Tats (5 page)

Another tweak.

“Let’s talk about how I don’t know where the fuck you are all day.”

Tweak again. Now she’s really getting wound up.

“Let’s talk about how I find you back here, drunk off your fuckin’ ass!”

I cover my boobs with both my hands.

“Or why don’t we talk about that slut you’re panting after like some damned dog in heat!”

“Hah!” Vivian barks and pulls a cigarette out of her purse. So much for the gun.

“Ginger, baby...”  I put my hand on her hip and make one seriously big mistake when I say, “Let’s, uh, go back home and work this anger out in a more, uh, productive way.”

Ginger doesn’t even pause to think about it. She throws a roundhouse punch straight to my nose. And this is no girlie pseudo-macho punch either. This is the real McCoy. The next thing I know, the gravel is biting my ass, my nose is spurting blood, and Ginger is peeling out of the lot on her Harley.

“Who the fuck was that?” says Vivian, standing and dusting off the back of her skirt with a lit cigarette clenched between her teeth.

“That’s the second time she’s broken my nose,” I sputter, sitting up.

“She has absolutely no sense of style. That Dukes of Hazzard’s thing is so nineteen eighties.”

I roll onto all fours, trying to make it back upright.

“Why didn’t you hit her back?” she says, demonstrating what I should’ve done by swinging her big-ass red purse in a high arc that almost sends her back to the ground.

I don’t answer. I’m too busy bleeding to answer.

“God, what a pussy you are,” Vivian says disgustedly, kicking chat in my direction.

For some odd reason, I feel it necessary to defend myself. “I’m not going to hit a woman.”

“You
are
a woman,” she says. “You can hit another woman. It’s allowed.”

“Where’s that written? The cheerleader handbook?”

“Yes, it is,” she says, sounding really, really serious. “It’s in Chapter Eight right before ‘A Wonderbra is a girl’s best friend’.”

“Well, then, that explains it. I only read as far as Chapter Seven.”

Vivian lifts herself into the passenger side of my car, crawls across the seat oblivious to the fact that her ass is in the air for the whole entire world to see, and situates herself behind the wheel. The engine roars to life and she backs up the car, slams it forward, back again, forward again—I don’t know what the hell she’s doing—the passenger door flopping open, closed, open, closed...

“Hey! That’s my car!” I yell.

Vivian slams on the brakes, hangs one arm up over the back of the seat and says, “May I suggest if you ever want to see your car again that you get in.”

I take off my leather jacket before it gets all bloody and throw it in the bed. I strip off my T-shirt and wad it up under my still-bleeding nose. I climb in, lay my head back on the seat and stare straight up at the ceiling.

Vivian looks at my wife-beater and snorts through her nose. She rolls down her window, throws the car into drive and peels out. She ignores every stop sign and stop light and I don’t think she even knows where the brakes are.

I close my eyes and concentrate on not throwing up.

She squeals to a stop at the Redman Motor Lodge. There’s a bright orange and red neon sign of an Indian in war gear and full headdress blinking on and off, on and off. Near the motel office is a life-size concrete teepee and it’s outlined in little blinking lights of its own.

Vivian hops out of the car with her red bag and shoe, kicking the door shut behind her. I straggle out and collect my jacket from the back, still holding my head back and trying not to drip all over the place.

Vivian ambles over to room number seven and is talking nonstop again. I only catch tidbits of what she talking about: “Di and I could’ve been such good friends. She was like the sister I always wanted. My brother was like my sister except he always borrowed my sweaters and stretched out the shoulders. Di wouldn’t have done that. We’re the same size.”

She opens the door and flips on the lights. There’s one bed and plenty of cheap decor. The curtains and bedspread match each other with a cowboy bull-riding motif. Above the bed is a huge painting of a dream-catcher with a howling coyote sitting under a full moon. Another painting of a big, sad-eyed Palomino stares at us from over the chest of drawers. They’re both bolted to wall. A wagon-wheel table and barrel chairs round out the western theme.

I plop down right on the bed and lay my head back on the pillow. I close my eyes and will myself to stop losing bodily fluids. I hear Vivian rummaging around the room and the door opens and closes. She’s gone.

