Box (12 page)

I graze it again.

I feel my plumbing start to work, and help it along with a gentle bit of rubbing.

I’m interrupted by a sharp tapping on the window. I grin, expecting to see Zander, proud of what I’ve accomplished while waiting for her.

But it’s not Zander, it’s a policeman.

“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

35.

“GREAT GOBS OF goose shit!” the cop shouts. “What the fuck do we have here?”

My first thought is to hide the wine, in case we’re out of the city limits. But I don’t see the wine.

“Don’t just lie there, tryin’ to coax the fillin’ outta your Twinkie!” he roars. “Sit the fuck up and roll down the window!”

I press the window button, but nothing happens.

It suddenly dawns on me the car isn’t running. I glance at the steering column.

The keys are gone.

As is Zander’s giant handbag.

I open the door.

“Get to your feet and lean against the car, maggot.”

I do as he says. He pats me down.

“Empty your pockets onto the roof.”

I reach into my pockets and realize they’re empty. I pull them out so he can see.

“Where’s your driver’s license?”

“Back pocket.”

“Reach back and pull it out.”

I do as he says.

He takes his time, but finally gives it back to me and says, “Does this look like Pee Wee Herman’s Fun House to you?”

“No sir.”

“What kind of doctor comes to the riverbank to pull his pud?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Are there any more of you? Please don’t tell me an army of New York doctors has chosen my beloved city to host a circle-jerk!”

“There was a girl.”

“A girl? I don’t see a girl. Is she in the trunk?”

“No sir.”

“You know what I see, Dr. Box?”

“What’s that, officer?”

“I see a peter-pumpin’ pecker-puller.”

“I bet you can’t say that five times,” I say.

“You better get the fuck outta my town, Doctor. Because if I catch you within five miles of a school yard I’ll bring you to room temperature before you can say hard-on!”

He gives me a long look.

“Got it, officer. Sorry.”

He shakes his head in disgust and leaves.

I wait five minutes until I’m sure he’s gone, then look around for the keys, give up, then head up the hill to find Zander.

“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

36.

AS YOU MAY have guessed, Zander is nowhere to be found.

I try to call her, but get a recorded voice message.

“Zander!” I say. “Please call me back! I don’t blame you for leaving, and I’m not upset about the money. I just need my car keys.”

I take my life in my hands by approaching a parked car. “Please don’t shoot!” I say, loudly. “I need some help. A young lady’s gone missing.”

I see a flash of hairy ass and then a guy rolls down the front window and says, “How young?”

“Early twenties.”

“Fuck off!”

I go back to the car, call Zander again, get no response.

I face the fact I’ve been robbed.

It’s okay. I’ve still got my wallet. I’ve also got another fifteen grand in my medical bag.

I play it in my mind. When she pulled my pants down and rummaged around in her handbag she wasn’t looking for a condom. She’d already emptied my pockets. She was stuffing my cash in her bag.

Why did she take the wine with her?

Who knows? Fingerprints? DNA? Maybe she really likes the wine.

Where did she go?

I think about it.

She probably had it planned in advance with whoever dropped her off at the junk yard. Maybe Chris, from the bowling alley.

Or her real boyfriend.

I sigh.

She left me my wallet. All things considered, that was damn nice of her. She certainly didn’t have to do that.

So why did she take my keys?

I think about it a few minutes and come up with this: she had to walk up the hill carrying the handbag. Probably thought I might turn around on my way to pee. If so, I would’ve seen her. Maybe she was afraid I’d drive up the hill to save her the walk. And maybe I’d catch her climbing into her boyfriend’s car, or Chris’s truck.

Then I start thinking about the policeman.

It dawns on me he just showed up.

He didn’t drive up in a police car, he just walked down the hill and chewed me out. Then he walked back up the hill.

Did he visit any of the other cars?

No.

So either Zander ran into him on the hill and told him I was jerking off in the car…

Or he’s the boyfriend.

I think he’s the boyfriend.

