Box

22

Dr. Gideon Box.

I’m at Faith Hemphill’s, counting the misrepresentations.

First, she lives in a ranch house, not on a ranch. There’s a lot of acreage surrounding her house, fields, scrub pine…but none of it belongs to her.

Including the ranch house.

She rents.

So the first misrepresentation is there’s no ranch. And the house itself is old and dilapidated. When I crossed the front yard to the porch a few minutes ago, a two-headed cat climbed out from under the car port to meet me, which I took to be a bad sign.

The second misrepresentation is Faith is larger than her photos indicated.

Much larger.

To put the size differential into perspective, if the Faith in the photos is a penny, the Faith I’m staring at is the piggy bank it goes in. This is a large woman. She could use sheep for tampons.

The third misrepresentation is she’s half-again older than she claimed.

That, or she’s had a helluva rough life.

On the other hand, she’s pleasant-looking, and seems nice. I won’t pretend she’d transition smoothly into the Manhattan club scene, but I don’t hang in those circles anyway, so that’s not an issue.

For me.

Having said that, I could fit in with that bunch if I wanted to, and Faith could not.

I’m sitting in her cramped den, drinking home-made lemonade, squinting hard, trying to recognize her from the photos on her profile page.

She’s not the same woman.

Period.

We’re making small talk.

“Nice watch,” she says.

“Thanks. Nice…” I look around, trying to find something to compliment. And come up with, “Nice taste you have. In watches.”

“Why, thank you!” she says. “What is it? A Timex?”

“Piaget Altiplano.”

“Is that Italian?”

“Swiss.”

“I love Swiss cheese,” she says.

“Who doesn’t?”

She sees me eyeing her and says, “I may be a little curvier than you expected.”

No shit? A little curvier? You think?

“Those pictures were taken a few months ago, and I’ve put on a couple of pounds since then. But I can lose them back, stay the same, or put on some more weight, if it suits you.”

I look at her and think I’ve figured out where all the lost pounds go from other people’s diets. In the same way elephants have been known to travel many miles in order to die at the elephant graveyard, lost pounds find their way to Faith Hemphill’s ass.

My smart ass remarks aside, I don’t mind her being heavier than she advertised, and I don’t mind her lying about the photos. I don’t care that she embellished her lifestyle by claiming to live on a ranch. The fact I’ve been in her home a half hour and no one’s tried to hang me yet is enough to keep me content.

“What was it that attracted you to my profile on the dating site?” she says.

The truth? Her web name.

Horny Hottie.

But what I say is, “You seemed interesting.”

“In what way?”

I start to say something about her ranch, and horses, then realize ninety percent of her profile might be a lie. So I say, “Tell me about your saddle business.”

“Well, aren’t you the eager beaver!” she says.

“Huh?”

“If you want to see my horses, just say so, silly man!”

“You have horses?”

She winks.

“Where are they?”

“You know where!” she says.

I’m confused. Does this mean she doesn’t have horses? Or she does, but they’re somewhere else?

She says, “The horses I’m referrin’ to can be found right where you’d expect.”

“Which is where, exactly?”

“In my bedroom, of course!”

I raise an eyebrow. Could “horses” be a euphemism for something sexual? And do I want to do something sexual with this older, plus-sized saddle-maker?

I think about Trudy. If I knew for certain she wanted me, I wouldn’t even consider entering this woman’s bedroom. I suppose I could call Trudy and ask her if she wants me, but that would be rude to Faith.

“Ready to see my horses, cowboy?” Faith says, adjusting her bosoms.

I still can’t imagine what she means.

Horses?

In the bedroom?

Weird.

Then again, I suppose it can’t hurt to at least find out what she’s talking about.

“I’m ready,” I say. “I think.”

She smiles, takes my hand, helps me to my feet, leads me to her bedroom. When we get close, she says, “Put you ear to the door and listen.”

I do, and she says, “You hear it?”

I do hear it. But have no idea what I’m hearing. Some sort of humming or buzzing sound. Like the sound a giant neon sign makes when you’re standing beneath it. I’m also detecting an occasional gurgling, bubbling sound. The kind half a dozen stoners might make while smoking water pipes at the same time.

I briefly wonder if she could possibly be running an opium den in her bedroom.

She puts her palm on my cheek and says, “Once you enter this portal, your life will never be the same.”

“That sounds rather hyperbolic,” I say.

“Just you wait,” she says.

Then she opens the door.

And my jaw drops.