The God Patent (20 page)

Ryan took a deep breath. They were both staring at him. He said, “This is hard, you know. It was a difficult time. My divorce with Linda was a month old and everything was falling apart…”

The day that Ryan drove away from GoldCon for good, he took his time. He’d given too much to that company and not enough to what mattered. Linda had left him before he even realized how much he’d neglected her. The image of who he had become haunted him—it was a short film loop: A divorced father and his cute son climbing out of a shiny BMW at a chain restaurant. Man and boy sitting at a table with nothing to say to each other.

Of course, Ryan had known for weeks that the last day at GoldCon would come, that there would be a night when he would want to disappear.

There was an ironic justice about returning to the scene of the crime. Every time he opened the sports page, he saw the ad for that same strip joint where they’d had Foster’s bachelor party. There was more justice there too. The place had gone downhill just as Ryan had. They’d lost their liquor license and converted to one of those totally nude places that encouraged men to bring their own booze.

He had it all planned. First, he stopped at his apartment, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and rolled a couple of joints. Next, he went to the bank and got a couple hundred bucks from an ATM, then to a liquor store for a pack of smokes and a half gallon of vodka. He got on the freeway, put AC/DC on the stereo,
and lit a joint. The traffic wasn’t too bad, and he had the windows down with the music cranked. When he got off the freeway, he realized he was going about half the speed limit. He laughed and turned down the music, then realized he was going about twice the speed limit and turned it back up.

There were a lot of “gentlemen’s clubs” on this side of town. The “Playthings” sign was made of flashing light bulbs. Half the bulbs were burned out—they’d all been lit at the bachelor party—and a piece of plywood had been added at the bottom with the words “Totally Nude Playthings, BYOB.”

It sure wasn’t the classiest place, and that was fine with Ryan. He wanted a night that fit his mood: dirty and foul, exciting and wild. He had nothing left to lose.

He got out and locked the car, realized the bag of booze was still on the front seat, unlocked the door, grabbed the bag, and headed inside.

A woman greeted him. It was her, in the same light-blue lace bikini top and g-string, the woman who’d put her phone number in his pocket on a piece of paper that his wife found. He stopped. He had no idea what to say or do. He didn’t blame her. In fact, he found himself relieved to see her, that she was real, that she was sexy. Really sexy. He caught himself staring.

She didn’t mind, though. She wiggled a little bit, her breasts quivering together. She took the bag from him and set it on a table. She pulled the strap of her bikini top to the side, exposing her right breast. It was full and round, and her nipple was light brown and pointed straight up.

She interrupted his reverie. “Give me a tip, honey.”

Ryan looked up slowly. She pulled his face down between her breasts and made a high-pitched moan. Ryan yielded like a stoned ball of putty. She reached down and felt his groin. “Now give me a couple dollars.”

He said, “I have to get change.”

She guided him to the bar. On the stage, a skinny, bored-looking woman sat with her legs around a shiny pole. Ryan smiled at her as he walked by. She blew a kiss at him. Her hair was no more than an inch long; the roots were dark and the ends were white, maybe greenish. She looked silly sitting there in bright red shorts as if she’d just fallen down.

Two men sat next to the stage, each with a little pile of dollar bills and a six-pack of beer. At the other end of the room, a couple of guys were playing pool with a tall, buxom black lady in white lace. It smelled like ashtrays, spilled beer, sweat, and industrial cleaner.

Two other strippers sat at the bar. One woman was smoking a long cigarette and drinking from a green bottle of beer, Mickey’s Big Mouth. He stared at her for a second, enshrouded in a horny fog.

“Ten dollar cover,” she said, “and you’ll need lots of change.”

He took a handful of money from his pocket, and she converted it into a large stack of one-dollar bills. He took a couple of them and turned to his guide. She said her name was Candy.

He said, “Don’t you remember me?”

