"Map?" Bob said. "I can't make out the map for the apples and acorns."
Bianca's map, drawn in her trophy-wife hand, sure was decorative, but Bob and I couldn't tell which garlands were roads, which garlands were simply there for our viewing pleasure.
Thank God, I had some Viking in me; had explored this reach of hill-and-dale Swedeville Road ran through.
I pulled Bianca's map out of Bob's hand. "I see where we're going." I threw Bob my Erik the Red eye. "Nope, Bob, if there's one thing I have a way with, it's maps--fruit and nuts, or no."
Heading out, I recalled my drive up Swedeville Road. The lush bluffs, once dotted with dairy cows, had given way to a new cut of animal; the nouveau riche. These roots of all evil, fresh from the city, had their own way of farming. They sheared the bluffs, planted McMansions.
In need of a pick-me-up, I looked at Bob banging away on my glove box door. "So," I said in that cough-it-up brotherly tone, "how'd it go with that Joni girl the other night?"
"All right," Bob said and sighed.
What an odd sigh. No, a guy has two sighs; the sigh of victory and the sigh of defeat. The sigh Bob gave--square in the middle--didn't warrant a sigh at all.
"Yep," Bob added, "going out again next week."
Odder still. No, once the stallion has scored, the game is over and he starts panning the teaming prairie for the next filly to mount.
Unless, of course, filly Joni hadn't let Bob in her pants. Possible, I suppose, but Joni hardly seemed the pants-pious type. No, more likely, Joni, true to her tattoos, had served Bob up some brew from the cauldron she kept simmering down by the train tracks. Ya, and now Bob, under her spell, was destined to serve the witch till death.
Then again, maybe Bob simply liked Joni, was pursuing some kind of relationship with her. I laughed. No, Bob getting the business end of a witch's broom up alongside his pig head, I could buy into. But a relationship? No way had Bob logged enough lifetimes as a human to be capable of something so non-animal as a relationship.
"Boy, Bob, that Joni must be something else--you, going out with her a second time."
"She's a good roll in the hay and all, but what I can't get over is how alive the girl is."
"No, by golly; no guy wants to go rolling in no hay with no dead girl."
"No, I mean . . . You know how you and I talk about doing shit, but then we never do shit? Well, Joni doesn't just talk shit, she up and does shit. Crazy shit. Kick-in-the-ass shit."
Odd; that's why I liked Bob; he was always doing crazy shit I'd never do. But crazy wasn't the issue here. It was tongue issues I wanted to get to the bottom of.
"So," I said, digging in my pry bar, "another new set of lips to kiss, eh?"
Bob didn't say anything.
"No, by golly, every girl has her own way of kissing they say."
Bob stopped banging, looked at me. "Sick fuck," he said, then got back to his banging.
"Not sick; just wondering. Wondering what it's like frenching that Joni number--frenching a girl with hardware bolted to her tongue."
"Pecooliar," Bob said.
"What's plenty pecooliar, Bob?"
"You. Instead of getting a life, you pry into mine."
We old souls got a lot of that: 'Get a life.' And why didn't we get a life? Because getting a life was nothing short of drop-kicking oneself into hell itself. No, we old souls may not have been deserving of heaven either, but, by gully, we knew better than to take on a snootful of suffering just so we could say, 'I got a life.'
"Sorry Bob," I said, searching for a new pry bar, "I didn't mean to pry."
What I needed here was something Bob and I had in common when it came to women. That way, having established a level of comradery, he'd lay down his defenses, describe in detail what it's like when a tongue--going for tongue--runs into something so non-tongue as a chunk of metal. But Bob and I had so little in common when it came to women. All I could think of was spoons.
Some time ago, I'd shared with Bob a fantasy of mine--a wee fantasy involving a spoon. Surprisingly, Bob also had a woman fantasy involving a spoon. At the time, though, I'd cut him off, steered conversation away so I wouldn't have to stomach his sordid spoon fantasy. But I could see now the time had come to toughen up, gag on a chunk or two of what the pig carried around in that sick head of his. Anything to get him detailing the taste of metal.
But, no, Bob didn't want to talk spoons, didn't want to talk women, no exploits he wanted to brag about. What was going on? Bob, refusing to be Bob?
Well, that sealed the deal; Bob had knocked down some witch's brew, for sure.
"Bob," I said, inching down Swedeville Road, "I could use some help here." I recited for Bob the side road we were looking for.
"Got my eye out," Bob said, glancing out the passenger window, then got both eyes back on the glove box he was banging like a religion.
Having run out of Swedeville Road, I pulled over, parked. I knew better than to interrupt Bob's worship, but I needed to dig a real map out of my glove box. Pissed, Bob got out of my truck, walked up to a railroad crossing, headed down the tracks.
Ah, here was something of note: Turned out there were two Swedeville Roads. I checked Bianca's map. How about that; Bianca had clearly written Old Swedeville Road on her map. And here I'd been driving five miles-an-hour down Swedeville Road.
I got out of my truck to get Bob. What the hell? Bob wasn't down the tracks. I looked up, asked the gods what trouble my boy was getting into now.
The gods wouldn't tell me.
I looked down the tracks, asked myself what trouble my boy was getting me into now.
I smiled, took a step, but stopped.
Before walking the tracks as a kid I always got down, pressed an ear against a rail. That way, if a train was coming, I'd hear it. I never heard a train coming that way, but still, for my better religion, I thought I'd best get down, press an ear against a rail.
****
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