John Locke - Box

She said a rich one.

Like I said, Renee Williams is a sure thing.

Renee was wrong. Paducah actually does have a hotel, and it’s a famous one. But I want to be in a newer area, near the interstate, so I found a surprisingly decent, clean, king suite with a kitchen, desk, couch and all the amenities you could hope to get for a hundred thirty-five a night. I’m not trying to impress you with the room. It’s not that nice. Even in New York City it wouldn’t run more than two-twenty.

But in New York City it wouldn’t be this clean.

I call Renee to tell her I’m staying at the Royal Landmark Inn, and she says, “Wow! Perfect timing!”

“You can’t already be here,” I say.

“No, silly!” she says. “I’m still at home getting all pretty for you. But I’m standing here in tub water, naked, with a razor in my hand.”

I wonder if she’s contemplating suicide. Surely she can wait till after our date for that.

She says, “How do you like it?”

“Like what?”

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“Yes.” Because I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Oh, so you like dirty talk?”

I now have even less idea what she’s talking about.

But I do like dirty talk when a naked woman’s on top, bitch-slapping me with her tits. Or yelling at me as I hammer her from behind when she’s face-down, ass-up, on her knees. In contrast, I didn’t care for the dirty talk I got from Zander’s fake-cop boyfriend a few minutes ago. If Renee is anything like her photos, she’s nothing like Zander’s boyfriend. So I’m probably on safe ground by saying, “I love dirty talk!”

“Oooh, I bet you do-oo-oooh,” she says with what she considers a sexy voice. “Well, aren’t you a bad doctor boy! You are a bad doctor, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Renee’s got me pegged. I may be a great surgeon, but I am a bad doctor. I hear it all the time. I’ve got a terrible bedside manner, and have problems communicating with people. Half the time I have no idea what they’re even talking about.

Like now.

She says, “Oh, bad boy?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget, I’m standing here, completely naked.”

“Wow!”

“Mmmm! And you know what I’m doing?”

“What?”

“I’m looking at my pussy.”

“Wow!”

“Would you like to see it?”

“Absolutely!”

“Try to picture it right now.”

“Okay.”

“Do you see where I’m going with this? I’m trying to decide how you like it.”

I get it.

She’s role-playing.

I say, “Doggie-style!”

She pauses a few seconds, then laughs. “I guess that means full bush. Well, you surprised me, but no problem. I’ll just be there that much sooner! Should I pack an overnight bag?”

Seriously? She plans to stay after having sex with me? And does that mean there could be an encore? Or morning sex?

I can’t remember the last time I had morning sex.

You know, sober morning sex.

I like it.

On the other hand, do I really want a total stranger spending the night in my room?

It’s one thing to fuck a total stranger. Quite another to trust her while you’re sleeping.

What if Renee turns out to be the love child of Hell Bitch and Night of the Living Dead?

“Bring the overnight bag and we’ll see how things develop,” I say, realizing I have plenty of time to work out my trust issues before giving my final answer.

She hangs up.

What was it she said? Full bush?

What the hell did that mean?

She had a razor in her hand. Wondered how I like it. And I said doggie style, and she said full bush, and…

Ah! I get it.

Shit.

I might be fucking Wolfman Jack tonight.

I’ve got forty minutes to kill while waiting for Renee to show up. If I were an author, writing a book, instead of a guy telling you a story, I’d fill the next ten pages telling you how this area was originally a Chickasaw village, and how Chief Paduke welcomed the settlers and lived in harmony till 1827, when William Clark, of Lewis and Clark, showed up with a phony five dollar land deed and forced the Indians to move to Mississippi. I’d tell you that after building the town, Clark was brazen enough to invite Chief Paduke to the ribbon-cutting ceremony, and that the Chief showed up, but died of malaria on the way home.

To impress you with my research I might mention Paducah is one of two cities mentioned in the song, Hooray for Hollywood.

But do you really care?

I don’t think so.

My guess is you’d rather hear about Renee Williams.

Here’s my take on the kindergarten teacher: she’s medium cute. I realize that statement requires clarification, and I’m not sure I’m up to it, but I’ll try.

You know how a puppy’s adorable when he’s sleeping or playing but a grown dog’s disgusting when he humps your leg or licks his dick?

Renee’s the opposite.

Meaning, she’s not the least bit adorable, but I like the way she humps me and licks my dick. I like it so much I hardly look up when the door flies open and Zander’s fake cop boyfriend enters the room with two other guys dressed as policemen.

What gets our attention is all three are holding guns on us.

Turns out Zander’s boyfriend is a real cop. Also, he’s not Zander’s boyfriend.

Turns out the reason he didn’t arrest me at the riverbank is because I hadn’t exposed myself, and he’s experienced enough to know a good attorney could reasonably argue I parked there to take a nap and was simply scratching an itch when he happened by.

Turns out the reason he didn’t drive his car down the riverbank is because his partner was busy flirting with the cute young lady with the big handbag (Zander) who said there was a creepy guy in a rental car down the hill, pleasuring himself (me).

Then a car pulled up, Zander climbed in, and they drove away.

No, they didn’t have any reason to question the driver or record the license plate.

I learned the nicest way possible that Renee trimmed her orange bush in the shape of a heart for my benefit, and didn’t appreciate the attention it received from the policemen, particularly the one whose son attended her kindergarten class at Logan Elementary.

The good news is, they allow Renee to go free after being convinced she had nothing to do with the armed robbery that took place at the bowling alley earlier in the day. The one where a female employee named Chris wrote down the make, model, and license number of the rental car she saw in the employee’s parking lot.

After giving police a detailed description of me.

This is embarrassing.

I’m in a police lineup with two black guys, an old wino who’s pissing his pants as we speak, and a cross-dressing punk rocker who shit in hers long before I got here.

Guess which of us was eye-witnessed driving the rental car?

Me.

No surprise there.

But there is a surprise.

A big one.

Chris, a.k.a. Zander’s “friend”, fingers me as the guy who, acting alone, forced his way into the bowling alley, put a gun to her head, and made her open the owner’s private safe.

The cops aren’t overly impressed with my story, that Zander scheduled a date with me in order to dupe me into being the getaway driver for her robbery.

Can you blame them?

So they book me and it appears I’ll be spending the night at city jail.

But when my background check comes back and Paducah police learn I’m the world’s greatest Cardiothoracic surgeon, a guy who earns two hundred grand per operation, my story suddenly sounds better than Chris’s.