Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride. Brian Sweany

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СКАЧАТЬ Dad not complaining about the large pieces of egg shell.

      The phone rings. Mom points her spatula at me. “Can you get that? I’m guessing it’s for you anyway.”

      I pick up the phone. “Hi, Hank.”

      “Laura? Hey there, baby.” I try to temper my enthusiasm. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this early.”

      “Yeah, well we drove straight through. Got in about three this morning. I couldn’t really sleep.”

      “Poor thing,” I say, more sarcastic than sympathetic.

      We exchange a few forced pleasantries. I give her a hard time for not calling me since Wednesday and sending me one postcard the entire week. She talks about the days getting away from her and how she already wishes she could go back.

      “Go back? But aren’t you glad to—”

      “Can you meet me in front of the library this afternoon?” Her tone is impatient.

      “Not any sooner?” I ask.

      “Look, Hank…” A pause on the other end of the line. “I’m going to try to get some rest, clear the cobwebs. I don’t think my body can figure out whether it’s hungover or still drunk.”

      “Three o’clock, then?”

      “How about five thirty?”

      “I guess I can wait ’til then. I love y—”

      Laura hangs up on me.

      I park the Subie in front of the Empire Ridge Public Library. I’m early, so I wait in the lobby. As soon as I walk in, the receptionist, who I don’t know but who of course recognizes me as “John’s boy,” says hello. Another loyal Oldsmobile driver. A Delta 88 looks about her speed.

      I flip through the sports section of today’s Empire Daily, and then glance at my watch. Laura is late. She’s never late for anything. I’m already bothered that she hung up on me. And my cock still hurts from masturbating in the shower this morning. Twice.

      I have this waterproof poster of a bikini-clad Brenda Dickson, the original Jill Foster from The Young and the Restless. With its special self-adhesive backing that sticks to wet surfaces, the poster has been my on-again, off-again bathing companion for a while now. The combination of Brenda’s cleavage and knowing Laura was getting back from spring break gave me the rare dual orgasm—once early on, after having popped an erection the moment the oscillating spray hit me, and a second time a half hour later after I’d drained the house of all hot water.

      Multiple single-session ejaculations in the shower, waxing sentimental about waterproof posters of soap opera stars…these things beg the question: why haven’t Laura and I had sex yet?

      I guess at some point in time over the last couple months, the awkwardness between us became safe. That line I was once all too ready to cross became a wall—a comfort zone behind which I retreated when things got too intense. We always got most of our clothes off. I always got my mouth on her breasts or my fingers inside her. And yet the nights always ended with me alone in a bathroom, trying to rub out a debilitating case of blue balls, my chastity preserved.

      My chastity preserved? What the hell is my problem? I accrued more “hands-on” sexual experience by the time I was ten years old than most teenagers. I am the ultimate hormonally dysfunctional example of a Catholic upbringing that did not take. And I can’t pull off something as simple as fucking a girl? What does my penis see in my left hand that it doesn’t see in my girlfriend’s vagina?

      “Hey there, Hank.”

      Laura startles me. I smell traces of aloe and suntan lotion on the hand that grabs my shoulder. I turn to her. Her skin is bronzed, her cheeks sunburned, her nose peeling. Her hair is windblown, bleached sandy blonde by a week in the Panama City sun. She looks fresh off the beach: hair pulled back in a half ponytail, minimal makeup for her, no jewelry save for a large, white hemp bracelet on her left wrist. She’s sexy as hell.

      “Laura,” I say, embracing her. She hugs me back, but it’s cursory and cold, more like how my sister would hug me. As she backs away, I see him standing about ten yards back.

      “You bring a friend?” My question is rhetorical. There’s a lump in my throat. I feel sick.

      “Hank, I’m sorry. It just kind of happened.”

      The “it” in our discussion is the asshole standing behind Laura. His name is Lee Barnes. I fucking know him! She didn’t just hook up with some random guy—she hooked up with a Prepster.

      “Lee Barnes?” I shout his name as if he isn’t even there. “Lee fucking Barnes?”

      “I couldn’t just come back home and pretend nothing happened.”

      “Sure you could,” I respond. “I did.”

      “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

      “You don’t think I went to a retreat for my fucking salvation, did you?”

      Laura seems offended by my candor. “What was her name?”

      “Miss None Of Your Goddamn Business,” I say. “I was in a church confessional with a pair of needy Catholic breasts in my face. You were with Lee Barnes. The end.”

      Truth is, I don’t really know Lee Barnes. He’s stocky, but still leaner than me. He has a square jaw and coal-black hair that looks to be permed rather than naturally curly. He used to date Tammy Dwyer, one half of the Dwyer sisters, gorgeous fraternal twins who rule the junior class at the Ridge. I had a crush on Tammy for the first two years of high school, although not so much now that she’s become a chain smoker and whiskey drinker who dates guys partial to ripping out your spleen for even looking at her. Sammy is the sweeter of the two, the shrinking violet you’d throw yourself in front of a bus for. I’m protective of Sammy, even though we aren’t all that close, at least not as close as I pretend we are. She was in my sophomore English class. We flirted. We still flirt, now that I think about it.

      “Please, Laura.” I hold back tears. Man, I am one enormous pussy. Please? Is that all I can come up with?

      Laura, though noticeably flustered, is steadfast. She keeps her distance, committed to not giving any pretense of hope. “We’re obviously no good for one another.”

      My voice cracks. “And when did that become a unilateral decision?”

      “Please, Hank.” Laura reaches out to me. She squeezes my arm, more calculating than compassionate. “You’re still the sweetest guy I know.”

      “Sweet!” I give her a sarcastic thumbs-up. “Good to know I got that going for me.”

      Laura continues to hold on to my arm. “Don’t say that.” She gives my arm a patronizing shake. “Come on, guy. I’m a senior, you’re a junior. You and I knew this was inevitable.”

      “Bullshit!” I wrench my arm out of her grasp. “You could have fucking clued me in on the inevitable part before I wasted the last four months of my life.”

      “They were special to me too, Han—”

      “Don’t СКАЧАТЬ