My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

of the cart. My hits it as I rise, and a can of Pepsi falls to the floor and spewing both of us with a spray of sticky soda. She screams clings to the emergency door while the can spins around, Pepsi onto everything in its radius.

Fuck this stupid job. I want my inheritance.

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FIVE

[ urry, Harry! I’m so nervous Troy’s going to come home!” It’s the middle of the day. He’s at work, but we’re both nervous. Amity has used her key to get into Troy’s apartment, and we are cleaning out everything that belongs to her. It isn’t much just a few pieces of jewelry some pictures, clothing. But she is throwing it all into a bag as if he were coming up the steps with a gun.

“He just doesn’t understand,” she says, hurriedly grabbing a shirt off a hanger. “I’m not going to marry him. He was afrat boy, Harry. They never grow up. They talk so loud. They chew with their mouths open. They don’t wash their balls. Forget it. Troy just wants a country club wife.” Wawf. “Is that everything?” she asks. “Wait! I’m going to take a couple pairs of his boxer shorts. After all, I bought them for him.” She opens his underwear drawer and helps herself. Then she runs to the kitchen, grabs a diet soda out of the icebox, as she refers to it, and yells, “Let’s go!”

“Aren’t you going to leave him a note or some ming

“I already did. I mailed it yesterday. He should get it today.” To die.

She puts her sunglasses on, and I escort her to the parking lot

as if she were a movie star coming out of an abortion clinic. W hustle into my VW and quickly roll away.

“I’m so hungry I could eat the ass end out of a rag doll!” says as we speed down Skillman.

I laugh. “What are you hungry for?”

“Cowboy Bill’ sChick en she says, rubbing her hands to

Her hands are the only thing that don’t match the rest of They’re younger than she is, like the hands of a child, with manicured fingernails. “Rotisserie chicken, Harry it’s the best.” She lets out a big sigh as if she were a stage actress who wants people in the far-off reaches of the balcony to hear her. “What?” I ask, eyes on the road.

“Every time I go to Cowboy Bill’s Chicken, I think about ex-boyfriend Jerod. He was a cowboy artist from Fort Worth. Harry, I loved him so much. I really did. He was wonderful. cowboys from Fort Worth are gentlemen, not like the city in Dallas they’re not cowboys at all.”

“He was an artist?” I ask, stopping at a light.

“Yes. He painted Texas landscapes and did sculpture. Jerod made love to me better than anyone I’ve ever been with. she says breathlessly, putting her hand between her legs.

The light turns green. She moans, her hand between her le “God, Amity, don’t have an orgasm,” I laugh, stepping on the

“Why not?” she asks seriously. As I drive on, she licks fingers and moves her hand inside her blue jeans. “He knew to wet his fingers before putting them inside me,” she sounding like a Texan Marilyn Monroe.

“Shit, Amity. Are you jacking off?” I ask, not believing “Jerod had the greenest eyes,” she moans, working “And his stubble scratched my face till it hurt.” She smiles at memory while moving her hand faster. “He wore sleeveless shirts that showed off his big, strong arms,” she wails, “and loved to spank me if I took too long getting ready to go out!”

What am I supposed to do? I’m laughing, I think, out of nervousness, but she’s so steeped in Jerod’s memory she doesn’t care. Maybe I should give her a moment alone. “Do you want me to stop the car?” I ask.

“No! Go faster!”

I step on the pedal, the VW spurts ahead in a jerk, and Amity cries out. I can’t believe she’s jacking off (when a woman does it, is it called jacking off?) right in front of me in my car. Whatever it’s called, I assume they usually do it in private. Obviously my mother is incorrect in telling me that “a woman doesn’t have great needs” or that “as long as you don’t tell her you’re gay, she’ll never notice.” She hasn’t met Amity.

“Faster!” Amity shouts.

“I’m going to get a ticket!” I yell as the little engine pushes harder. We’re on a city street, and I’m nearly up to fifty miles an hour on the speedometer. I check for cops.

“Jerod was a gentleman he never came before I did. Change lanes!” she says.

I swerve over to the next lane, and she squeals with the motion. I’m embarrassed. I wish we were at Cowboy Bill’s so she could just duck into the bathroom or something.

“He did push-ups on the kitchen table! Go back!” she commands

Sitting so close to her, feeling her state of excitement, I realize my face is flushed and my hands are so clammy I can hardly steer the old bug back to the other lane.

She squeals as I make the lane change. “Jerod’s dick was thicker than a buffalo in China,” she screams, throwing herself back in the seat and writhing like a snake on gravel. “Harry, roll the windows down!” she calls out while twisting and jerking herself into an orgasm. “I’m so wet we’re going to drown in this car like Mary Jo Kopechne!”

“Darlin’,” she chirps, to the teenage boy at the drive-through window at Cowboy Bill’s Chicken, “do you have any of those moist towelette packets? My fingers are sticky.” She’s leaning me, smiling at the little guy.

We’re stopped inside of a huge recreation of a Stetson hat has a hole in it for cars to drive through. The kid at the window dressed in a red-and-white gingham shirt, bolo tie, and cowboy

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll throw some extras in the sack.”

“You’re a peach, sweetheart.”

We take our roasted chicken and vegetables home, and I