“Should I go outside and play?” I whispered.
“Please,” she retorted, covering the mouthpiece and pointing to the fast lane.
Indianapolis to Fairmount
I learned the following information for which I have absolutely no use whatsoever: James Dean’s middle name was Byron, his mother died when he was 8, he went to school in Santa Monica right around the corner from me and Gordo, and on suitable occasions he took it up the ass. Somehow the mystique eluded me, but for A.J.’s sake, I tried to be tactful.
“Can’t you just imagine making love to him?” she sighed.
“I’d rather blow a goat.”
“Get out of my car.”
We stopped by a convenience store in Fairmount so she could pick up a pack of Chesterfields to put on his grave. (Offhand, I could count at least fifteen hundred things wrong with this scenario, but since she was holding hostage a similar list about people who get erections from root canals, I kept my mouth shut.) On our way to the cemetery, she let me pop my Sweet Charity tape into the cassette deck—a circumstance not normally associated with central Indiana. However, as neither of us owned the soundtrack to Deliverance, we made do with what we had.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked as she stared quietly at the pale red tombstone. JAMES B. DEAN: 1931–1955.
“Toby,” she mumbled, in a voice that was barely audible. “Beav, do you think there’s something wrong with carrying a torch for eleven years?” Obviously, she needed an arm around her shoulder just then, so she got one.
“No,” I assured her. “But before you take my word for it, consider the source.”
Then we hopped back into Robert Mitchum and talked about Gordo for ninety-four miles.
Fairmount to Columbus
I knew something was brewing when she began picking on my clothes. First the chinos were “antediluvian,” then the loafers were “aboriginal,” and finally the denim shirt was dismissed as “rat shit.”
“You dress like Cybill Shepherd,” she informed me without even a whiff of diplomacy. “What the hell is Craig going to think—that you’ve schlepped three thousand miles to clean his house?” So I reminded her of my recently deceased Wells Fargo bank balance, the T-bill I’m not allowed to touch, and the rest of my Cannery Row credentials. After that, I assumed the conversation was concluded. I was wrong. How did she find out about the Neiman-Marcus credit card?!
“Hand it over,” she commanded crisply, like Patton before Sicily. “We’re stopping in Columbus.”
The damage: Three form-fitting tank tops, five Versace shirts (“Save the blue-and-white striped one for Craig. Even I’d fuck you in that.”), eight pairs of Calvin Klein bikini briefs that would have resulted in federal prosecution had they been sent through the mails thirty years earlier, cowboy boots and a wrangler belt (this has got to be a fetish talking), two pairs of Reeboks with racing stripes on them, Armani sunglasses, a tiny gold earring and a pierced left lobe (“Over my dead body.” “That can be arranged.”), and three pairs of 501s with the button fly. (“Judging by all available evidence, you’ve got an ass that’s worth showcasing. So why don’t you?”) My waist is a 30. The jeans are a 28. When I fart, the Reeboks blow off.
Columbus to Pittsburgh
The last purchase made was a digital calculator marked down to $89 that I utilized solely to figure out the bounty on my head once Neiman-Marcus turned me over to Jabba the Hutt.
“There’s a comma in this!” I shrieked as we crossed the Pennsylvania border. “$1,737.49! Are you out of your mind?! How am I supposed to pay these people?!”
“I’ll show you,” she said evenly, holding out a palm. “Let me see it.” So I gave it to her and she threw it out the window.
“That’s how. Now if you’re going to play Mame, shut up and do it. You’ve got fifteen minutes before she gets her tits bumped for Chuck Berry.”
Robert Mitchum didn’t find Pittsburgh until 3:30 in the morning, and it was another hour before I stepped out of the Holiday Inn shower that I’d been daydreaming about since Muncie. But our itinerary wasn’t quite finished yet. With a towel over my head and still humming “We Need a Little Christmas,” I suddenly heard what sounded like gargling coming from the general vicinity of the sink. Alarmed, I pivoted abruptly and discovered A.J. in shorts and an East of Eden T-shirt, brushing her teeth and flossing—like it was the most natural thing in the world to do in front of a naked history professor.
