by Alan Spencer
“Sure." Travis squinted extra small. “I’ll put in a good word for ya because I like you. You give out beer without a moment’s hesitation. A good man always shares his beer. I never believed in BYOB anyway; it’s selfish.”
Ralph had moved on to chat to a three hundred pound woman with a sleeveless Nascar t-shirt and black sweatpants who turned over racks of ribs, hotdogs, and hamburgers at her industrial sized grill. He couldn’t figure out how a woman could tend to meat, supervise her two girls fighting over a jar of lightning bugs ten yards away, and guzzle a beer all at the same time.
He turned to Travis, but he'd blended back into the crowd. He tickled a girl on her neck in her mid-twenties who was splayed on a blanket, her “Glamour Girl” shirt concealing only the top half of her body, the cut-off jeans well above the knees. Travis produced a new jay from his pocket, and after lighting up, she kissed him as he blew the smoke into her mouth and their tongues mingled at the exchange.
There’s nothing like being sober among a crowd of loaded strangers. He finished his beer with no buzz in sight. “Don’t worry about the fly on the wall. I’ll just watch contentedly.”
He lit an "80’s Mild" and sulked. A stranger soon stumbled up to him; the girl couldn’t have been older than seventeen. She wore black lipstick and pale foundation, creating a gothic look. Her long flowing hair was dyed black and chunked with clown red bangs. The girl adorned a black crinoline dress, her bust half visible with a tattoo of Mickey Mouse clutching Donald Duck’s severed head on her right breast.
“I’m Katrina." She tipped a fifth of Mueller’s Creek Whiskey into her mouth. “What’s yours? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I'm Caleb." He shook her hand, grateful for someone to talk to. “Hey, how often do these parties happen?”
"Every Friday. It doesn’t take Jesus Christ coming back from the dead to create a holiday around here.”
She tried to light a hand rolled cigarette, but she couldn’t light the matches in the wind, so Caleb lit it for her with his Zippo. The cherry brightened her features for two seconds, and he noticed she wore contacts that turned her eyes into a cat’s.
“So be honest with me. How old are you?—not to be rude.”
She was playfully offended. “Nineteen. Why do you ask?”
“What do you know about Shannon Klenklen? You’re sort of in her age group.”
She blew a smoke ring. “We’re all neighbors at this party. Shannon and I grew up together, though she's a bit older than me. We survived both our parents divorcing, puked on our first alcohol binge, and slept with boys and told each other about how much it sucked. That’s sums us up, I suppose. She’s better friends with a girl named Tosha.”
Now it was her turn to ask the questions. “What do you want to know about her?” She poked him in the ribs. “Are you going to ask her out?”
“Nothing like that.” He was embarrassed and didn't know why. “I’m a reporter from out of town, and Shannon’s giving me the tour of Smithville. I report fake news like alien landings, paranormal hoopla, stuff like that. Well, I met her father and brother, and they’re not complimentary to her. Does she really deserve the bad rap? The girl’s father basically calls her a slut.”
“One mistake, and it’s stayed with her forever. It happens to all girls. She’s a good person.” She offered him a hit from the bottle, and he accepted it, breathing fire when he slugged back the 101 proof batch. “We all have our past, but Shannon’s not a skank. She’s a good person if you get to know her. The girl likes to drink, though, and it affects her judgment. I can handle my liquor, but Shannon turns into a wild girl out of a sorority. Her dad’s a wife beater and ass munch. Travis isn’t any better; he’s like a groveling worm when it comes to getting sex. The asshole tries to coerce girls half his age to give him a blowjob or to take their virginity.”
She softly clapped her hand against the bottle once. “I can’t wait until he’s busted on statutory rape charges. The whole family is shit, really, but Shannon would do okay if she could find a way out. She blames herself that her mom left, and her father lets her believe it. Those dickheads won’t know what hit him when she finally packs up and leaves.” Her cat eyes glowed in the reflection of the bonfire. “She will one of these days.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened that’s stayed with her so long? The ‘one mistake’ you mentioned.”
“Sure,” but she was soon cut off when a familiar voice called out to him.
And it wasn't in greeting; it was in distress.
