Florida, 1979
Life’s a Beach and then You Die
PART ELEVEN
“There it is,” she’s saying, seems like her voice is miles away. Then: “There. There. Stop, there it is. What’s the matter with you, you’re going by it!”
I snap back from my trip down the tunnel of despair and slowly pull over to the side of the road. I look carefully in the rearview mirror and swing a u-turn. Some moments later I’m pulling into an old, dirty white service station that looks to be left over from the early days of Florida.
We park on one side of the building by a pile of rusted springs and mufflers and various other rusted parts. Dorie grabs her purse and jumps out of the van. I stay inside in a daze. I’d take off down the highway if I didn’t need her car.
I need her and she knows it.
Five minutes go by before she comes prancing back like she’s been playing Run around the Maypole. She’s fucking skipping, again looking to all the world like the damaged, frightened little buttercup I discovered at the café. Deeply, I wish I had known when to keep my mouth shut.
Running off at the mouth, whether an attempt at friendly conversation or nervous spewing, can get you in trouble. Trouble of any kind can be caused by something you say. The wrong words to the wrong person at the wrong time and BANG—you won’t know what hit you.
She comes up to the window and I can’t help but stare at the soft skin below her neck that leads to those luscious breasts. The sunshine on her hair and the glint in her pale blue eyes almost make me forget how fucked up everything is. For a brief moment, I start to believe again that I might actually get away unscathed.
Everything’s gonna be all right this morning, Oh yeah.
Dorie comes in real close, presses her hips against the door. She looks into my eyes and smiles broadly and for the first time, I get a look at her teeth.
Poor girl has what we Northerners call “hillbilly teeth.” Brown, decaying, uneven stumps, most likely the result of a one hundred percent sugar diet and being too busy running away from her father to brush.
“Keith darlin’,” she drawls. “If you’ll come on in and bring along that Chevron Card and the rest of the wallet, we can pay the bill and get out of Dodge.”
“I don’t know if these cards are any good. And you better start calling me Elton. I don’t know why the cards are in there or what they’re for. For all I know, they’re on the Arrest Immediately list. They could be hot.”
“Ya think these boys have themselves all that fancy equipment? Shit, they can barely turn on the radio without help. All they can do is fix cars and jerk off. Don’t worry so much. After I practically had to get down on my knees to get them to accept a credit card, we have to use it. I told them you were my fiancé` from Colorado, come to rescue me.”
“It’s a fucking Chevron station for Christ sake. They have to take the fucking thing.”
“I don’t know about that, but I ‘magine these boys pretty much do what they please ‘round here, ain’t a heck of a lot of competition. Only station for miles.”
“In two years it’ll be a strip mall.”
She crinkles up her eyes at me and pulls on the door handle. I climb reluctantly out of the VW. Dorie takes my hand in hers. My instinct is to pull it back but instead I swallow hard and keep walking. What the hell…
(To be continued)
