Pages Torn From a Travel Journal (13 page)

As I pulled up my trousers, my brow creased like an accordion, as I wanted to ask how Bleechy in the first place
knew
how much “cum” said equus might produce, but then . . .

I thought the better of it.

The girls began to disband, all hailing some mode of farewell, to wit: “‘Bye, Mister hero!” & “If’n I git knocked up, I’ll’se name my baby
Howard!
” & “Oh, I just knows I’m gonna have me a baby now–a
hero
-baby!” & “G’night, Mister! Thanks fer yer nut!”

I groaned wearisomely. Would any of them actually become impregnated? Would
many
of them?

With
my
luck,
I suspected,
they
all
will . . .

I watched, still stupefied, as they disappeared like salacious eidolons amid the twisted trees and dapples of moonlight.

Bleechy was all who remained. “Thank ya so much, Howard,” & she leaned & kissed me. I couldn’t have grimaced more intensely, as her tongue ploughing into mine no doubt was still rife with the presence of my own sperm (or, to use a previous fine gentleman’s kingly lexicon, my own “dick-goober.”) Then she winked & gave my crotch 2 quick squeezes, like the rubber bulb on a child’s bicycle horn. “You really are quite a man!” I might point out that she pronounced the word “quite” as
qwatt.

When she’d made her exit, I wiped my mouth off on my arm–
yuck!
— &, feeling a perfect lackwit, struggled to drag myself up; half-way through the effort, however, a big hand grabbed my wrist &—

“There ya go, Howard!”

The shadowed hulk before me was Eamon, far less tense than he’d been, evidently, since partaking in his relief. As though my body lacked mass altogether, he lifted me to my feet.

“Thank you, Eamon.”

“It’s we’se who’s thankin’ you, Sir. Fer all ya done,” the great, rough voice issued. He glanced aside, where the last of the nude women disappeared–then he smiled. “Aw, I see Bleechy’n her gals just showed ya some southern harspitality.” He elbowed me with a wink. “Bet they filched yer cum, huh?”

Drawn & haggard, all I could say was, “Um, uh . . . yes. They did indeed.”

Eamon emitted a hearty chuckle. “Them gals’re sumpthin, yesiree. They pult that stunt on some fella couple’a years ago, fed’ral man, some guy from state wildlife department’re some such; & I’ll be danged if five of ‘em didn’t get preggered by his nut.” His big hand cracked me on the back. “Howard, I just want’cha ta know we’se’ll be plumb honored ta have some’a yer hero’s blood runnin’ in our clan . . . ”

I wobbled in place at the data.

“But on ta more serious stuff–thank ya from the bottom’a my heart fer what’cha done. Catchin’ that devil the way ya did, and allowin’ us to see ta proper punishment . . . why, now me’n my whole clan, we’se can sleep in peace. Just want’cha ta know how’s grateful we is.”

“Yuh-yuh-yuh . . . you’re quite welcome,” I absurdly replied, knowing I must now disengage. “It’s time for me to be off, though–I’ve an early bus.”

“‘A’course, a’course!” boomed the big voice. “I reckon what’cha seen here weren’t quite what’cha ‘spected, but ya gots ta remember, we’se from different worlds.”

I nodded, exhausted. “And from different worlds, Eamon, different ways . . . .
Backwoods
ways, in this instance . . . ”

His eyes bored into me. “That’s a-right, Howard. Ya truly are a hero, and I’m shore proud as
shit
my two boys got ta be in yer presence. But before ya leave, is there anythin’ I’se can do fer ya?”

I was about to answer a hasty
no
, but then that esoteric fugue returned to the backdrop of my mind &, hence, my spirit . . .

