Bethel's Meadow

by Shultz, Gregory

  He was a mess, they picked him up and poured him from his boots

  And he ain't gonna jump no more

  Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die

  Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die

  Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die

  He ain't gonna jump no more

  After I finished the song I laid down my guitar and stepped outside to relish the cool April evening air. I gazed into the starry night and thought about my old man. I’d lost my father when I was barely ten. I’d always felt that my life would have been different—a lot better—if he had hung around just a little while longer. It wasn’t his fault that he himself had gone SPLAT from a paratrooper accident, but I’d always directed my hate toward him when everything went sour in my life. As I aged into my twenties and thirties, I continued to curse the man for having left me as soon as he had.

  But now, at just this very second, I realized how harsh and unfair I had been all those years. All I wanted now was to hear his voice, to have him tell me what to do with my life, how to get out of this emotional funk I was mired in, how to deal with Caitlin and Samantha, how to laugh off my troubles the way he’d always laughed off his own. Nothing could touch my father. Not the Viet Cong, not the fact that he’d been a neglected orphan himself, and not anything else life threw at him. He was a tough bastard. If he saw the mess I was in now he’d know just what to do. He’d guide me through it and then we’d laugh about it all afterward.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said, addressing the Holy Spirit. “Why’d you take from me the only guidepost in life I’d ever had? For what purpose?”

  I bowed my head and walked back inside. My father would have said there was no use in questioning God, because God was basically a hands-off kind of a guy. It was up to me to make good of my life. He’d say there’s no use in feeling sorry for yourself, because no one would give a shit if you did. It is nothing but wasted energy and is counterproductive.

  But I couldn’t help it. Yes, it was the booze directing my thoughts now, but I missed my old man so much that I started to cry. As the tears kept gushing out of my eyeballs, I flopped on my bed and prayed for sleep:

  God, please just give me a few hours of slumber. And please tell Daddy how much I love and miss him.

  It was a good thing I didn’t have a gun that lonely and desperate night. I’m ashamed to admit that I would have eaten a bullet if I had.

  26

  JUST LIKE THAT! and it was Friday night.

  Maybe I’d slept a bit in the previous few days since my disaster dinner date at Glory Nolan’s place, maybe I hadn’t. It depends on how you define sleep. There were occasions while watching TV that it appeared basketball games had jumped ahead in time by five or ten minutes on the game clock, seemingly in just the blink of an eye. On Wednesday afternoon I was waiting for a red light to change at an intersection in Windermere, where I must have had some sort of a blackout, because the next thing I recalled was sailing through a red light at another intersection in Dr. Phillips two miles away. Scared to death and feeling very fortunate that I hadn’t killed anyone, I pulled into a grocery store parking lot and called Vernon and asked him to please come pick me up. His girlfriend accompanied him to drive my car back home.

  “I need you to get yourself together, old man,” Vernon had said with understanding and kindness but also with unmistakable firmness. “Your body can’t handle what you’ve done to it by coming off of the meds. You’re a manic-depressive, dammit. Just accept that and deal smartly with it. You’re unable to sleep because you’re self-medicating, and you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. I’m giving you the rest of the week off. Find someone that can moderate your condition and get you the sleep you need. Please don’t self-destruct on me. I need you.”

  But self-destructing is exactly what I was doing. While my judgment had been sound enough in determining that I needed to quit driving for a while, I was still idiot enough to have accepted Sidebottom’s invitation to the party at Bay Hill I was now attending. I had taken a cab to get here. I already had it in my mind that when I left, it’d be with a woman who’d take me to wherever we decided.

  The hostess of the party was a slim but heavily made-up bottle blonde of about forty years who possessed brand-spanking new store-boughts that jutted out all the way to damn near my chin; her fully erect nipples were pointing straight up to the crystal chandelier above us. I knew the remade tits were of recent vintage because I had met her a few weeks ago, either at a party or a bar. She’d already had big hooters then—I didn’t see the point of adding on. Her name was Donna, and she talked so rapidly that I was convinced she was jacked up from a generous hit of cocaine. And in this crowd, cocaine was never a bad guess.