“Don’t you believe in knocking?” I demanded, wrapping the shower curtain around myself.
“For what?” she retorted. “I already know you’re in here.”
“I have a great idea: beat it.”
“Not until we do something about your chest hair,” she mused, eyeing my pectorals in the mirror. “It’s way too light to be sexy. You want to impress Craig, don’t you?” So she pulled something-by-Clairol out of her bag of tricks and spent twenty minutes applying it to my sternum, while I sat on the edge of the bathtub convinced I was intruding on somebody else’s nightmare.
“There!” she announced proudly, rinsing it off and pointing to my reflection. “What do you think?” Actually, it was kind of hot—but I wasn’t about to admit as much to A.J.
“I look like Chewbacca.”
“Then why are you flexing?”
Twenty minutes later, we were tucked into a pair of 1950s-sitcom twin beds and settling snugly into the Pennsylvania dawn. And while I was yawning myself into unconsciousness, I realized dimly that for the first time in my life, I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen to me next. Last night I was behind bars in St. Louis. Now I’m seventeen hundred dollars in debt and I have ash-brown chest hair.
Actually, I could get used to this.
Dear Gordo:
We’re leaving Pittsburgh as soon as Beaver wakes up, but it’s another five hundred miles to Saratoga Springs, so we’ll probably be getting in too late to call. If you feel like it, page us in the car. All you’ll be interrupting is another argument. (We still haven’t fought about Arkansas yet.)
I read the first half of your Harlem script. Your father’s right. Can’t you hear what he’s trying to tell you? You’re so much better than you give yourself credit for—even with the split infinitives—I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out by now. You have a Field of Dreams heart—stop trying to write Die Hard. Personally, I’d like to see what you could do with a novel. I’d take it to bed with me.
A.J.
P.S. Neiman-Marcus rebuilt Beaver from top to bottom. You ought to see him in the burgundy tank top, the size 28 jeans, the maroon-and-white Reeboks with the shoelaces pointing in eighteen different directions, and the french fries scattered all over his plate in no special order. I thought I was having an acid flashback.
Dear A.J.:
How did you manage to pry the Neiman-Marcus credit card out of his fingers?! The only other time he used it was when I made him buy a new tie for $76. And I thought we were going to have to hospitalize him.
A novel? With paragraphs? Me? That’s like pitching in the minors for eight years and all of a sudden somebody tells you that you’re ready to start for the Yankees. If you were just being generous, thanks. If you really meant it, Yikes!
I’ve been thinking about who should play A.J. in the Travis movie, but nobody comes close to the real thing. Could you live with Helen Hunt in a brunette wig? Or is she still too WASPy? And who do we get to direct?
Want to hear the nuttiest thing? This afternoon I had a lunch date with a bank teller named Stacy. I met her online. Silky blonde hair, .38 caliber dum-dums, and a 3-inch waist. Halfway through the Chinese chicken salad, she started rubbing her shoe on the inside of my thigh, so I paid the check and dropped her off at work. That’s it. Nothing else. Normally I would have fucked her in the car—but then I’d have been cheating on you. You’ve ruined my life.
Is it too soon to ask you to have dinner with me? Maybe Saturday night? I realize that the three time zones pose something of
an obstacle, but we could plan the menu ahead of time and do it over the phone. I don’t mind eating early if you don’t mind eating late.
Eyebrows and a smile and a Field of Dreams heart. I like the way I’m shaping up.
Love,
Gordo
P.S. They were supposed to presumably teach us grammar in eighth grade, but I was already too busy reading Penthouse to really pay much attention. So try to not take the split infinitives personally.
Dear Gordo:
Was ever a maid so fairly wooed? “Normally I would have fucked her in the car—but then I’d have been cheating on you.” I’ve got to fall in love with you now. There’s a razor-thin line between “appalling” and “irresistible.” You just crossed it.
