Fiends That Go Boink
Published by A. Silenus at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 A. Silenus
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Book Signing (Hazards Of The Road)
It was one of those long weekend trips Douglas liked to take in the summer. The heat was hanging around the house like a shroud, he’d say, and he was ready to answer the call of the open highway.
Who was I to argue? A chance to escape the city, and the decorative rites involved in being the child wife of a semi-retired executive wasn’t that unbearable. Child wife? That’s what his corporate cronies called me when they thought I was out of earshot. Funny how old people think the whole world is losing its hearing once they start losing theirs.
Don’t get me wrong, I was devoted to the man and his social calendar. What’s not to like about dinner engagements and theater, right? Playing dress up and flirting with maitre d’s every other night? So what was I moping about? Maybe it was the weather.
Yep, that’s what it must be.
I had to drive of course, and believe me it was a few miles before the call of the open highway was much more than a groan of protest. The vision of a hotel dining room was already x-rated in my mind. I pictured him and his buddies swilling drinks and baying at joke after pathetic joke. Me and the rest of the wives would be tittering in sympathy of course. What else could we do? We were there for the duration.
It’s always a relief to get out of the traffic, isn’t it. Finally, trailer ghettoes and truck oases began to give way to ragged crests of sagebrush; breaks began to open up in the blustering barrage of monster trucks hogging the fast lane. Ah, the wild and the free!
Oh, Douglas, wake up! Look what you’re missing. Hey, Dougie, my sweet pecan pie, my amnesia of the gods, take in a piece of this. Breathe deep. Reach out and grab some open space — before you and your developer buddies find a better use for it, that is.
Course I wouldn’t dare. Call him Dougie that is, let alone wake him up. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I could wake him up. Well, maybe I could get his eyes to open and his mouth to utter words. A complete sentence might be too much to expect. But half a question wouldn’t be beyond a possibility.
“There yet?”
“Not yet, Douglas.” Then, before he drifted off again: “Er, Douglas, where exactly are we making for?”
“Usual place,” as he faded back from whence he had emerged so briefly.
So what was I supposed to say to that? If he was a quarter awake he’d surely remember we’ve never been wherever it is we’re heading, not in my time with him anyway. He was thinking of his ex. She of the vermilion hair rinse and corrugated suntan. OK, that was cruel. But she deserves it. Not my fault they didn’t get along. Not my fault she’s a hundred and fifty years older than me, and her tantrums caused dinner guests to check the paintings on the wall for candid cameras.
If Douglas is anything he’s a man who likes to keep up appearances. And if his wife can’t keep up hers, well she becomes his ex. Wonder if that’ll ever happen to me. Doubt it. He’ll be renovating the heavenly gates before gravity puts a droop in my assets.
Lucky for Douglas, I had an idea of where he wanted to go. At least my memory was intact. As if I could forget. Stink, clink and over in a blink. That’s what I call it. Don’t make much sense to anyone else, I know. But if you’d endured as many after dinner sessions as I have … Cigar smoke, decanters and rambling monologues.
That’s when he goes on about his travels. At home, there’s this green leather chair he sinks into. A cushioned fortress, it is, with his lordship on the battlements holding forth on the topics of the day. Topics of yesterday, I should say. He could tell you more about pre-Columbians than Columbus himself.
Got him out and about at one time though. He and his missus — the aforementioned ex — must have seen more ruins south of the Mason-Dixon line than General Sherman … Oh yeah, over in a blink. Didn’t explain that, did I.
Picture this. Old guy. Big meal. Glass or two of port. Coulda been cognac, actually. He usually pours, not me. Talk, talk, talk, talk. OK, time for bed. Pretty young wife. That’s me, even if I do say it myself. Grope, grope. Prod, prod. Gasp, gasp. End of story. Over in a blink, see.
There are plenty of compensations, of course. Getting behind the wheel of the Corvette he bought me was quite a rush for a start. And then there are the Arabians. Talk about poetry in motion. Enough to give a babe an inferiority complex. Puts a little arch in my step every time I go out to the barn, I can tell you.
