Authors: Dale Herd
Do you ever hear from any of the Bureau of Reclamation people or from the Corps of Engineers? Think of some often.
Heard “If I Loved You” and “Stranger in Paradise” yesterday, war songs. Thought of Mitch. I have never got over that.
Wish you could come over sometime would love to see you. Don't think I thanked you for the lovely fruitcake. It sure was nice to have and I use the tin for a cookie jar.
Love,
M
ark stood up and held out his hand. The car was a pickup, dull red with a camper on the back. An old man was driving, no one else with him. Bill sat down and watched. Mark was waving his arm up and down. The pickup went past, then slowed, the red brake lights flashing on, off.
“Let's go, man,” Mark said, grabbing his pack. He started running.
Bill got up, taking his pack through one of the loops. He ran halfway, then slowed to a walk. Nosed over on the shoulder, the pickup was running, its tail end sticking out on the highway. Mark was at the cab opening the door.
“Morning,” Bill heard Mark say. “How far you going?”
“Morning,” came the answer.
Bill walked up behind Mark. The driver looked at him.
“Where you boys going?”
“K. Falls,” Mark said.
“The both of you?”
“Right,” Mark said.
“Well, that's just fine. Hop on in.”
“You going up there?” Bill said.
“Up near there.”
“Great,” Mark said. He stepped on the running board and swung in, sliding across the seat.
“C'mon, man,” he said to Bill.
Bill climbed up and got in, keeping his pack on his lap. He closed the door. The inside of the cab had a sour smell, a mixture of gasoline and rust and old food.
“All set?” asked the driver.
“Yep,” Mark answered.
“Good. Here we go.”
He let out the clutch and the pickup lurched ahead, starting
for the ditch then cutting sharply for the highway.
“Man,” Bill said.
“Been waiting long?” asked the driver.
“All night,” said Mark. “We're going back to school. We've been out on spring vacation.”
“Is that so?” the driver said. “My name's Billy. Billy Wetzel.”
“Mark,” Mark said, “and that's Bill.”
“Pleased to meet you. It's a privilege to meet such nice-looking boys.”
Bill looked at him. Underneath that blue baseball cap he was fruity looking, all right, weak, his mouth crumpled in without any teeth.
“Thank you,” Mark said.
Bill said nothing. He took off his coat, wadded it up, put it against the window. He slumped over against it and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the engine pulling them steadily on.
“You boys ever do any posing?” It was the old man's voice.
“Posing?” Mark asked. “You mean modeling?”
“No,” said the old man, “posing.”
“Artists?”
“No, people.”
“How's that?”
“Tables, you see, you walkâ”
“Tables.” Mark laughed. “You mean walk around with no clothes onâ”
“That's it.”
“. . . in front of a bunch of people?”
“That's it.”
“Ha,” Mark laughed. “How about you, Bill?”
“Shit,” Bill said. He closed his eyes again. He knew it. He knew it all along. He could tell by the way the pickup had approached.
Mark laughed again.
“It ain't so hard,” the old man said. “Pays good money too.”
“Tell me about it,” Mark said. “I mean, what do you do?”
“You walk around these tablesâ”
“Who's there? I mean, is it just men or women or what?”
“Everybody. All kinds of people.”
“Shoot.” Mark laughed. “Don't you feel kind of funny?”
“Oh no,” the old man said. “Why should you? They pay you. It's just work.”
“Yeah, but I mean, well, what do they do? Just look at you?”
“Some of them.”
“Jesus,” Bill said, “that's sick.”
“Why, hell,” the old man said, “I've even had guys pay me ten dollars jus' so's they could kiss my belly. You ever had your belly kissed?”
He was looking at Bill.
“Fuck, no,” Bill said, “and I'd kill any son of a bitch that tried.”
Mark laughed.
The old man looked away. Bill stared at him, then sat back. He expected Mark to say something. Mark would. Mark would say or do anything.
“You know, son,” the old man said, “you're a lucky boy.”
“Why?” Mark asked.
“No, not you. The other fellow.”
“How's that?” Bill sat up. The old man was looking out at the road, both hands on the wheel.
“You've got a lovely set of teeth, sirâ”
“Ha,” Mark laughed.
“A blessing, you bet your life it is.”
Bill looked at him, then sat back again, closing his eyes.
“Why is that?” Mark said.
“No taste,” said the old man. “You can't taste a damn thing.”
“Is that right?” Mark said.
“That's true,” the old man said. “Makes you like a little baby again.”
“I see,” Mark said.
“Can't eat anything solid.”
Mark didn't answer that and the voices stopped. There wasn't any talking for some time. Bill felt himself almost go to sleep. He opened his eyes. They were going up a long, slow grade with
huge pines lining the sides. Up ahead, pools of light formed mirages on the blacktop.
“Yes, sir,” the old man said, “pretty country up here.”
“It is,” Mark agreed.
“I always enjoy it. I come up here all the time.”
“Where you from?”
“Mission Beach, down in San Diego.”
