Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Rianne sorted her laundry behind the van, which also seemed like a relief. “Billy and Chas
out for lunch?”
“They split.”
I squatted nearby to better watch a small masonry cupid pouring water from a blossom.
You can't beat Florence for sculpture. “Doesn't seem like them.”
“We got tired of them real fast,” she said.
“You mean they got invited to split.”
“Not really. Jane told them to get the fuck outa the van. I think she's in love.”
“I guess you're not.”
“No. hat guy was a jerk. What are you gonna do?”
“I don't know.” But I did know what I wasn't going to do, which was stick my peepee into
Rianne's teetee, luscious as she looked. I hadn't yet sorted that aspect of the romance/love/
sexuality continuum either; I anticipated the distinct scent of gumdrops and man goo. She
seemed weak and soiled. Maybe she wasn't, but maybe my instincts were correct. Social dis-
ease in those days was the clap. The end. Oh, you could get syphilis and warts and some oth-
er nasty, exotic stuff, like the guys in Vietnam were bringing home, but you really had to go
dredging the ditch to find that stuff. It was most often the clap and some penicillin, over and
out. But still, she'd lowered her standards so hard and so fast. Chas was a dirtball, a clod and
the worst kind of a loser, one with a big mouth. I wanted to nestle up to someone, but Rianne
seemed somehow on the mend, airing out, freshening up. That's how young men think. Given
a few decades, it's easier to process life's foibles, like Rianne giving it up to an asshole from
Oregon. I've done the same with as much failure of character as Rianne could ever show. I'd
played Chas's role as well, because given the time, most people play most parts.
John and I parked between the red van and a white car that belonged to Rayanne, who
camped alongside. What an amusing confusion with Rianne on the one hand and Rayanne
on the other. It seemed cosmic on a molecular level, like comet dust had settled on what was
meant to be. Craving sexual relations with Rayanne would be obvious for any male. I craved
the chance for Rianne to hear us.
Oh. Don't stop.
Those were the days. A sprightly nymphet pretty as a buxom pixie, Rayanne was a drop-
dead cutie who could return a flirtation with the best of them. Oh, it was an invitation to
a lovelock if ever a doubtful boy saw one. But things are rarely as simple as they should be.
Rayanne held back. She didn't want to hold back. Holding back was against her instinct and
better nature. Rayanne embraced the sexual revolution and wanted in—make that back in.
She'd jumped in some months ago and got knocked up and ran into trouble on a tubular preg-
nancy with a cist on an ovary and a complicated tumor and surgery including hysterectomy
and some other removals.