Keep Helen Hunt at home. I’m not that glamorous. You need to find somebody real. See if Janeane Garofalo is free that week. Otherwise, put in a call to Lili Taylor. And nobody directs me except Ben Affleck. Bareass.
Love,
A.J.
* * *
THE PERILOUS JOURNEY OF TRAVIS PUCKETT
* * *
PART III
Travis and A.J.—the Final Push
Pittsburgh to Saratoga Springs
Since our time was relatively limited, we stuck to the following agenda: From Pittsburgh to Buffalo, we analyzed Gordo’s hair, Gordo’s shoulders, Gordo’s ass, Gordo’s baby blues, Gordo’s laugh, Gordo’s style (sic), and Gordo’s chances of ever learning that a fly can also zip up. From Buffalo to Syracuse, I got to map out similar longitudinal landmarks across Craig, including the squirmy spot above his butt, getting lost for hours inside his dimple, and the way he’d always giggle whenever I kissed his belly button for its own sake (and not merely as a way station on a road trip south). Syracuse to Saratoga Springs belonged to me as well, seeing as I’d already anticipated the 141-mile anxiety attack that appeared at sunset, right on schedule, and immediately promised to devour the rest of my life.
What if he’s changed? What if he’s forgotten all of our secrets? What if he stopped loving me along the way? Pull over! Turn around! I’ve reconsidered my options!
As we passed a twinkling green-and-white Thruway sign that read “Saratoga Springs, Next Exit,” A.J. and I glanced at each other spontaneously. She couldn’t help noticing that my face was the color of rayon.
“This is it,” I gulped apprehensively.
“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” she retorted, reaching for my damp left hand. “Once he finds out what you’ve put yourself through, he’s yours again.” I didn’t believe a word she was saying, but at least lunch stayed down.
Get a grip, Trav. She’s right. This is gonna be worth it.
ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT
Literary Representatives
LOS ANGELES
NEW YORK
TORONTO
LONDON
Gordon:
A day and a half without any pages? Why are you doing this to me?
I don’t know what you’ve got up your sleeve for Travis and Craig, but I want the boys to wind up together. If you put me through all this without a happy ending, I’ll see to it that you never work in this town again.
Your Father
G:
How’s this for an answering machine message?
Hey, it’s Clayton. Craig and I are in Utica this weekend. If you’re calling for an estimate you can try me at the hardware store on Monday. Otherwise, leave a message.
What kind of a name is Clayton?! “Clayton and Craig”?! Where’s the flow? Where’s the magic?!
This is the worst thing that ever happened to me. It’s even worse than the time you fixed me up with the casting director who made me wear a dog collar. My life is over. Finished. Washed up without purpose. There’s a bridge here with a nice long drop, so sell everything I own because I’m not coming back. And after you’ve paid off Neiman-Marcus, buy the worldwide rights to Brigadoon and eat them.
Who names a baby Clayton?! Uncles are named Clayton!
T
Dear Gordo:
Scarlett just went across the street for a pack of Carlton menthols. He’s decided it’s time to start smoking. Can you spell “brat”?
This is my own fault. By the time we’d found a Best Western with an available room (there’s a Legionnaires convention in town this weekend—nice omen), he claimed he’d developed a spastic stomach, a bleeding ulcer, colitis, and hives. Since Schenectady. I thought I was going to have to drain him out of Robert Mitchum with a siphon. So I decided—falling victim to one of my rare lapses in judgment—that he’d sleep better if he could hear Craig’s voice. That’s why we called his machine. If he’d answered, we would have hung up—but what were the chances of that on a Friday night? Assuming he’s half as cute as Beaver thinks he is, he probably slides in and out of his underpants with greater facility than you do.
Okay, so there’s a new wrinkle called Clayton. I’ll admit it doesn’t look good, but there could be a whole medley of reasonable explanations. Maybe they’re related.
Ask her what pumpkin truck ran over her. I’m sure she got the plate number.
He’s back. With a cigar. Freud wins.