“You’ve been here before?” She lifted her breasts together, indicating he should put the bills between them. He let his hand linger. She asked if he wanted a lap dance, gesturing toward a dark alcove to the left of the stage.

“Mind if I have a drink first?”

She guided him back to the table and his vodka, nodded toward the woman on stage, and said, “That’s Tammi. Tip her well and have fun…”

He opened the vodka, took a swig, and offered the bottle to the dancer. She came down, had a long drink, and then went back on stage.

Tinny music blasted out of a dusty jukebox, dancing music with plenty of hard-rock chords. The song faded, and for a few seconds, the only sounds were bottles being set on tables and billiard balls colliding with each other.

The horny fog that had shrouded his head disappeared. The smoke stood still under the dim colored lights. The thin woman leaned against the wall at the back of the stage staring down at two crumpled dollar bills. She kicked one of them. The next song started, ZZ Top’s “Legs,” and she stepped toward the center of the platform.

Her hips swayed, and she rolled her shorts down her thighs, showing off the smooth skin between them, then back up. She turned around and looked back at Ryan. He took another drink. A lusty rush crept down his spine. She bent over slowly and peered at him from between her legs. She wiggled a finger at him to come closer. He took another drink, grabbed a few dollar bills, and did as he was beckoned. She pulled the crotch of her shorts aside, baring herself. Ryan held a dollar up. She pulled the crotch of her shorts farther from her skin. He slid the dollar between her thighs, and she leaned into his knuckles.

“Do you want a table dance?”

The horny fog rolled back in, and Ryan pressed his knuckles against her, saying something along the lines of “yuh-huh.”

She pulled her shorts down, stepped out of them, and squatted on the stage. Her legs open, she leaned back and smiled at Ryan. She put her hands on the insides of her thighs and pulled the folds back, opening herself.

Ryan plopped into his chair and tossed a few dollar bills onto the stage. He leaned forward and stared at her, his eyes level with her crotch. He winked and said, “When you do that, I can see your gizzard.”

Her eyes opened wide. “You what?”

“Yeah, when you open yourself up like that I can see all the way up to your gizzard.”

She fell back on the platform laughing, curled her legs together, and then sat up on her knees. “Want to play with me, crazy man?”

He threw another couple of dollars on the stage. “I want to see your gizzard again.”

When the song finished, Tammi collected her tips in a little purse and stepped down from the platform, taking care not to topple off of her huge shoes.

“Come with me.” She motioned toward the shadowy alcove and he followed. She carried the bottle, her bony hips swaying back and forth. She took another drink and indicated for Ryan to sit on a couch.

The music started, and Tammi danced in front of him. Her breasts were too small to sway, but her long sharp nipples traced circles, mesmerizing Ryan. She moved forward, onto his lap, rubbing herself against his groin, practically fucking him through his pants, and holding his face against her breasts. After three songs, she disappeared in the back of the building.

Ryan stayed in the corner drinking his vodka and smoking cigarettes, his mood cycling from fascinated and horny to self-pity to disgust and back, over and over, ever more fuzzy. He tried to focus on the woman now dancing against the pole on stage. It was her, the woman who had ruined his life. She was beautiful. Her breasts jiggled perfectly, and her nipples slowly grew erect.

He found himself leaning against the stage, holding the bottle. She took a dollar from his hand and pulled her g-string off. The hair between her legs was cut short in a perfect
V
. She put the index fingers of each hand along the line formed by her leg and pelvis, pushing them together, squeezing and separating her lips.

Then she danced away.

Ryan’s mood cycled back to self-pity and he objected. He objected to everything. He objected to this woman ruining his life, he objected even more vocally to this woman ruining his life but without ever fucking him. The woman glared at him, and he wasn’t sure if he had actually said anything out loud.

He went back to the dark alcove and stayed there. The thin woman, Tammi, sat with him between her dances. He didn’t notice the other men leave until the jukebox went silent and didn’t come back on. He reached for his bottle, but it wasn’t there, so he lit a joint and took a big hit. The woman behind the bar yelled, “No dope smoking!” Tammi took the joint from him and sucked the rest down.

