“Weird stuff, man.” Larry shakes his head. They’re cruising Market. “The other night, okay? It’s like two in the morning and this girl calls and wakes me up. She wants to come over. I’m like fine, okay, I put some pants on and let her in. And she goes, ‘Hey, let’s watch some porn.'”
“What?” says Lowell. “What?”
“I know! Like girls ever want to watch porn!” Larry nods. “I was really falling asleep, though. She left after a while.”
“Larry,” says Lowell, “she was trying to have sex with you.”
I don’t know,” says Larry uneasily. “Man. You think so?”
None of the volunteers can double-dutch. It’s embarrassing. Brant thinks of himself as a drummer, someone with rhythm; he should be able to jump in double time. He hasn’t made it past the second rope yet.
The shelter kids are better, but too young to keep it up. When a shelter mom wanders out to watch, bemused, little Pasha drags her into line. Brant and Hillary are turning; they eye each other, but don’t stop.
She dances through their ropes perfectly, to cheers and applause. It’s when she stops, grinning and gasping, that Brant finally realizes she’s years younger than he.
After Autumn repeats for the millionth time that “everybody’s doing it,” Kam gives in and decides to try.
She drinks orange juice at breakfast and apple juice at snack. She hits the water fountain, too, and by lunchtime her juicebox is less than appetizing. She gets in trouble for foot-tapping in class.
She persists, though, and after a tortuous bus ride she sprints into her home bathroom and finally, finally lets herself go. The sensation is astounding. Kam groans with relief; there are goosebumps on her arms. Maybe everybody really is doing it, she thinks, if it always feels this good.
“Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan,” says Cote.
“What?” says Ballard. “You think that’s chemistry?”
“They’ve got it.” Cote slurps Slushee. “They’re like iconic for it.”
“That’s not chemistry! That’s the farthest thing from chemistry!” Ballard presses his face in his hands. “Everybody thinks that because everybody else says it, but it’s just two attractive people taking turns with–with jokes written by lonely women.”
“Lonely women can’t make jokes?” she asks.
“There’s no mmph! No chutzpah, no danger, no blood in the water!” Ballard’s getting louder. “Chemistry is about shit blowing up!”
“I wish you wouldn’t yell.”
“I’m not yelling!” he yells.
The groomsmen are stripped to the waist and oiled, flexing and bulging where they line the entrance ramp. Suddenly, they turn and gesture with arms like taut cables. The pyrotechnics kick in.
Jonny Q stalks down in full regalia, stirring the crowd to new heights of frenzy. Opposite him, Regina is hauling herself to the top of the Wedding Cage.
“Do you?” yells Pastor Pain, when they’re both before him. “Do you? All right!”
“With this belt!” thunders Jonny Q, holding it high. “I! Thee! Wed!”
Then Regina pile-drives him down into the ring, and Reception Rumble 2K4 finally gets underway.
“It’s harder than is sounds,” says Larry mournfully. They’re cruising Main. “I mean anybody thinks–I hang out with a lot of girls, right? But the nice guy who hangs out with all the hot girls… you know?” His phone buzzes. “Hey you! No, what you up to? Oh… might be here on Fourth for a while… Yeah? Mmm. I could be down for that. Yeah, Misty, call you a little later then? Yeah. Okay. Bye, sweetie.” He hangs up. “I don’t know, man, maybe I’m just too sorry for myself.”
In the passenger seat, Lowell picks his chin and sighs.
The Great Zaganza furrows his brow, stretches out one hand and says “Nothing’s jumping out at me,” and then something does. It gives an impression of mostly teeth.
Rita tackles him hard as Sandra pivots in, hammering the thing down with one arm. It bounds up, snarling, high-pitched. Rita throws Zaganza aside and scrambles for her holster, too slow–
Zip. Zip. Mary’s silencer jerks twice; it hits the floor with a wet thud.
“Corticophore,” she says. “Smells psychoactivity. Guess you’re the real deal, Z.”
Zaganza’s cheek twitches. He’s very pale. Rita has difficulty getting an exact count of the creature’s mouths.
Jake’s aware that people have died this summer, but it’s not made fact to him until he finds her, a block from his apartment.
His first thought is Don’t Move The Victim but it’s boiling out and he carries her inside. Her skin is dry and hot; her hair has been cut recently, too short. A silver bracelet gives her name as Holly.
Somehow he ends up riding in the ambulance. She wakes as they start to wheel her out. She’s holding a dirty black lump in one hand. She touches his lips, and the taste is sticky, gritty, impossibly sweet.
Harriet doesn’t know why the Royal shows morning movies–there are never more than a few cars in the lot. She wonders every time she passes, though. Until one day she skips work.
It’s cold outside, but the popcorn she buys from a sleepy-looking boy is warm and slick. Harriet slumps into her seat, and just as the lights dim, five Royal employees wander in and scatter themselves through the seats. They and Harriet are the only ones there. Everybody has popcorn. Nobody speaks.
The previews are starting, and Harriet’s understanding the why of morning movies, and what luxury really is.
Belinda read a Cosmo-Sutra and now she’s obsessed with the dynamics of fucking. She marks pages in books, working through them night by night: “This looks interesting!” she exclaims, and “No, tuck your left leg behind.”
She starts keeping a progress report with pleasure grades for each new arrangement. Eventually, logically, she splits this into his-and-hers. “After all,” she says, “it’s more accurate that way.”
It makes sense, and Ralph tells himself he’s lucky. He can’t help but feel ashamed, though, looking at his weekly card and its column of failing grades. He should try harder. Belinda always gets straight As.