Alex in Wonderland (The Wonderland Series Book 1) (9 page)

PART TWO

-Lewis Carroll,
Alice’s Adventures in
Wonderland

12

 
Hit the Road, Jack!

At six in the morning, t
he New Orleans Greyhound Station was
everything Alex feared and then some. As he entered the terminal, his nostrils
reacted to an acrid, very potent amalgam of
industrial cleaner, sour
sweat and stray odors he didn’t want to think about. Jolie had dismissed it as
“a momentary descent down the Dantean ladder,” and Alex agreed, looking quickly
away when a street person chose that special moment to change her soiled drawers.

He scanned the noisy room, found
the counter for picking up tickets and took his place in line. He tried to
remain inconspicuous and ignore what swirled around him, no easy feat since he
was appalled everywhere he looked. Alex had never noticed how fat Americans
were and was shocked by the avalanche of enormous tits, bellies and butts that
threatened to crush him from every direction, most of them encased in clothing
that was way too tight. The woman in front of him threatened to explode from a
tee shirt and stretch pants so snug they looked painted on, except it would
have been impossible to poke even a tiny brush between those rolls of fat. He
looked away when she pulled a half-eaten drumstick from her purse and gnawed
away. In a line to the right, a gaggle of runaway teens in filthy shorts and
jeans flaunted so many piercings their heads looked like pin cushions. One
pimply girl’s especially large nose ring was, for Alex, the revolting
piece
de resistance.

Jeez Louise, he thought. This is like
a casting call for a Fellini movie!

Desperation to flee New
Orleans was all that kept Alex centered. He closed his
eyes and conjured his father’s angry face, then dissolved to the swaying
cocoanut palms of Key West. Alex
was so good at self-detachment that he only vaguely remembered buying his
ticket and climbing aboard the bus marked Mobile.
In fact he didn’t recall much of anything until an elderly woman across the
aisle struggled to stow her bag overhead. Without hesitation he jumped up to
help, brought back to reality by the old lady’s heartfelt response.

“Why, thank you, miss.”

Miss?!

Alex had ventured so far
into detached mode that he’d forgotten his disguise. Shortly before
midnight
, Jolie raided his vast costume closet
for something forgettable. “Always remember that unobtrusiveness is your best
weapon.,
cheri!
The tackier, the
better!”

The frenzied search yielded a pair
of Capri pants left over from last winter’s Trailer Trash Party. “The length is
weird because you’re shorter,” he conceded, “but you’re hardly strutting your
stuff on a LaCroix runway.” He tossed Alex a huge gray sweatshirt. “That
thing’s so baggy you won’t need fake boobs.”

The blonde curls disappeared
beneath a shaggy brunette wig hiding much of Alex’s face, and a light touch of
lipstick to the full, Brendan Fraser lips was his only concession to make-up.
Alex agreed to everything until Jolie tried to switch his Prada shoulder bag
for a very bad imitation.

“People don’t carry designer
luggage on buses,
bébé
."

“You’re right,” Alex agreed. “They
carry fakes. Trust me, they’ll think this cost $20 on the street and not $600
at Sak’s.”

Jolie conceded and, with the
addition of a pair of unfashionable low-heeled sandals and horn-rimmed glasses
with smoky lenses, Alex’s ensemble was complete. Jolie had proclaimed it “White
Trash Chic
par excellence!”
and pretended to weep as he kissed Alex on
both cheeks.

“Oh, dear!” he wailed. “My little
girl’s all grown up and leaving the nest!”

The close encounter with the old
woman on the bus reminded Alex his mannerisms had to match his clothes. He
smiled, elevated his voice an octave and said, “You’re welcome, ma-am.”

He took a seat by the window and looked outside, recoiling when he saw
Fried Chicken Lady lining up to board. She was still munching away as she
waddled her three hundred plus pounds toward the bus. Alex slunk lower in his
seat and was praying she wouldn’t plop her fat ass beside him when something
else caught his eye. It was a dream and a nightmare rolled into one.

“Damn!” he breathed.