Not every girl gets to start her own company either.
Yeah, really, I was quite the up and coming CEO for a short time. Course I was also the mailing room staff and the telephone receptionist. But it was one of the few times in my life when I really looked forward to getting up in the morning. No kidding. Did wonders for my self-discipline. I even kept one of Douglas’ credit cards just for company expenses. I had to go to the mall, see, and buy all these hot outfits for the office. Well, you can’t look like a tramp in the business world, can you. Ooh, some of the dresses were a little edgy though. I was probably lucky I didn’t have to quit the company for sexually harassing myself.
Anyway, no doubt you’re wondering where I got the idea in the first place.
It began when I saw this real cute Indian dancer one time at a resort. Some charity event Douglas was involved in. Anyway, the idea suddenly came to me. Pow Wow Perambulations. The name was Douglas’s actually, but the concept was mine. Well, why not? There’re all these guys selling exercise routines with their own themes. Kickboxing and what have you. Why not intertribal dancing? Intercultural, for that matter. I even came up with a slogan: You don’t have to jump through hoops — But what if you did?
It was Douglas though who came up with the start-up money. To keep me quiet, maybe that was all it was. I did go on about it, I’ll admit. But that’s what budding entrepreneurs do, isn’t it. That’s how they get financed. That and playing along with the old grope, grope, prod, prod.
* * *
Before Douglas came round again we were in the parking lot, slotted between a high rise truck and an ancient sedan, all fins and chrome. I braked a bit sharper than I intended, and he shuddered and then began squinting and spluttering as if a time capsule had dropped him into some gore movie or something. You’d have thought he was in a strait jacket the way he tussled with that seat belt. Sometimes I wonder where sleep takes him.
“Where are we?”
“It’s ok, hon. We’re at the hotel.”
“What hotel?”
“The hotel. The only hotel they got here, as far as I know. That is if you don’t count the motels. Don’t you recognize it? I do, ’n’ I’ve never been here before.”
“So how come you know so much about it then?”
“God, Douglas, if you’d have showed me the photos once more I swear I could have got here blindfolded. Didn’t you used to bring her here?”
“Her?”
“Her. My predecessor in your matrimonial bed. She whose name I prefer not to utter.”
“Oh her. Yeah … OK, we’d best check in then.”
Oh her. You’d think he’d remember her name even if I don’t want to. On the other hand, perhaps this is the place where he’d most want to forget it. Apparently this is where things really started to go wrong between them. Don’t know the details of course, but Douglas dropped a few hints in that annoying way he has of burbling half a sentence and leaving me to try to work out what he’s talking about.
Seems like it was a favorite place of hers. It was her idea to come here. But then they’d go home and she’d get sorta distant with him and would want to sleep in a separate bedroom. That’s what Douglas told me anyway. Poor old guy. He’s not much of a thrill, it’s true, but if he’s all you got … And she wasn’t exactly at her peak, for that matter. She mighta got the guys brandishing their cudgels back in the days of the Flintstones. Now she’s more of a candidate for a terminal makeover.
Once we were in the reception area I could see why Douglas kept coming back, despite the problems with his missus of the time. The place reeked of power plays and shady deals. He was in his element, so to speak, even if he was a bit past taking full advantage of it.
Columns outside the main entrance made you feel as if you were about to enter a temple. It was all I could do not to bow my head and say my prayers. Just as well I didn’t, bow my head anyway, because as soon as you walk in you’re dwarfed by this huge staircase — leading up to the bedrooms I was about to find out. To one side is the reception counter, all dark polished wood and stern hotel staff who look as if you better produce a marriage license and evidence of a hefty bank account — not necessarily in that order — if you want to stay here. On the other side, high-backed chairs circled low tables, each with a copper ashtray at its center. Empty when we arrived, which gave it a sort of museum quality. You half expected to see labels on the chairs. So-and-so sat here during the great mining stock swindle of ’86. That sort of thing.