Names that work well with “Clayton”: Rick, Doug, Roy, Alex, Eduardo, Hank, Seth, Kevin, Aaron, Jay. Names that work well with “Craig”: Travis, Sean (kind of).
Gordo, in the unlikely event I ever misplace enough of my marbles to marry you, Beaver’s only allowed out of his room on Thanksgiving and Christmas. No wonder that guy put a dog collar on him. I’d have sent him to a kennel.
Oh, wait—now you’re getting married? Hello? This was supposed to be my crusade.
Would you please tell him it still is, for Christ’s sake? We know that Clayton works at a hardware store. We’ll start there.
Swell. Out of all the hardware stores in Saratoga Springs, how are we supposed to figure out which one is Clayton’s?!
* * *
128 Hardware—Hardwoods NYNEX YELLOW PAGES SARATOGA SPRINGS
* * *
Hardware Stores
Busy Bee Hardware 454 Schuyler
Clayton’s 1127 Putnam
Quality Hardware 110 Excelsior
Saratoga Home Mart 2124 McGee
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
* * *
WELCOME TO
CLAYTON’S HARDWARE
serving Saratoga Springs since 1988
* * *
The storefront takes up half a block. He thinks he’s hot shit.
They have two full rows of drill bits. He’s an ostentatious pig.
Home Furnishings is decorated in a tacky brown wallpaper that’s supposed to look like fake walnut. He wears plaid Bermuda shorts.
He sells seven different types of power mowers. Over-compensation for a two-inch penis.
He’s the foreman of his own construction company. He beats Craig daily.
Over all fourteen of my objections, lunchtime found us in the middle of aisle 3 (“Tools and Building Supplies”). Personally, I’d have preferred bladder surgery.
“Shut up and smile or so help me God I’ll crush your feet,” mumbled A.J., eyeing a sledgehammer convincingly. “We need to find out what we’re up against.”
“I’ll glower if I feel like it,” I fired back through gritted teeth, glowering because I felt like it. “Coming here wasn’t my idea. Especially dressed like this.” Per her instructions, I was wearing a modest pink Versace—opened to the third button—and the least offensive pair of 501s I owned (i.e., my balls only stuck out as far as Stamford); A.J., meanwhile, had chosen her blue cocktail getup along with a matching 1920s hat that she’d seen in a thrift shop window further up Putnam Street. (“Who’s going to argue with a veil?”) The effect kind of backfired: In our bid for respectability, we looked like Madame Godiva and Her Male Strumpet.
“May I help you?” inquired a perky redhead, coming upon us nervously. Understandably, she probably thought we were there to procure as many teenage boys as w
e could cram into a Falk & Padgett wheelbarrow (“30% Off, Saturday Only”). But A.J.’s transformation into a Southern belle was so sudden and so complete, it left me speechless. In seconds, she’d developed an inexplicably breathless falsetto, and the hands that were otherwise capable of snapping a human neck had begun to flutter helplessly.
“Oh, I hope so,” she whispered, sounding for all the world like Butterfly McQueen on crack. “Is Clayton here?” What the hell is she pulling? The saleslady relaxed immediately, obviously relieved that the store wasn’t going to be shut down on a morals charge during her watch.
“I’m afraid not,” she replied ruefully as I tried to hide my crotch behind a snow shovel. “He’s away for the weekend.” A.J.’s face fell in a perfect imitation of disappointment.
“Oh, drat the luck!” she cursed daintily. Who is this woman?! And whatever happened to “Oh, fuck”?!
“Is there something I could assist you with?” offered our pink-smocked helpmate timidly, doubtless contemplating the least offensive way of getting us out the back door before we encountered any small children.
“Actually,” mused A.J., “maybe you could. You see, we went to high school with Clayton’s other half. Class of, uh—” She elbowed me severely enough to puncture a lung.
“Seventy-eight,” I muttered sourly. Don’t turn to me for clues. What do I look like—Annie Sullivan spelling “water” into your palm?!