Ryan didn’t want to go home, but he didn’t want to stay any longer either. “I lost my job today, my wife threw me out seven months ago, and I barely know my kid anymore. I don’t know what I’m gonna do tomorrow and—where’s my fucking vodka?”

Tammi pulled him up and guided him to the stage. She held up the vodka bottle, swirled it around, and said, “I’m gonna finish it.” She tipped the bottle back for the last drops. She let the liquid fall from her mouth, and the bottle bounced on the wooden stage. She started to giggle, then slid down until she landed on her ass. “Come ’ere an’ give me some money.”

He stood, steadied himself, and took the rest of his money out of his pocket—only six bucks left. He swayed over, grabbed the edge of the stage for support, and half sat, half fell. “You watch what I’m gonna do for that dollar. Just watch.” Reaching for the empty bottle, she lost her balance and then struggled to sit up. She started rubbing against the bottle. “Ooooo, it really burns.”

She pulled the bottle into herself.

Ryan’s mood shifted well into fascinated and horny, but then the music stopped again, and the turmoil came back. This was it. The high point of his life was watching a bony drunk woman
impaling herself on an empty vodka bottle while begging for money. He gave her his last dollar, and when he told her that he didn’t have any more, she started to cry. Then she tried to slap him but lost her balance.

“You. Have to. Drive me. Home.” Lying there, the bottle slipped out of her and fell off the stage. She took off her shoes, stood up, and staggered into the bathroom. Ryan stood slowly and looked around. He caught his breath and walked across the room, then back. His balance wasn’t too bad. He turned for the door, and as he opened it, Tammi stepped out ahead of him.

“You have to drive me home.” She struggled to keep from slurring her words as much as he struggled to keep from staggering his steps.

“Sorry, I really have to go.”

“You don’t have anything to do tomorrow. Come on, I’ll get you off.”

It was dark out, cool and moist. He looked up. The sky was empty. Through the haze, he realized that no matter where he went, he’d still have to face himself.

“Dammit. I need a ride. Right now.” As if changing script in midscene, she put on a warm smile and wrapped her arms around him. “Come on, honey, I’ll take care of you.”

He looked down at her. She leaned against him, smiling. He hugged her close and said, “Will you?”

She said, “I’m cold; hold me close.”

“Let me get the heat going.” He hit the remote on his key ring, and the BMW made clicking sounds.

“Is that your car?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are we gonna have us some fun!”

Ryan opened and held the passenger door. She slipped onto the leather seat.

He got in and started the car. The heat was cranked up, but Tammi was still shivering. Ryan offered her his coat. She said, “It’s not that kind of cold. Just get me where we’re going.”

It took twenty minutes to drive to White Settlement. She directed him to the parking lot of a townhouse-style apartment complex and then hopped out of the car. She was back in fifteen minutes, no longer shaking.

“Figures, I meet a guy with a BMW and he’s just been laid off.”

Ryan sighed and drove out of the apartment complex.

Tammi lived in South Fort Worth in an apartment complex that had once been a cheap motel. As he parked, she told him that he shouldn’t expect to have wheels on his car in the morning, and Ryan felt a great big sense of, “I don’t care.”

When they got inside, Tammi pulled a vial of white powder from her purse and said, “You want to snort it, shoot it, or smoke it?”

“What’s best?”

She pulled a mirror out from under the couch and sat down. A few minutes later, she was holding a match under a glass pipe, and Ryan was inhaling.

Ryan felt a deep euphoric glow fill his body. It felt like there was finally a place for him in the universe. Tammi curled around him like a snake, and he caressed her. She was soft. The whole world was soft. The shadows along the drab white walls, the big paper light-shade hanging over the simple round table across from the couch, the grain of the wood of the coffee table, and the feel of the couch’s brown velour combined in comfortable harmony. Ryan could feel the universe humming along.