TITS. BEER. 'MERRICA.

Angie's house is on a corner lot on 50th across from a patch of woods that is weirdly a square block of "Don't Go In There."

 

When we were kids, my brothers and I would make any excuse to play in any woods or creeks, except these. This one block was our Black Forest and none of us knew why, but we instinctively knew: with these woods, thou lot shalt not fuck. I'm almost 40 now and I have no idea what's in there, nor do I have designs on finding out. Having devoted too much writing to this entirely already, I will unceremoniously move on. Pretend there's a halfway decent transition here if you don't mind.

 

The engine idled in Angie's driveway longer than I should have allowed it to. Bo looked a question at me and I dragged my cigarette.

 

"Strap down or nah?" I asked, unclipping one shoulder of my overalls.

 

"You really want Angie seein' yer tiddies? It's chilly out there, too."

 

"Point." I replaced the strap and facepalmed, trying to gather the energy required to deal with the harassment that was sure to follow.

 

The things we do for kids.

 

I turned the car off and spilled myself out of it. With the engine sounds gone, I could now hear Ginuwine's "Pony" in the darkness emanating from Angie's house like a horny, belchy lullaby from Hell. As a very large and stupid part of my mind wondered why the music was suddenly louder, some nerdy brain cells made an announcement to advise the rest of them that Angie had opened the door.

 

Angie is conventionally attractive. I think. If I had a true grasp on what made people conventionally attractive, I might be more so myself. Her skin is darker than midnight and light playing off of it is like the light dancing through all the refractions in water at the floor of the pool. When she leaves her hair natural, she's diabolical and when she straightens it, she's divine. On her porch, wearing high heels, a red satin robe, and a smile, the moonlight glinting off her curves damn near made my biology betray me. I was suddenly in no hurry to shut the car door.

 

Her eyes met mine, then shifted slightly as Bo exited the car and adjusted her trucker cap, a towering bucket of a thing that made her look like the last Pringle from the can. Going by the bubble lettering on the hat, the Pringles would apparently be flavored "TITS. BEER. 'MERRICA."

 

Angie's smile widened. The gears in her head were shifting, but I could see, even in this darkness, that they were moving far too quickly.

 

"Oooh, I didn't know you were both comin'! Y'all just gonna wait out there?" she tried to croon. But there it was.

 

The voice.

 

Angie sounded like her first language was learned in the seventh circle of Hell. Like someone turned the sound of nails on a chalkboard into a musical instrument. Like colic given the breath of life by an irresponsible and inebriated deity who was going through a terrible breakup at the time and whose therapist was on vacation for several more months. When she spoke, the air in front of her heated up measurably because the atoms therein were granted volition by the Universe's creator just long enough to know that they did not want to be part of the reason that that terrible, shrill, piercing sound was carried across matter toward any living thing.

 

She could make a deaf man very happy, but as far as I know, hadn't. Her constant pawing at basically everyone made us all openly-secretly wish she would locate one or seven.

 

"Come on, now," Angie continued. "It's gettin' chilly out here. Y'all comin' or just stayin' at the car?"

 

Bo flinched. Her pupils were saucers. The spell had taken hold of my favorite lesbian.

 

I grabbed her hand and felt her calm down--probably less that it assured her she's not alone as much as it assured her that she had an accountability partner.

 

"I m-might, actually," Bo replied. "We g-gotta head out soon."

 

"Yeah," I added. "I think we should grab the doll and do some testing at our place."

 

"Oooh," Angie moaned. "I haven't seen your place. You know, my brother has Lamar for the weekend," she paused, pretending to adjust her robe in order to reveal a little more to the moonlight and, therefore, to Bo and myself.

 

"It's the same from when we were kids," I replied, strategically remaining partially, but importantly, eclipsed by the car door.

 

"Oh I know, I meant Miss Thang," Angie said, pointing her vape pen to Bo, who clearly tried very hard not to, but flinched.

