“Very funny,” he said, tugging at the sheet, but Selma held her grip.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Here you go, have yourself a look.” Her hands fiddled with the condom box. His shining moment had arrived. He tossed the sheet clear of the bed and stared along the profile of her perfect body. Her nipples shone under the light of the window. They were so black they were purple. He could tell that his penis was already leaking fluid. He cupped his hand over one breast and stared at the other.
She turned toward him. “Your first time, right?”
Somehow the power of conversation had left him. A moment passed. Then he managed to say, “How’d you know?”
“I could tell, the way you carry yourself.” She handed him a condom. “Put this on. Make sure you got it on good.”
He turned away from her and unraveled the slimy thing onto his erection. “Okay, ready,” he said.
“Good, you get on top.” She moved to the center of the mattress and spread her legs. Her hips gyrated side to side. She was rubbing herself with one hand and a nipple with the other.
He crawled halfway over, stopped and ushered himself forward. He prodded himself into her. She was hot inside. The feeling was amazing. More amazing than he could have imagined. He tried to look at her eyes, but they were closed.
He lowered his head next to hers and thrust himself forward. Once. Twice. A third time. Some powerful force shifted inside him. His whole body turned ecstatic. He let out a long “Aaahh,” and then, “oh, oh, oh.”
He pulled himself out and collapsed next to her. He was soaking with sweat.
Selma returned to rubbing herself while gyrating her hips. Her eyes were still closed. She gave a gentle moan. It dawned on him that he hadn’t completely satisfied her with his penis. He looked down at the thing now curled onto his left thigh like a beige Cheez Doodle. It looked pathetic. He pulled off the rubber.
She was still doing her thing with her fingers and her hips. “So,” he cleared his throat, “what did you think?”
Her eyes were still closed. “It was fine.”
“You sure? I wasn’t too quick? ’Cause I think I was too quick.” The words stampeded out of him.
“Relax,” she said. “You did fine. You’ll last longer once you get the hang of it.”
“Did you like it?”
“Course I did. It was fun.” Her hips were still going at it.
“No, I mean….” He was too embarrassed to say what he really meant.
She turned and finally opened her eyes. “What you wanna say?”
There didn’t seem to be anything dangerous about her. He might as well ask. “Okay,” he said, “I was just wondering if you thought my… my thing was big enough.”
Her face broke into a smile. “So that’s what you’re so concerned about.”
“Not really,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling. “Well, maybe a little.”
She reached down and gave his limp penis a little squeeze. “I think it’s fine,” she said, “just fine.” Her hand began pulling at it.
And then, like a bicycle tire, it slowly inflated. Ready for another ride.
Selma gave him a new condom, and he was like an old pro getting the thing on. This time, she got on top. He watched her boobs jiggle and dance, up and down, round and round. She was moaning and breathing hard. He wanted it to last for her. So he looked up at the dusty light fixture, trying to think of something totally non-arousing. But no more than a minute passed before he was done and trembling.
She reached for the base of his penis, held onto the condom and pulled herself away. “Skootch over,” she said.
He gave her the majority of the bed so that she could resume with her rubbing and her gyrations. Here was an image he hoped would last a lifetime.
“Want to do something a little different?” she asked.
“Yeah, definitely,” he said without thinking.
“Put your head down here.” She pointed her index finger, and she winked.
He was completely under her command. She could have had him woof-woofing for dog biscuits. He hopped out of bed, went around and planted his face into her crotch.
“Right here,” she said, pressing a certain spot.
He knew enough to lick vigorously. It seemed odd to be licking around the same vicinity where his penis had just gone. But it wasn’t enough to make him stop. His new mission in life was to give her the same kind of pleasure he’d just received.
In a little while, Selma was moaning as loudly as a yell. There weren’t any real words, just ooh’s and aah’s then one long H-a-a-a-a-aah that lasted nearly half a minute. He kept his mouth pressed against her. Each hand held an ass cheek. His eyes stared up at the top half of her body, now flapping and flailing around as if in need of an exorcist. She pushed his head away. Her body slowed down. She returned to her original half of the bed. It was an invitation to lie next to her.
“That was amazing,” she said as she turned and held his face between her hands. Then she kissed him on the lips. It was their first kiss.
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad.”
“Keep that up and I’ll have to start calling you Alexander the Great.”
He felt himself getting flush all over again. He couldn’t fathom such a title, especially coming from her. She was the great one.
They lay there holding each other for a while. Then there was the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel followed by Cadillac doors opening and slamming shut.
“You know why I chose this room for you?” She started dressing herself.
“Not really,” he said, wrestling things out of his duffel bag.
“Cause the floor doesn’t squeak as badly as the other.”
“Wow,” he said. “So you knew even then?”
She shot him a scolding look. “And you thought you were the superior sex.”
All he could think to say was, “Woof-woof.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
What’s a person supposed to do after the most thrilling event of his life? If it were up to Alex, the town would hold a parade with floats and marching bands in honor of Selma. A team of reporters with cameras would demand a play-by-play summary after which Alex would place a crown atop Selma’s head. Miss Sexuality. Then, as finale, he’d cartwheel from boxcar to boxcar. Anything less wouldn’t do it justice.
