NIGHT CRUISING (8 page)

her thighs now creeping
into her cheeks. She looked over quickly to where Cruise lay
peacefully sleeping. She sucked in a breath and rubbed her eyes
against the afternoon sun beating through the windshield. It felt
like midsummer here in Texas. Hot as a griddle.

Her heart beat fast and
strong in her chest. She felt as if she'd used up as much energy as
she might have running laps around a football field. She'd been
dreaming of making it with Cruise. A whole truckload of shame
suffused her. Guilt at the betrayal of her body made her bring her
arms in close to her sides and squirm in the car seat. She sometimes
had these disturbing sexual dreams. She'd never had the nerve to ask
other girls if they too sometimes woke from naps or in the night
after experiencing vividly detailed romps with men. She was afraid
they'd tell her no, and then she'd know for sure she was abnormal,
her sexual appetite too large for so young a girl, so inexperienced a
girl.

Before losing her
virginity--or rather, before giving it away--she had these same
dreams, but they were what she called "baby" sex dreams
once she knew better. She fantasized being touched, kissing, fondling
in the dark. She would wake to find herself rocking belly down,
massaging herself against the mattress. She didn't know what it felt
like to make love.

After having sex the
dreams changed completely. They had little to do with foreplay, with
kissing or snuggling or touching. They got right down to the crux of
the matter where she dreamed of penetration, of the slick thrust and
pump of the act itself. She dreamed of being filled. Of reaching for
orgasm and nearly missing each time she woke dripping sweat, her
small breasts tingling, nipples swollen, a fire burning down below.
Sometimes when she was too excited to forestall it, she masturbated,
gently with her finger, probing, then furiously until she came, her
breath caught in her throat, her hand lodged between her legs, back
arched.

She wished fervently to
be rid of these kinds of fantasies that plagued her, that brought
along with them guilt and sometimes shame at a runaway subconscious.
Yet about once a month or so they returned like bold demons sharing
her bed, driving her crazy with unfulfilled longing.

She'd die if Cruise
knew she'd dreamed of him that way. She peeked a look at his body.
Let her gaze travel from heavy black lashes lying on his cheeks, down
to his lips hiding beneath mustache and beard, over his muscular
chest stretching at the material of his shirt, down to the belt in
his slacks, the bulge in his crotch. Lingered there before traveling
on down his legs to his feet.

A trembling thrill
rolled down her. Again she sucked in a breath and held it.

Crazy. She had to get
out of the car before she did something incredibly stupid like
reaching for him. She could already feel his big hands on her. She
began to burn again, to squirm uncomfortably in the seat. She grabbed
the door handle and jerked open the door, scrambled out into the
fresh air. She shut the door quietly, just until it clicked, leaning
down to stare through the window at Cruise's sleeping face to be sure
he hadn't wakened. She smoothed her hair as well as she could. She
composed herself, trying to quiet the hidden hunger. She would go
into the truck stop and wash in the ladies' room. She'd drink some
coffee and get over this mad rush of maniacal lust.

What was wrong with
her? Is this what it was to be an adult, to feel this uncontrollable,
aching fire take you even as you slept innocent and pure?

She noticed most of the
day was gone. The sun was falling down the sky, sinking fast to the
flat horizon. It was a shock to think she'd slept most of the
daylight hours away. Getting just like Cruise. But what could she
expect with him telling her stories all through the night, keeping
her captive with his melodic voice. She suspected that's what he
wanted-to rearrange her sleeping rhythms. Well, he was the boss on
this particular joyride.

She looked up at the
sign perched on the edge of the roof of the restaurant and read the
name. The White Elephant Cafe. A fat dirty white elephant sat back on
his haunches and trumpeted at the sky. Hah. Out here in the middle of
God knew where, that's all they could think to call it, she guessed.
It was a low-slung job in mud-red brick. The trim was painted brown
and white. It could be torn down and no one would lose money.

She went through a
glass door and found herself in a small store. Refrigerated cases of
beer and soft drinks, milk, cheeses, luncheon meats. Aisles of
trucker stuff. CB mikes and connections, logbooks, envelopes, every
over-the-counter medicine ever put on the market.