Glimpsed periodically behind the woman’s monstrous bulk was a man a few
years older than himself, wearing a white tee so tight Alex saw prominent
nipples. He also saw heavy pecs and biceps, flat abs and beefy thighs in faded,
well-worn jeans. The rest of the package was impressive too, although the guy
was hardly Matinee Idol handsome. He had dark, close-cropped hair, pretty eyes
and a firm jaw line, but his nose looked like it had been broken and a nasty
scar marred his stubbly left cheek. A baseball cap with small rainbow flag
announced his sexual preference to those who read the code. Scar and all, Alex
was strongly attracted but knew the guy was potential trouble. He remembered
Jolie’s warning that most gay men had innate talent for spotting drag, bad as
well as good, and he couldn’t risk anyone blowing his cover.
At
least not until he was well out of
Louisiana
.

Alex closed his eyes and feigned
sleep as the boarding continued. To his relief, the bus was only about three
quarters full and no one sat beside him. Mr. Beefy Tee sat up front while
Chicken Woman roosted toward the rear near the Human Pincushions. Alex actually
managed to doze a little as the bus hummed across the Pearl River
and into the dark Mississippi
night. His last memory before going under was the rattle of plastic and the
smell of fried chicken grease.

“
Mobile
,
Alabama
, ladies and gentlemen!
Mobile!”

Alex was
startled awake when the driver’s voice boomed through a speaker just above his
head. He looked at his watch.
10:15
in the morning. He didn’t know how he had slept through over three hours of bus
stops but was grateful to have missed a chunk of the trip. He rubbed his eyes,
remembering Mobile was where he
transferred to a bus for Jacksonville.
He had another important change to make too.

Alex
bade a secret farewell to Chicken Lady and reeled sleepily off the bus,
wandering into the terminal with a handful of other passengers. A growling
stomach reminded him he was famished, but first things first. He headed for the
rest rooms and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Shit!”

Safely in
Alabama
.
Alex planned to ditch the drag and change into his own
clothes, but he faced a critical dilemma. As a woman he couldn’t walk into the
men’s room, but he also risked pandemonium if he emerged from a ladies room
stall dressed as a man.

“Double shit!”

He only
had forty-five minutes to have some breakfast and formulate a plan before the
bus left for Jacksonville and hoped
a hearty Southern breakfast would feed brain as well as body. More
self-conscious than ever in the brightly lit coffee shop, he took a seat in a
far corner and ordered ham, eggs, grits and black coffee from a bubbly waitress
who
was,
poor thing, even homelier than himself. Alex
was oddly flattered when he realized the woman was flirting, and, even more
surprising, he flirted back

“Thank
you, darlin’,” he chirped, purposely brushing fingertips with the waitress as
he passed back the menu.

Alex’s
patronizing smiles brought the food with amazing speed. He nibbled in the most
ladylike manner he could manage, oblivious to being watched by someone besides
the lonely lesbian waitress. As he finished eating, he stayed focused on the
need to change clothes before boarding another bus, and when no plan emerged he
resigned himself to continuing the trip in drag.

The
solution hit like a lightning bolt.

“Of
course!”
 

Alex
dabbed his mouth with a napkin, reapplied his lipstick, overtipped the
lovestruck waitress and hurried out of the restaurant. He found what he was
looking for on the other side of the terminal and eagerly tried the door,
relieved to find the room empty.
 

“Thank
God for unisex handicapped restrooms,” he muttered.

Hurrying
inside, Alex chucked his wig, wiped off the new coat of lipstick, kicked off
the sandals and stripped to his briefs. He tucked the drag in his bag before
tugging on Calvin jeans, Gucci loafers and a navy Polo shirt. A quick brush to
loosen his flattened curls, and he was ready to face the world. As he strode
triumphantly through the busy terminal, liberated at last, Alex remained
unaware that his strange metamorphosis was not going unnoticed.

