going.”
“Be careful up there,” Sonia pleaded once more. “And don’t forget, I love you.”
“I love you too—a shitload.”
“How romantic!” Hazel squealed.
When the farewells were finished, Sonia ended the call, a tear in her eye.
“He’ll be fine,” Hazel assured. “Men pushing forty get on an adventure kick. Don’t worry.”
“ Fuck adventure,” Sonia made the rare profanity. “He shouldn’t be climbing mountains and mucking about in the woods. There’s snakes, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t worry! If a snake comes along, Frank’ll bore it to death motor-mouthing about geometry,” Hazel offered.
That got a smile out of Sonia.
“And since you won’t be with him tonight,” Hazel added without thinking, “I’ve got a three-set of vibrating love-clips, if you want to borrow them. They’re great. ” She grinned. “I’ll even put them on for you.”
Sonia laughed, astonished. “Hazel, please...Just drive...”
Two hours later, the turnpikes’ monotonous panorama of asphalt, concrete, and flurries of cars had lapse-dissolved into one of plush foliage, hundred-foot-tall trees, and shaded, curving forest roads. Everything was so deliriously green that Hazel had to catch her breath. I need to get out of the city more, she thought. She’d never been the outdoorsy type but suddenly being in the midst of all this wildlife, she felt bereft, as though she’d been missing out on something important for so long.
“It’s so beautiful,” Sonia observed, eyes wide on the scenery pouring past her window. “And it’s so cool we’re driving on a road called the Daniel Webster Highway.”
“Only English majors could appreciate that,” Hazel remarked. “But Benet’s story still pisses me off.”
“ Why? It’s a wonderful story!”
Hazel flapped her hand. “It’s a ripoff of Washington Irving’s ‘The Devil and Tom Walker.’”
“It’s a variation on a theme, Hazel. Not plagiarism.”
“And the asshole wins the Pulitzer!”
“If it’s a ripoff of Irving, dear, then Irving’s tale is a ripoff of Goethe.”
“In which case, Goethe’s Faust was a ripoff of Christopher Marlowe, so there.”
“Fitzgerald said it best, I’m afraid. ‘Minor writers borrow, great writers steal.’”
Hazel’s eyes thinned. “You sure that was Fitzgerald and not Wodehouse? Or—no!—Samuel Johnson.”
“Who cares? We’re almost there!”
Once they passed the turnoff for Laconia, they veered down a wooden fork and suddenly felt as though the forest were swallowing them. First they passed a deer-crossing sign, then another sign read, WELCOME TO BOSSET’S WAY. POPULATION: TOO FEW TO COUNT.
“I love it!” Sonia exclaimed.
“Yeah, and get a load of this place...”
Hazel slowed to an idle by a long, single-storied tavern constructed from planks of withered timber. The place seemed shoved back into the forest. BOSSET’S WAY WOODLAND TAVERN, read a rickety sign. Mostly pickup trucks filled the dirt-paved lot. As they looked on, an older pickup truck with odd rounded fenders parked, and from it stepped an imposing man well-over six feet. Shaggy, cropped brown hair crowned a head which sat on shoulders that seemed a yard wide; muscles bulged through a sweat-streaked gray T-shirt, and tight, faded jeans looked about to split from the pillar-like legs that filled them.
“I guess that’s what you call a woodsman,” Sonia commented.
“Would you look at that Paul-Bunyan-looking muscle-rack!” Hazel enthused. “I’d do him in a heartbeat! ”
Sonia looked outraged. “He’s literally twice your size, Hazel. He’d split you in two.”
“Shit. I’d take his business till he couldn’t see straight. He’d be crawling home to his mommy, I’d fuck him so hard...”
“Hazel, sometimes you really are too crude. You talk like a guy. And, besides, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve got a boyfriend.”
Hazel smirked. “He’s a casual boyfriend. I’m not married,
“Be careful up there,” Sonia pleaded once more. “And don’t forget, I love you.”
“I love you too—a shitload.”
“How romantic!” Hazel squealed.
When the farewells were finished, Sonia ended the call, a tear in her eye.
“He’ll be fine,” Hazel assured. “Men pushing forty get on an adventure kick. Don’t worry.”
“ Fuck adventure,” Sonia made the rare profanity. “He shouldn’t be climbing mountains and mucking about in the woods. There’s snakes, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t worry! If a snake comes along, Frank’ll bore it to death motor-mouthing about geometry,” Hazel offered.
That got a smile out of Sonia.
“And since you won’t be with him tonight,” Hazel added without thinking, “I’ve got a three-set of vibrating love-clips, if you want to borrow them. They’re great. ” She grinned. “I’ll even put them on for you.”
Sonia laughed, astonished. “Hazel, please...Just drive...”
Two hours later, the turnpikes’ monotonous panorama of asphalt, concrete, and flurries of cars had lapse-dissolved into one of plush foliage, hundred-foot-tall trees, and shaded, curving forest roads. Everything was so deliriously green that Hazel had to catch her breath. I need to get out of the city more, she thought. She’d never been the outdoorsy type but suddenly being in the midst of all this wildlife, she felt bereft, as though she’d been missing out on something important for so long.
“It’s so beautiful,” Sonia observed, eyes wide on the scenery pouring past her window. “And it’s so cool we’re driving on a road called the Daniel Webster Highway.”
“Only English majors could appreciate that,” Hazel remarked. “But Benet’s story still pisses me off.”
“ Why? It’s a wonderful story!”
Hazel flapped her hand. “It’s a ripoff of Washington Irving’s ‘The Devil and Tom Walker.’”
“It’s a variation on a theme, Hazel. Not plagiarism.”
“And the asshole wins the Pulitzer!”
“If it’s a ripoff of Irving, dear, then Irving’s tale is a ripoff of Goethe.”
“In which case, Goethe’s Faust was a ripoff of Christopher Marlowe, so there.”
“Fitzgerald said it best, I’m afraid. ‘Minor writers borrow, great writers steal.’”
Hazel’s eyes thinned. “You sure that was Fitzgerald and not Wodehouse? Or—no!—Samuel Johnson.”
“Who cares? We’re almost there!”
Once they passed the turnoff for Laconia, they veered down a wooden fork and suddenly felt as though the forest were swallowing them. First they passed a deer-crossing sign, then another sign read, WELCOME TO BOSSET’S WAY. POPULATION: TOO FEW TO COUNT.
“I love it!” Sonia exclaimed.
“Yeah, and get a load of this place...”
Hazel slowed to an idle by a long, single-storied tavern constructed from planks of withered timber. The place seemed shoved back into the forest. BOSSET’S WAY WOODLAND TAVERN, read a rickety sign. Mostly pickup trucks filled the dirt-paved lot. As they looked on, an older pickup truck with odd rounded fenders parked, and from it stepped an imposing man well-over six feet. Shaggy, cropped brown hair crowned a head which sat on shoulders that seemed a yard wide; muscles bulged through a sweat-streaked gray T-shirt, and tight, faded jeans looked about to split from the pillar-like legs that filled them.
“I guess that’s what you call a woodsman,” Sonia commented.
“Would you look at that Paul-Bunyan-looking muscle-rack!” Hazel enthused. “I’d do him in a heartbeat! ”
Sonia looked outraged. “He’s literally twice your size, Hazel. He’d split you in two.”
“Shit. I’d take his business till he couldn’t see straight. He’d be crawling home to his mommy, I’d fuck him so hard...”
“Hazel, sometimes you really are too crude. You talk like a guy. And, besides, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve got a boyfriend.”
Hazel smirked. “He’s a casual boyfriend. I’m not married,
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