John reached the door of the apartment. Standing at the door, John shook his head ‘no.’
“I, sir, I, I’m going back home,” John said. “My mother’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer; she’s in Collier.”
“Collier? In Lowridge? Texas?” Marianne asked, returning to the living room from the depths of the apartment.
“I, yeah, Lowridge; you know it?” John asked.
“I, my sister, my sister Libby, she…” Marianne said, bottom lip beginning to quiver.
“Oh, aw, aw God damn, God damn, don’t. Don’t start that crying shit,” Barron snapped at the young woman. “Aw, Jesus, you, you’re going fuck the whole thing, aw shit, just, just go on and get dressed, stupid bitch.”
Marianne left the living room, wailing. John stood, fighting hard against reacting. They, they’d just had sex; they’d both fucked the beautiful young girl and now, Barron Blouchen, alcoholic artist was more concerned about some art project than the girl’s feelings.
“Anyway, I, I would recommend Karl, or Peter,” John managed to say as he opened the door of Apartment 515.
“I, Karl? I, no, no, I don’t like him,” Barron said, sipping his Nulough’s cherry flavored vodka and Mark’s cream liqueur. “He’s, I think he’s in that cult, AA or something.”
John rode the groaning, shuddering elevator down to the ground level. He slipped Wade a five dollar bill as Wade opened the door of the lobby for him. Just as the door began to close, John wished the poised man a good day.
In his car, John took a moment to compose himself. He put one of the Benjamin’s into his wallet. The second Benny went into the pocket of his uniform blouse.
Returning to work, John handed the benny from his work blouse to Bob Coleman. Bob tried to give John a ten and three fives from the register, but John refused the money. Then John took the next customer in line.
Finishing his day, John went to Skippy’s Package store and bought a fifth of Nulough’s cherry flavored vodka, then debated with himself; a pint of Mark’s Chocolate Liqueur, or the cream. Slapping his forehead, John remembered, he had a one hundred dollar tip in his wallet. He didn’t need to make any choice. He grabbed a pint bottle of each and carried his selections to the counter.
“Uh huh; let’s see the ID Sonny,” the grizzled old man ordered.
“Yes sir,” John smirked as he fished out his driver’s license.
“Date of birth?” the man quizzed, squinting to read the small print on the rectangle of plastic.
“March third, ninety eight,” John said.
At his small, clean apartment, John reflected, if he and Barron were friends, John would call him and tell Barron that a dirty bald Marianne was definitely the thing to drink. But they were not friends. He, John was a servant and he, Barron, was the client. Even as the two men had fucked the beautiful and young red head, Barron was in charge and John and Marianne were there for Barron’s amusement.
“Yes sir, a bald dirty Marianne is the way to go,” John said, relaxing in his well-worn recliner.
“Hey, had some girl called, wanted to know when you were leaving for Tex-ass,” Karl smirked as John came in the following morning.
“Aw, God, no, not Tiffany, huh?” John begged his coworker. “Please, please tell me you told her I changed my mind and went to Alaska, huh?”
“Relax, Stud,” Karl shook his head. “It wasn’t Tiffany. Anyway, I thought, didn’t Tiffany run off with that Junior guy?”
“So, who was it?” John asked as he motioned to the next customer.
“Hell, I don’t know. Do I look like your secretary? Anyway, I told her Saturday’s your last day,” Karl said and asked his customer, “Hot towel, sir?”
“High and tight,” John’s customer ordered, settling in the chair.
“Yes sir! A man’s haircut,” John enthused.
When John came into Coleman’s Barbershop on Saturday, Bob Coleman pointed to the bench next to the display of men’s hair and grooming products. John’s mouth opened in shock as he saw Marianne idly flipping through the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. She looked up and her blue eyes met his deep brown eyes. A slow smile crept across her face as she got to her feet.
“I, I grew up in Sweet Oak,” Marianne said, indicating the two battered suitcases in the corner of the long room. “I, you, you take me home?”
“If he don’t, honey, I will,” the man sitting in Bob’s chair said.
“Absolutely God yes,” John agreed, pulling the girl in for a hug.
That afternoon, her two suitcases went into the box truck. Marianne sat in the passenger seat and let out an elated whoop of joy as they pulled away from the curb, heading south. As John drove, Marianne spun a tale of being in love and knowing better than her Daddy and moving with her boyfriend to Benhurst.
“I mean, my Momma’s up here, and marijuana’s legal and Bobby Lee? We’re in love and we’re going get married and all that,” Marianne said. “Ooh! Newhart’s! I, John, you get me a big chocolate malt?”
Sucking on a big chocolate malt, Marianne continued telling John about Bobby falling in love with the biker chick down at the end of the trailer park and her getting a job at a Gentlemen’s Club. She wasn’t sure why it was called a Gentlemen’s Club; she’d met very few gentlemen there.
