"I think I'm in love. She's kinda mean, but real sexy." B. could fall in love once every three hours, but the look on his face made me believe him. "She likes drugs, and art and porn. I told her you take pictures." They wanted to enter an amateur photo contest; first prize was five-hundred dollars. "I want you to take our picture," B. said.
B. said he'd call my pay phone at seven. My home phone had been disconnected for months. My mom was sick and my stepdad was trying to screw her by bailing on the bills, but it'd turned out we didn't miss the phone much. For the eight months it was gone, I used the White Hen's payphone; when it rang, it was always for me. I'd stare down the occasional lost driver or drunk dialing for a cab, letting them know expedience was required. It worked great until one day it was just gone. Ripped right out of the wall, wires exposed, and brick that was a shade darker in the shape of the missing phone. At this point, however, it still had another three months to go, so I waited until B. called.
B. drove a beat-up maroon Dart that summer. To counteract the oven effects of its tin-can roof, he borrowed an electric miter saw and sardined the top right off, making it roof-less forever. Losing the extra support made the frame quiver and grind, so I heard B. and his girl before I saw them, a distinct sound of humping steel. I had a work lamp and a tripod with me. I had rolls of film and rope. I had wet panties under my short skirt. They pulled up with tight-fitting t-shirts, whiskey, and forty dollars to burn on a room.
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They pulled up with tight-fitting t-shirts, whiskey, and forty dollars to burn on a room.
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They had John, too, though he didn't know about our plans for later. B. and John sat up front and I nestled in the back, next to Jamie. She was thin, endowed, loud with a raspy voice, and half-drunk. She gave me a warm hug.
You can't just jump into a porno shoot. So we drove down by the train station, climbing the hill above the platform, over to the grassy spot where cement blocks spelled out "LION'S CLUB." We each took a letter, the under-curve of the U cupping my ass. People filed out of trains, conductors shouted, commuters raced awkwardly in suits. We yelled at them — kid stuff, and dirty — using the descending echo unique to our hideout, and watched as they glared at each other. It was perfect.
Jamie talked dramatic bullshit. John was his usual self: high-energy, with violent mood swings and Nazi-youth ideals. He was also the first one to try and fuck the only black chick at any given party. He competed with Jamie, their stories growing louder as we drank. B. somehow fused the battling ego streams, allowing them seem relevant, even appealing. I was mostly silent. I hadn't yet learned that it doesn't matter what you say, as long as you say something.
B. grabbed a tree branch casually as he listened. He'd told me how, as a kid, he'd slipped and fallen down this hill, turning unintentional cartwheels over the thorny bushes, the rocks and letters where we now perched. When he hit bottom, his shorts, underwear, and scrotum had all been ripped open by a twig, and his right testicle had spilled out onto the sidewalk, next to a couple of commuters. This time, his boot-heel dug strong into the dirt.
We stayed until we were out of drinks. Back in the car, Jamie asked if I wanted to kiss her. I answered by leading in with my mouth slightly open. We made sure our shirts were pulled down, revealing our cleavage. I rested my hand on the back of her thigh. She giggled and her spit tasted like bourbon. We made out like a lot of girls do: until the boys yelped with jealousy.
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