“Even though she looks like a big ole drag queen, I’m pretty sure she’ sstraight. She designed
Jacqueline Kennedy’s parties.”
“Men,” I clarify.
“Who cares?” Amity says, forfeiting the question. “Party designers, closet organizers, motivational speakers they should all be shot so we can get on with our lives! Give me a filthy rich, boring-as-rice, trapped-in-suspenders banker any day of the week. Cash money, baby!” Amity falls to the floor on her back and moves her arms and legs over the hardwoods as if she’s trying to make a snow angel.
“Hey,” I laugh, poking her with my foot. “What if you had SOme guy who wasn’t boring as rice and trapped in suspenders, but who still had lots of money? What if the guy with money was fun and made you laugh and had a cute butt?”
“I’d be in heaven, Harry,” she answers, lying on her back,
“And I’d love the hell out of him. Now tell me something.” “Yes, Amity?”
“Do you have a cute butt, Harry?”
“You tell me,” I answer coyly.
“I’d say it’s beyond being a cute butt, Harry,” she “Frankly, you’ve got a great ass.”
That night, at the gym, the car salesman with the glacier eyes, JT, is there pumping up his pecs. He hoists the bar onto bench clips and walks over to me as I’m down on a mat crunches. “How come I haven’t heard from you?”
I continue with the sit-ups. “Maybe you have.” I grin. don’t even know my name.”
“JT Reardon,” he says, putting out his hand to shake. “Harry Ford,” I say, shaking it. “And I’m not in the for a car or I’d definitely call you.”
“I do more than sell cars,” he assures me. Then he goes to his bench presses.
I come home from the gym to find Amity sitting in her room on her bed, painting her nails by the light of her little lamp while listening to Troy crying into the phone machine in sobs. The bottle of champagne is empty, and there’s only a bit left in her glass. “See how loud he is?” she asks. “Can’t tell his balls smell like Brie cheese?”
“Jesus, Amity,” I laugh. “He’s torn up. He’s not talking crying.”
“I know. Those frat boys are such big titty babies. I can’t to this anymore.” She turns the volume off, gulps down the bit of champagne.
I toss my gym bag onto the floor. “Isn’t that kind of callous?”
“Well,” she says, “sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“Would it kill you to talk to him?” I ask, feeling one of my biceps. It’s growing a little, and I like the tight feeling of the engorged muscle.
“Listen, Bubba. Troy was starting to claim squatter’s rights,” she says with narrowed eyes, “and nobody owns me.” She picks up the bottle and tries to pour herself more champagne before she realizes it’s empty. She slowly sets it down. “Nobody can tell me what to do. Not Troy or my family or anyone.”
“Hey, I’m your friend. Remember?”
She jerks as if she’ sswitched gears without using the clutch and laughs. “Be a darling’ and go to the kitchen and get me a can of Raid so I can kill this bug that’s up my ass.” I smile and she goes back to painting her toes, and as I pick up my gym bag and leave her darkened room, I realize she houses another darkened room inside her.
At the end of the month, President Reagan announces his candidacy for reelection. There’s no way I’ll vote for him. He’s just so old.
I am invited by a college friend, Iris, to a Pink Party in New York, and I’m concerned about attending because I don’t have any clothing that is pink. She assures me that it isn’t necessary. I decide to fly to the Cayman Islands first, then up to New York. Amity loves that I am jetting off by myself, and I’m aware that I’ve ascended a notch in her book.
As an airline employee, I fly from Dallas to Grand Cayman for a total of twenty dollars. First class. Who needs family money? Though it is standby. I land at night and check into a moldy
Jacqueline Kennedy’s parties.”
“Men,” I clarify.
“Who cares?” Amity says, forfeiting the question. “Party designers, closet organizers, motivational speakers they should all be shot so we can get on with our lives! Give me a filthy rich, boring-as-rice, trapped-in-suspenders banker any day of the week. Cash money, baby!” Amity falls to the floor on her back and moves her arms and legs over the hardwoods as if she’s trying to make a snow angel.
“Hey,” I laugh, poking her with my foot. “What if you had SOme guy who wasn’t boring as rice and trapped in suspenders, but who still had lots of money? What if the guy with money was fun and made you laugh and had a cute butt?”
“I’d be in heaven, Harry,” she answers, lying on her back,
“And I’d love the hell out of him. Now tell me something.” “Yes, Amity?”
“Do you have a cute butt, Harry?”
“You tell me,” I answer coyly.
“I’d say it’s beyond being a cute butt, Harry,” she “Frankly, you’ve got a great ass.”
That night, at the gym, the car salesman with the glacier eyes, JT, is there pumping up his pecs. He hoists the bar onto bench clips and walks over to me as I’m down on a mat crunches. “How come I haven’t heard from you?”
I continue with the sit-ups. “Maybe you have.” I grin. don’t even know my name.”
“JT Reardon,” he says, putting out his hand to shake. “Harry Ford,” I say, shaking it. “And I’m not in the for a car or I’d definitely call you.”
“I do more than sell cars,” he assures me. Then he goes to his bench presses.
I come home from the gym to find Amity sitting in her room on her bed, painting her nails by the light of her little lamp while listening to Troy crying into the phone machine in sobs. The bottle of champagne is empty, and there’s only a bit left in her glass. “See how loud he is?” she asks. “Can’t tell his balls smell like Brie cheese?”
“Jesus, Amity,” I laugh. “He’s torn up. He’s not talking crying.”
“I know. Those frat boys are such big titty babies. I can’t to this anymore.” She turns the volume off, gulps down the bit of champagne.
I toss my gym bag onto the floor. “Isn’t that kind of callous?”
“Well,” she says, “sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“Would it kill you to talk to him?” I ask, feeling one of my biceps. It’s growing a little, and I like the tight feeling of the engorged muscle.
“Listen, Bubba. Troy was starting to claim squatter’s rights,” she says with narrowed eyes, “and nobody owns me.” She picks up the bottle and tries to pour herself more champagne before she realizes it’s empty. She slowly sets it down. “Nobody can tell me what to do. Not Troy or my family or anyone.”
“Hey, I’m your friend. Remember?”
She jerks as if she’ sswitched gears without using the clutch and laughs. “Be a darling’ and go to the kitchen and get me a can of Raid so I can kill this bug that’s up my ass.” I smile and she goes back to painting her toes, and as I pick up my gym bag and leave her darkened room, I realize she houses another darkened room inside her.
At the end of the month, President Reagan announces his candidacy for reelection. There’s no way I’ll vote for him. He’s just so old.
I am invited by a college friend, Iris, to a Pink Party in New York, and I’m concerned about attending because I don’t have any clothing that is pink. She assures me that it isn’t necessary. I decide to fly to the Cayman Islands first, then up to New York. Amity loves that I am jetting off by myself, and I’m aware that I’ve ascended a notch in her book.
As an airline employee, I fly from Dallas to Grand Cayman for a total of twenty dollars. First class. Who needs family money? Though it is standby. I land at night and check into a moldy
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