‘Craig boy’ is what we called him. Stud muffin to the stars is what he was, or what he thought he was, anyway, driving us in his bronze-colored van down through the main streets of Gatlinburg at dusk, all happy with himself and his stereo system and his fluffy warm seats.
With the big belt and the big boots and the new felt hat, he looked like he’d been trussed up in his sleep by a woman who didn’t love him, not one little bit. But I didn’t think he’d been with a woman he hadn’t had to pay for in some way for a long, long time, or maybe never, much less one that simply didn’t love him. So the trussing was all down to Craig boy, and his Tennessee cowboy dreaming.
Vivian was eyeballing him something fierce. It was like she’d just realized he was a fool, as though that hadn’t been there before we crossed state lines, him being a fool.
As it took time away from her eyeballing me and any nipple exposure I might’ve had through my sweater, I found it funny. I couldn’t stop smiling, watching her watching him, from my perch on the platform in the back of the van, laying on the fake bearskin rug belonging to Randall T.
Randall T was what we called him now, anyway, another new name to hide our unwanted fame as word about us reached the suburbs. We traveled after dark mostly, now, attracting too much attention from the state troopers in the daytime, they with their low slung bellies and tobacco tainted southern drawls. "What you pesky kids doing round these parts," they'd say and laugh like they'd just delivered the monologue for Johnny Carson. Assholes.
So we spray-painted the van and picked new names for ourselves and Fred became Craig boy and I was Leanne and that stoner hippy, Shaggy, we called him Randall T, and Velma, well she was still Velma 'cause nobody noticed her anyway.
I just wish we could get rid of that fucking talking dog.
Opening: Robin.....Continuation: ril