Paullina Simons - Road to Paradise

I blinked.

“I don’t want to talk about it any more with you,” Gina said. “All I’m saying is, he hasn’t been good. And he doesn’t have to know about tonight. Come on, let’s go. Let’s get us some real rowdy.” She smiled. “How do I look?”

“Great,” I said. “But the dogs are outside. They’ll start barking. They’ll hear my car.”

“The dogs are already barking.” Gina winked. She messed up the bed and put towels and pillows under the sheets to make it appear as if two sleeping forms were underneath. “I’m sure my aunt’s out by now. It’s eleven; way past her bedtime. Don’t worry. They’re both none too swift. Ready?”

Dolled up, done up, I hitched my mini-skirt, adjusted my tube top, made sure money and ID were in my pocket, and crawled out the window into the side yard littered with broken lumber. We tip-toed our way to the car; of course the tiny dogs, mistaking themselves for German Shepherds, snarled like we were about to rob the house.

I put the car into neutral and released the handbrake. In her heels, Gina helped me back it out the drive, I started it on the road, and we drove off, giggling like kids. “Why are you wearing underwear?” she said in the car on the way to South Bend. “I’m not.”

“I know.”

“Come on. Trust me, you feel completely different without underwear. Like anything’s possible.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I said. “But my skirt’s too short. I’ll get arrested for indecent exposure.”

Gina said her mission was to make out with a cute college guy. She’d never had a college guy. She wanted to test if that thing they said about men and women was true.

“What thing is that?”

“That when a woman wakes up she can say to herself, today I will get laid. And have it be true. But when a man wakes up, he can say, I may never get laid again. And have that also be true.”

I laughed. I hoped it was true. We were wearing shiny lipstick, and had on lots of drugstore perfume, Coty and Jean Naté. Gina’s jeans were tighter than my skirt, but that was only because I was thinner. Too much running, though not since being on the road. Felt weird not running every day.

In South Bend, we cruised the noisy strip of bars, looking for a boisterous place where the patrons were neatly dressed and young. Gina didn’t want to go to Vickie’s (“Only girls there”) or McCormick’s or Corby’s (“The Irish get too drunk and pass out”). We debated between Linebacker Lounge and Library Irish Pub. She wanted the former, I the latter.

“Are you joking?” she said. “ Library Pub? You want them to talk to you about Hardy and Yeats? Or do you want them to look like linebackers? That’s really the question here.”

“I want them to be able to speak.”

“That’s the only thing they’ll be able to do at Library Pub,” Gina returned.

“I would like,” I said, “a better class of boy.”

We had to play rock, paper, scissors to decide. We played best of three. I won. “If only all decisions were that easy,” said Gina, as we pulled into the Library parking lot.

“What do you mean? That’s how we used to decide everything.”

“ Everything , Sloane?”

Two preppy, clean-cut guys walking inside saw us getting out of our car and whistled. “Nice ’Stang, girls!” And I, Shelby, smiled, because it was my Shelby. I may have kept my underwear on, but I had a nice ’Stang.

“That was so easy,” Gina whispered to me, as they were walking up to us. “Maybe you were right about this place.”

“Yeah, the car’s a stud magnet,” I whispered back. “Even with bookworms.”

The car, the mini-skirt, Gina’s moniker and panty-free manner combined with two or seven Sloe Gin fizzes was enough to hook us up with two sophomores from Indiana State, English majors and on the lacrosse team. The music was too loud, we couldn’t talk. We just sipped our drinks, smiled, and stood close. They kept leaning toward us to hear the words we weren’t saying, like, “You come here often?” and “Yes, I’ll have another drink. And another.” I laughed too much and too loud, which is what I do when I get a little tipsy, and thought everything they said and didn’t say was so funny. And every time my boy spoke, I touched his arm. Alive and Kicking were holding on a little bit tighter, baby, and Blondie was dancing very close cuz it was rapture time.

Gina and I didn’t get back to Three Oaks until her goal was more fully accomplished than even she had expected, and since I didn’t have a goal, I was quite surprised by the turn of events. So, at four in the morning when we climbed into our room, sneaking in like thieves into the den, we felt as if we’d run a marathon, or aced the SATs, or perhaps come in first and second in our class. Giggling, inebriated, and relaxed, Gina barely threw off her clothes before climbing into bed, and though I was also drunk, I folded my clothes, put them away, and got out my outfit for the morning, my notebook as well, but in bed I asked how in heaven’s name I was supposed to drive tomorrow, and Gina, nearly unconscious, muttered, let’s stay a few more days. I tried to remember my mother, whether the cover charge had been more or less than I’d budgeted for, and to count up how much money we’d spent so far. Had I paid for any of the drinks? I think I ordered bacon potato skins and buffalo wings, and tipped the waitress, maybe bought one drink. Thirty bucks, forty? But a song of freedom kept whirling in my head for the happy road day, won’t you help me sing … redemption songs. Redemption songs .

We woke up at noon! Which was so not like me, and for some reason noon and sobriety didn’t make me feel as great about the previous night as last call, intoxication and songs of freedom had. I’d had a bad dream. And, who were those guys we’d been with?

“Who cares?” Gina said, stretching, rolling over. “We were like men last night. We came, we took what we wanted, we left. Wasn’t it awesome?”

My heavy skull cracking and my mouth parched, I said, “Yeah. Totally.” I wasn’t used to drinking, I was dehydrated. My dream had been so creepy and real, I didn’t know how I had continued sleeping. I sat up in bed and looked around. Everything in the room seemed to be in place. Our two suitcases, our makeup. Maybe we could ask Aunt Betty to let us do a wash today. “Did you get his name?”

“Todd.”

“Hmm.” I licked my lips, touched my face. Did I forget to take off my makeup? Yuk. “Mine said he was Todd, too.”

We stared at each other for the briefest of moments. “So?” Gina pulled open the curtain to glance outside. “So maybe they lied about their names. What, you think guys’d care if we lied about our names? If I said my name was Kathleen, you think they’d care? Look, a beautiful day again. And so hot, too. Want to go swimming? And tonight we can go back to South Bend.” She winked naughtily. “We’ll try the Linebacker Lounge this time.”

“Swimming?” I was still stuck on the boys and the dream. “Swimming where?”

“Uh—Lake Michigan?”

“Oh.” We were stretched out in bed. “But we didn’t lie, did we?” I said. “We could’ve, but we didn’t. We wanted them to know us.”

I didn’t tell Gina my bad vision of trouble: I had woken in the blue of night, and there, in our room, in the chair by the door, sat Ned, watching us, his scalp flaking, his belly overflowing, eyes slow-blinking.

We threw on clothes and went to the kitchen, where Aunt Betty eyeballed us like we were stale cheese. Ned sat at the corner table, reading the newspaper. He didn’t look up. Betty said the dogs had barked at four in the morning and woken her. “They never bark in the middle of the night.” Cleverly, we said nothing. She asked why we slept so late when we went to bed so early. Again, a simple shrug sufficed for reply. But at that moment Ned looked up from his early 70s newspaper, and gave me a slow blink.