I have time to think about this situation. I never have any problem getting women into bed, it’s keeping them afterward that I have a problem with. I’m thinking I’d like to keep this one around for a while. I don’t know why exactly. Except for the fact that she’s surprising. I never know exactly what she’s going to do next. I like that. Maybe if I don’t sleep with her for a while, she’ll stick around. I’ll let her make the first move. I won’t do a damn thing until she does. I just hope she does it soon.

The door opens. The bedsprings squeak beside me. Vivian presses a towel full of ice to my nose.

“Thanks,” I say.

She gets up and pulls my boots off and sits them on the floor at the end of the bed.

“Thanks,” I say again.

She quietly disappears and leaves me to my misery. I wonder what Ginger’s doing right now. Probably throwing all my stuff out on the front lawn and burning it. No, she’s probably not, that would mean too much work.

I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom and Vivian talking to herself.

I wonder if she’s a crazy person? I mean really crazy, like certifiable. Maybe she’s just drunk. Her taking a shower is a plus in my direction, right? It means she wants to make love, but wants to be clean first, right? Hell, I don’t know. 

I ease out of bed and tippy-toe over to the bathroom door. Normally, I don’t do stuff like this. I don’t eavesdrop or pry, but if she’s truly crazy I’d like to know about it before I wake up and she’s standing over me with a butcher knife.

I press my ear up against the door. She’s talking to herself all right, but I can’t make out what she’s saying over the noise of the shower. She’s quiet for a moment and just as I start to tippy-toe back to bed, I hear her. She’s crying. It’s unmistakable. She’s crying pretty damn hard, too.

I back away, sorry now that I invaded her privacy. I squirm out of my jeans and slip under the bedcovers. I wonder why she’s crying. She doesn’t seem like the crying type.

I touch my tender nose and even that slight pressure brings tears to my eyes. Great. We’re both going to be crying all night.

I hear the bathroom door open and I quickly slide to the right side of the bed. I’m right-handed so my right hand is my tittie-dominant hand. I’m just thinking ahead here. I like to be prepared.

When Vivian walks back into the bedroom, she’s wearing a too-big, old OU T-shirt and panties and that’s it. The T-shirt has a big rip under her right arm and I catch a quick glimpse of her right tit as she sits on the other side of the bed and slides under the sheet.

Pink nipples. I knew it.

I breathe in deep and easy, smelling her newly clean scent. We lie on our backs next to each other and her electricity lights up the dark. I listen to her breathe and am reconsidering the whole let her make the first move thing when she whispers softly, “If you were a man...”

I hold my breath.

She continues, “...you’d have already left by now.”

She turns on her side, pressing her butt against my thigh and is snoring lightly before I breathe again.

Chapter Three

Something tickles my nose. I snort and it disappears. Tickling again. I open my eyes. Long red hair caresses my face. I wipe it away and turn my head to look. Vivian looks so angelic in her sleep. Except for the snoring part.

I slide out of bed and get my journal out of my jacket pocket. Writing when I first roll out of bed before my brain wakes up is the best time. I mean to write about Vivian, but when I get started I wind up thinking about Lori Spangler instead.

Lori had red hair, too, and she was the beginning of my red hair fetish. She was the prettiest girl in seventh grade and me and every other boy in our class had a giant crush on her. She’s the reason I got up early on a Sunday morning and put on my best pair of jeans and ironed the wrinkles out of my shirt and laced up squeaky shoes and left the house without waking anyone up. She was the reason I walked through the doors of the First Baptist Church because if Lori wanted to personally introduce me to Jesus, that was fine with me.

A couple of old ladies with matching flowered dresses and huge hats perched on their hard nests of hair patted me on the shoulders and pushed me in the direction of Sunday school.

I clomped down the steep stairs and into the basement feeling like I should’ve worn a dress, except for the fact that I didn’t have one, and I took a bath that morning but still felt dirty.

I stood in the doorway and shoved my hands in my pockets. What the hell was I thinking? Baptists don’t have ragged, bitten fingernails and bruises and scabby bug bites. I was just about to turn and race back up the stairs when Lori saw me and waved from across the room.

Her pretty dress rustled when she walked and I could smell her fruity perfume from ten feet away. When she smiled at me, my throat froze shut.

