Louie in the Sty with Dinah

Chapter 12 of Carnival

Carnival

Chapter 12

Louie in the Sty with Dinah

When Kevin surfaced he was all but drowned; it took a full minute to remember where he was, and half a minute more to realize he’d had a wet dream. He groaned. He was way too old for this; he’d have to do something to the sheet, maybe burn a hole in it so his mother wouldn’t catch the stain.

But there was a stranger in his bed. Kevin cautiously opened an eye, saw Janet’s lovely sleep-filled face only inches away. She’d settled heavily, and her chestnut hair smelled of lilies and ferns, of freshly mown grass. Right behind her sweet young face was the full splendor of the waking day.

The boy explored with his senses. Somehow, in the course of the night, the two had become hopelessly entangled. Kevin felt that his right arm was being used for a pillow by the girl, and was glad--glad that he’d helped make her comfortable. But his right leg, pinned hard between both of hers, was absolutely numb. He lay still for a moment, holding his breath, and then, very carefully, eased off his left leg. That part was easy. It was only when he tried to slip out his right leg that he realized the leg was “asleep”, deprived of even blood flow. A thousand straight pins ran up his thigh. The girl was mumbling something like “deeper”, or “keep her”; something icky-girly. Kevin tried working his leg out little by little, growing desperate at the total lack of feeling from his waist down. His efforts were gently rocking the girl against him, back and forth, back and forth, and from the way she was breathing faster and harder he was certain she was about to waken. He didn’t want to be rough, but, damn it, his leg was beginning to burn.

He tried jerking it out all at once, but it died on him; the burning ceased. Panicking, Kevin grabbed Janet’s leg and shoved it off. She woke with a pretty little gasp, her eyes popping half-open. A fine film of perspiration glistened on her brow.

“G’morning,” Kevin grated. And, with that one little fractured wham-bam, he was lost for words.

“My goodness.” She patted a slim brown hand on her lips. “What’s the time?”

“Pretty early. But I always get up early. It’s, like, good for the karma.”

She noted the indelicacy of their situation. “We seem to be a bit tangled up.”

“Right. Right. Just let me get this zipper--” He had to lean over her to tug at the zipper, had to roll right on top of her. The zipper was snagged. Kevin grimaced apologetically, tugging and tugging, while she returned the look with a sweet, enigmatic smile. The boy blushed weenily. When at last the zipper gave he opened the bag in a single quick motion and hopped out on his one working foot.

“Sorry, couldn’t be helped, sorry. I’ll just make sure the coast is clear; back in a flush.” Kevin limped round the building’s corner, leaned against a wall, and repeatedly stamped his foot.

There was, mercifully, a gas station next to the bowling alley. Kevin snuck into the restroom and soaked a handful of paper towels before sloshing into the only stall. He cleansed his sticky crotch and belly, mashed the towels into a wad, and threw the mess above onto the mess below.

Then, though there was no one around, and a perfectly usable urinal waited just outside the stall, he fell prey to that confounding impulse that rules every other male in a public restroom. Having ascertained that the stall door was securely locked and the toilet’s seat undeniably down, Kevin, like every other common liberated male, dropped his drawers and peed into the bowl, on the floor and walls, and all over that damned begging rim and seat. Having thus pheromonally introduced himself to the next creep in line, he absent-mindedly perused some of the filthy partition’s cleverer scatalogical scratchings.

Still limping a bit, Kevin stepped to the wash basin and stared glumly at his reflection in the mirror. He peeled off the flowery bandage with a groan of embarrassment. For the love of--no wonder she’d been smiling. Never, he thought, had he looked so seedy in the morning. His hair, minus the two great clumps, was a wildly tangled jungle, peppered with miscellaneous bits of trash. A sour stench rose from his armpits and crotch.

There was a line of graffiti inked above the mirror. Kevin cleaned his glasses and squinted to make it out.

The message read: If you were as smart as you are ugly, you wouldn’t be pissing here.

Kevin sighed and nodded, nodded and sighed. His eye was caught by one section of a photograph crammed into the full receptacle next to the basin. He curiously plucked it out and found himself gloomily studying the blurry black-and-white image of a stout Mexican woman dispassionately corrupting the virtue of a frenzied Great Dane. The dreariness of this image crept right up his arm. Suddenly he was disgusted with himself.

And just as suddenly he found it necessary to prove to himself and to the girl that he was not a vile restroom gnome. What was he doing here, feeling sorry for himself…surely she was aware, surely she had seen her chance and was even now wholesomely pedaling her rickety bike up the coast.

Kevin yanked open the door and rushed out, limped puffing to the back of the bowling alley.

Janet was sitting, brushing her long shiny hair. She had neatly rolled up the bag.

