Box

32

I’m in the car by myself.

Nothing bad has happened.

Zander has a girlfriend named Chris who works at the local bowling alley. She wanted to swing by, visit with Chris a minute.

“Chris’s husband died recently,” she told me on the way here. “I’m going to invite her to come with us, if that’s okay with you.”

She saw the look on my face and laughed.

“Look at you,” she said. “I was kidding!”

“You were kidding?”

She laughed some more. “Of course! You think I’d drag you all the way here and bring a grieving widow with us to a make-out party?”

“I hope not!”

“It’s too bad you feel that way, because Chris has a huge crush on me and asked if we could have a threesome at her place later tonight.”

“Seriously?”

“Again, I’m kidding. Only this time you didn’t seem as upset. You think I’d share you with another woman? Are you crazy?”

“At this point, I’m not sure what to think.”

“Good. That means I’ve got you right where I want you.”

“Where’s that?”

“Confused.”

“I’m definitely confused,” I say. “So, are we going to the bowling alley or not?”

“We are. At least, I am. I do need to visit Chris. But just for two minutes. And no, she’s not coming with us!”

Zander directed me to the bowling alley, had me pull around to the back of the building, park by the employee parking sign. She got out, knocked on the door, and a young lady opened it, waved at me, then let her in. I remained in the car as directed, and have been here about five minutes.

There are no cars out front, so either it’s a dying business, or they’re not open yet. Chris must have inherited a Ford 150 from her husband’s estate, because that’s the only other car here.

Another five minutes pass quietly, then Zander comes out and climbs in the car.

“Everything okay?” I say.

“Peachy.”

“Good. How do I get to the make-out spot?”

She laughs. “You mean the riverbank?”

“Yeah.”

“Keep going straight till I tell you to turn.”

I follow her directions.

Ten minutes later, we’re one of a dozen cars on the side of the levy, angled nose-down, toward the river.

“We’re not alone,” I say.

“In two hours there’ll be thirty cars and trucks here. People come from miles around.”

“To drink?” I say.

“Drink and fuck,” she says.

“I like it.”

She opens a jug of wine, tilts it to her mouth, swallows three times, then hands it to me and smiles.

“Now you drink some, so we’ll taste the same.”

I take three sips.

It’s rancid. Like someone started with a bad jug of wine and pissed in it to improve the flavor. But I’m careful not to wince. I don’t want to offend this young, good-looking girl while parked in a sacred place where people come from miles around to drink and fuck.

She takes another chug, then leans over, kisses me, and says, “How far does this seat recline?”

“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.