’re too drunk and pissed off to even know we’re back here.” Beth unfastens my pants. Her index finger teases the elastic of my boxers.
She reaches inside my underwear and takes me in her hand. I’m hard. I’ve been hard since that first game of euchre. Beth slides her hand up and down, stopping at both ends to rub the tip of my cock and squeeze my balls.
Beth’s kisses are rougher now. She bites my tongue a couple times. Her breasts are smashed up against me. I come in minutes.
We pull into Beth’s driveway. Claire slams her car door while telling Hatch to fuck off. Beth kisses me goodbye, with just a hint of tongue.
“I’d walk you to your door, but…you know.”
Beth gets out of the car. She shuts the door, leans in, and kisses me on the cheek, smiling. “Yeah, I know.”
Hatch drives us back to my house. My underwear is unsalvageable. I’m reluctant to shower, comforted in a perverse way by sitting in my own aftermath.
Hatch tries to collapse on the family room sofa, but I drag him down a flight of stairs to the ugly red, brown, and white convertible couch that used to be in my Grandpa George’s living room.
I strip down to nothing, wrap my boxers in newspaper, and stuff them in the garage trash can. I go upstairs to shower in the laundry room shower. I hate that shower, all cramped and smelling like my Grandpa George’s urine. The water pressure is anemic thanks to a newly installed energy-saver showerhead. But the other shower is upstairs, and I’ve given up my room to the still-hypothetical nursery to avoid these potential drunken encounters.
Not that I’m drunk, at least not anymore. The warm water helps, but my tolerance is getting ridiculous. I dry off, wrap a towel around my waist, and tiptoe across the main floor of the house. I open the door to the basement, but not before the stairway light catches a pile of mail on the kitchen table. On top is a letter addressed to me with no return address. But I recognize the handwriting.
I grab the letter. If Hatch were awake he’d tell me, “Burn that son of a bitch.” My towel falls to the floor. Expectant and naked, with maybe a hint of another erection, I open the envelope.
Dear Hank, it begins, I miss you…