Page 63 of Hot Mess Express
I look at him, confused. “Yeah. Why?”
“Just …” He seems embarrassed suddenly. “Nothin’. Forget it.” He turns back to the movie.
I’m still confused long after the Rambo guy gets taken out by a shard of mirror through his chest, and the real hero of the night proves to be a shy science teacher from the local middle school, whose innovative use of shadows and deception at the kiosks full of oversized plushie prizes creates an opening for others to attack.
I realize belatedly that he was asking if I’m okay because of the loud gunfire. He thought it bothered me, being a vet who may be sensitive to or traumatized by such noises, or suffering PTSD.
The realization has me looking at Anthony in a new light.
Did he just exhibit serious, genuine care for me?
The glassy funhouse rubble bursts apart and out charges the Rambo guy, not dead after all, as he rushes in for the kill, and the whole auditorium is full of gunfire and mayhem once more.
Anthony glances at me again—and finds me already looking right at him, as if anticipating his concern.
“It’s just … Cody … he … well, sometimes he has reactions.” He talks to me over the scene, as if unconvinced that I’m alright, like he’s doing me a favor by giving me something else to focus on. “He can never stay for all of Fourth of July, always going home long before the fireworks. And he never stays late at the big New Year’s things at the Strong’s, either, gone by ten. Everyone kinda knows why. I dunno if you knew that already about him, or if you or your buddy Pete are like that, too, but … just thought I’d … well …”
“I’m fine,” I assure him, then realize my voice sounds kind of flat, talking over the noise of the film, so I lean toward him and, after a brief hesitation, add: “I appreciate your concern, Anthony.”
Anthony doesn’t quite smile, but something in his face softens as he stares back at me. Maybe it’s the way I said his name. Or how this short exchange of words might be the first time either of us have spoken to each other without attitude.
But we don’t look away. Even as gunfire, bullets, and carnage rip open the world around us. And Rambo squeezes his guns like squirting ketchup bottles. The monster roaring and terrorizing. Everyone screaming and running around the bloodied carnival.
Neither of us break eye contact.
“It’s just important, y’know,” he blurts suddenly, as if he has to justify our staring at each other, too uncomfortable to just let it happen. “That you’re okay. I can’t imagine how it feels, but … but that shit’s real … PSTD.”
I crack a smile, on the verge of laughing.
Anthony’s face twists. “What? Did I say—” Suddenly he cracks a smile, too. “Did I fuck it up? It’s PSDT, right? No, PTF—PSD—shit, why am I so—?”
The guys ahead of us turn. “Will you shut up?” one shouts.
All the laughter falls right off of Anthony’s face as he spins his head around. “Youshut up. We’re havin’ a serious talk here.”
“Andwe’retrying to watch a movie, dick wad!”
“What’d you just—?” Anthony rises from his seat. “Dick wad? Is that what you just called me? Hey!” He scoots in front of me to get closer to them, effectively putting his ass in my face. Is this his thing? Getting his ass in my face as often as possible? “It’s not like anyone can hear us. The movie’s so stupid loud. Guns blazing. Hey, stop lookin’ at me like that!” I can’t even hear what the other guy is saying anymore, both Anthony and the movie itself being loud enough to drown out everything. The more he yells, the more his butt shakes in my face. “Did you just—Did you just throw popcorn at me? No, you didn’t, Iknowyou fuckin’ didn’t—Hey!”
I anticipate it the moment he’s about to climb over the seats, going after those guys, so I throw my arms around his waist to hold him back. But I can’t seem to manage getting up myself, so all I end up doing is hugging his waist with the side of my face glued to his ass, trying to keep him from attacking the guys. “Anthony!” I grunt, but he can’t hear me. “Stop! It’s not worth it! Just stop!”
He keeps fighting the seats in front of him. Or fighting me. His butt wiggles and battles my face, which I gotta admit isn’t really altogether unpleasant.
“Anthony…” I nearly growl, then yank back with all my might.
His foot slips, probably on a spot of butter, and he flies back into me, dropping onto my lap. “Y’know what?” he calls out at the guys, still committed to fighting them, “screw you both, you’re just wastin’ popcorn like that. Every kernel is, like, a dollar now!”
“Hey, hey, calm down, it’s alright,” I tell Anthony, which isan awkward endeavor, now that he’s literally sitting in my lap. “Let’s just see how this shitty movie ends.”
“They shouldn’t play the volume so damned loud. Makin’ my ears bleed. Some people have sensitivities and … and stuff.” He flicks the guys off, who have both returned their full attention to the movie already just in time for a huge explosion. I have no idea what exploded, but it did, and now the Rambo guy is flying off a pile of bloodied corpses in slow motion.
Anthony continues to sit in my lap, like this is totally normal.
I continue to let him, my arms still around his waist.
What the hell are we doing? Does he even realize he didn’t fall back into his own seat? Surely he realizes that.
But with him sitting in my lap like this, his body slightly to the side, his full ass pressed onto my dick, his back against me, I can’t escape him. Can’t escape his weight on me. Can’t escape when he shifts and I feel his butt cheeks clench.
