“Where you headed?” she asks.
“Weathersfield.”
“We’re going by there.” She sticks her head back in the car. “Are we going by there?”
The girl in the driver’s seat nods.
Cyndi Lauper waves me in. “We’re going by there.”
The guy in the back seat opens the door for me and slides his big ass across the seat, sending plumes of dust through the inside of the car. I almost sneeze, but the smell of unkempt ass crack compels me to breathe through my mouth for a minute. God, I hope that’s not me who smells like that.
Cyndi Lauper turns to us. “That’s my brother, Andy,” she says.
He nods in my direction, never making eye contact.
I wave in response. “Hi.”
Cyndi shakes her head. “He’s shy.” She extends her hand. “My name’s Hanna.”
“Nice to meet you.” Cyndi, I think. I look at the driver.
“That’s Beth. She has a boyfriend.”
“That’s… good to know, I guess.”
Beth slaps Cyndi-Hanna on the knee. “You don’t need to tell him that.”
“Why, you shopping around for a new one?”
They giggle like school girls.
“She’s got a wandering eye. I bet she’d show you her tits if you asked nicely.”
I start to question whether or not I’m even capable of being aroused. Yes. Yes, I am. Once I’m over that hump, the next thing that crosses my mind is the fact that I haven’t showered in days. I don’t want this to go any farther.
“I’m not showing anyone my tits.”
“Well, Andy’s in the car, so I’m not showing him mine.”
“Make him look away.”
Cyndi-Hanna starts to pull up her shirt. “Andy, turn around.”
Andy turns away, expressionless.
I stare intently at her chest, but she never lifts up her shirt. “Ha! You actually thought I’d do it, didn’t you? You pervert!”
Andy turns back to us. He’s laughing.
“Sorry,” I say, wondering what the fuck am I apologizing for.
“It’s okay.” Cyndi-Hanna turns back around in her seat. “We’re just messing with you.”
“Cops,” Beth remarks.
Up ahead, there’s a roadblock. Five, maybe six cars. Three troopers stand in the middle of the road.
“You don’t have any drugs in those bags, do you?” Beth asks.
“I’m clean,” I say, hoping there’s no visible blood on my clothes, hoping like hell they’re not looking for a suspect.
Beth pulls up slowly. “Officer,” she says.
I’m impressed. She plays it incredibly cool. Of course, she probably has nothing to hide.
“Where you folks heading?” he asks.
“Weathersfield,” Hanna answers.
“You’ll have to take the next left then,” the cop says. “We’re cleaning up an accident a few miles down.”
“Everyone okay?” Beth asks.
The cop shakes his head. “There’s a few dead. Some nutbag shot up the electronics section at RX-Mart.”
“Wow,” everyone else in the car utters in unison.
A little behind cue, shaking my head, I say, “Man.”
The cop peers into the vehicle. “You look like you had a rough night,” he says to me.
“That’s an understatement,” I say.
He laughs. “All right, folks. Remember, next left. Follow that road until you hit the first detour sign. They should have it up by now.”
Beth shifts into drive. “Thanks, Officer.”
Cyndi-Hanna looks at Beth, eyes wide. “I wonder who did it.”
“Who knows? Probably some scumbag whose disability didn’t come through or something.” She looks at me in the rearview mirror. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I say. “I work. And last I checked, I’m not disabled.”
Cyndi Lauper takes a breath like she’s about to say something else, then stops and kind of cocks her head like a confused beagle. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Doesn’t he look familiar, Andy?”
Andy shrugs.
“Were you a substitute teacher at our school or something?”
“No. I don’t think I have enough education for that.”
“Were you on TV?”
Fuck. “With my Boy Scout troop, twenty years ago,” I say.
She turns to the front. “Huh.”
Andy is still staring at me. He finally stops when I stare him down. “What’s in the bags?” he asks.
“I’m a salesman,” I say.
“What do you sell?” Beth asks.
“Knives mostly. Kitchenware.”
“So, you’re a salesman, walking around the back roads or rural Vermont with a bag of knives?”
“At the moment,” I say.
“Creepy.”
“I was thinking the same thing. I’m surprised you picked me up, bag or no bag.”
“I didn’t want to. Hanna said you were cute.”
“No. I thought I recognized him!”
“Oh, that’s right. It was Andy who thought you were cute. Didn’t you, Andy?”
“Fuck you,” he mutters in an unusually deep voice. Then he starts laughing again.
Cyndi-Hanna turns to him. “Show him your dick, Andy.”
Christ. Here we go again.
Andy shakes his head.
“Come on, Andy. Don’t be a pussy.”
He shakes his head again. “No way.”
“Beth will turn the rearview so she can’t see it. Come on.”
Beth turns the rearview mirror so she can’t see the crotch of Andy’s pants.
And the fucker starts unzipping.
“I really don’t need to see it,” I say.
Cyndi-Hanna looks at her brother. “Did you do it, you fag?”
Andy zips his pants back up. “No.”
“But you were going to, weren’t you?” Cyndi-Hanna says, turning to Beth. “I told you he was gay.”
“I’ll fucking cut you,” Andy, presumably joking, says, reaching for my suitcase. “Give me one of those knives.” He’s all laughs until the suitcase pops open and my gun falls out. “What the fuck?” He tries to grab the gun.
I pull it out of his hands and close it in the suitcase.
“You didn’t tell us you were packing.”
“Didn’t think it mattered. I’m just trying to get from point A to point B.”
“So, what’s in the other bag?” Cyndi-Hanna asks.
“Just some old notebooks.”
“Can I see?” She unbuckles herself and starts for the knapsack.
I wrestle it away from her. “No.”
“Hold him down, Andy. Let’s see what he’s got.”
I pop open the suitcase and pull out my gun. “Let me out.”
Andy slides to the far side of the back seat. There’s that ass crack smell again. It isn’t me after all, though I still need a shower.
“What the fuck?” Beth swerves to the side of the road. “Get out!”
I keep my gun drawn on them as I snap my suitcase shut. Then I open my door and back out.
Before I can close the door, Beth peels out. Cyndi-Hanna leans out the window to flip me the bird as they drive away. “Asshole!” she shouts.
So, my research was a bit skewed before. It turns out one car out of every fifty or so will pick up a weathered salesman who is packing weapons in his suitcase.
Needless to say, it was a long walk to the Dance Hole. By the time I get there, night’s closing in enough that the neon lights flicker like stars. You can hear the country music blaring from the roadside.
Fucking country. Corn-fed, brain-starved, tear-in-my-domestic-beer country—’Merica.