The Black Train

“It’s a restaurant and tavern, right?”

“Sure is, and a fine one. Old-time vittles like they made in the old days, and some beers they make themselves right there in the place. I stop in myself every now and then. It’s right down on the corner of Number One Street.”

This was good fortune, and Collier didn’t like going to new places by himself, especially in a strange town. “That’s very helpful, Jiff. And if you’re not doing anything later, I’d love to take you and your sister there for dinner. My treat.”

Jiff and Lottie showed gushing grins. “That’s a right nice’a ya, Mr. Collier. I’d be a honored to go out with a celebrity such as yourself,” Jiff accepted, but then shot a scowl to his sister. “Unfortunately Lottie won’t be able to join us on account she’s still got all the guest linens to wash—”

“Oh, that’s too bad—”

Lottie’s lips pressed together, infuriated.

“Which she’d best get to doin’, like right now. Right, Lottie? Ma done told ya already.”

The girl’s eyes dampened with tears; she stormed out. Collier was fairly sure she’d mouthed Eat shit! to her brother upon exit.

Jiff shrugged. “Lottie—God love her—is a little off, Mr. Collier. It’s best she stay ’round the house. She gets all silly even after, like, one beer, and then she gets to cryin’ and all on account she can’t talk.”

Collier felt saddened by the cruel fact but then his mind served back up the glances he’d stolen. “Oh, I see… Anyway, how about seven o’clock?”

“Seven o’clock it is, Mr. Collier.” Jiff clapped his hands. “Ooo-eee! First time in my life I ever been out with a genuine celebrity!”

Collier sighed.

“You need anything durin’ your stay,” Jiff said and pointed, “just you let me know.”

“Thanks, Jiff.” When Collier tipped him a ten, the man’s eyes beamed. “See you at seven.”

Jiff left, whistling. Collier locked the door.

He set up his laptop but found himself contemplating the sudden and unlikely sexual awareness that seemed to envelop him since he’d arrived. Christ, what’s wrong with me? Since the minute I got here I’ve felt hornier than I’ve been in years. Yet, it had been six months at least since he and Evelyn had made love and probably as long since he’d had a potent sexual fantasy.

Why all this horniness now? he wondered.

It was a good question. Now that he thought about it, he realized his sex drive had been pretty much dead since the second season of the show. The spoiling marriage only killed it more. Job stress, stress at home, and just the stress of living in that California hellhole, he guessed. I NEVER think about sex anymore…until today. I walk into this place sweating a book deadline and suddenly I’ve got the sex drive of a seventeen-year-old. I’m going bonkers over an old lady with Jack Palance’s face and her redneck daughter who can’t talk.

So much for self-revelation.

He pulled the laptop power cord from its case but inadvertently dropped it. When he leaned down to retrieve it, he noticed something…

The gap under the bedroom door…

Somebody’s standing right outside my door—right now, he could see.

Bare toes showed in the gap. Must be Lottie, he guessed. She’d been barefoot, hadn’t she? Collier got on his hands and knees and crawled over. The toes were still there; they hadn’t budged. It occurred to him that he should stand up right now and open the door.

But he didn’t.

The keyhole…

The lock, knob, and keyhole were likely original: old, well-crafted brass. Collier held his breath and put his eye to the hole.

You’ve got to be shitting me…

A woman’s pubis was positioned directly on the other side of the keyhole. It was creamy white, freshly shaved—a beautiful, private triangle.

That’s what Collier saw when he looked through the keyhole.

He leaned back, blinked, and sighed. There’s a nude woman standing on the other side of this door, he resigned. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

It must be a trick of light.

He looked again. The shaved pubis was still there. He noticed a detail now: a single freckle an inch above the clitoral hood.

All right…It was no trick of light; it was really there. He let his mind tick a moment, mulling choices, but there were really only two. I can ignore it, he knew. Or…I can open the door and see who it is.

However…

Who could it be?

It was almost as though she knew Collier would see.

Impossible.

He stood up and opened the door.

No one faced him in the doorway, just the open atrium beyond the railing of the stair hall. Collier looked quickly left, then right, and saw no woman, nude or otherwise, hurrying away.

This is screwed up, he thought. This is REALLY screwed up.

He sat on the bed and he considered the day in objective terms. He’d come to Tennessee in search of an obscure lager he thought might be worthy of inclusion in his book. The conservative sedan he’d booked at the car rental company hadn’t been available, so he got a preposterous lime-sherbet VW. What should’ve been a one-hour drive turned into a four-hour drive. After which Collier had arrived at this strange little bed-and-breakfast only to find his normally dead-in-the-water libido sent into the red zone by an old woman with a great body and her probably retarded daughter. In summation, all of the above aggregated into the most bizarre day of his life. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any more bizarre…

A woman flashed her shaved beaver in my keyhole…

Collier rubbed his temples.

I either saw it, or I had a hallucination.

Was there something wrong with him? Something clinical, perhaps?

It couldn’t be.

I know I’m not crazy…and I never took drugs so it couldn’t be some sort of a flashback.

And if it hadn’t been a hallucination, who was this discreet exhibitionist with the mystery pubis?

At first, the bare feet made him think of Lottie, but now that he thought of it, the hips seemed too wide and the flesh too plush for Lottie. Mrs. Butler, then? No, he thought crudely. There’s no way…

The woman from Wisconsin? There’s a thought. Collier thought of the groupie phenomenon, women who lose their inhibitions simply because a man’s a musician, a pro athlete, or…a TV personality. Collier had heard of such things, especially with the more flamboyant men on the channel. Like that Savannah Sammy asshole. Women mailed him their panties, for God’s sake. But as for Collier himself…

He’d never met a “TV groupie,” and doubted that any existed for the “Prince of Beer.”

He shook his head, bewildered to the point of headache.

Hallucination or not, something’s come over me. I’m hornier than I can ever remember, so what’s the reason?

But why think so negatively? Just that his sex drive had turned hyper didn’t mean there was necessarily