She politely held out her hand. “Welcome.” She smiled. I gave her a limp handshake and made my mouth into a smile that I hoped looked easy.

“I’m Lee Anne,” I introduced myself.

“I know that, silly,” she said. “Wanna sit by me?” Before I could answer, she pulled me in the direction of two empty chairs and sat down beside me.

That’s how I knew there was a God.

The Sunday school teacher was a cranky-looking old woman with wrinkles all over. Even her panty hose were wrinkled and baggy. It was like she used to be five times bigger before she deflated inside her own skin.

Lori and I sat in the back, sharing a Bible. We pretended to study the words of Jesus written in red, but instead we played hangman and drew goofy pictures of the teacher. Lori giggled and poked me in the ribs with her elbow and I giggled and poked back.

Every time Lori looked at me with those green eyes of hers my heart swelled up like a tight balloon and if it weren’t for my ribs, it would’ve floated right up in the air.

Lori whispered in my ear, “Wanna come to the slumber party Friday night? It’s just us girls here in the basement. It’ll be fun.”

Her hair was in my face, but I didn’t brush it away. I took a deep whiff of her scent, memorizing it for later. “Sure,” I said, acting like I didn’t really care but why not.

Friday night took forever to arrive. I showed up at church early and Lori showed up late. She was so popular that I didn’t get any alone time with her at all. So, I made do with junk food instead. I shoved the popcorn and potato chips in my mouth with both fists. The other girls just nibbled, but I’d never gotten to eat so much shit at one sitting in my life, so I took full advantage of it.

We all sat around in a big circle on the basement floor on our sleeping bags. Lori’s mom brought me an extra one since I didn’t have one. It must’ve been Lori’s big brother’s sleeping bag because it was camouflage, had some dog hair stuck to it and smelled like gym socks.

My pajamas were just a big old T-shirt and panties. I never bothered with pajamas. I just went to sleep in whatever I happened to be wearing at the time. Sometimes I even slept in my shoes if I was wearing them to begin with. That way if I had to run, I didn’t have to get dressed first or take a chance on being half-naked. All the other girls had cute little store-bought pajama sets or nightgowns. I felt like shit warmed over compared to them until Lori said in front of the other girls, “I wish I was as pretty as you, Lee Anne. You can wear anything and look great.”

The burn started in my cheeks and worked itself all the way down. “Thanks,” I mumbled.

All the girls started in talking about Ray or Jeff or Brian. Who they wanted to go steady with, who they had a crush on. I just kept quiet and ate more chips.

“When Ray kisses me he slobbers all over. I swear his spit drips down my chin after,” said Janet.

“Ooooh,” everyone squealed.

“How can you stand that?” asked Tracy.

Everybody laughed and they all talked at once about the way their boyfriends kissed and they giggled and screamed.

Lori’s mom opened the door and peeked her head inside. “It’s midnight, girls, time for lights out.”

“Noooo,” they all said at once.

Lori’s mom flipped out the lights. “Sleep time,” she said. “We have a lot of activities planned in the morning. You girls need your beauty rest.” She shut the door and left.

Everybody made getting ready for bed sounds and a couple of the girls across the circle from me whispered and giggled still.

“I have an idea!” Lori whispered. “Let’s practice kissing!”

Everybody clapped their hands and laughed and I felt a weird energy in the air, and that’s when I knew this was why we were all there. This was the part of the night they’d all been waiting for.

“Who’re we gonna practice kissing on?” somebody asked.

I was wondering the same thing.

Lori sat down next to me so close our thighs touched. She whispered through the dark, “Lee Anne has volunteered to be the boy. Right, Lee Anne?”

“Yeah, okay,” I said. I hoped I didn’t say that as scared as I felt.

“I go first,” Lori said.

“Two minutes,” some girl said. “Two minutes apiece, then Lee Anne tells who’s the best kisser out of all of us.”

I didn’t even have enough time to let the scared sink in good before Lori pulled me to her and touched her lips to mine. I closed my eyes and concentrated on kissing her back. She tasted like popcorn and mint gum. She opened my lips with her own and put her tongue in my mouth. I tasted her tongue and pressed into her harder. My hands wrapped around her waist and squeezed tight.

Two minutes was over long before I was ready for it to end. Just when I was getting the hang of it.