But after dressing and making it safely downstairs, he found himself sitting in a rocking chair between two ancient sleepers. To his right was Earlene in a recliner, snoring like a sow held underwater. Lester was comparatively quiet, lying on the couch with his head cocked toward the off television. Selma was busy in the kitchen making up for the time she’d spent with Alex.
His sketchpad lay before him. He wanted to draw a picture of Selma, of course, all naked and radiant. But that could get her fired, and maybe land him a permanent display in the Alabama Hall of Shame. So he picked something totally asexual. He started with a couple of rectangles and a series of circles. A leaf here and there. It was starting to take shape. He kept going.
Lester turned and gave a half-groan, half-yawn. He sat up and looked over at Alex. “What you drawing?”
“It’s not done yet.” He was shading a section of foreground.
“Let me see it anyway.”
Alex displayed a partial rendering of boxcars being swallowed by giant killer weeds.
“Surreal,” Lester said. “Very nice tribute to the town.”
Earlene was starting to wake up. She let out a high pitch “Whew.” Then she yawned, just like her brother, while fidgeting with the side of her chair. She must have noticed Alex’s drawing, because she said, “My, what a talented boy.”
“Thanks,” Alex said. “It’s not done yet.”
Lester’s eyes lingered at Alex’s face for an uncomfortably long moment. “What you keep smiling about?”
“Nothing,” Alex said. He tried to erase the smile, but it was probably still there. “I had a nice run. It’s not bad here.”
&nbs
p; “Well, too bad for you, we’re leaving tomorrow.”
The reminder took away the smile. “I was wondering,” he said to Lester, “who’s Bo Jackson?”
“You kidding me,” Lester said. “You don’t know who Bo Jackson is?”
“Nope.”
“Well, shit.” Lester slapped his leg. “Bo Jackson is only the greatest running back ever to play college football.”
Earlene let out a groggy, “Amen.”
“And he was one hell of a great baseball player too.”
“Amen,” Earlene repeated.
“Oh,” Alex said, “I was just wondering.”
Lester stared at him. “What makes you wonder about a thing like that?”
“It was this boy I saw at the track. He was fast, I mean really fast. His uncle told him he’d be the next Bo Jackson.”
“And you told that boy you didn’t know who Bo Jackson was.” Lester shook his head as if a sacred code had been violated.
“That’s right.”
“You must’ve felt like a moron.”
“I did,” Alex said, “but I got over it.”
“You look like you got over it pretty good,” Lester said. “You look happy. Doesn’t he, Earlene?”
“I guess he does,” she said. “The South suits him.”
“You been drinking?” Lester asked.
“No, I swear. I just had a good run. I’m starting to like running.”
“Hell, if that’s all it took, I’d have started running years ago.”
Selma came into the room from the kitchen. “Y’all want some sweet tea?”
“Yes, darling,” Earlene said. “That’d be so nice.”
Selma nodded and returned to the kitchen.
“Now there’s something that could make a man happy,” Lester said.
“Hush your mouth!” Earlene said, giving him a brutal look. “We got an impressionable here. You ought to watch what you say.”
“Easy, old girl,” Lester said. “I say we go out with a bang tonight. Let’s all go to Ernie’s and get us some catfish.” He gave his stomach a circular rub. “You up for that, kid?”
“I guess so.”
“Not for me,” Earlene said. “All that grease, and it’s one step closer to the grave.” She shooed her hand in the direction of Lester and Alex. “You boys go on, enjoy yourselves.”
“I believe that’s what we’ll do,” Lester said. Then he lowered his voice. “Think I should invite Selma to come along?”
“She’ll be fine with me,” Earlene said. “Girl’s only eighteen, pure and good. I don’t want you corrupting her.”
Alex could feel himself smiling again, so he closed his sketchpad and started for the stairs.
“Just trying to be polite,” Lester said.
When Alex returned, there was only Earlene in the recliner. Lester was in the kitchen talking quietly with Selma. Impossible. He tried to sharpen his hearing, but all he could make out was the old man saying, “The kid’s birthday,” then nothing but a whisper.
“THE SIGN’S NEW,” Lester said from the passenger seat. He was pointing to the plastic neon fish with Ernie’s Catfish Shack printed across the belly. “Hope that’s the only new thing. I don’t want some diversified, heart-smart menu. I want the same-old, same-old.” He opened his door. “I want grease.”
Alex jogged around to help Lester. “Here, take my hand,” he said.
“I can get myself out.”
“Just trying to be helpful.”
“Well, you can help by getting my stick.”
No sooner did Lester speak the words than Alex had the stick poised for operation. “Thanks,” Lester said. “Now get the door.” He nodded at the patrons in window-side booths who appeared to be staring at the two of them. “Folks must think you’re my hired help. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Alex held open the door. “Okay by me.”
“You’re not even a little scared about dining at an all-black restaurant?”
“No problem.”
Lester stepped inside. A stumpy woman with a yellow bonnet covering her afro pulled two menus out of a bin and said, “Booth or counter?”
“Booth,” Lester said.