Because if he really thought I was a pervert, wouldn’t he have arrested me?

I get a sudden sinking feeling, remembering how long he had my wallet when I was leaning against the car with my back to him.

He probably copied all my information in a notebook.

Name. Address. Driver’s License. Credit cards, including the security codes.

Shit!

Since he didn’t take me in, and didn’t have a cop car, he’s probably not even a cop.

I call the rental car agency in Nashville and report stolen keys.

It takes ten minutes to convince them the car is safely in my possession.

“Why didn’t you say so?” the lady says. “We’re hooked up to satellite. We can start your car for you. When you get where you’re going, call us back and we’ll turn it off and lock it. When you’re ready to go again, call us and we’ll unlock it and start it up for you again.”

I’m amazed, but it seems like a lot of trouble to go through.

“Is there an easier way?”

“You could download the key app and do it yourself from your cell phone.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“The key app costs ninety-nine cents.”

I shake my head. Like I’d spend a hundred-fifty a day to rent the car, but wouldn’t spend another buck to make it work. “I’ll spring for it,” I say. “How do I find the app?”

“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

37.

THE PHONE APP to start the car is amazing. The sort of thing I wish I’d invented. When you bring it up it looks exactly like the remote control that was built into the key. There are four buttons. The top one locks the car. Bottom left unlocks it. Bottom right unlocks the trunk. Center button starts or shuts off the engine. I press the center button, and the engine starts. Like I say, amazing. I put the car in gear and make my way up the riverbank. When I get to the top, I park while deciding what to do next.

I think about driving to Zander’s house, but realize I don’t know her address. I consider filing a police report, but apart from a wounded ego and the loss of what to me is a small amount of cash, it would be a complete hassle.

There are two women still in the mix: Trudy, who probably doesn’t want me now that she’s independently wealthy, and Renee Williams, the thirty-year-old kindergarten teacher whose husband ran off with her best friend. Renee being my sure thing.

Given the choice, I’d take Trudy over Renee in a heartbeat. Except that I’m ninety minutes from Starbucks, where Trudy lies in a hospital bed, currently unable to have sex.

I call Renee.

“Hello?”

“Hi Renee, It’s Gideon Box, from Manhattan.”

“Kansas?”

“New York City.”

“Gideon Box?”

“The doctor. We met on the dating site?”

She pauses a beat.

“Omigod!” she squeals. “I’m so sorry! You’re Dr. Box! Yes, absolutely! Hi! How are you?”

“I’m great.”

“What’s up, Doc?” she says, then laughs hysterically.

“Funny,” I say. Then say, “Have you met a handsome, famous movie star yet?”

“Nope.”

“How about an airplane pilot?”

She giggles. “Nope.”

“In that case, I thought you should know I’m in Kentucky.”

“Omigod! Where?”

“Have you ever heard of a place called Paducah?”

“Of course, silly! It’s not but thirty minutes from here! Can I come see you?”

See me? That happy thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.

“Yes, of course!” I say. “But I don’t have a hotel room yet.”

“You won’t get one, either. Not in Paducah.”

“Why, is there a convention?”

“In Paducah?”

She laughs. “Not that I know of. I just mean there are no hotels in Paducah. But they’ve got some decent motels. How about I jump in the car and head that way? When I get to town I’ll call and you can tell me where you are.”

“Sounds great. I’ll get a room, check in, and wait to hear from you.”

“I’m so excited, Gideon!”

“Me, too!”

“By the way,” she says, “I love your name! Gideon sounds noble, and grand. I’m sorry I didn’t remember it. I always think of you as Dr. Box.”

“That’s quite alright.”

“See you soon!”

“Can’t wait.”

Here’s what I know about Renee Williams: she’s thirty, she’s a kindergarten teacher, her husband ran off with her best friend, and she’s looking for revenge. According to Renee, the best revenge would be to have an affair with her best friend’s husband.

If her best friend’s husband was successful.

Or even good-looking.

Or even clean.

Since he’s none of those things, her first choice is a handsome, famous movie star, an airplane pilot, or a rich doctor.

