“Old Jeremy spared me, though,” I tell Walter. “You know why?”
He shakes his head.
“Because I embrace the weird.”
I don’t know how many streets we’ve driven up and down, but finally there it is—the scary black van with no wheels. It’s not that this is a run-down neighborhood or anything. It’s just that you can’t go too far on this side of town without coming across somebody’s fixer-upper sitting on blocks in the driveway. In fact, Walter’s house is a perfectly decent, little one-story suburban house with a perfectly decent Ford Explorer sitting out front.
I have to coax him to come up to the porch with me, and he looks a little scared as I ring the bell. There’s a pretty long wait, but finally his mom comes to the door with this expression on her face like she expects me to try to sell her a vacuum cleaner or Mormonism. I’ll say this for her, though—she’s hot. She looks so young it’s hard to even think of her as a MILF.
When she sees Walter, she opens the storm door and gives him the old “What are you doing out of school, young man” routine. He looks like he’s about to bust out bawling, so I step up and go, “Pardon me, ma’am, but Walter’s sort of upset. I found him at the convenience store, and he was talking about wanting to go to Florida.”
Right then I notice her checking out my big 7UP. “Wait a minute,” she says, squinting at me. “Have you been drinking?”
I glance down at the 7UP like it’s some kind of co-conspirator that narced me out. “Uh, no. I haven’t been drinking.”
“Yes, you have too.” She lets the storm door swing shut behind her and squares off right in front of me. “I can smell it on your breath. You’ve been drinking alcohol and driving my little boy around.”
“That’s not really the point.” I’m backing off. “Let’s keep the focus on Walter here.”
“Don’t come up here drinking and telling me what to do with my boy. Walter, get in the house.”
He gazes up at me with a forlorn expression.
“Walter, now!”
So I’m, “Hey, you don’t need to yell at him,” and she’s all, “I have a good mind to call the police.”
I want to fire back something about how, if she had a good mind, her son wouldn’t be trying to run away to Florida. But I know better. I haven’t been in trouble with the police since the tree-burning incident and don’t intend to let a mean, hot, twenty-five-year-old mother get me in any now.
Instead, I’m like, “Look at the time.” I glance down at my wrist even though I’m not wearing a watch. “Wouldn’t you know it? I’m late for Bible school.”
She stands there watching me all the way to my car door, making it clear that she’s ready to memorize my license tag number if I try to get smart. I can’t let Walter down, though. It’s just not in my nature.
“Your son’s hurting,” I say as I open the door. “He misses his dad.”
She steps off the porch and twists her scowl a notch meaner.
I get in and start the car, but I can’t drive off without rolling down the window and saying one last thing: “Hey, I’d watch Walter around the tree in your backyard if I was you.”
Chapter 3
Okay, I am now officially late as hell to pick up Cassidy. Bad-boyfriend late. She’s going to get that scrunched-up look on her face like she thinks I’m a spoiled toddler instead of her boyfriend. That’s all right. I’m not one of these guys that cowers before his girlfriend’s wrath. Sure she can hurl some serious, jagged quips when she gets mad, but I can deal with that. I welcome the challenge. It’s like trying to dodge a fistful of razorsharp kung fu throwing stars. Besides, she’s worth it.
Cassidy is the best girlfriend ever. I’ve dated her for a full two months longer than anyone else. She’s smart and witty and original and can chug a beer faster than most guys I know. On top of that, she is absolutely beautiful. I mean spanktacular. Talk about pure colors. She’s high-definition. Scandinavian blond hair, eyes as blue as fiords, skin like vanilla ice cream or flower petals or sugar frosting—or really not like anything else but just her skin. It makes my hair ache. Of course, she does believe in astrology, but I don’t even care about that. It’s a girl thing. I think of it like she has constellations and fortunes whirling around inside her.
But what really sets Cassidy apart is that she’s so damn beautifully fat. And believe me, I don’t use the word fat in a negative way. The fashion magazine girls are dried-up skeletons next to her. She has immaculate proportions. It’s like if you took Marilyn Monroe and pumped up her curves three sizes with an air hose. When I move my fingers along Cassidy’s body, I feel like Admiral Byrd or Coronado, exploring uncharted territory.
But she won’t answer the door. She’s in there. I can hear her music—loud and pissed off. Just because I’m something like thirty minutes late, she’s going to make me wait on the welcome mat punching the doorbell. After standing around for about three minutes, I go back to the car for my whisky bottle and take it around to the backyard. Sitting at the patio table, I freshen my drink and contemplate my next move. The big 7UP is a bit on the stout side now, but after a hearty swallow, an idea hits me. Her upstairs bedroom window is bound to be open a crack from her sitting up there with her cigarettes, blowing smoke out the window. She is crafty, but not as crafty as I am.
Let me tell you, the climb to her window is not an easy one, though. I’ve made it before, but not without nearly plummeting to my death wearing nothing but a swimsuit. Luckily, I have plenty of whisky to steady my balance.