All right, ya ready? Cause here it goes...
Last weekend I decided to enjoy the tranquility of the small farming community of Norfolk, Nebraska.
Norfolk was a little town of mouse holes, lace curtains, Sears catalogs, measles epidemics, baloney sandwiches and men who knew more about the carburetor than they knew about the clitoris.
The song Love Is a Many Splendored Thing was not composed in Norfolk.
There have been cans of dogfood more splendiferous than Norfolk. Land mines more tender.
Norfolk was settled by a race of thin, bony-faced psychopaths. They would sell you anything they had, which was nothing, and kill you over anything they didn't understand, which was everything.
Slackjawed honkies would gaze at you as you walked past their house with animal stupidity. Keith and I took refuge at the house Richard and Todd occupied with that black guy, Cameron. Their shack was in worse disrepair than ours was. The Mexican that lived there drank so much that empty beer cans piled up to the roof in corners. Sunday afternoon a weird occurrence, Cameron got really drunk off of whiskey shots and we were alone in his room. Out of nowhere he asked me to give him head. After he took it out I was very impressed so how could I say no. I can never explain the sheer poetry of having a muscular, handsome, and well endowed black man sitting waving an extremely large penis at you. I slobbered all over that big fucker like a crazed kid in a candystore. What can I say, I love dick. However, I was so paranoid afterwards. I could blow my cover, no pun intended, and get my ass kicked by these country simple assholes.
Anyhoo, during last weekend, The Gang and I meandered around downtown Norfolk. This place resembled all those old photos and t.v. shows of the kind of towns Norman Rockwell would paint. The town really looked rustic. Kind of serene and at peace. It seemed like one of those towns that would never change. On Sunday, we even attended a black gospel service in a small white church with a steeple and a picket fence. Everyone was friendly and said hello. The townsfolk were so whitebread and squeaky clean; even the few paranoid blacks.
In a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant I was lectured about using profanity in public after saying the word fuck in front of a lady. The lady's husband was pretty irate about it Gosh darn it!
"A good Christian doesn't use that language!"
"What? The word fuck?"
"Yes! It's very offensive!"
"Well, fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck!"
We were asked to leave.
I couldn't take it anymore. I told Richard that we had to get out of town, since he quit the same day I did. Being the Alpha Males, we decided to ditch Keith and Todd, so while they were at the Meat Plant we planned our departure from Norfolk. We both returned to the plant on Monday morning and got our measly pay for three days. Richard said if I liked I could come to New York State and live with him and his parents. He assured me that his folks wouldn't mind.
Richard and I walked over to the Catholic Services to scam them out of money. In Yuma, Arizona, Richard explained that Todd and himself needed bus fare to get to El Paso. They told Catholic Services that their car ran out of gas and the agency gave them $100.00 for gas. He said the folks were suckers and it was an easy mark. Seemed like a good deal to me.
As the nun sat behind her desk, nodding her head, listening intently at our sad quest. We explained with deep heartfelt anguish our financial woes. Richard and I should have won a fucking Oscar for our performance. Oh, such drama! The Sister didn't buy it, got upset, and had us thrown out of the church.
We stood on the corner, bitter with discontent, staring across the street at Smilin' Pete's Car Farm. Old, out dated cars squatted like ugly toads under the buzzing neon sign and tattered lifeless banners. It was an overcast day and a salesman stood at the door of his office, beaming at us with long yellow horse teeth.
We walked across the street and were greeted with a merry "Howzit goin', fellas?!" The salesman, Chuck, wore a cheap blue suit and sported a bad onion hair cut. He sweated profusely, eyes nervous, with an intense joker smile. He had a deep Midwest accent as thick as Wisconsin cheese.
"Hiya, boys! Looking for a car, eh?" Grin. Nod.
Richard looked around. "Yeah. We work for Beef of America and we were interested in a car for work."
"Oh, you betcha! Ya, Beef of America, eh?" Grin. Nod. Walks over to a midnight blue '73 maverick. "Ya, this is a bute! Only $650.00. It'll getcha to where yer going and then some. Oh, ya, you betcha!"
Richard looked the car over. "Can we take it for a test drive?"
"Oh ya, you betcha. But, let's first clear it with my boss, okidokie?" Grin. Nod. Frown. Grin.
In the office sat Mr. Wychk, an ancient relic with quivering hands who held a napkin up to his mouth to catch the saliva dripping out. He was one of those old white haired buzz cuts that still called black people "colored".
Big fucking grin. "Mr. Wychk, these good boys would like to test drive the blue Maverick. These're good boys, boss, oh ya. Local boys from Beef of America. There's good work in Beef of America. Yep." Grin. Sweat beads down forehead because ol' Chuck really needed to make this fucking sale. With the wife and the little ones and the mortgage, you understand.
Senor Droolcup stood up and gave the two-freshfaced college boys the old once over. "Seems to me like they're all right. Chuck, give them the keys and let them take her for a whirl around the block."
We shook hands. Back outside, Richard and I climbed into the car. It smelt like burnt oil. Chuck handed Richard the keys. Richard handed Chuck a fake I.D. "Okay, Buster. Be easy on the girl and just drive her around the corner. Oh, she's a bute, isn't she?" Grin. Thumbs up.
"You betcha." We both returned the gesture. Two thumbs up.
We slowly drove the car out of the lot, leaving Chuck standing there in that rusty car graveyard with the weeds in the cement cracks. Richard and I drove over to our houses to get our bags and then we drove that fucking car through the night and all of the next day until the engine burned out in the town of Binghamton in the state of New York. Straight through, and I am not making this up. I wish I were. Man, I tell you it was exhilarating. I love breaking rules, especially when you get away with it!
When we finally arrived in Binghamton, it was cold and dark. Electricity hummed in the condenser boxes above us. Grey brick buildings lay against the gloom of the overcast sky as factory stacks billowed black smoke. The dead grass around the Greyhound station, which was the only place open and it was a tomb, was spotted with pools of rancid oil. Richard phoned his parents and told them where he was. He confided in me that he ran away from home about seven months ago and they haven't seen or heard from him since. That's fucking great, I thought.
Well, I stood there staring at the smoking car as Richard told me The Parents said they'd pick us up the next day, so with our last twenty dollars we rented a cheesy room for $17.95. The St. Francis. Real crappy. The Front Desk clerk, who I think is queer, was kind enough to let me pound this shit out on the office computer. Us Front desk agents gotta stick together, reet?
What the fuck next?