  “Ooooh, my sweet little babies,” Donna exclaimed in an annoying high-pitched squeal as two white miniature poodles scampered toward us. They immediately began nipping at my black dress shoes. Donna giggled and swooped down to scoop them up, one in each arm. “Meet Fifi and Farley,” she said as she hoisted the pooches up to my face. “Girls, give Mr. Smith a kiss. Go ahead and give him a big kiss.” Before I could back away they’d already slavered all over my mug. “Oh, thassa good girls! Thassa good girls!”

  I wiped the dog spittle from my face and marveled yet again at the curious phenomenon of a human being’s IQ temporarily plunging a hundred points while speaking to his or her pet, at which point the pet’s IQ is usually twenty-five points higher than its master’s.

  The hostess snuggled with the white little fur balls for a few minutes before finally setting one of them down. Still holding the other she looked at me and said, “Fifi here—Isn’t she adorable?—just had heart surgery a couple of weeks ago. It was ten thousand dollars, and I had one dandy of a hard time with my ex to get him to pay for it, the cheap so-and-so. He said it didn’t make sense to spend that much money on a house pet. Can you believe that?”

  “No, makes no sense at all,” I said, attempting to keep sarcasm at bay.

  “But you know what?” she said. “When it was his turn for visitation, he fought tooth and nail so he could have Fifi, even though the doctor said she shouldn’t be moved for a couple of weeks. That’s more than a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? I mean, he was willing to just let her die.”

  After explaining how the court-ordered custody agreement for the dogs was arranged, I politely agreed with Donna that her ex was an insufferable turd, and then I excused myself. I’d had enough of her bullshit. I was ready to find someone else and listen to their bullshit instead.

  Sidebottom had assured me that Samantha would not be in attendance, even though the party was in her neighborhood, just around the corner from her house. Still, I was keeping my eye out for her as I stood in a line of guests to fill my paper plate with tasty and exquisite-looking hors d'oeuvres. I realized I just wouldn’t make it in the world of the rich and famous, because I had no idea what the hell most of this food was. However, I do recall there was more delicious roast beef at this party. There must have been a salesman of super-secret and ultra-expensive roast beef who sold only to the wealthy.

  Just as I finished loading up my plate with the delicious appetizers, I glanced up and noticed that twenty feet away from me, in the foyer, was Glory’s roommate. Yes, it was Tricia, the horniest masseuse in the history of mankind. She looked rather appetizing herself in a black strapless dress that didn’t cover much territory. Her tits seemed to be jiggling a little now, unlike earlier in the week when they hadn’t moved a bit. I figured she must have found someone else to massage those boulders for her. I didn’t realize Tricia had frozen me in my tracks until I was rudely nudged from the rear.

  “Get a move on, you horny old dog.” It was Sidebottom. As he put his arm around me I turned away from Tricia—I wasn’t ready for her yet. “You’ve a good eye, my man. She is a lusty, busty vixen.”

  “Pipe down,” I said. “We’re hanging with the professional socialites here. You’re going to expose us as poseurs real s
oon if you’re not careful.”

  He followed me as I headed for the rear deck. It was a beautiful evening. April nights in Orlando are the best of any city in the world. Tonight was no exception. It was room temperature outside, and more than half of the 300 guests were out to enjoy it. It was close to nine, and a six-piece jazz ensemble was tuning up and performing a sound check under the cover of a large red cedar gazebo.

  “You look even worse than the last time I saw you,” Sidebottom said. He really did look concerned. “Vernon called me yesterday to fill in for you. Thanks for setting me up with him, by the way. Anyway, he wants me to keep an eye out on you. He said you blacked out the other day while driving. Why the hell didn’t you call me? I live closer to you than he does?” Now Sidebottom was looking a little hurt.

