Edward Lee - Header 2

Helton sat down and sighed. “Son. You can probably tell I’m in bad spirits right now. My grandson’s missin’, my daughter-in-law just hanged herself, and today I find out Hall Sladder stolt all’a my moonshine. Now I got this fuckin’ package from some fella named Paulie I never heard of, and I got this fuckin’ machine sittin’ here and as bad as I wanna know what it is, you’re bendin’ our ears ’bout Crud Tooler’s sister chargin’ him a buck for a fuckin’ blowjob. I don’t wanna know about that”—he pointed aggravatedly toward the machine—“I wanna know about that. ”

“Does kind’a suck, Paw, that Crud should have to pay even though he been the one payin’ for the house his sister lives in,” Dumar pointed out but then he paused. “A’course, Tulip, she give a dandy blowjob—I got me one off’a her a couple years ago—so’s I guess if Crud don’t like it, he can blow his own self,” and then he and Micky-Mack howled laughter and high-fived.

Helton’s large, bearded face came down into his hands; he bellowed, ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT DAMN MACHINE!”

Dumar and Micky-Mack straightened right up when they saw how out of sorts Helton had become. “Calm down, Paw,” Dumar said.

“And the machine?” Micky-mack stepped in. “It’s like I was sayin’, it plays movies. It’s kind’a like that thing we had a while back—the tv —only this don’t show shows, it shows movies. And these machines are a right ‘spensive, Unc Helton, so this friend’a yers, this Paulie fella, he’s a damn fine friend fer sendin’ you such a snazzy gift.”

Helton remained in this quandary. Who on earth would send him something like this, some new-fangled doohicky he had no use for? “So, what? We gonna watch a movie now?”

Micky-mack stalled. “Uhhhh…well…now that I think on it… It’s the movies themselves are the dvd’s—they’se these round things ’bout the size of a beer coaster at Crossroads, only a little bigger, and they’re really smart-lookin’, see, they’re all shiny’n silvery, and believe it or not, a whole dang movie fits on one of ’em. All ya do is stick it in this slot on the machine but…” Micky-Mack’s befuddlement was clear. “Don’t look like this friend’a yours Paulie sent ya any movies to go with the machine. Unless…” The 20-year-old finnicked with the machine and—presto!—a small drawer, like magic, automatically slid out. In the drawer lay something quite similar to what Micky-Mack had just described.

“Well, how ya like that, Unc Helton! Your pal Paulie already put a movie inside!” Micky-Mack studied the buttons on the machine. “Now, give me a sec while I’se figure this out.”

“Aw, fuck, boy,” Helton continued to complain, because he didn’t have much liking for modern contraptions. Likely as not, they were more trouble than they were worth. “And, shee-it. If’n this blasted thing’s like that ole teller-vision we had, then it must run on the blammed electricity. I gotta haul out the blammed generator? ”

Micky-Mick’s face seemed illumined in excitement. “Oh, naw, Unc. It’s this new tek-knowler-gee. This li’l movie machine here? Don’t need ta plug it inta mothin’!”

“Then how the fuck’s it work!”

“It runs…,” and Micky-Mack’s voice quieted as if in veneration…, “on a battery. ”

Helton threw his hands up. “Well then, balls, boy. If’n we’se gonna watch a movie, then make the blasted thing work. ”

Micky-Mack fiddled with some buttons—for, like Dumar, his reading skills were barely existent—until he inadvertently pressed one that read PLAY, and again, like magic, the little drawer closed…

And the screen lit up.

Dumar sat down next to his father. “Aw right! Looks like we’se gonna watch ourselfs…a movie! ”

(II)

Archie leaned forward, elbows propped up on the well-stocked cellphone counter; he was hamming it up with his boss, one Mike Anthon, a snide, too-good-looking-for-his-own good 30-year-old who fancied himself a cocksman and a smooth-operator, and there was little untruth in that fancy. Both men were eyeing Veronica’s rump as she leaned over the camera counter, showing a customer (whose t-shirt read EVEN JESUS HATES THE YANKEES) the latest variety of Dynex-brand mini memory-card readers.

Archie had spiked hair that looked less 2010 Me Generation and more early-‘80s post punk, though neither actually appeared in keeping with a town like Pulaski where buzzcuts comprised the majority of men’s hairstyles. Mike, on the other hand, had short, dark, punctiliously trimmed hair and impenetrable dark eyes, and looked rather like a modern, darker-haired incarnation of Nick Adams (for those who even remembered Nick Adams), and this might explain the veritable posse of young women who seemed to revolve around him as if through some cabalistic sexual gravity. (The previously mentioned Veronica was one such woman in that same gravitational field.) It was Mike who essentially ran the Pulaski Best Buys; Archie was his floor manager, while Veronica worked the camera department, and now that that’s out of the way, we can listen in to the discrete and notably sexist conversation between the two men.

“Not bad looking—not bad at all,” Archie regarded.

“Yeah, but for a package like me, not bad means not good enough, ” Mike replied. “Chicks have to take a number to go out with me, and most of them are tens. Veronica’s maybe a six.”

“Six? Oh, come on. That bod’s way better than a six, you cruel motherfucker!” Archie laughed.

“All right, let’s break it down. I’d give her tits a solid nine, maybe even nine-point-five—hands down, it’s a killer rack. And, damn it, I’d be lying if I didn’t give her ass a nine to go along with the tits. Serious.”

“What about the hoonanny?”

Mike crossed his arms. “Gotta give that a nine, too. Perfectly formed, you know, none of that turkey skin shit hanging down. And she’s got this ass-kicking racing stripe, man. It’s the same color as her hair—that real, real light brunet.” Mike shrugged. “Her pussy rocks too. Can’t complain about any of it.”

Archie pursed his lips. “Then how come she’s a six overall?”

“Well, I’d have to give that mousy face a six, and the thick glasses don’t add to the party.”

“Your math’s all wrong, man. Average three nines and one six and you’ve got eight-point-five. ”

Mike shook his head. “ Tangential circumstances. That’s why I’m dumping her.”

The revelation came as a surprise to Archie. “But she’ll be heartbroken. She’s nuts about you.”

Mike smirked. “Archie, I hate to tell you this, but all girls are nuts about me. And not just nuts but I mean goo-goo-ga-ga, mushy, gushy crazy-in-love nuts.”

“It’s your modesty that attracts them, I’m sure.”

“Seriously, Veronica was just a booty call,” Mike went on, “and there wasn’t even any booty.”

A canted look from Archie.

Mike continued, “What good’s a pussy that ranks a nine if you can’t fuck it?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I mean she doesn’t fuck. She’s a virgin; she’s got this weird virgin-thing—won’t fuck till she’s married.”

“I didn’t think they made girls like that,” Archie commented. “Especially in Virginia.”

“She’ll suck my dick day and night but won’t fuck. The only way my battleship gets into that port is with knock-out drops.” Mike looked suddenly irked. “And she won’t let me ass-fuck her, either.”

Archie flipped a hand. ‘Well, I’m not into the ass stuff myself. I don’t want to get some chick’s shit packed up my peehole. I mean, think about it. Say you buy a girl dinner on Saturday night, then on Sunday you fuck her in the ass. The shit that gets packed up your peehole and caked around the rim is from the same food you bought her the night before. It’s fucked up.”