Read Online Going Nowhere Fast by Gar Anthony Haywood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gar Anthony Haywood
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we're senile," I said.
"No, no, no! Absolutely not!"
"Absolutely not," Phil said, shaking his head at the absurdity of the thought.
"You're not taking any pictures," I told him, suddenly getting a little worried.
"Huh?" He looked down at the little black plastic camera resting against his chest, appearing to have completely forgotten it was there, and said, "Oh. Well. I was waiting for your husband. We 'want to get the two of you together."
"Is he here, by the way?" Ray asked, taking a step toward me and the cabin door.
"Yes. But he's asleep," I said, moving to further block the open doorway with my body.
"What about your son? Theodore, is it? Is he here?"
"Yes. But he's asleep too."
"Ah. What a shame."
He tried to make an innocent gesture out of it, but as he straightened the knot on his tie, Ray took a quick look around, clearly making sure the three of us were alone. I had seen very unreporterlike muscles bulge beneath his coat sleeve when his arm moved. "Look, Mrs. Loudermilk," he said, showing me his perfect teeth again. "I get the sense that you don't trust us. So you're holding back on us a little bit. Is that possible?"
He took another small step forward, and this time his friend Phil the Photo Hound followed suit.
"I think I've said all I'm going to say to you gentlemen," I said nervously, backing slowly into the cabin. ''I'm sorry."
But they had both advanced upon me yet another step, when someone behind them said, "Yo, what's up?" to freeze them in place.
It was Bad Dog, drenched in sweat and covered with dust, his hair as wild as a four-year-old Brillo pad and his clothes a disheveled, ill-fitting mess. He looked like a psychopath on holiday.
In other words, he was beautiful.
He stepped up on the cabin's porch, placing himself right where I hoped he would—between me and my two visitors—and, grinning, asked, "Everything okay?"
Ray and Phil shot a glance at each other, wondering how I was going to answer that.
"Everything is fine, Theodore," I said, smiling at the two alleged reporters before me with the smug overconfidence of a don in the company of his hoods. "This is Ray and Phil. They're reporters from the Sentinel ."
Ray and Phil nodded at my son officiously.
"That's an Instamatic camera," Bad Dog said, staring at Phil.
"His Canon's in the shop," I said. "Or did you say it was a Minolta?"
Phil didn't say anything.
"It's a Nikon," Ray answered for him, no longer finding it necessary to smile.
"I thought we weren't talking to reporters anymore," Bad Dog reminded me.
"We're not. In fact, that's exactly what Iwas explaining to these two when you walked up." I turned to Ray. "Wasn't I?"
Ray paused a moment, then reverted to the electric smile. The snake who lured Eve into sampling the apple could not have had a better one. "Yes ma'am. You certainly were." He lowered his head in Phil's direction, and the two fashion plates stepped down off the porch. Looking back one last time, he said, "I'm sorry you chose not to talk with us, Mrs. Loudermilk. It would have made our job so much more painless if you had. Believe me."
I was going to say, "I'm sorry too," but he and his partner were walking away by the time I could get my mouth to move. I wasn't sure, but it seemed to me I had just been presented with a thinly disguised threat.
Only when the pair had completely disappeared from view did I turn to my son and give him a big, smothering hug.
"What was that for?" Dog asked when I finally released him.
"For being my son. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"For being your son? I've been your son all my life, and it's never turned you mushy before. Unless you were bailing me out of jail, or somethin'."
"Let's just say having a dead ringer for the Antichrist in the family sometimes comes in handy, and leave it at that. All right?" I looked out expectantly in the direction from which Dog had come. "Now. Where is your father?"
Dog shrugged. "Still down there somewhere, I guess. He's comin'."
"No, no, no! Absolutely not!"
"Absolutely not," Phil said, shaking his head at the absurdity of the thought.
"You're not taking any pictures," I told him, suddenly getting a little worried.
"Huh?" He looked down at the little black plastic camera resting against his chest, appearing to have completely forgotten it was there, and said, "Oh. Well. I was waiting for your husband. We 'want to get the two of you together."
"Is he here, by the way?" Ray asked, taking a step toward me and the cabin door.
"Yes. But he's asleep," I said, moving to further block the open doorway with my body.
"What about your son? Theodore, is it? Is he here?"
"Yes. But he's asleep too."
"Ah. What a shame."
He tried to make an innocent gesture out of it, but as he straightened the knot on his tie, Ray took a quick look around, clearly making sure the three of us were alone. I had seen very unreporterlike muscles bulge beneath his coat sleeve when his arm moved. "Look, Mrs. Loudermilk," he said, showing me his perfect teeth again. "I get the sense that you don't trust us. So you're holding back on us a little bit. Is that possible?"
He took another small step forward, and this time his friend Phil the Photo Hound followed suit.
"I think I've said all I'm going to say to you gentlemen," I said nervously, backing slowly into the cabin. ''I'm sorry."
But they had both advanced upon me yet another step, when someone behind them said, "Yo, what's up?" to freeze them in place.
It was Bad Dog, drenched in sweat and covered with dust, his hair as wild as a four-year-old Brillo pad and his clothes a disheveled, ill-fitting mess. He looked like a psychopath on holiday.
In other words, he was beautiful.
He stepped up on the cabin's porch, placing himself right where I hoped he would—between me and my two visitors—and, grinning, asked, "Everything okay?"
Ray and Phil shot a glance at each other, wondering how I was going to answer that.
"Everything is fine, Theodore," I said, smiling at the two alleged reporters before me with the smug overconfidence of a don in the company of his hoods. "This is Ray and Phil. They're reporters from the Sentinel ."
Ray and Phil nodded at my son officiously.
"That's an Instamatic camera," Bad Dog said, staring at Phil.
"His Canon's in the shop," I said. "Or did you say it was a Minolta?"
Phil didn't say anything.
"It's a Nikon," Ray answered for him, no longer finding it necessary to smile.
"I thought we weren't talking to reporters anymore," Bad Dog reminded me.
"We're not. In fact, that's exactly what Iwas explaining to these two when you walked up." I turned to Ray. "Wasn't I?"
Ray paused a moment, then reverted to the electric smile. The snake who lured Eve into sampling the apple could not have had a better one. "Yes ma'am. You certainly were." He lowered his head in Phil's direction, and the two fashion plates stepped down off the porch. Looking back one last time, he said, "I'm sorry you chose not to talk with us, Mrs. Loudermilk. It would have made our job so much more painless if you had. Believe me."
I was going to say, "I'm sorry too," but he and his partner were walking away by the time I could get my mouth to move. I wasn't sure, but it seemed to me I had just been presented with a thinly disguised threat.
Only when the pair had completely disappeared from view did I turn to my son and give him a big, smothering hug.
"What was that for?" Dog asked when I finally released him.
"For being my son. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"For being your son? I've been your son all my life, and it's never turned you mushy before. Unless you were bailing me out of jail, or somethin'."
"Let's just say having a dead ringer for the Antichrist in the family sometimes comes in handy, and leave it at that. All right?" I looked out expectantly in the direction from which Dog had come. "Now. Where is your father?"
Dog shrugged. "Still down there somewhere, I guess. He's comin'."
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