  “Wally, no shit, I can barely think straight enough to know which button to push on the damned cell phone to call any one person in particular. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Oh, look over there.” Sidebottom pointed to the rear entry. It was a rather odd sight: two identical beautiful blondes walking side by side, hooked together by the arms just like toy monkeys in a barrel. “Twins, dude. I’m going to do them both tonight. It’s guaranteed. Tonight I’m having my first threesome.” Sidebottom was beaming with pride. I was ready to burst his bubble and advise him of the errors of his ways, but then the pair of rail-thin bimbos walked straight for us. I’d have to get rid of them first.

  “Ladies,” I said, interrupting Sidebottom’s attempt to introduce them to me, “I need a quick word with Mr. Sidebottom. Why don’t you go help the nice men in the band over there plug in their amps.”

  “Girls, give us a few, okay?” Sidebottom said as he walked away with me.

  Once we were out of their earshot, on the opposite side of the lawn from the gazebo, I wasted no time laying into Sidebottom.

  “I’m duly impressed. All right?” He looked away from me, and I damn near slapped him to regain his attention. Instead I just grabbed his neck with both of my hands, forcing him to face me. “Listen to me. How about letting it go at this? Let it be good enough to know that you could have done it if you really wanted to. Don’t go down this road.”

  He removed my hands from around his neck. “Smith, remember what you once told me? About when you were a kid and you heard Jimmy Stewart say something on the TV that changed your life? Well, I do. You told me he said that when he died, he wanted to go to his grave regretting the things he did, instead of the things he didn’t do. Remember that?”

  “You’re twisting my words,” I said. “Hell, you’re twisting Jimmy Stewart’s meaning for that matter. Christ, listen to what I have to say.”

  “Say it, but make it quick. These girls aren’t the type to just stand around and wilt. They’re like plants—they need to be watered.”

  “Think about God,” I said. “Think about the day when you will be judged. Hell, I’ve wanted to have a threesome since I was twelve. It was my boyhood dream. But I’ve never done it. You want to know why? Because I’m afraid of God. I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, things I’m really ashamed of. But they’re things that can be forgiven. They are wrongs I can make right, either through action or prayer. When I stand in front of the Big Man, I want to be able to stand there and not be completely ashamed of myself for what I’ve done with my life. And Wally, if I had a threesome on my list of misdeeds, I could never look God in the face. It’s the one thing He would smite me for. He’d cast me straight into hellfire. Don’t let it happen to you, Wally. Fight off the evil.”

  Sidebottom looked stunned. I was hoping he would look chastened instead, that he’d have the look of a man who’d just had an epiphany about how he should live his life. But it wasn’t to be. I wasn’t convincing enough.

  “I’ve never known you to be the Bible-thumping type,” he said. He shook his head and sighed. “You can’t judge me, bubba. It’s on my head, not yours. And frankly, I don’t see it as a big sin. I’m sorry but I just don’t.”

  The girls came back, both giving Sidebottom a kiss on either cheek. One of the twins then held up her cell phone, asking me and Sidebottom to pose for a photograph.

  “No way,” I said, beginning to walk away. But Wally grabbed me by the arm.

  “What’s your deal, bubba? I know you’re tired and cranky and everything, but the girls just want a picture of me with my best bud.”

  “I’m in no mood to fake a smile,” I said. And then I just walked away.

  From behind, Sidebottom shouted: “Smith, you really are working hard at alienating everyone in your life, one person at a time. You do realize that? You’re just blowing everyone away.”

  Whatever.

  A half hour later there must have been 400 people milling about: half outside watching the band, the other half inside impressing each other by talking about their collection of toys—one couple had just purchased an eighty-foot yacht, and another was preparing to sojourn to the South of France for the next six months where their newly-built chateau awaited them. I even overheard a conversation between two women who were comparing their newly reconstructed tits: a spirited debate concerning whose had the more artful touch.