A dull, wrung-out rag
of a woman manned the cash register. She filed her nails, not
bothering to look up as Molly entered.

To the left was a
hallway with rest rooms. Molly headed for the ladies and held open
the door for a big woman dressed in tight jeans and a blue workman's
jacket. She must be a trucker, Molly assumed. Looked the part anyway.
Didn't look like anybody's momma.

After relieving
herself, washing her face, hands, neck, and upper arms with soap and
water, she tried to get a brush through her red frowsy hair. Giving
up trying to get it to lie down and behave, she scooped water into
her hands and smoothed it over her head. The natural curl coiled into
even tighter ringlets that fell around her pale face like corkscrewed
ribbons. She patted them into place with a brown paper towel.
Satisfied she was presentable, she left the rest room to find the
cafe.

It was at the end of
the hallway past four video games lined on one wall. A trucker in
greasy jeans played Tetris, the Russian game of falling shapes one
had to fit together into lines. Molly noted in passing he wasn't too
damn good at it either. She could beat him with one hand tied and her
eyes blindfolded.

She wandered into the
jumbo room of the cafe. She took a trucker's booth where a black
phone hung on the wall at table level. She sat staring at it a full
minute. Nah. She

couldn't call him, her
dad. He'd want to know where she was, why'd she leave, would she come
back? She couldn't stand the pain of it. To be truthful she missed
him already, but she'd get over it, she knew. She had to. She could
not live with him, could not, could not.

She watched the young
waitress. Her hair was short and lacquered stiffly. She wore a teddy
bear sweatshirt and faded jeans that fit her all too well. While she
waited to be served, Molly cataloged the stuff this joint had on the
puke-pink Formica table. The jumble sat on every table.

Mcllhenny Co. Tabasco
sauce, Cajun Chef hot sauce, ketchup, sugar shaker, salt and pepper
shakers, napkin holder, margarine and jelly tubs (apple and mixed
fruit), low-cal sugar packets, creamer packets, and a generic black
plastic ashtray. Good God. Did they provide for the customers or
what?

The little waitress
wore a short red change apron with black stitching across the front.
Molly read it when she approached. "My name is Stinky."

Molly suppressed a
giggle threatening to get up and out.

"Stinky?" she
asked when the girl stood over her.

The waitress looked
down at the apron. "Uh, no, this ain't my apron. My name's
Lynette."

Molly thought that was
pretty fortunate for the girl. "Just coffee right now. I'll look
at a menu."

Lynette bounced away
and came back with a tan plastic mug of steamy java and a
plastic-encased menu. There were black thumbprints on the front
edges.

Molly decided on the
huevos rancheros
. Two eggs served on a corn tortilla with
beans, rice, and their own special sauce. $2.95. Sounded like a
regular bargain if the heartburn didn't kill her.

While she waited for
the meal, Molly kept looking the place over. She didn't know what it
was about truck stops that Cruise might like. The floor was black and
white tiles. None too clean. The tables out in the center of the room
had chairs with vinyl backs and seats of sick mustard-yellow. Bad
color to have around food, she'd think. On white vinyl-covered walls
hung wooden pictures of sunsets and Indians, a picture-frame clock of
a semi-trailer truck parked in autumn leaves.

In the booth facing
Molly she saw the back of a driver's head. Leaning slightly to the
left or right she could see around him to get a view of his partner's
billed cap. It was black with a red-and-white eagle on the front.
Beneath the eagle was the legend RIDE To LIVE, LIVE To RIDE. At least
it didn't say BORN To LOSE.

There was a salad and
ice cream bar. Another waitress took care of the trade at the center
tables. She was fiftyish, gray hair, blue pants uniform, and a light
gray fleece-lined sweater jacket. She looked tired. Compared to the
bouncy Lynette of the red apron, she looked dead.

The
huevos rancheros
arrived and looked every bit as inviting as a roadkill. Molly's
stomach did a flip-flop looking at how the fragile eggs were buried
under the heaps of beans and rice.

Lynette said, '"There's
Tabasco sauce there if you want it."

Molly nodded dumbly.
She'd have to drink her coffee before she'd ever get up the courage
to tackle this thing.

