Читать книгу Hick - Andrea Portes - Страница 13

He stays stone quiet all the way to the panhandle and I find this to be just a little bit aggravating. Whenever a guy around me isn’t talking I always assume he’s thinking of all the reasons why he doesn’t like me and all the ways he’s gonna get rid of me. Not that I like this particular aspect of my personality. it’s weak and helpless and where I see my mama in myself. Tammy can’t stand it if there’s even one single nothing of a man slunking somewhere in the corner of the room not paying her no mind. Just that little itty-bitty portion of neglect drives her nutso. And I’ll be honest, some of that suction-cup need to be looked at and keened over and adored has been inherited by yours truly. I make a pact now, this very moment, telling myself to change it. Right here and now.

Next time I will just imagine that whenever any boy or guy or Marlboro man is silent around me, it’s because he’s just so deep in thought about how hard he has fallen in love with me and that look of furrowed exasperation on his brow is only a reaction to his feeling of utter helplessness. This will be my new factory for turning lemons into lemonade. Sometimes if you can trick yourself into thinking something, really trick yourself so you don’t even know what’s true anymore, you can make that something come true. I resolve to break hearts.

My companion doesn’t know it, but I have been inspecting him for the last fifteen minutes and I have noticed a few things that differentiate him from the regular shitbag you see on the street.

Number one, he’s crooked.

Now, when I say crooked, I don’t mean it in any sort of poetic sense. I mean he’s crooked. Literally. Like his body looks like an italic. He veers to the left, like he’s crippled or bent or swayed off to the side.

Number two, his brow overhangs the rest of his face like a cliff. it’s like there’s a candy bar buried somewhere underneath the skin above his eyes, giving him a troubled look of constant consternation.

Number three, when he wrinkles his forehead, it makes a V-shape instead of a regular line, like most people, adding to his look of infinite struggle.

Number four, his legs are longer and skinnier than anything you’ve ever seen attached to a body. He’s like some kind of daddy-long-legs spindling behind the wheel.

Number five, his eyes look like they’re about to pop right out of his head. They seem bigger than the average eyes and less attached to their respective sockets. They oogle around like toy button eyes on a sock puppet.

Now, I know this list does not sound very flattering. I know that. But there is something about him, some thing in the air around him, that makes me want him to fall out of his seat in love with me. There is nothing logical about it. it’s something about the ions buzzing around his head that makes me want him to grab me and pull me over and reach down between my legs.

I look over at him and assess his feelings. Not interested. In his oogly eyes, I’m just a kid, some kind of little girl you might pat on the head at the ball game before putting your arm around your real girlfriend and walking off under the bleachers. I scrutinize him, watching while he stares straight ahead, gripping the wheel with that candy bar buried beneath his brow bone. I decide he is all bark and no bite.

“So . . . do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.” He stays looking at the road, like I’m some speck of dust not worth it.

“Why . . . don’t you like girls?”

(I know how to rile them up.)

“Depends.”

None too successful.

“Wull . . . what kinda girls you like?”

“Quiet ones.”

Okay, now I’m really losing my touch. This requires something drastic.

“Um . . . do you mind not looking over here for a while?”

“What for?”

“I kinda been wearing the same thing all day and I’d like to change.”

“Knock yourself out, kid.”

I wait a second to let it sink in, this impending nakedness. I’m gonna make his eyes swirl if it kills me. I struggle to take off my T-shirt, like it’s somehow impossible and caught, to give him time to think about what I’m doing and just what’s going on over on this side of the truck. Then I pull my dress on over my head and down around my American thighs. Every once in a while I steal a quick glance at my companion, to see if he’s hooked.

He’s staring at the road ahead real intent, gripping the wheel, composed and forceful. He doesn’t look over but I can tell I’m starting to wiggle under his skin. And now, for the grand finale. I take off my jeans and don’t even have to pretend to struggle with this one because taking off jeans in a beat-up pick-up truck going eighty miles an hour on a rolling gravel road in the pitch black is no cake-walk. Finally I just kick them off, quick, and pull down my skirt. There’s a moment of nothing much and then my companion looks me over, beginning to see the potential for the speck of dust beside him to turn from cubic zirconia to white diamonds.

“That doesn’t match.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cowboy boots and that dress. That doesn’t match. Unless you’re a hooker.”

He laughs at himself, thinking he’s Mr. Wit and oh so old and wise.

“Oh, so now I’m a hooker?”

“Look, darlin, you’re too ripe is the problem.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said you’re too ripe. And your mouth’s too big. You got a big mouth.”

“What do you mean I got a big mouth? You mean like it’s too big, in general, or like I talk too much?”

“Both.”

“Wull, what do I care anyways.”

“What was that?”

“What do you know anyways, you’re nothing but a fucking cripple.”

He stops the truck so fast my head slams forward about an inch off the dashboard and I wonder if my nervous hospital judgment wasn’t so far off base. I sit dumb trying to wonder how I can switch things back from minor to major. This is the part where I’m scared, but there’s something in my fear, something else, like I want him to get mad and fly off the handle and show me what he’s got.

“You listen to me, you little brat, if you ever, ever say that again, I’ll throw you straight through this windshield and run you over after that. Understood?”

We stare at each other, double-dare.

“Let me out.”

“What? Speak up. I can’t hear you?”

“Let me out.”

“Door’s right there. Feel free to use it.”

“Okay. I will and fuck you, you fucking gimp.”

And with that he lunges over me, opens the door and pushes me and all my worldly belongings out in one fell swoop. I land on the ground in the dirt and he peels off before I can say I’m fine. Before I dust myself off or stand up and show him I’m capable of walking on my own, he’s over the next hill and into the night.

Well, that’s that, I guess.

I look into the night sky, pitch black with stars so bright you wonder why you can’t just hop on one and ride away. The corn smells sweet behind me, heading off row by row into the pitch black. There are no cars. No lights for miles. Not even a telephone pole to give you comfort.

I walk myself gently into the ditch. Whenever I feel like this, I am gentle with myself, pretend like I’m someone else, someone good. I walk on eggshells around myself, like I’m some fragile piece of porcelain you have to place quietly, deliberately back on the shelf.

I put my jeans and T-shirt on the ground to make a bed, then set my bag up top for the pillow. Home sweet home. My first night out was not a stunning success. Maybe I was too thirsty for my new life. I lay my head back on my makeshift pillow and decide that tomorrow I will behave in a manner that is slow. Tomorrow I will let things happen to me, instead of trying to make things happen. Tomorrow I will try to be softer.