“Caleb, you have to take me out of here! I’m so embarrassed.”
Shannon’s face was a sickly green, the fire carving crude notches of discomfort into her face. She’d put her hair in pig tails, dressed in a tight white v-neck shirt and a black short skirt. She burped, the action making her fall onto her knees. Then she vomited. She dry heaved afterwards, a line of whitish spittle glomming down her lips as she recovered enough to gain her breath. He helped her to her feet; he had to do most of the work to balance her.
She spat to the side, wiping the edge of her lips clean. “Ugh, that bastard spiked my drink. It’s catching up to me. Loogie’s such an asshole.”
The man of the hour came out from the darkness. He had a buzz-cut and couldn’t have been more than one hundred and twenty pounds, the lanky man clad in a black leather jacket without a shirt underneath and corduroy pants stitched with patches of the bands: “The Germs,” “Circle Jerks,” “Slayer,” “NOFX,” and “Rancid.”
“Baby." He called out to Shannon, circling the bonfire to reach her. “I didn’t realize how much you’ve had to drink. Come back here, please. I didn’t spike your drink. You had too much on your own, and it’s catching up to you. It happens to the best of us.” He reached out to claim her from Caleb’s grip. “Let me help you.”
“Bastard made me pass out,” she complained, weakly pushing Loogie back. She urged Caleb to keep walking her to his car. “I woke to him trying to slide my panties down, you jerk-off!” She turned her head back so she could keep yelling at him. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself? You do that to all the girlies? I can’t believe I fell for that amateur shit.”
“Ah, fuck you." Loogie ended his pursuit at the fringes of the bonfire and shouted to be heard. “I didn’t try and force you into anything. We were making out and you passed out, you dumb bitch. You were practically rubbing it all over my dick.”
Caleb carried her in the other direction before things could escalate. “She’s obviously in bad shape. Let me take care of her.”
The guy didn’t argue. “Hey man, you can have her. Just tell her in the morning that she won’t be hooking up with me ever again.”
“I’ll do that first thing." They were closer to the car. “I’m sure it’s mutual.”
She kept spitting and moaning on the way. Some of it words. “I hope you don’t think badly of me. It looks bad, but it's not what you think.”
“We’ve all been in your position." He placed the drunk in the back seat and rolled down the window so she could vomit out the side if needed. “I’ll take you to my motel, and we’ll get through this. Relax. I’ll drive slowly. You better stay seated and not lay down.”
He cursed at the condom filled with shaving cream stuck over his antennae. Shaking his head and deciding to take it off later, he drove from the trailer park. He was grateful to leave the party behind.
Shannon’s head bobbed out the window. He was about to ask how she was feeling when she lost it. “Flaaaaargh!”
Ending the heave, she said, “I got it all over the side of your car. So sorry...I'm sorry...”
“Forget it. Car wash will take care of it. It’ll spray right off.”
“You’re so nice." She was almost falling asleep. “Thanks Caleb.”
She said “Caleb” in a dreamy way.
He wanted to comment about her embarrassing situation—how it wasn’t that bad—when she belched out another round, “Uuuuuuwuuup!”
; “Shots and beer on an empty stomach,” she confessed after burping again, "aren’t a good combination.”
He surpassed the awkward moment by conjuring up an article: Eight shots of tequila, four rounds of whiskey doubles, zombies, long island iced teas, cosmopolitans, none of them can bring Shannon Klenklen to vomiting. The School of Medicine at Utah State University has put her through rigorous testing to prove that theory true. Dr. Joe Kramer accompanies her to the local college bar scene and charts her progress throughout the night. Kramer comments, “She doesn't even suffer mild nausea. We’ve taken blood and tissue samples for breakdown. Shannon might be the key to cure vomiting from drinking. Her organs could be advanced, her liver containing new enzymes that we haven’t encountered before. The possibilities are endless, and I’ll drink to that!”
"The Sunshine Motel" loomed half a block up the road. He parked the Sedan outside room 7. He shut off the car, unlocking the back passenger door. He then helped Shannon up to her feet by slinging her arm across his shoulder.