She smiled with secret amusement. “Feeling better?”

“Sure,” he replied. “All’s well. Well. I guess we survived the night all right.” He watched her closely, afraid that in the glare of his nonchalance he stood exposed as just another wholly forgettable turkey. But she smiled again--that same strange twisting of the lips and sparkling of the eyes that seemed to say so little, yet imply so very much. Kevin’s heart did a belly flop at that smile, and he was hooked.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Hm?”

“For rolling up the bag. That was really thoughtful. I mean, really.”

She laughed musically, said, “Oh, Pooh!” and stood, lifting the bag and tossing it playfully. “Come on, let’s go get something to eat. I’m famished.”

“Oh sure, sure.” Kevin strapped the bag to the rack behind his seat, and before he knew it they were pedaling along.

Then everything was very strange.

She was quiet as they rode, introspective, and for a disturbing moment Kevin could have sworn she gave him, for no apparent reason, a look of almost maniacal hostility.

The scary silence was finally broken when they reached a 24-hour diner. Large diesels, coupled to forty-foot trailers, were parked in clusters around this diner. The rigs caught Kevin’s eye at once, as nearly all were lovingly maintained, and sported sparkling chromed rims and grilles, flake and pearl paints.

“Looks like a good place,” he said, grateful for the break. “Well, let’s hurry and find us a booth. Must be crowded inside.”

Janet said nothing as she walked her bicycle beside his. Kevin locked their bikes to a rail by the entrance, aware of a ridiculous intimacy in coupling their machines.

He held the door for her. A barrage of raucous laughter burst out like hot trapped air. Spoons rang on coffee cups.

“Well,” Janet purred, finally smiling again, “you’re certainly the gentleman today.”

Kevin grinned and bowed his head. “My pleasure,” he said with all his heart, and followed her inside.

The place was packed.

The men were of a general sort: massive, T-shirted, roughly sullen or roughly jocular; hairy arms, beardless, hair cut short and without flair. Now and then one would swivel on his counter stool to roughly stare as they passed. A few continued to watch as Kevin and Janet were led to a filthy booth by a shuffling and curlered waitress. A name tag pinned to her blouse read: DINAH. They stood uneasily as she wiped the table clean.

“Back in a sec’,” she said, chewing something. “Getcha ya menus.” Dinah winked and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You kids want coffee?” She looked one to the other, her eyes resting longest on Kevin. “Louie?”

“Sure,” Kevin said.

Zip, and she was gone. They sat across from each other, silent. The vibes in this place were razor-edged; it seemed the general hubbub had toned down immediately around their booth. Kevin looked over the counter tentatively. Two big men, staring coldly, were turned on their stools. The boy looked into their faces and read nothing but contempt. As he turned away he felt their eyes boring into his skull. His appetite had vanished.

The waitress was back, carefully setting down their coffees. “There’s yours, honey,” she said, handing Janet a menu colored in glossy primaries. “And now here’s one for you, Louie. On one bill or two?”

Janet looked up, and when Kevin blushed and said, “On one, of course,” she became gay and chirpy, clapped her hands and went over the selections with sparkling eyes.

Dinah turned to Kevin, still chewing, chewing.

“Her first,” he said, unpleasantly aware of a regimenting of hostility at the counter. He looked furtively, once. Apparently he was now the center of attention for at least six sneering and insolently seated men. He only had time to see one blow him a kiss before turning away.

“--and an order of English muffins with honey,” Janet was saying, “and ooh, how about Canadian bacon with those eggs?”

Kevin considered telling the waitress to cancel their order; he could just grab Janet’s hand and nonchalantly dart out of here. There were two drawbacks to this idea. One, it would be doing just what these hulking truckers wanted: making him run and feeding their Dark Ages egos. Two--and far, far worse--it would be the ultimate cop-out in front of Janet.

“--and a glass of juice, a tall glass, and one of these little pancake plates like in this picture, with the whipped cream, and--”

“My God,” Kevin broke in, out of naked nervousness. “Where do you put it all?”

Janet brought a small hand to her mouth, raised the menu to cover her face below the eyes.

“Oh…” she said, “I’m sorry; I just get carried away at breakfast sometimes. And you did say I could order what I want--I mean, that’s what you meant, isn’t it--and I’m simply starving, aren’t you? It is all right, isn’t it?” Her eyes implored.

The waitress turned to Kevin again, still chewing, chewing. He wished, unequivocally, that she would choke on whatever it was she was chewing, chewing, chewing. He threw a hand up irritably, body language for: Oh, just order whatever the f**k you want; then realized his irritation was simple release from the hostility hanging like a storm cloud over the counter.

“--and an order of hash browns, and a big thing of yogurt, pineapple if you’ve got it, and a bowl of Frosty Squares, and--”

“If that ain’t just the most god-awful sight I seen all year.”

