Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

The hood slammed. Newell reached the car and jumped on board and his breath was deep and Kenny was in the driver's seat and asking, what's going on, and now he was looking back at the dashboard and the car was not, not, not turning over.

“DUDE. DUDE! He's fucking coming! Fucking go. ”

“I'm trying,” Kenny said.

Another turn of the key; a whinnying. Then a roar. Newell said “Holy shit” and Kenny shifted into reverse and floored it and kept looking over his shoulder. Liquid was spilling all over Kenny and noise was cranking, the stupid radio must have been on when the car had been turned off. Newell rolled down his window and there was the shifting of gears, the screeching of tires, the smell of burnt rubber, “holy fuck holy shit” ; there was a child's gleeful scream and a sudden, unexpected expulsion — white smoke streaming from the car window as if from a dragon's nostrils, the sound of a monstrous exhalation.

Pale smoke plumed into the night and spread over the parking space like a cancerous cloud. Newell cackled and screamed and a second burst of white smoke streamed through the window.

They were accelerating through a yellow light, speeding down a straightaway, carried along by a second wind now, one point five liters of adrenaline and testosterone and undistilled mayhem and pure, unregulated whup-ass.

“ What did you do? ” Kenny asked. “ What were you doing? ”

Dude, it was fucked up back there, Newell admitted it was.

But knowledge did not stop him from doing a series of break-dance moves and swaying along to that classic Run DMC song. Knowledge did not stop Newell from tapping his fingers atop the long metal canister. Knowledge did not do one thing to stop him from nailing one of those sidewalk news boxes where six quarters got you a listing of hookers. Newell talked smack about how cool it would be to drive out to those Indian reservations in Pahrump and buy fireworks and fucking bomb people. He cooked up mad schemes for next Fourth of July. Apprehensive laughter came from the driver's side, and Newell said it must be rad to do a drive-by shooting. Turning up the radio, he shouted along at the top of his young lungs:

I'm the king of rock, there is none higher

Sucka MCs should call me Sire.

6.2

During the Fourth of July weekend, inspired by the men who had given their lives that freedom might flourish, and at the urging of her foulmouthed boyfriend, Cheri Blossom, exchanging her usual candle stubs for sparkler wicks, appeared on the catwalk of the Slinky Fox with sparks of crimson and silver frothing out of her breasts. Throughout the crowd, eyes popped, presidents were released from billfolds, patriots of all stripes climbed over one another, buying Cheri drinks, paying for lap dances, private dances, and extended private sessions in the VIP room. Dawn had taken the horizon when Ponyboy finally swung by in Cheri's Jeep. Amplifier reverb was a constant echo through her eardrums by then, and a red-hot wire of pain was sharp through her lower back, and except for recurring spasms in her thighs, her legs were numb. But Cheri kissed Ponyboy on the cheek with a giddy, girlish excitement and busted out an oily wad, denominations packed atop one another until they'd strained the limitations of the hair scrunchy.

Ponyboy carried her athletic bag and unlocked the door to the apartment. He let Cheri enter first and watched her take in the sight that awaited — for not only had Ponyboy picked all of his knapsacks and chess sets and videotapes and dildos from off her carpet, not only had he vacuumed up all his potato chip remains and removed the wads of crumpled Kleenex, but he'd gone and washed the carpet, cleaned it of his bootprints and scuffs. A bouquet of freshly cut flowers sat on the coffee table in a glass vase. A dozen white, long-stemmed roses lay across the pillows of Cheri's bed. Ponyboy offered to make breakfast if she was hungry. He volunteered to run a bath if she wanted. Cheri thanked him with a soft kiss on the cheek and a warm hug, fell onto her bed, and moaned how good it felt to just lie there.

Too wired to sleep, Cheri said. Too tired for anything else.

Ponyboy offered supportive murmurs and took away the roses and filled a spare pitcher with water and put the flowers in it. He kneeled down and unzipped each of her thigh-high boots and helped them off. He rubbed Cheri's feet for an undetermined but blissful period of time, taking care to avoid the blisters, kneading through the knots beneath the calluses. She purred thanks and shut her eyes and enjoyed every second and felt a soft kiss on her cheek. Pulling a baggie from his pocket, Pony-boy asked if she wanted some of Jamaica's highest quality cess.

For as long as she'd been going out with Ponyboy, he'd never paid for anything, and of all the things he never paid for, drugs was number one with a bullet. She looked at him and realized that he had dyed his hair midnight black, which he knew to be her favorite color. He'd even trimmed his fingernails.

“What is it this time?”

Ponyboy grinned, continued rolling a meticulous fattie inside the casing of a dollar cigar.

“Actually, I was kind of hoping to talk with you.”

He would not ever do anything to hurt her. And if she told him no, that was fine.

And of course she told him no. Absolutely not. Sleazy guys were paid to scour strip clubs and escort services. If she had a nickel for every jerk who'd approached her to do something like this—

“No,” she said. “No Fucking Way. I can't believe you. What do you think I am?”

He licked the rolling paper, joined the ends together. “Fine. Totally copacetic. The answer is no,” he said. “This matter's settled…. So you might as well listen to me, right?

“Baby, see the thing about getting involved with the industry is that if you do it right, you're set. Set. Like, the dynamics, they totally depend on where you are on the food chain. Once you make it onto the cover of a videotape box, you've got the whole enchilada, the guacamole, the salsa on the side.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, moved toward her, offered the spliff.

“It's all marketing, see. When a guy goes to get a porno, only thing he knows about the film is what's on the box. Hard-core pervs may get to where they know directors and who's who in the cast, but they're pervs so who cares. The stuff you really choose a tape on, what really matters — is how bad you want to nail the girl on the box cover.

“I've been researching like no tomorrow, Cheri, baby girl, sweetie pie…. Right now the adult film industry's like got this glut of European babes. They got third worlders, all kinds of chinks and spics and jungle bunny bullshit. But let me ask. Who's watching porn? The guys in your strip bar, that's who. They leave the Slinky Fox and at the next light they make a quick turn and some of them get a mag, but most of them watch a video. I seen it. You and me, we both know that your customers want to watch a white girl. They want the prettiest white girl with the blondest hair and the biggest tits. They want to watch Catholic schoolgirl cheerleader prom queen Miss America get thirteen inches of wood put to her. Baby, you look American like Chevrolet. That's a big plus right there. And, sweet sugar doll, from experience, I can guar-an-tee there's no problems in the fucking department.”

How Ponyboy knew so much about this?

“I told you already.”

He stared at her like the cat with the feathers of Grandma's canary hanging from his mouth. Cheri blew smoke into his face. He coughed, blinked violently, forced out another of those shit-eating grins.

“Research.”

She blew another stream.