“That’s where Barron seen me; see, they got a web site? There’s no nudity on the site; it’s just a head shot but Barron called the club wanting to talk to Dixie; that was my stage name?” Marianne continued her narration. “Said it was something about my eyes…”
“Dear God, it’s going be a long nine hundred miles,” John thought as Marianne blathered in between slurps on her malt.
In Boysen, New Mexico, John pulled off of the two lane blacktop into the parking lot of a Hideaway In. He pulled her two suitcases and his own duffel bag from the box truck, locked it again, then rented them a room for the night. The clerk gave a small smirk as Marianne clung onto John’s arm possessively.
In the room, Marianne agreed that Jon could take a shower first; she planned to check out the free movies the clerk had told them about. Twenty minutes later, John stepped out and found Marianne sprawled nude on the bed. She was masturbating as gang bang pornography played on the television. John saw that she still wore her nipple rings, and saw that she also had a pierced navel; her navel ring was a duplicate or triplicate of her nipple rings.
When he lay down on the bed, Marianne stripped the towel from around his waist and began to bob her head up and down the length of his rapidly growing erection. She continued to rub herself as she sucked on his cock, then squealed and moaned as John erupted into her mouth.
After swallowing all of his seed, Marianne sucked him hard again, then straddled him, reverse cowgirl and rode him hard and fast while the images of mechanical sex continued to play.
“Oh, hey, listen, I, I’m not into sharing, hear?” John said, alternating between watching her sweet little ass and the pornographic images on the television.
“I, really, you sure? I mean, I bet my friend Cindy would just love you,” Marianne paused and peered over her shoulder at him.
“I, hmm,” John mused.
“I mean, she’s really pretty; she’s a red head too,” Marianne continued as she resumed riding his cock toward an orgasm.
There was a Sloane’s Pizzeria that delivered; the restaurant was located next door to the motel. Marianne did not bother to dress when the knock sounded at the door and the young lady that delivered the large Meatstravaganza looked like she wouldn’t mind joining them.
“Oh, you got your razor; I don’t know if you could tell, but the hair’s starting to grow back and…” Marianne said as she wolfed down a piping hot slice of pizza.
In the morning, John saw that Marianne had switched the selection from ‘Gang Bang’ to ‘Lesbian.’ Leaning over, he softly kissed the beautiful red head until she woke up, sleepy smile on her face. A Newhart’s fed them breakfast and they were on their way again.
Twilight was beginning to fall as John pulled off the Interstate at the Great Oak exit. Tiredly, John asked Marianne if she wanted him to drop her off at her father’s home in Sweet oak. Marianne’s eyes filled with tears.
“I, uh, he, he said it don’t work out, like he knew it would? Don’t bother calling him,” Marianne whispered.
She looked at him as he stopped for a red light. She looked at him while they sat, waiting for the light to change.
“You, why I can’t stay with you?” Marianne asked, voice cracking.
“I, it, I mean, you said you wanted to come home,” John said. “I, I just figured you meant…”
“Fine, ass hole,” Marianne shrilled, digging her cell phone out of her purse. “God damn! All you, you men are all alike! Fuck me, then it’s ‘see yah bitch!’ God damn, I mean Barron and now you…”
John could hear Marianne’s father’s part of the conversation and turned down the street that cut through his mother’s neighborhood. If his mother was home, Marianne could have John’s old bedroom and John would take the couch. If his mother was again in Collier’s, then he and Marianne would share his bed.
Marianne terminated the call after her father said, “But let me guess; you’re fucking knocked up, right?”
“Where are we?” Marianne demanded as John pulled up in front of the small three bedroom ranch home.
“We, my dear, are home,” John said.
“Thought you wanted get rid of me,” Marianne snapped.
“Hey, let’s just call it a misunderstanding, okay?” John said magnanimously, and stepped out of the truck.
Deborah Hall was delighted when John introduced her to Marianne. Her sunken face beamed up at the girl and she patted the girl’s hand. Then Deborah turned her attention to John.
“I, Theresa White?” Deborah whispered. “She, she’s the lawyer; she’s got the will. I, everything, everything’s yours.”
“Momma, we, we really need talk about that now?” John asked, tears streaming down his face.
“Well, when would we talk about it?” Deborah rasped out.
Three days later, Collier roused John at three forty one in the morning to let him know Deborah had passed. Marianne held him as he sobbed.
At the funeral, an elegant arrangement was delivered. Reading the card, John was stunned to see that it was from Barron Blouchen. Arriving home, the young man John had hired to house-sit showed John a basket of assorted fruits and another basket of booze had arrived. Both were from Barron Blouchen.