She hiccupped, her breath stinking of sour mash whiskey. Both of her eyes were closed tight. “I want to take a warm bath. That always makes me feel better when I’m blitzed.”
She leaned into him. “You can supervise me." She giggled once, the volume knob in her throat stuck on loud. “I trust you not to peek.”
“Oh God!” She muffled her mouth, her caddy moment cut short. “I’m going to barf again!”
Once he unlocked the door, she pushed through the barrier and raced into the bathroom. He caught her shoving her face into the toilet. “Raaaaaaaaaaargggh!”
She heaved two more times, thrusting the bad out with her entire body. He winced at the sight. The tang of stomach acid and hard alcohol filled the room. He flicked on the ceiling fan, and it groaned like a failing pontoon boat’s motor.
“Turn that shit off." She cupped her ears. “It’s giving me a headache.” She smiled despite her condition. “Could you draw me a bath? I like it hot. Steaming hot.”
She stayed on all fours, her cheek resting against the toilet seat while breathing out her mouth. He did as he was instructed, compelled to help his only friend in Smithville. After waiting for it to fill a quarter of the way, he tested the water with his hand and hoped it was to her liking.
He gently petted her hair. “Do you like bath salts?”
“You have bath salts?” She laughed, hiccupping again. “You pansy.”
"Motel bathrooms are lacking in creature comforts. I’m on the road all the time, so I have to provide them for myself. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Yeah okay, you’re right." She didn't have the stamina to josh him to the fullest potential. "Put the manly salts in there.” She flushed the toilet but didn’t move from her crouch. “You’re different than the guys I know around here, Caleb. And that’s all I’ll say.”
He dumped a generous handful of ginseng root scented salts into the tub. The soothing aroma flooded the room, burying the vomit smell. She whiffed at the air and nodded her head once. “That actually smells good.”
She got to her feet, though teetering backwards and suddenly dumping herself into Caleb’s arms. “Whoa—I seem to have lost my bearings!”
He helped up her straight, and she used him as a leaning post. She peeled off her v-neck shirt, unhooking her bra in two methodical movements of her fingers—perhaps her fingers were the only part of her sober, he thought—and exposed her bulging and firm breasts, the vanilla nipples the same shade as her skin. She stepped out of her skirt and red see-through panties. Caleb stood with his jaw unhinging and tried his best to stare at the wall. When she lowered into the tub, he drew the curtain.
He was about to leave when Shannon made a request. “Tell me an embarrassing drunk story. It’d make me feel better about tonight. If you don't mind."
He closed the toilet lid, then he sat on top of it. After moments of silence, he thought back to when he was twelve. “Two of my uncles were playing my father in a game of poker in the basement of my house. They were slugging Bucks—a cheap ass local beer. My dad tells me to throw away the empty cans upstairs. I collect them, and I notice one is feeling half full. So upstairs, I throw them all away except for the one with the beer left. I slug it down only to realize it’s full of tobacco spit.” He clapped his hand once. “Oh God, I threw up all over the floor!"
She snorted and busted out laughing, cupping water into her hands and splashing her face. “You’re such a dork. Did you get drunk a lot as a teenager? So far, it doesn't sound like it."
“More than you think. You think I’m a pansy, but I’m like anybody else, at least until two years ago when I took on this job. I had a friend in high school, this guy, who had unlimited access to alcohol. Billy Young’s father owned a discount liquor store. His basement was full of hard liquor, beer, and pony kegs—anything Billy’s father couldn’t stock at the store or had to get rid of. Billy would take a five-finger discount, and we’d get wasted, but it was always a bottle of liquor because cans left more evidence to dispose of. Over the summer, we’d climb the fence of this condemned pool. We’d crawl to the bottom of the deep end and look at Hustler and get blasted out of our minds.”
“Did you guys ever masturbate together?” He caught her making the jerk-off signal with her hand through the curtain. “Billy-boy ever shine it on for ya?”
“Guys can look at nudie magazines together and not be gay. It happens more often than you think.”