She turned and marched toward the back of the restaurant. The place reeked of grease and cornmeal and cigarettes, and it was loud and nearly capacity filled. But none of this bothered Alex. He felt like a different person altogether. And a better one. As if Selma had granted him a kind of superhuman power—the power of cool confidence. Lester made an ordeal out of stopping along the way at a framed photo of Bo Jackson who was posing with his Heisman Trophy. “There’s your man,” he said.
At the booth, Lester sat down with his back to the restrooms. “Since I’m buying, I’ll take the better view.”
“Fine with me,” Alex said.
A waitress arrived to take their drink order. She was much more attractive than the hostess, but when she opened her mouth there were big buckteeth like jagged piano keys sticking out of her top gums. It was a shame to have that as your defining feature. Alex silently pledged not to stare at her mouth but to appreciate her finer assets.
“Think we’ll both have sweet tea,” Lester said as he opened his menu. “That okay with you, kid?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Be right back,” the waitress said.
Lester looked at his menu while talking to Alex. “You basically got two choices—beer battered catfish or cornmeal catfish fillets. Both are fried, and both are delicious. Can’t go wrong. I say you pick one, I pick the other, and we share.”
“Sounds fine,” Alex said.
“Everything’s good here, but you may want to steer clear of the fried okra. If you’re anything like me, it’ll turn your intestines to music.”
Alex smiled. “I’ll avoid it.”
The waitress set down two tea-filled mason jars and pulled out a pad to record their order.
“I’ll have the beer-battered,” Lester said. “He’ll have the cornmeal fillets. I’ll have black eyed peas and a big old square of that corn bread. Bring extra butter.”
She took his menu and turned to Alex. “I’ll have baked beans and a tossed salad.” He handed her the menu.
Lester sucked down a long sip of tea. Then he said, “Nectar of the gods.”
More like diabetes in a jar, Alex was about to say, but he didn’t want to ruin the good mood. He shifted the conversation. “I was thinking about catfish,” he said. “I’ve never had it before, because I’ve always thought of them as bottom feeders.”
“Well, that’s basically what they are,” Lester said.
“Right, but I was thinking about when you told me not to pick my nose.”
“Why in the hell would you bring that up?”
“It’s kind of the same thing. Catfish and boogers are both like pool skimmers.”
Lester shook his head in obvious disgust. Then he stared at Alex. “There’s definitely something different about you.” He kept staring.
Alex didn’t respond. The waitress arrived with two platters of food. She set them down and said, “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” Lester said, pointing at Alex. “Tell me what’s gotten into this kid. He’s been acting strange today.”
As if to take the request seriously, she gave Alex a steady look. Then she said, “I’d say he’s been foolin’ around.” She smiled her fanged smile and walked away.
“Huh,” Lester said.
“That’s ridiculous.” Alex’s face was hot enough to sauté onions.
“What did you do this afternoon while we were gone?”
“Nothing,” Alex said, “I ran, like I told you. Then I just sat around.”
“I think maybe you were messing with that home health aide.”
“Come on,” Alex said, “that’s crazy.”
“You dog.” Lester forked a piece of catfish and blew on it. “So how was she?”
“She wasn’t anything. We didn’t do anything
.”
“Try again.” Lester blew once more. “How was she?”
Alex shook his head but then finally whispered, “No one can know. I swore I wouldn’t tell. She could get fired.”
“Nobody’s gonna know. It’s just you and me having a chat.” The old man popped the bite into his mouth. He chewed while closing his eyes. “Ah, that is good,” he said. “Just like I remember—tangy, a little spicy, with a back-end of sweetness.”
Alex was mortified at being discovered. “I don’t think I should say anymore.”
“Kid, you keep quiet and you’ll explode from all the pressure. You got to tell at least one person. Might as well be me.”
Alex peered sideways then to the booth behind. He kept his voice just above a whisper. “It was the most amazing thing ever.”
Lester nodded and chewed another piece of beer-battered catfish. “I’m glad it was, kid. Glad it was.”
Alex started on his fish, which was truly delicious. He regretted the booger analogy. And then he thought about Lester’s private conversation with Selma. “So what were the two of you talking about?”
Lester didn’t even bother looking up from his plate. “Now that’s none of your goddamn business.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Alex’s dreams were filled with Selma. One featured him racing through mountains on a motorcycle. She sat behind, left hand pressed against his chest while her other hand fiddled with his zipper. The excitement was too much. up ahead—a paralyzed elk in the center of the road. The motorcycle smacked head-on, causing the animal to burst into milky fluid.
He bolted upright, sprang out of bed and over to the window, hoping to see the Malibu. But when he looked down through thick magnolia, all he could see was sun-speckled asphalt and potholes. So he lay back down and wondered what time Lester had planned for them to leave. If it was before nine, he’d miss her. Probably forever. He could stall, feign sickness or simply barricade himself in the room until she arrived.
The other problem was the aftermath of Ernie’s Catfish Shack. The food was awesome, but he had eaten too much and was now bloated and farting away like a Taliban firing squad. How could he possibly get intimate with that going on?
Cadillac Chronicles Page 13
