Matt Cowper - The Clerk

“Is it safe to sit on the couch?” Thomas asked. “Or have you been fornicating?”

The couch was semi-famous throughout Carteret County. For some reason, Reggie liked fucking girls on its “swankness” instead of on his bed. Maybe it was the coolness of the leather, or maybe he wanted to be closer to the television, which he usually kept on during sex. It had been covered in many different types of bodily fluids over the years, and had witnessed just about every sexual position. It was also only cleaned whenever the rest of the apartment was cleaned, so Thomas was wary of sitting on its thick, almost certainly befouled cushions.

Reggie grinned, but didn’t reply. He unsprawled himself and patted the cushion next to him. Thomas sighed and sat down slowly.

“Don’t be such a damn girl,” Reggie scoffed. “You act like that every time you come here.”

“Not when you’ve cleaned.”

“You sound like a wife, man. You gonna make me a honey-do list?”

“Nah.”

“Good, you fucker. So, what have you been doing lately?”

“Nothing much. Work, some beach walks.”

“You and your beach walks…”

“You’d enjoy them if you stayed out there for more than ten minutes. Your mind slows down, you start to think clearer…”

“If you say so, Confucius. To me, an empty beach is like an old woman’s vagina: worthless.”

“The beach is never empty.”

“You know what I mean. I want to see girls , Tommy. Girls in their itty-bitty bikinis. Girls rubbing sunscreen or tanning oil all over themselves, or dripping wet from the ocean. Girls standing there with three-quarters of their butt hanging out, like they’re oh-so-innocent and they’d never think of having sex with anyone , especially me. When’s summer getting here, huh? It’s colder’n a witch’s titty out there.”

Magnificent, sensual visions floated in front of him. The Reggie of twenty-some years ago may have been bored from chasing tail, but the Reggie of age forty felt like he needed to grab everything he could get. Forget those handicaps and Challenges he’d had back in the day. Forty may be the new thirty in Hollywood, but this was the North Carolina coast. At age forty, you were nearly old.

“You know it’s not cold here,” Thomas said. “Not really. Try living in Minnesota or somewhere Up North, then you’d know a real winter…”

“Fuck no. Let those Yankee fucks freeze their asses off. I’ll stay right here.”

“So stop complaining.”

“I’ll complain all I want.” He scratched his balls with near-orgasmic relish. “Would be nice to be down in Florida right about now, though. Nice and warm. How about the Keys? Heard it’s wild down there. People dressed in drag, a lot of faggots. Hippie girls, too. Huh. You know, I haven’t had a hippie girl in a while. They’re a strange breed. Think they’re different, that they’re tapped into the primordial chakra essence or whatever the fuck they call, but they ain’t. They’re the same as the rest of ’em, except in those heads, they’re even more fucked up than normal chicks.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever been with a hippie girl myself.”

“Count yourself lucky.”

“You know, my parents drove down to Key West once, after they’d moved to Florida. I believe my old man called it a ‘cesspool of sin.’”

“Yup, that sounds like Frank Copeland.”

“I can’t imagine what would happen if one of those cross-dressers or queers tried to talk to him… what would you do if one of them tried to pick you up?”

“Do?” Reggie mulled over the question for a few seconds. “I probably wouldn’t do nothing. Laugh about it, maybe. Or if I was really drunk, I might fight the guy. Who knows.”

On the television’s low-definition screen, a conglomeration of sheeny hair connected to an ESPN analyst was discussing the “heart and hustle” of an NBA player.

“By the way,” Reggie said, “don’t think I forgot to get you something for your birthday.”

“I don’t think that. You did text me, remember? And I’m sure you got me beer, like every year.”

“You got it. It’s in the fridge. A six-pack of Rolling Rock.”

“Rolling Rock? That’s one of the cheapest beers you can buy.”

“Lissen to ya. What, you want me to get you some overpriced microbrewed shit? I can go return that six-pack and get you something with super-special Madagascarian hops or whatever the fuck they use, if that’s what you really want.”

“You know I’m just fucking with you. Rolling Rock is fine. Thanks, man.”

“So what’d you do on your birthday?” Reggie grunted. “Hang out with that Kara chick?”

“No, I didn’t. I wanted to have a day to myself.”

“Tommy, you have too many days to yourself. Me, I’d want to get some ass on my birthday.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been with Kara. She’s been… distant. I pretty much broke it off.”

“Pretty much?”

“Yeah.”

“So you told her to go fuck herself.”

“Not exactly.”

“So you told her you’d never stick your dick in her rotten pussy ever again.”

“Nope, afraid I didn’t.”

“So what’d you say, exactly?”

“She’s been avoiding me, and when I finally do get up with her, she tries to lure me into dating her. So I just kind of let things slide away.”

“Slide away? Tommy, you pussyfoot around these hoes more than anyone I know. Just tell her that she’s a selfish cunt and walk away.”

“Yeah, I know that’s the Reggie Willis way to handle women, but I’m not you.”

“No, you ain’t. You ain’t got the swag. I tell you, though, you could be like me, if you worked at it. For one thing, I do believe you’re aging better than me, Tommy ol’ boy. I’m a bit heavier than I was back in the old days, and I keep finding these damned grey hairs.”

Thomas looked over at the shirtless man beside him. Reggie was right about his weight: he did have a paunch, although his arms were as muscular as ever. Thomas, however, saw no gray hairs in his wild black mane.

“That’s because you nibble all the time at Clamshells,” Thomas said. “Cut that out and you’d be solid as a rock.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Reggie replied. He was always picking at the french fries and hushpuppies when there was a lull. When he was a dishwasher stuck in his dishwashing hovel, this hadn’t been a problem, but the manager, recognizing his irrepressible personality and agile mind, had long ago promoted him from dishwasher to server. It was ten times better than lugging around all those goddamn plates, paunch or no paunch. It was just like mating for his father: he got big tips and met lots of women.

The bustling, however, wore on him more each year. Like Thomas, he felt age slowing him down. Not too many years ago, he would be antsy for weekend nights in the summer, because he knew he could race around to five or six tables all shift, throw food and charm at them, and rake in the bucks and telephone numbers. Now he dreaded them.

“But I’ve never been one to resist temptation,” Reggie continued, “and I don’t think I should start now.”

“Yes, the Reggie Willis mantra: the only way to beat temptation is to give in to it.”

“Damn straight.”

Reggie grabbed the remote and started flicking through the channels. Crime dramas, SUV commercials, and deserted-island survival contests blinked across the screen. Thomas fidgeted; Reggie was an expert channel surfer, and could while away hours doing exactly what he was doing now.

“So,” Thomas said, “what do you want to do today?”

“Dunno. Got any ideas?”

“It’s a little cloudy, but no rain on the forecast. Beach walk?”