She sloshed in the water, working a bar of soap up and down her arms. “I can’t believe I let Loogie get that close to me. It wasn’t a date. He told me his sister wanted to talk to me, but she wasn’t home. While we waited in his trailer, he fed me these drinks. Jungle juice or Tarzan’s piss, who knows what was in them?—not what he told me. I should’ve known Loogie would’ve done it to me. I swear I’m not a slut. My family probably tried to convince you otherwise tonight...again. I haven’t had sex with anybody for over a year. And after the abortion, it changed me.”
He froze up, feeling as if he’d walked in on somebody naked—though that had already happened.
Does she realize it’s me she’s talking to and not a close friend?
“Ronnie Goodman knocked me up. He worked for a local construction company; they built fast food restaurants and gas stations. When he worked on a McDonalds, I got to know him because I’d eat there on my breaks from Save Mart. Then we dated, the usually courtship bullshit, and when my period was late, he literally split from town.” She lowered her voice, the severity of the event creeping in. “Dad paid for the abortion. When I woke up afterwards, I was in a room with two other freaked out girls. They couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and I was twenty-one. The abortion made my father think I’m a no good slut. It was a mistake. I regret the whole thing.”
She rested her head against the tub in resignation. “The doctor, a real mean bitch, explained how I should be more careful with birth control methods and who I’m with. The woman wasn't comforting at all; she just shoved a pamphlet and free condoms in my face and off I go—call if you have any infections or unexplained bleeding, goodnight.
“I guess I’ll tell you this too, while I’m at it. You’ve seen me vomit, and you’ve seen me naked.” Saying it didn’t shock her. “When I told Ronnie about the pregnancy, he beat me up. Scared, or drunk, or an asshole—probably a combination of the three—he lost it. The day after he fled town, he never contacted me again, not that I wanted anything to do with him after his abuse.”
“That’s awful." He wasn't sure what else to say, so he consoled her again. “I’m so sorry that happened.”
“It was terrible, but don’t get me wrong, sex is great. But not under those conditions. You really do have to know somebody. I need to get out of Smithville and start over. Clean slate. New friends. New job. New place to live. I’m sick of the mobile home; I swear to God I could kick through the walls, and those fucking fireworks go off all night well into August. And they’re all loudmouth drunks. It's har
d to get descent sleep with two adolescent shit heads living with you. But I guess I can’t say too much; I was puking all over the place moments ago. I’m just like them.”
“No you’re not." He meant it. "You’re not mean spirited. It's been fun hanging out with you. It's a real adventure."
But you may want to reconsider who you drink with in the future.
She drained the tub. Caleb retreated out of the bathroom before the curtain was parted. After drying off, she stepped by the bed wrapped in a towel. “Do you have a shirt I can borrow?”
He dug into his suitcase, and he offered her a blue Banana Republic t-shirt. He turned back around before she could undo the towel. She put on the shirt and snickered, “You’re so polite. I’m not used to it.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She wrapped her hair in the towel, and then turning on the bedside lamp, she tucked herself under the blankets with an alleviating ahhhhh.
“I guess you can take the bed." He was sitting on the chair next to the window. “No problem. I wouldn’t want to impose on you.”
She flipped up the flap of the blanket on the empty side of the bed to invite him in. “You can have the other side.” She growled like a biting Yorkie. “Grrrrrr, I don’t bite.”
He edged towards the bed. “Are you sure?”
“We’re adults, so calm down. I’m too tired for anything other than sleep, anyway. I won’t put the moves on you. God, you must think all the girls are hot for you.”
He carefully tucked himself in bed not to touch her side, although his leg rubbed her bare thigh. Caleb pretended it didn’t happen and said, “A day with Shannon Klenklen has been very interesting.”
She turned off the bedside lamp and then the room became darkness. “Just you wait until tomorrow. I have more things to show you.”
14
Winter gusts whistled through the open ceiling rafters of the abandoned shoe factory in the slums of eastern Chicago. Sub-zero temperatures rendered breath visible and inspired bodies into shivering. The elevated train rattled above them and sprinkled dust onto their heads as the beams creaked in short gasps. The train was deafening for a minute, and then it was deathly silent, leaving the two standing together in quiet midnight. Lenora's cries were pitiful mewls, her face nestled against Ruden's chest. He staunched her tears with his kerchief, doing little to tame her emotions.