13

The Long and

Alex headed for the back of the Jacksonville
bus and heaved his bag onto the overhead rack. He’d barely settled in his seat
when he spotted Mr. Beefy Tee heading down the aisle along with several other New
Orleans passengers. Now that Alexandra Yussupov was
only a lonely lesbian memory, Alex didn’t shy away from dispatching a steady
gaze as the guy approached and eyed the empty seat. He smiled when he heard the
deep voice.

“Anybody sitting
there?”

“Help yourself.”

The stranger nodded but didn’t
return Alex’s smile. “Thanks.”

Biceps bulged as he tossed a heavy
duffle bag onto the overhead. He stretched and plopped down beside Alex, then
leaned forward to pull a paperback from his hip pocket. Alex couldn’t make out
the title.

“Going all the way to Jacksonville?”
Alex asked.

“Sugarloaf Key.”
The guy didn’t look up from his book.

“Yeah? I’m going to Key
West. Is it close?”

“’Bout twenty
minutes, give or take.”

Noncommittal, aren’t we? Alex
thought. They sat in silence until the bus swept through the long tunnel under Mobile
Bay and emerged in the bright Alabama
sunlight. Alex found the quiet awkward.

“If we’re spending the next eleven
hours together I guess we ought to introduce ourselves.” He held out his hand.
“I’m Alex.”

 
“I’m Cord Foster.” The grip was bone-crushing
and brief. “You got a last name?”

“Yussupov,” Alex blurted, wondering
if his lie was necessary since he’d completed his New
Orleans escape. When he got a curious look, he added,
“It’s Russian.”

Cord grunted and went back to his
book. Alex glimpsed the title when they shook hands and caught himself before
reading it aloud.
The Zen of
Deep
Sea
Fishing.

Jeez Louise, he thought. Maybe the
guy plans to bore himself to sleep. After a few more minutes he decided to make
another overture

“You like fishing?” He nodded at
the book, hoping his question wasn’t as dumb as it sounded.

“My old man’s the fisherman,” Cord
said. “Got a boat down in Sugarloaf. Takes the tourists deep sea fishing.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I’m about to find out first-hand,
and not by choice.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

When Cord went back to his book,
Alex was frustrated by the abrupt dismissal and wondered how someone could make
a remark that tantalizing and leave it hanging. He tried again. “What do you
mean?”

Cord closed the book and faced
Alex. “Look, man. I appreciate your efforts to be friendly, but I’m not in a
very chummy mood. In fact, I haven’t been since I lost my job as a personal
trainer in Houston three months
ago.”

That explains the muscles, Alex
thought.

“I went through my savings and am
now on the verge of bankruptcy. At the ripe old age of thirty-two I’m having to
crawl home and beg my old man for a job and until that wonderful moment I’m
stuck on a fucking Greyhound bus for the next twenty four hours.”

“With some chatty asshole who won’t
leave you alone,” Alex finished. He was tempted to add, “P.S., your cat is
dead!” but figured Cord wouldn’t get the reference to an old gay play.

To his surprise, Cord’s lips slowly
curled into a smile and he said, “Sorta like, P.S., my cat is dead.”

Alex burst out laughing. “I was
just about to say that myself. Great play, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t know it was a play,” Cord
said. “It’s just something I heard my brother say.” He took off the baseball
cap with the tiny rainbow flag and rubbed his forehead. “This is his hat. He
left it last time he visited.”

“Oh.”

Alex swallowed and looked away.
Your brother’s cap, huh? Maybe you’re not gay after all, and that’s why you’re
ignoring my overtures. Shit! So now I’m sitting next to Mr. Texas Angler all
the way to Jacksonville. Double
shit!

“You live in Key
West?” Cord asked.

Alex was surprised by the question,
assuming the guy would go back to his book after that woeful diatribe. “No,” he
replied. “I’m visiting a friend.”

“Ever been before?”

“No.”

“Interesting old town. Lotsa drunks
and queers but some damned good seafood.”

Queers, huh? Alex decided things
had just gone from bad to worse. So now he had Mr. Homophobic Texas Angler as a
traveling companion. He felt like his cat had died too and decided to bury his
misery in the thriller he’d filched from Jolie’s bookshelf.

