Florida, 1979
Life’s a Beach and then You Die
PART EIGHT
That’s all I can say before she jumps at me like a sea bird snaring a dead shrimp, slams her lips against mind and begins probing deeply with her velvety tongue. I don’t fight back when she puts her hand between my legs and feels the merchandise. In fact, I encourage it by demonstrating my growth as a human being, an upstanding citizen to be sure.
Just as she crawls on top of me and replaces her hand with her throbbing, hot crotch, a rush of paranoia rips through me like a blast of heat lightning.
Fuck if I don’t push her off me and climb out of the van. I mean, that’s all I need: to get caught by some god-fearing cop for public fornication. These backwater cops have a way of taking everything so personally. I’ve got enough coke in the van to keep the discos on Clearwater Beach going for a year or more and—I tell you—that suddenly becomes enough for me to handle.
She looks at me, flabbergasted, brushing down her dress, which is hiked up and revealing some of the creamiest thigh I’ve seen in a long time. It’s enough to make you want to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “We’re just too close to the road here. The drugs and all… you know what I mean. I just can’t relax.”
She gets out and grabs my shoulders, starts kissing me again, putting her hand back where I like it. I put my hands on her arms and slowly push her away.
“Maybe we can find a better place down the road. We can’t stay here.”
The back of my neck is burning as I slide the door closed and walk around to the driver’s door. She climbs in the other side, looks over at me, throws her head back and laughs. I’m not quite sure what to think of the laugh; seems like a hint of mania riding its edge. I start the engine and pull out. My blood is boiling and I’m worried that the moment has passed me by. Hot beads of sweat plaster my forehead as I shift into fourth gear and put the gas pedal to the floor. I’m thinking I have to find someplace in a hurry or everything is going to turn to shit; Cinderella’s going to turn ugly and run home.
Somewhere there’s a place for us.
I’m bobbing with anxiety, searching the distance for a road that might lead to some privacy. There has to be a road, somewhere. I’m always reading in the papers about dead bodies being found on lonely Florida roads. Shit like that happens all the time.
I become so lost inside my head and its vainglorious struggles that I forget about my speed. My eyes are searching the distance so much that I forget what’s right in front of me. I mean I know VW vans don’t go very fast—so it’s not something you usually worry about.
The van is vibrating smoothly along when my ears pick up that horrible sound.
(To be continued)