2 May, 19—

daybreak

The horizon’s creeping acclivity in the east flamed with the molten colours of dawn when my feet made the last steps toward my destination. A smile in my eye, I spied the dilapidated wooden sign mounted on the ramshackle building: NATE’S GAS & REPAIRS.
Finally . . .
Fatigue & a more than understandable shock had hindered my ordinarily brisk pace of walking. The chirping frolic of birds seemed to greet me as I approached the dingy garage–at once I felt energized in spite of my tiredness; & it was with a sudden spring in my step that I ambulated on. In a distant lot, the bus (with a hatch opened in the back, & one who could only be Nate leaning into it) was next to snag my gaze; i.e., the repairs were underway. Also, I noticed with some heartenment that those passengers who’d last evening opted for the nearby motel were returning as well.

I’d had enough of this place, & now was the time for me to be gone from it.

Inside the front “office” I was immediately alarmed to find the British slatternette was just coming awake upon the tattered couch, dark hair disarranged. She rubbed sleep from her eyes, squinting. “Oh, it’s you,” her accent appraised.

“Good morn–” I began, then felt a start like a hard shove in the chest.

Where last time I’d seen this sordid-mouthed, busty tart, she’d been fit to erupt from late-term pregnancy, she now displayed no such evidence at all. As she groggily swivelled around on the couch, in fact, her abdomen appeared lithely slim beneath the burgeoning, un-brassiered breasts.

“Miss! No doubt, you’ve—”

She smiled just as a high-pitched squalling resounded from a back room; then a door clicked open.

Into the cramped office walked the 3 Floridian brothers, all grinning proud as fathers themselves while in the arms of the central man churned a chubby newborn swaddled in linens. It bawled loud as an entire maternity ward (squalling babies have always irritated me) yet when one of the whiskery brothers tickled the infant’s chin, it ceased its cacophony & giggled in oblivious glee.

“I dropped the li’l mate last night,” came the mother’s cockney explanation. “He’s half-Yank, so I’m touchin’ wood that’s a smart mix.”

A much more coarse accent–ugh, another
southern
accent—suffixed the new mother’s words: the brother to the left. “See, me’n my brothers was thinkin’, shit, we’se got ourselfs a big ole shack down Penser-kola, plennie’a room, and she ain’t got nowhere’s ta go, so . . . fuck! We’se invited her to come live with us, help her raise this li’l booger. It’ll be like alls three’a us is the crumb-snatcher’s father!”

I looked back in utter perplexion, while at the same time feeling quite guilty about having misjudged these men, dismissing them as simple yokels via their scruff appearance & ruffian deportment. “Why, what a noble and high-character gesture. You men surely are due serious praise to take on such a responsibility out of the charity of your hearts.”

“Yeah!” said the middle brother. “It’ll be the kind’a change we need, ‘stead’a the same ole thang, just fishin’ and drinkin’.” (Aside, I’ll point out that he pronounced “drinkin’” as
drankin’
) “Gawd knows she kin use a hand, specially the way the ‘conomy is these days. It’ll do us all good.”

The 3
^rd
one, grinning, leaned over close, & whispered with a snigger, “‘Sides, as fine a fuck as
she
is, this limey tramp’ll have us full
up
with pussy fer long as we want!”

Indeed.

But this knowledge was a bit of positivity I needed. A beam of unexpected light in a decidedly dark world. It was refreshing to perceive, and dampened my typically nihilistic impression of every one & every thing. Meanwhile, the baby
goo-goo’
d &
gaa-gaa’
d ad nauseam, but when the minuscule eyes within the pudgy face found their way to the mother’s prodigious bosom, it began to squall again, to the extent that I ground my teeth.

“Alls it takes is one gander at momma’s big-ass tits, and he up’n goes ape-shit,” a brother said.

“Give ‘im ‘ere, love,” said the woman, outstretching her arms. “He’s ‘ungry.”

“He just
done
sucked a quart out that milk-cart.”

“‘E’s a growin’ boy!”

The central brother relinquished the infant; whereupon she uninhibitedly bared a breast. Without urging, the baby’s tiny mouth immediately sought the distended nipple and began to suck.

“That’s my lad!”

