Page 4 of Dizzy

I’m done in less than five minutes. I shower quick. I hate running out of hot water with my hair lathered up.

I grab the towel and sniff. Could be worse. I squeeze my hair dry, wipe the steam from the mirror, and smile. Still crooked. And there’s the scar from when I tripped and busted my mouth open on a curb. It needed stitches, but Mama left it too long. The scar’s not so bad, though. Only a thin white hash mark across the corner of my lips.

I wish I had a comb. Shit, I wish I had a toothbrush. I check the medicine cabinet. There’s an open box of condoms and floss. I grab the floss, wind it around my fingers. What the hell? It’s something.

I should take the condoms, too.

I’ve riffled through a half dozen purses, and I have exactly seventeen dollars hidden in the sole of my left boot. The chicks who hang with Steel Bones seem to operate purely on credit, and the brothers don’t ever leave their wallets unattended.

A bus ticket to New York City is thirty-nine dollars. I’m not desperate enough yet, but I could make that twenty-two bucks in fifteen minutes in a dark corner. My sister Dee goes down to the truck stop sometimes, and she’ll get thirty for a blow job. I grab the box of condoms, tucking the floss inside.

Maybe there’re warmer clothes in the dresser. Life’s got to throw me a break at some point, right?

I step into the room, naked as a jaybird except for the towel wrapped around me, clutching a box of condoms, and my heart stops.

Sitting on the bed, bare-chested, is a huge, red-eyed man with wild black hair halfway down his back, and a wiry black beard, almost as long. It’s the dad with the white SUV.

He looks like the bastard child of a bassist from an 80s metal band and that god with the lightning bolts. Up close, I can tell he’s younger than I thought. He’s in his thirties. His tattoos curl around his hunched shoulders, and he’s wearin’ the most hangdog expression I’ve ever seen on a man outside of a funeral or a court date.

He’s swigging from the bottle of Southern Comfort. Guess it wasn’t empty after all. In his other hand, he’s holding a thick flannel shirt.

Well, let’s make lemonade. I ignore my thumping heart, smile wide, and cock a hip.

“Hey, mister,” I say. “I’ll show you my titties for that shirt.”

2

DIZZY

Iwake up on the floor, in the crack between the bed and the wall.

It’s not my bed.

And it’s not so muchwaking upascoming to.

I clamber upright and stumble around to sink onto the bed. My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like tire, and last night is a blank. But thereisa bottle of SoCo on the floor.

I fold at the waist and reach to scoop it up, every muscle and joint protesting.

I’m too old for this shit.

I swirl the bottle. Sweet. There’s a quarter left. Hair of the dog has never done me wrong. I take a swig.

What fuckin’ day is it? It ain’t Friday. I get the boys on Friday. Goddamn, it’s bright in here. And there’s someone in the bathroom.

Did I get laid?

I got morning wood despite my condition. That don’t tell me shit. I always wake up hard.

My head pounds. I chug, trying to work up the energy to stand again. Get moving.

And then the prettiest little thing, naked and wrapped in a towel, sashays into the room, stops dead in her tracks, and does a double take.

What’s that she’s holdin’? A box of condoms?

She smiles. It’s wonky, lop-sided, and sweet as hell. My cock jerks and chafes against my jeans. Well, hallelujah. I got pants on.

“Hey, mister,” she purrs and winks. “I’ll show you my titties for that shirt.”

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