I laugh. “I’ve been in town ninety minutes. I don’t know if Scooter’s man, woman, or beast.”
“He’s two of those things.”
“Which two?”
“Man and beast.”
“And is he gainfully employed?”
“Sir?”
“Does Scooter have a profession?”
“He’s our big, fat, deputy sheriff.”
“I see. And is there some significance to him having just pulled up outside?”
She laughs. “You talk like a TV lawyer.”
I smile, hoping that’s a compliment.
She smiles back, waiting for me to say something.
It strikes me how much I love watching her beautiful, expressive mouth form sentences and smiles, and adore how she mangles the English language with her sexy southern drawl. She has a way of taking a monosyllabic word like “Hi!” and making it sound like a full sentence. On the other hand, her conversations require great patience, since they aren’t driven by the need to make an actual point. Coming from most other mouths, this round-about style of speaking would annoy the shit out of me. In Manhattan, people say as little as possible and move the fuck along. I like Trudy’s world better, where conversation moves slower, and seems to require two people. But it will take some getting used to, and I’m impatient to hear what’s wild about Scooter Bing pulling up in front of the restaurant.
She obliges me by saying, “In a minute Scooter will come in, sit at that counter…”-she points to a spot thirty feet away-“and he’ll order a cup of coffee.”
I say nothing, realizing the slightest comment will delay her getting to the point.
“He’ll put a laxative in the coffee. Fifteen minutes later he’ll go to the men’s room to take a dump.”
I can’t take it any longer.
“Wow, Trudy. All this time I’ve felt sorry for you, thinking how bored you must be, living in this little town. And now you tell me this type of excitement is going on all around us?”
She smiles.
It’s a helluva smile.
She says, “Before droppin’ his pants, Deputy Bing hangs his gun belt over the door of the stall.”
“So?”
“He’ll have the gun side facin’ him, but the handcuffs will be hangin’ on the other side of the door.”
“And you know this because?”
“It’s his way.”
“His way?”
“His habit.”
“What’s the wild part?”
“You’re gonna steal his handcuffs.”
“I’m what? Why the hell would I do that?”
“How else are you gonna handcuff me to the chain-link fence out back?”
I cock my head. “You’re going to let me handcuff you?”
“Uh huh.”
“To the fence out back?”
“Uh huh.”
“Seriously?”
“Can I be honest about something?” she says.
“Sure.”
“No offense, Dr. Box, but it seems to take you a long time to figure things out.”
Touche.
But still, this is quite a shock. I’ve got a history of misunderstanding what women really mean when they say what I think I heard. So I risk one more level of clarification, and ask, “What’s going to happen when I handcuff you to the fence?”
“We’ll find out if I can trust you.”
“To do what?”
“Kiss me.”
I frown, taking everything she said into consideration.
Then she sweetens the pot, adding, “And I’ll let you feel me up.”
“No shit?”
“Over my clothes. But that’s all.”
I look at her blouse a minute, then say, “What about the key?”
“To the handcuffs?”
She opens her hand, revealing a key.
“Where’d you get that?”
“I stole it a week ago.”
“And he doesn’t know?”
“Are you kiddin’ me?” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“He hasn’t used those cuffs in ten years!”
While we look at each other some more a giant man stuffed into a policeman’s uniform enters the restaurant and sits at the counter. I check out the cuffs attached to the back of his gun belt.
“Think you can manage it?” she says.
“Of course. I’m a surgeon, after all. So tell me, Trudy.”
“Yes?”
“How long can I feel you up?”
“Twenty seconds.”
“That’s a fast answer. You didn’t even hesitate.”
“It’s a risky thing we’re doin’. Twenty seconds seems about right.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t give me a whole lot of time to have fun.”
“It’ll be more fun than not feelin’ me up at all. And don’t sell the kissin’ part short.”
“How long will Deputy Dawg be on the toilet?”
“Ten minutes, give or take.”
“That should give us at least five minutes at the fence.”
“It would,” she says, “and I might be so inclined, especially if you prove to be a better kisser than I’m expectin’. But there’s a criminal element in town that must be respected.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll be chaining a local girl to a fence. In the middle of the night. Feeling her up.”
“Those are good points.”
“So are these,” she says, indicating her breasts.
We look at each other some more.
“How will I get the cuffs back on his belt afterward?”
She frowns. “I hadn’t figured you for such a worry wart.”
She turns, and starts to walk away.
“Wait!” I say.
She turns around.
“I’m in!”
She comes back to the table.
“It’s best we don’t do it,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“It seemed like fun till you started analyzin’ it to death. This whole thing probably seems silly to you, instead of wild. You bein’ from New York City and all.”
“On the contrary, it’s extremely wild.”
“Tell me why.”
“Stealing a policeman’s handcuffs while he’s taking a shit, and using them to handcuff a beautiful waitress to a fence in the middle of the night and feeling her up-”
She points to her lips.
“-And kissing her, for twenty seconds, then trying to figure out how to replace the handcuffs on the cop’s belt without getting caught-trust me, it’s plenty wild.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to twist your arm, doctor.”
“You’re not. I’m in. I love it!”
“You sure you’re up for it?”
“Are you?”
“I’m not only in…” she says.
She leans her hip into me and whispers, “…I’m wet with anticipation.”
“Me too,” I say to her boobs.
She nods toward Deputy Dawg and says, “Eyes on the prize, Doctor.”
“They are on the prize!”
4
Trudy Lake.
Dr. Box comes out of the bathroom grinnin’ like he’s stolen the Crown Jewels.
“What took you so long?” I say.
“I kept retching from the smell.”
“That’s Scooter,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“You’re bringing your purse?” he says.
“I can’t very well leave it sittin’ there for the riff-raff.”
We head out the back door quietly, and I lead him to the eight-foot-high fence that surrounds the dumpster.
“Is this the only fence you’ve got?” he says, referrin’ to the smell.
“It’s the only one close by.”
“Why’s it so high?”
“To keep the deer from gettin’ to the garbage.”
“The light from the back door makes us easy to see.”
“That’s why we’re only gonna be here twenty seconds.”
“Makes sense,” he says.
I put my back against the fence and say, “I can trust you, right?”
“About what?”
“Keepin’ your hands where I said you could.”
“Yes.”
“Give me your word.”
“You have my word.”
I unlock the cuffs, then hand him the key. Put my left wrist in one cuff and lock it. Then put both arms a foot above my head.
“Put my right wrist in the open cuff, and hook it through the chain link before locking it,” I say.
He does.
Then he steps back to look at me.
And grins.
5
Dr. Gideon Box.
I’ve handcuffed a beautiful waitress to a chain link fence behind a family-style restaurant in Western Kentucky. She’s offered me twenty seconds worth of kissing and breast-fondling. Above her clothes.