She didn’t say a young, good-looking doctor.

She said a rich one.

Like I said, Renee Williams is a sure thing.

38.

RENEE WAS WRONG. Paducah actually does have a hotel, and it’s a famous one. But I want to be in a newer area, near the interstate, so I found a surprisingly decent, clean, king suite with a kitchen, desk, couch and all the amenities you could hope to get for a hundred thirty-five a night. I’m not trying to impress you with the room. It’s not that nice. Even in New York City it wouldn’t run more than two-twenty.

But in New York City it wouldn’t be this clean.

I call Renee to tell her I’m staying at the Royal Landmark Inn, and she says, “Wow! Perfect timing!”

“You can’t already be here,” I say.

“No, silly!” she says. “I’m still at home getting all pretty for you. But I’m standing here in tub water, naked, with a razor in my hand.”

I wonder if she’s contemplating suicide. Surely she can wait till after our date for that.

She says, “How do you like it?”

“Like what?”

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“Yes.” Because I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Oh, so you like dirty talk?”

I now have even less idea what she’s talking about.

But I do like dirty talk when a naked woman’s on top, bitch-slapping me with her tits. Or yelling at me as I hammer her from behind when she’s face-down, ass-up, on her knees. In contrast, I didn’t care for the dirty talk I got from Zander’s fake-cop boyfriend a few minutes ago. If Renee is anything like her photos, she’s nothing like Zander’s boyfriend. So I’m probably on safe ground by saying, “I love dirty talk!”

“Oooh, I bet you do-oo-oooh,” she says with what she considers a sexy voice. “Well, aren’t you a bad doctor boy! You are a bad doctor, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Renee’s got me pegged. I may be a great surgeon, but I am a bad doctor. I hear it all the time. I’ve got a terrible bedside manner, and have problems communicating with people. Half the time I have no idea what they’re even talking about.

Like now.

She says, “Oh, bad boy?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget, I’m standing here, completely naked.”

“Wow!”

“Mmmm! And you know what I’m doing?”

“What?”

“I’m looking at my pussy.”

“Wow!”

“Would you like to see it?”

“Absolutely!”

“Try to picture it right now.”

“Okay.”

“Do you see where I’m going with this? I’m trying to decide how you like it.”

I get it.

She’s role-playing.

I say, “Doggie-style!”

She pauses a few seconds, then laughs. “I guess that means full bush. Well, you surprised me, but no problem. I’ll just be there that much sooner! Should I pack an overnight bag?”

Seriously? She plans to stay after having sex with me? And does that mean there could be an encore? Or morning sex?

I can’t remember the last time I had morning sex.

You know, sober morning sex.

I like it.

On the other hand, do I really want a total stranger spending the night in my room?

It’s one thing to fuck a total stranger. Quite another to trust her while you’re sleeping.

What if Renee turns out to be the love child of Hell Bitch and Night of the Living Dead?

“Bring the overnight bag and we’ll see how things develop,” I say, realizing I have plenty of time to work out my trust issues before giving my final answer.

She hangs up.

What was it she said? Full bush?

What the hell did that mean?

She had a razor in her hand. Wondered how I like it. And I said doggie style, and she said full bush, and…

Ah! I get it.

Shit.

I might be fucking Wolfman Jack tonight.

39.

I’VE GOT FORTY minutes to kill while waiting for Renee to show up. If I were an author, writing a book, instead of a guy telling you a story, I’d fill the next ten pages telling you how this area was originally a Chickasaw village, and how Chief Paduke welcomed the settlers and lived in harmony till 1827, when William Clark, of Lewis and Clark, showed up with a phony five dollar land deed and forced the Indians to move to Mississippi. I’d tell you that after building the town, Clark was brazen enough to invite Chief Paduke to the ribbon-cutting ceremony, and that the Chief showed up, but died of malaria on the way home.

To impress you with my research I might mention Paducah is one of two cities mentioned in the song, Hooray for Hollywood.