  The house, by the way, had seven bedrooms, six full bathrooms, and two half-baths. I know this because within thirty minutes I had worked my way around to each of the bathrooms, reorienting the toilet paper rolls to conform to the Smith-approved fashion. One way or the other I was going to make my mark on the world. Besides, toilet paper feeding from the top is bullshit.

  My mind is a blur on what happened between ten and eleven that evening. To this day I still can’t recall any of it. I’d had too much alcohol and not enough sleep. I must have blacked out after I flipped the last roll of toilet paper, because my next moment of awareness came when I found myself leaning against a late-model red Corvette while making out with . . . Tricia, the sex-crazed masseuse.

  I thought: What the hell, Smith. Just roll with it.

  “What do you say we go somewhere and fuck?” she suggested dispassionately while giving me a particularly satisfying massage in my groin area.

  “Okay,” I said, nearly out of breath. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private.”

  “It can’t be my place,” she said. “I don’t think my roommate is ready for that yet.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but you’ll have to drive.”

  27

  ANOTHER BLACKOUT.

  Between the instant we’d departed the Bay Hill subdivision and the very second that Tricia pulled her Corvette into my driveway a few miles away, I could recall none of it. Given the distance traveled, perhaps five minutes had elapsed.

  “You’re really weird,” she said to me as she shifted into park. “I cranked up the A/C to give you some air. You turned pale and just passed out. . . . Well, I guess you passed out, even though your eyes were still open. Weird.”

  “Why’d you wake me up?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t going to let you sleep in my car all night,” she answered. “Besides, it scared me that your eyes were still open. Your pupils dilated and it looked like you had just zoned out. I thought maybe you were coked up or something.”

  And then it happened again.

  “You just did it that time too,” she said. She tapped her finger on the dashboard’s inset digital clock. “Maybe three minutes that time. Your chin fell to your chest, and I half expected foam to come out of your mouth.”

  This was getting embarrassing. I looked at her, and she was so sexy and beautiful in that little black dress of hers that I just couldn’t bear the thought of turning her away. Even though she was freaked out by my blackouts, I could tell she was still interested.

  “I’m awake,” I said. “Do you want to go inside and watch ESPN?”

  Once we were inside I offered her a hot chocolate. She said, “Fuck that,” and then performed quite a maneuver. Her dress somehow fell right off her shoulders and slinked down over the contours of her tiny yet voluptuous fi
gure, dropping down into a bunch around her six-inch high heels. It was very cinematic, like a high-quality porno film. She wore no undergarments. She kicked the dress away, still wearing the heels, which made my motor really rev up. I wasn’t going to sleep now.

  Well, the sex didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. I dropped wood at the point of entry. That’s what you call it when you’re unable to get it up: dropping wood. It happens to nearly every man at one inopportune instance or another in his life.

  This had happened to me before. While living in Atlanta during my twenties I’d dated a waitress from Chili’s who was tall, blond, and every bit as horny as the girl I was with now. For a month it was fantastic. I never even had to buy the girl dinner after the first couple of dates. Upon arrival at her door for the third date she grabbed me by the wrist and led me straight into the bedroom. This sequence repeated itself every evening for four weeks—I never missed a night, and it never cost me a dime.

  Then one night I dropped wood. Despite numerous attempts over the next few nights, I couldn’t get it back. The girl was really cool about the whole thing. She didn’t say or do anything to ridicule me about it. But she did break up with me, in an ever-so-sweet fashion.

  A week later, with another woman, it came right back up. The problem was solved.

  What was the difference? I learned back then that if there were no challenges or barriers to the physical act of love, then I just wasn’t much into it beyond a few encounters. There had to be some excitement in it for me, some amount of foreplay. Tricia here was just like the girl from Atlanta: a nymphomaniac that wanted no part of any of that. Just a straight fuck. And fuck, fuck, fuck again, until you’re too exhausted to go on. Then you leave and try it another night. There’s no fun in any of that. There’s no soul to it.

  Or maybe tonight I was just too damned tired, exhausted, and drunk to get it up. Hell, I don’t know.