“Kid’ll be tit-feedin’ till he’s twennie!” one brother roared, and the others cackled like daemonic parrots. I used the uproar’s distraction to slip back out, unnoticed; nodding curtly to those others returning from the flagrantly-priced motel.

“Well, hail!” another voice shot loud enough to send a jolt from my shoes to my head, and then came an unprepared-for slap upon my back.

This gesture was something I did
not
 appreciate.

“Was
wonderin’
where ya gots yerself off too,” informed Nate the mechanic. “When me’n the other fella was done sloppin’ us up some carnie whores, we done looked all over fer ya, but—”

“Yes. I grew so engaged within the intricacies of the show, I’m afraid I was a bit late in attempting to locate you and the bus driver,” said I. “I apologise for causing you any undue concern.”

“Aw, ain’t no big deal. Figgered a smart fella like you’d figger some way ta git back. But I’se glad ya didn’t take much longer—”

“Pardon me?”

“Yer blammed bus is fixed. Didn’t take me but a hour ta do the job.”

“Why, that’s delightful news! I commend you on your promptitude and expertise, and I thank you. Don’t misread me, Sir. It is not that your . . . ‘neck of the woods’ has not enlivened me splendidly, but . . . I’m anxious to re-commence with my travels.”

“Oh, shore ya are. But it weren’t a total waste fer ya, huh?” He winked. “Ya got’s to go to the carnival!”

“Yes,” I all but croaked, feigning a smile.

He chuckled and–for
pity’s
sake—rubbed his crotch. “Me’n that other fella? Ooo-ee! We’se
busted
some poon, we did. My peter kicked out so much joy juice last night”–and, yes, he pronounced “night” as
nat
–“likely as not I’ll’se be plumb empty fer a week!”

“That’s-that’s . . . quite . . . ”

“Don’t know ‘bout that driver fella, but I’se definite got me a triple.”

“A
triple?
Isn’t that . . . baseball terminology?”

He guffawed in wheezes. “Naw, fella! Far as whorin’ goes, a triple’s when ya spunk one in the hair-box, ’nother one in the can, and a third in the breadbasket.”

I paled. “Ah. I see.”

But a sudden concerned expression overcame the seedy man’s countenance. “Aw, dang, I’se up’n fergot. Just a hour ago–‘fore you got back–two men from the blammed county
sheriff’s
department come by!”

“You . . . you don’t say,” I replied, stiffening a bit.

“Kid ya not, Slim. Drop by here while’s it’s still dark, lookin’ all serious’n all.” He curled his finger at me, and accentuated his expression in an attitude indicating the need for discernment. “They up’n tolt me there was a
murder
last night–”

The word brought a stall to my heart. “A mur–”

“Shhh! Best ta not let the others hear–don’t want ‘em bad-mouthin’ the town. But I ain’t lyin’, not long after me’n the other fella git back, these county men bang on the door’n question us!”

“Qwuh-question, you say?”

“Yee-ip. Real serious-like.” He lowered his whisper further, to near inaudibility. “See, sometime after the carnival close up? Some-‘un dang snuck into the trailer’a O’Slaughnassey hisself! And up’n
kilt
him!”

“O’Slaughn–oh, you mean–”

Nate nodded as if a preceptor of vast wisdom; he pointed to the advert poster, to the proprietor’s name. “The same dang guy who owns the
whole
shebang,
yessir! Got kilt
bad,
too!”

In counterfeit shock, I replied as I perceived anyone would. “That’s terrible, certainly. But when you say the poor man was killed in a bad way . . . just . . . how do you mean?”

His shoulders popped in a quick shrug. “The coppers never tolt. But more’n a tad sick ta their bellies the both of ‘em looked, I’ll tell ya.”

I cleared my throat. “What, um, what did they ask?”

He rolled a cigarette expertly with one hand. “Aw, just if we’d been, so we tolt ‘em yeah–”

“Ah, so you apprised them that the three of us had attended the carnival, thanks to the free tickets offered by the tall man, yes?”