While she sipped the
black brew, two truckers entered trailed by a woman, dressed as they
were, in jeans and sweatshirts and jackets. They passed Molly's
booth. The woman had long blond hair. Bleached, but pretty. On the
back of her black jacket was an American flag. Below the flag it read
STONE MOUNTAIN. Molly knew where that was. In Georgia. A big ring of
keys jingled and clanked on the woman's sturdy hips as she moved
past. Molly thought she smelled the scorched scent of a hot radiator
as they wove through tables to the back.

Travelers. Just like
her. Driving those big rigs and eating in dumps like this one.

And Cruise liked them.
She'd have to get him to confide in her just exactly what it was
about bad art, scrubby jeans, and greasy food that he found
intriguing.

Then again, come to
think of it, it was really highly amusing. She never saw Tabasco
sauce on the cafe tables in South Florida. She'd never in her life
seen a female truck driver. And thank God, she'd never known a girl
named Stinky--and wouldn't, she guessed.

The eggs were quite
good despite their caked and drowned appearance. The beans were hot,
the rice spicy. Molly ate every bite and burped politely behind a
napkin. Damn gas bothered her like crazy when she ate spicy foods.

Lynette didn't say
anything to her about sitting at a table reserved for truckers.
Probably because the place wasn't exactly packed to the rafters.
Molly let her cup be refilled four times before she made any move to
leave. She lingered, savoring the place, the sounds, the way the
truckers moved beneath their thick jackets and their cowboy and
gimmee hats. One fellow at the counter had great buns--tight and
small and cute as the cheeks of a panda bear--and just about the
longest legs Molly had ever seen. Dwight Yoakum, the country singer
who sang songs through his nose, had legs like that. Went on forever.
The trucker wore gray lizard-skin cowboy boots, the pointy-toed ones,
and his shirt had pearl snaps instead of buttons. He sat drinking
coffee and kidding pretty Lynette about her silly apron.

All of a sudden Molly
felt loneliness descend, a black curtain settling just behind her
eyes. She wished the cowboy would talk to her, kid her about
something. She wished the damn sun would set, goddammit, so Cruise
would wake up and keep her company. She might as well be invisible,
sitting nursing a cup of coffee, trailing a finger through a puddle
of water condensed off her yellow plastic glass of iced water.

Just how was she going
to make it in this world? When she got to California, that golden
West, that Pacific paradise, just how was she going to keep herself
off the street? She expected she was going to get hungry, learn all
about how it felt to have your stomach shrink and your clothes fall
off your hips. Learn all about staying out of the way of drug
addicts, pimps, pushers, and muggers. Learn how to sleep standing up,
leaning on a wall, arms folded. She'd seen people do that in downtown
Miami. Stand there like a leaning pole, propped against the side of a
wall, chin on chest, arms crossed, asleep. She guessed they locked
their knees to keep from falling on their faces.

It had to be hard.

Life. It was a tough
deal.

Tears swarmed in her
eyes and she angrily brushed them away by pretending to wipe her face
with a napkin.
Shit
.
Self-pitying asshole
. She lurched
up from the table and turned her back on the cute cowboy and his doll
of a waitress. She paid at the cashier's counter and hurried out the
door. The coolness of evening braced and refreshed her.

She eyed the sky,
measuring how far the sun had to go to hit sundown. An hour.
Forty-five minutes.

She glanced around the
parking lot for a place to wait it out. She picked the parking curb
near the Chrysler. She lay her head on crossed arms against her
knees, face turned so she could see the western sky. She could count
the colors of sunset, gift the layers with all new names. Clam white.
Pussy pink. Well. She had to have
some
fun. Then there was
larva lavender. Jazz blue. Bruise purple. Scalding red. Tabby-cat
orange. Bone ivory. Summer squash yellow.

Daydream
. She
could daydream about sex with Cruise. Or the cowboy with the lizard
boots and pearl snap buttons. He was younger, though not quite as
attractive. It was all right when she was awake and could control the
images, not let it get too out of hand where her body started feeling
all hot and achy and thrumming for a touch, any touch.

Slowly a masculine hand
pulled down the zipper of her jeans. Another hand, unattached to
body, to face, slipped up under her blouse and tugged the padded bra
aside.