Kevin was sinking. Imperceptibly, but steadily.

“So that’s the New Generation! Makes you wanna crawl in your coffin and haul down the lid.”

Kevin’s eyes refocused. Janet was quiet now, her own eyes half-raised in supplication. The waitress was staring very directly, chewing slowly now, considering.

“Nothing for me,” he said meekly.

Dinah considered him a moment longer, nodded curtly, and vanished.

Kevin avoided Janet’s eyes. It was all he could do to ignore the voices.

“If you’re lookin’ for dope on the menu, Louie, we’re awful dang sorry, but this place ain’t used to serving freaks like you.”

“Hey, sweetheart, what you see in a fat clown like him?”

“Yeah, darlin’. Why don’t you come along and take a ride with a real man?”

“Har-har! Why, sure. B’lieve I could ride a sweet little thing like you all night long.”

Suddenly Kevin was on his feet, his fists clenched. There were tears on his cheeks and his voice was strained.

“You can’t talk about my girlfriend like that!”

He felt Janet’s hands at his back. One of the truckers stood, stomped over, got right in his face.

“No goddam hippie-a*s pill popping Louie tells me what I can or can’t say!”

Beside himself, Kevin whirled and seized a fork off the table. He made an ineffectual lunging stab at no one in particular. The trucker stepped back.

The rest of the counter troglodytes roared with laughter.

Dinah, rematerializing, wedged herself between Kevin and the standing trucker and shooed everyone to their seats. She was an amazing piece of work; pirouetting in slippers, soothing here, scolding there. Without breaking rhythm, she scooped a dime out of her tips jar, whirled to the jukebox, and made a selection.

It was everybody’s favorite: that song featured in the gratingly omnipresent Vons commercial where the gomer trucker gleefully pounds the wheel every time the goober singer belts out, “In the heartland!” The effect on the diner was immediate and magical. The altercation was instantly forgotten. Every trucker, mug in one hand and fork in the other, beamed and pounded their fists twice on the counter at every reiteration of that delightful catch phrase. Dinah blew back to their booth. Kevin was wretchedly wiping away his tears.

“Your order’s being cooked up, honey,” she told Janet, “but I think you kids should run along. Sorry ’bout the trouble. These boys mean well; they just got no manners.”

“I think they’re terrible, horrible,” Janet said, making a face. “And I’m not hungry anymore.”

“There, there,” said the waitress, placing a hand on Janet’s upper thigh and squeezing.

“You got a lot of growing up t’ do, sweetheart, and a lot of learning, too. Don’t let one little bad scene (is that how you Louies say it?) give you the wrong impression.”

Now, Kevin had never been able to understand the physical intimacy women so straightforwardly share, but this Dinah person was rubbing and squeezing and stroking and patting and kneading Janet’s inner thigh while she spoke, and the girl appeared to brighten.

“When you get a little older you’ll see these boys are the salt of the earth. Like I said, they just ain’t got no manners, is all. So you two head north up the highway ’bout half a mile until you see Arnold’s Café. Tell Arnie that Dinah sentcha, and he’ll fix you up--” she zoned out for two priceless syllables, stomping a slipper and shaking her pad “--with something special, see, ’cause Arnie’s seen this kind of thing happen before with kids like you. Arnie likes kids, God bless ’im. Got six hisself, Arnie does, loves ’em to death, just doesn’t like to see ’em fooling around--Heartland--with pills, going crazy on that LSB stuff, always protestin’ about everything. Can’t say as I blames him myself; you Louies got no reason--Heartland--to be protestin’ all the time. S**t, when we was your age times was hard, what with the Depression and the war and all--you kids got it made, let me tell you, things couldn’t be better. I just wish to God somebody would of set me down and give me a good long talkin’ to when I was your age. Sure, we got into trouble and done some crazy stuff, too; all kids do. Heartland! But we were good kids and we respected our elders, let me tell you, and we listened to real music. Heartland! Sinatra and Crosby and Count Basie, not this nonsense you always hear screaming on the radio all day long nowadays. Yeah, we were good kids, and we were proud to work for ourselves, and we never complained. And at least we had the good sense to mind our own business.” She straightened. “Just what is it you Louies see in taking all them drugs?”

“We’d better go,” Kevin moaned, eyes red but dry. “Thanks for stepping in and helping.” He rose. Janet followed uncertainly.

“Heartland…” Dinah muttered, chewing thoughtfully.

When they walked out, the diner was as loud and rowdy as when they’d entered. It was as if the incident had never occurred. He held the door for the girl and two syllables rang gloriously. A barrage of raucous laughter burst out like hot trapped air. Spoons rang on coffee cups.