“That's a long ways,” Mark said.
“I'm always on the road, one time or another.”
“You pick up many hitchhikers?”
“Always do,” the old man said. “Last summer I picked up a fellow from Harvard. Spent six weeks together.”
“No kidding,” Mark said.
“Nice fellow. Just graduated. Went all the way to Canada with me. You ever been up there? Most of it's still virgin country, you know.”
“That's what I understand,” Mark said.
“You boys drink beer?”
They crested the grade and started around a curve. The right front wheel went off the pavement.
“Jesus,” Bill said.
The old man let off the gas and slowed the truck. The curves fed into one another and then they were going down a long, sloping straight and then onto a long, white concrete bridge. Far below was a creek, brown-green between its banks.
“Sure,” Mark said. “That's really pretty down there.”
“It is,” the old man answered. “Not good for much, though. Too many people use it.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Mark said.
“You've got to pack back into the mountains to get real country.”
“I guess that's so,” said Mark. “I'd like to do that. So would Bill.”
“By myself,” Bill said.
“What?”
“By myself,” Bill repeated.
“Hey,” Mark said, “I thought you were asleep. Sorry, man.”
“No,” Bill said.
“You boys got sleeping bags? You'd need sleeping bags to do that.”
“No, not this trip,” Mark said. “We've been visiting friends down in Berkeley. We didn't expect to have to sleep out.”
“Couldn't go back in the mountains without good bags.”
They went along another curve, the road well shadowed by the trees, only a narrow swath of blue sky over them.
“You boys ever been to San Francisco?”
“Sure,” Mark said. “How about it, Bill?”
“Ever go into bars there?”
“We're not old enough to drink,” Bill said.
“There's one place there you should see,” the old man said, “just one big room.”
“What for?” Mark asked.
“Couples,” the old man said, “ten couples every night. All's they have in there is one light and a rug, a nice thick rug, nothing else . . .”
“Nothing else?”
“. . . just one tiny light on, way down at the end, and a few cushions. No chairs, no tables, nothing . . .”
“Wow,” Mark said, “what happens?”
“You name it.”
“You mean balling?”
“Everything,” the old man said, “sucking, fucking, switching . . .”
“I see,” Mark said.
“Doors open at ten and stay open till there's ten couples then they close till six in the morning. No one can get in or get out until six.”
“What's it cost?”
“Ten bucks a person.”
“Two hundred bucks a night,” Mark said.
“Every night,” said the old man.
“That's a lot of dough.”
“It's a lot of fun.”
“I bet,” Mark said. “I bet it is.”
“You boys have to stop?”
Bill looked away from him. Coming toward them on the right was a clearing in the trees and a service station.
“Not me,” Bill said.
“Sure,” Mark said. “I could stand to wash up.”
“I've got to,” said the old man. He pumped the brakes and turned the wheel. They went off the highway into the station lot. He stopped at the side of the building.
“Coming?” He shut off the engine.
“Right,” Mark answered.
The old man opened his door and got out. As he walked around the front of the truck he looked in at them. He was a lot bigger than Bill had thought he was. From a distance he didn't look so old. Bill watched him go over to the men's room at the back of the building.
“Well?” Mark said.
“Fuck you,” Bill said. He opened his door.
“What the hell's wrong?”
“You figure it out,” Bill said.
“Okay, man, that's all right with me.”
“Okay.” Bill lifted his pack and stepped down.
“I kind of feel sorry for the old coot, you know.”
“Well, you know what to do.” Bill put on his pack.
“What does that mean?”
“Go on in there.”
“Where?”
“In the head, man, in the head.”
“Look, Bill . . .”
“Look, nothing, Mark. All you have to do is split for the head. That'll cinch it for you. He'll take you to the moon.”
“You're really an asshole, Bill, you know that?”
“Me!” Bill said. “Ha!”
“I said I was sorry, man. I am. It was a mistake.”
Bill looked at him.
“You know, man,” said Mark, “you don't know shit. You don't know the first goddamned thing about people.”
“I'm learning pretty fast,” Bill said, “I know that.”
“You've got a lot more to learn, man.”
“We'll see,” Bill said. “We'll fucking see.”
“Okay, take off.”
“I am, man.”
“All right,” Mark said.
Bill walked back along the side of the pickup and then out toward the road. There weren't any cars coming. The highway was empty. He hoped one would come soon. He didn't want to be standing when Billy and Mark went by. What a rotten trip this had been. It really had.
“But not me,” Bill said fiercely. “Not me.”
T
heir first time in Manhattan they stayed with Felicia's college roommate, Dolores, and her roommate, a good-looking boy named Gary.
The second night there, Gary, who had been gone all evening, came back to the flat with a man named Morton. Morton was about thirty-five years old and wore a gray suit. Dolores was away visiting an aunt and uncle somewhere up on Long Island and Gary and Morton slept together in Dolores's bed. David lay awake listening to them.
“It makes me sick,” he said.
“Ssh,” Felicia said. “Live and let live, babe.”