 

"I h-have a w-wife," Bo stammered.

 

"I won't tell," Angie replied, her voice like the death rattle of a boiling rabbit. I didn't see the wink, but I sensed it, and it felt slimy.

 

"I think she'll hear you anyway," I said, barely able to conceal derision. I hate when people try to pressure others, especially if they can't accept no for an answer. "Let's see the doll."

 

Bo squeezed my hand. It felt like "I owe you one," but she absolutely does not.

 

"All business tonight then?" Angie feigned sadness. As if on queue, "Pony" ended, then started right back up. One of the horniest songs of the 90s was prepared and on repeat in Angie's vain hopes of a ghastly multipartner roll in the hay.

 

Angie rolled her eyes and commanded Alexa to shut the fuck up. It made Yzma from The Emperor's New Groove look like a kindly schoolmarm in comparison.

 

"Yeah. Sorry, Angie. Bo's got an appointment. Best we can think to do right now is grab the doll, kinda trap him, and run some tests at my place."

 

"An appointment? Everything all right?" Angie seemed genuinely concerned.

 

"An interview. WDEF, they're out of happy fluff pieces because pretty much everything has gone to shit in this fascist hellscape, so they're scraping the barrel for weird ones."

 

Angie's eyebrows raised. "That's so cool!"

 

"Please be sure to wear the hat to the interview," I told Bo, helpfully.

 

Angie led Bo and I into the house. Long before she lived here, my friend Justin did, and back then, it was a shithole. It still is, but at least now there's the smell of incense barely covering weed rather than the pervasive smell of nicotine and despair. It's nice to see this house get a promotion from shithole to craphole.

 

"Y'all make yourselves at home," Angie tried to croon, the sound like too much amplifier feedback from your least favorite local band's guitar player. "I'll get the doll."

 

Bo gingerly made steps toward the sofa, thought better of it, and craned her head to see the TV, which was paused on a nature documentary about hyenas. The closed captions read "...TALIA RESEMBLES THE PENIS OF THE MALE, PRIMARILY IN SPOTTED HYENAS." I suppose, whether you want to or not, you learn something every day.

 

Suddenly there was a crash from beyond the hallway. Shattered glass and high-pitched chuckling. The hair on my arms raised up and Bo took off her giant trucker hat as if to trap it. I heard Angie say "god dammit get BACK here you lil bastard!" and footfalls as she ran after the pitter-patter of a little Jax doll, which emerged from the hall and ran at me at an impossible speed.

 

I froze, because I'm fuckin' useless, and Jax jumped up and slammed directly into my groin with his stupid purple head, a plushie with the demon-assisted force of a Mack truck, because of course he did.

 

You may be familiar with demons enough to know they're assholes, but in case you needed a reminder, my junk still hurts as I write this.

 

Bo did in fact trap him in her hat, then transferred him into a plastic yellow Dollar General bag. She swung the bag as hard as she could against the counter several times to try to knock the little bastard out and it appeared to have worked.

 

"Sorry about your balls," she said, "but... as your friend, it's my duty to let you know that I'm gonna laugh about this forever."

 

Angie, winded and with her hands on her knees, gave my crotch a concerned and creepy stare. "Do you need any medicine or anything? I have--"

 

"No," I squeaked. "He's a plushie, I just wasn't expecting it is all."

 

"He's a demon," Bo corrected me. "You've been dickwhipped by a demon, Matt. You're allowed to be in pain."

 

"Thank you."

 

"A plushie demon," she smirked.

 

Never gonna hear the end of this one. Lesbians can be mean. But plushie demons can be meaner.

Bo double-knotted the Dollar General bag and we made our goodbyes. She put the little bastard in the trunk and laid the bag under three bags of rock salt.

 

Bo and I are chilling at my place and making Halloween plans for when my partner and other daughter return from Illinois. I'm gonna go grab a bag of frozen peas. Y'all have a good night, or at least, a better night than me.