With a mixture of horror and rage, I realize what they’re talking about.
“Boxers”‘ he calls back. “Of course! Just take a look at the guy!”
Asshole! I want to scream. You probably think everyone over forty wears boxer shorts! You probably think when you get to
be forty, you’ll-
She unsnaps my Bermudas and pulls down the zipper. Under other circumstances, having a woman as pretty as this (a little
severe, yes, but still pretty) do that would make me extremely happy. Today, however-
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“You lose, Petie-boy,” she says. “Jockeys. Dollar in the kitty.”
“On payday,” he says, coming over. His face joins hers; they look down at me through their Plexi masks like a couple of space aliens looking down at an abductee. I try to make them see my eyes, to see me looking at them, but these two fools are looking at my undershorts.
“Ooooh, and red, ” Pete says. “A sha-vinguh!”
“I call them more of a wash pink,” she replies. Hold him up for me, Peter, he weighs a ton. No wonder he had a heart attack.
Let this be a lesson to you.
I’m in shape! I yell at her. Probbably in better shape than you, bitch!
My hips are suddenly jerked upward by strong hands. My back cracks; the sound makes my heart leap.
“Sorry, guy,” Pete says, and suddenly I’m colder than ever as my shorts and red underpants are pulled down.
“Upsa-daisy once, ” she says, lifting one foot, and upsa-daisy twice, lifting the other foot off come the MOCS, and off come the socks-”
She stops abruptly, and hope seizes me once more.
“Hey, Pete.”
“Yeah?” Do guys ordinarily wear Bermuda shorts and moccasins to golf in?”
Behind her (except that’s only the source, actually it’s all around us) the Rolling Stones have moved on to “Emotional
Rescue.”. “I will be your knight in shining ahh-mah,” Mick Jagger sings, and I wonder how funky held dance with about three sticks of Hi-Core dynamite jammed up his skinny ass.
“If you ask me, this guy was just asking for trouble ” she goes on. “I thought they had these special shoes, very ugly, very golf-specific, with little knobs on the soles-”
“Yeah, but wearing them’s not the law,” Pete says. He holds his gloved hands out over my upturned face, slides them together, and bends the fingers back. As the knuckles crack, talcum powder sprinkles down like fine snow. “At least not yet.
Not like bowling shoes. They catch you bowling without a pair of bowling shoes, they can send you to state prison.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to handle temp and gross examination?”
No! I shriek. No, he’s a kid, what are you DOING?
He looks at her as if this same thought had crossed his own mind. “That’s … um . . . not strictly legal, is it, Katie? I mean. . .”
She looks around as he speaks, giving the room a burlesque examination, and I’m starting to get a vibe that could be very bad news for me: severe or not, I think that Ciscoalias Dr. Katie Arlen-has got the hots for Petie with the dark blue eyes. Dear Christ, they have hauled me paralyzed off the golf course and into an episode of General Hospital, this week’s subplot titled
“Love Blooms in Autopsy Room Four.”
“Gee,” she says in a hoarse little stage whisper. “I don’t see anyone here but you and me.”
“The tape-”
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“Not rolling yet,” she says. “And once it is, I’m right at your elbow every step of the way … as far as anyone will ever know, anyway. And mostly I will be. I just want to put away those charts and slides. And if you really feel uncomfortable-”
Yes! I scream up at him out of my unmoving face. Feel uncomfortable! VERY uncomfortable! TOO uncomfortable!
But he’s twenty-four at most and what’s he going to say to this pretty, severe woman who’s standing inside his space,
invading it in a way that can really only mean one thing? No, Mommy, I’m scared? Besides, he wants to. I can see the