“Can I get by?” he asked, nodding
at the overhead rack. “I need to get in my bag.”

“I’ll get it.” Cord stood up and
inadvertently shoved his crotch in Alex’s face as he retrieved the heavy bag
with ease. He propped it on the armrest while Alex unzipped the appropriate
compartment and pulled out his book. “Nice bag.”

“Thanks,” Alex said as Cord shoved
it back overhead.

“I never could afford Prada.”

“It’s a fake,” Alex said.

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I worked at the Houston Galleria
once, selling luggage at Neiman’s. I know the real deal when I see it.”

“Oh.”

Cord frowned. “Why’d you lie?”

Alex wished he hadn’t ignored
Jolie’s warning. “Because it’s probably not smart to carry Prada on a bus
trip.”

“So why’d you do it?”

“I…I was in a hurry.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alex snapped, irked by the sudden
interrogation. “It means this is the only luggage I have, okay?”

“And I guess the only watches you have
are Rolexes.” Cord nodded at the $2000 chunk of metal gripping Alex’s wrist.
“Huh?”

“No,” he shot back. “I’ve got a
Movado and a Gucci stashed in my bag too. So what?!”

“Take it easy, man,” Cord said.
“You were giving me the third degree back there. I was just returning the
favor.”

Alex’s cheeks flamed. “I’m…I’m
sorry. I guess we’re both a little edgy right now.”

“I guess,” Cord agreed. After a
moment he said, “After weighing the evidence, I’d say my problem is not enough
money and yours is too much.”

Alex knew he was drifting toward
troubled waters, but a combination of fear and loneliness made him encourage
this perfect stranger. As long as I’m careful what I say, maybe it’s a good
idea to have an ally during this interminable ride through hell. Someone to
talk to might even help pass the time.

“What do you mean?”

Cord faced Alex and the blurred Alabama
countryside before dropping the bomb.
“Because you’ve got all
the signs of a poor little rich boy running away from home.”

Alex’s cheeks reddened even more.
“Why do you say that?”

“How old are you? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Whatever.” Cord shrugged. “Anyway,
how many Gen-Xers dripping with designer crap haul their ass on a Greyhound
bus?

Those troubled waters Alex had
feared suddenly swirled around his neck. If this conversation stayed on course,
he worried Cord might learn much too much. He thought fast.

“You’re very observant, Cord. Let’s
just say I’m doing undercover work.”

“Who for? Or is it a secret?”

“Not really,” Alex said stalling.
He started to claim he was a travel writer, then reconsidered. “A rival bus
company. I’m supposed to report on everything from on-time performance to seat
comfort, clean restrooms, stuff like that. You know. See what the competition
is doing.” He knew it sounded stupid and wished he’d stuck with his first
impulse, especially when he heard Cord’s next question.

“Who do you think’s going to
recognize you?”

“Well, you never know,” Alex
replied. “Besides, I’m just doing as I was told.”

Cord leaned closer and spoke in a conspiratorial
tone. “With all due respect, Mr. Yussupov, bullshit!”

Alarmed as well as annoyed, Alex
beat a hasty retreat. “Believe what you like,” he said, opening his book. “I’m
going to read a while.”

“Go right ahead. Me too.”

Alex opened his novel but couldn’t
concentrate. The words swam as he evaluated his situation and worried about
Cord’s on-target observation. A rich kid on the lam, he thought. Bingo! Then
there was the business about the designer stuff, especially the watches. This
perfect stranger had confessed that he was desperate for money and was now
within reach of thousands of dollars worth of jewelry. Alex flashed back to a
train trip through Hungary
when a gang of gypsies burst into his first class compartment and menaced him
until the conductor threw them off the train. For all he knew, Cord might wait
until he dozed off, grab his bag and hop off at the next stop. Alex retrieved
his itinerary and counted the stops between Mobile
and Jacksonville.

“Eleven stops,” he muttered.

Cord was staring right at him.
“Yeah. It’s gonna be a damned long day, buddy.”

No, shit, Alex thought.