feelings, they’d hold each other’s nuts while the other stroked off.
It was kind of sweet, really.
But the sweetness only went so far, and they kept eyeing Reba. And Homer. He eyed her too, ‘cause he wasn’t even getting his ass end worked. They all eyed her so much she didn’t go back there with them, not even to get her food rations. I had to bring her food out, and I’ll tell you, I was not feeling too good going back there myself. I think they wanted to beat me up and eat me and keep Reba.
And maybe they liked me for what they wanted to like each other for. I had good long hair and I kept shaved with my pocketknife, so there was just the now and again shaving rash to remind them of my masculine features.
And, hell, I’m gonna say it. I’ve always kind of prided myself on the shape of my ass, so I’m sure it was a factor, that good ass of mine in rags, which, though not a fashion statement, did show, in spots, the meat.
Nervous times, dear hearts. Nervous times.
2
One time when it got dark and I was nervous from the way James and Cory were acting, and Steve and Grace had moved to the front, trying to stay out of it all, and Homer, he was practically oblivious, just stretched out on a seat, not knowing that at any moment he could be lunch or ass-poked.
I started telling stories from the Lory collection aloud. You know, like I was just telling Reba, but really loud, and pretty soon, they were listening. Cory and James, and then Homer, who sat up and listened with his mouth hung open. Up front, even Steve and Grace quit groping each other, as that was available to them on a regular basis, and took to listening. Reba sat by me, worked her arm around mine, leaned against my shoulder, and listened to me tell the stories from the book.
I think I told three of the tales, and I told long versions, adding in stuff not in the stories, but stuff I thought ought to have been there, though I went light on the sex stuff, no use heating up the natives, and those stories, way I told them, it held them.
I felt the way I figured cave dwellers must have felt. Felt like the Grand Poobah of the cave, the storyteller, sitting there by the fire (minus the fire, of course) talking into the night and everyone listening carefully, and gradually scooting closer, more engrossed in the stories by the moment. And that was a good feeling. Having a kind of control. Even if it was with a story. Because for a long time now I had felt totally out of control, a random leaf blown by a savage wind.
And I thought in the back of my mind, as I was telling these tales, here we are in a tale ourselves, an incredible adventure we didn’t want to be living, but we wanted to hear stories anyway, tales about others in strife and joy, but not our own strife and joy.
It was kind of weird, really.
But it worked.
And when I finished that night, everyone seemed calmer. Happier. Not so much aware of the ghostly drive-in that pursued us and floated around us and tried to become one with us.
I felt I had taken some of the pressure off the teapot. And Reba, she was sweeter that night, and slower, and I felt respected, and when I came, I opened my eyes and saw over Reba’s shoulder the ghostly shades from the drive-in drift by. An old acquaintance, Crier, was looking my direction, not really seeing, just standing there ghost-like, looking at the spot where I lay on my back, Reba astride, and I felt a strange fondness for him. But in that moment of pleasure, I was quite fond of everyone and everything.
And when daylight came, it was a little better in there.
No one was singing tunes from The Sound of Music or giving me the high five, but it was better. Calmer.
Nights came, I told more of the short stories. And as the nights passed, I told the Lory novel. Then the Louis L’Amour novel. Then I began to make up things. I felt like Sheherazade from the Arabian Nights, and like her, I feared if I ever slowed down or bored them, I was dead meat.
Then, when I felt I was maybe out of tales or losing my energy to tell them, was hoping my ass could take a lot of loving and not be too unhappy with it, and, in fact good at it, so I would have something to barter besides being turned into jerked meat, a strange thing happened.
And considering our lives have been a list of strange things, this was a very strange thing indeed.
3
The day had turned out hot, and the water was still, and it hardly seemed we were flowing with the current at all. We were mostly becalmed. There was, of course, nothing but water to see, and the great bridge, clouded at bottom and top, but visible. It seemed no closer than it had seemed many days before.
I climbed on top of the bus for a bit, took in the sun with my shirt off, lying face down. But there was so much of old Sol, and I didn’t have any way to protect my skin from the rays, and the idea of some terrific sunburn without so much as a bottle of calamine lotion didn’t appeal to me, so I decided to climb inside and take in some shade.
As I turned over to go back in the bus, I saw Grace climb out, stark naked and brown as a walnut. She didn’t fear the sun and spent much time in it. And though the sun’s rays might be rough on her in the near future, right then she looked like a brown jungle savage, a regular Sheena. I watched her dive from the hood of the bus and swim about for awhile, then I climbed back through the window with my shirt.
It was a good thing too, and it was a good thing that Grace became bored and came back inside, because Cory pointed out an open window, yelled out, “Look there.”
We looked out the window where he was pointing.
The great fin again.
“That is one big fucking fish,” Cory said.
“There’s enough meat there to dry and feed us till this big old waterhole goes dry,” Homer said.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Steve said, slipping an arm around Grace’s nude body, “but there’s a lot of meat there.”
“I’m gonna get my line and such,” Cory said, “get up there, see if I can catch it.”
“You’re gonna need more than a few twists of twine and a bone hook to hold that one,” I said.
“You can catch a big fish on small line if you know what you’re doing,” Cory said, snatching up his fishing gear. “And I got some fish guts for bait. They’ve been hitting good on that one.”
He climbed out the window with his gear, boosted up by James.
We could hear him on top of the bus, and we saw his line flash out in the direction of the fin.
The fin surfaced and the water rippled. Then everything was still again.
James said, “Shit, he’s done gone to the bottom.”
About that time we saw the string go taut, and Cory yelled, “Goddamn. String cut my hand.”
James stuck his head out the window. “Hold him, Cory.”
“Get up here and help, James.”
James climbed out the window, worked his way to the roof of the bus. He clumped around up there for awhile, then we heard them both cussing.
“Maybe they need more help,” Homer said.
“Damn,” Steve said, letting go of Grace, grabbing a seat back for balance. “That little cord and that fish are causing the whole damn bus to rock.”
“They need to forget that fish,” Grace said. “The thing could swamp us.”
About that time the twine snapped. James and Cory cussed and began to jump up and down on the roof.
“Stop that, you idiots,” Grace said.
I felt a tug at my sleeve.
