Page 10 of Hot Doggin'
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Why would you go to a motel-no-tell when you could just come stay with me?”
“Because all you have is the couch, and I didn’t wanna put you out. You spend a lot of time on it.”
“Whatever, you’re just making excuses.”
He pushes his way past me. “What the fuck are you wearing?” I ask, taking in his appearance. McCormick had taken two black garbage bags, wrapped them around his head and body, and duct-taped everything in place. He also wore his riding goggles.
“If you think I’m taking a chance with these fleas, you’re out of your mind. They’re not gonna bite my ass, my balls, or anything else while I’m here. Grab your shit and let’s go.”
I point to the cardboard box on the table. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“What about your clothes?”
“I can’t risk it. They probably have fleas.”
“So you gonna wear that every day?” He motions to my jeans and T-shirt.
I shrug, not having a good answer for him. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
McCormick chuffs. “Why do I gotta do all the thinking around here? Grab some clothes and stuff them in a garbage bag. We’ll stop by the laundromat and wash them before we get to my place.”
“Good idea.”
“I’m full of good ideas,” he boasts.
Doubtful. I've heard his ideas. “How many pairs of underwear do you think I need?”
“How long do you gotta be out of here?”
“I don’t know, a week, maybe? Could be more.”
“Just grab a bunch of shit and let’s go,” he huffs. “If you run out, you can wear mine.”
“I draw the line at wearing your underwear, Mac. Nobody is that good of friends.”
He laughs. “Then we’ll buy more. Walmart’s got a BOGO on boxers.” Opening my top drawer, I grab a handful of what I hope is mostly clean underwear. McCormick grabs a hot pink pair from my hand, his face scrunching in confusion as he tries to decipher what he’s looking at. They‘re covered in hearts, lips, and say, ‘hot stuff’. “Where’d you get these?”
“They were on clearance for a buck. I didn’t think anyone would see them.” I grab them from his hand and throw them in the bag.
“A buck? You should’ve got me a pair.”
I try to imagine him wearing the ridiculous boxers and fight not to crack up. Despite his apocalyptic wasteland outfit and mild attitude, I’m glad he showed up. We always figure shit outtogether. With McCormick, everything is just easier. Everything makes sense.
Even though he often doesn’t.
“Maybe next time. Open that drawer and grab some shirts.”
Gingerly, he opens the drawer like something’s going to bite him, looking inside before he sticks his hand in. McCormick pulls out four shirts, and, despite them being folded, he shakes each one like it’s on fire and he’s putting it out. “Can’t be too careful,” he reminds me, shoving them in the bag.
“Jesus, this is embarrassing.”
“Nah, this is typical. You gotta screen these chicks better. Ain’t no telling what they have besides fleas.”
“It wasn’t the girl, it was her dog.”
McCormick shrugs like he doesn’t give a shit. “Same difference. You ready?”
