Box

  I have other advantages. Trudy’s a backwoods pony-tailed waitress, I’m a renowned surgeon. She’s poor, I’m rich. She appears to possess average intelligence, I’m off-the-charts brilliant.

  I know what you’re thinking. I’m full of myself, right?

  Not true.

  I’m a mess.

  I’m petty. Mean-spirited. Vengeful. I have a rotten personality. No friends. And a bad track record with women.

  I’ve been flirting with Trudy the better part of an hour. She ignored me at first, but my persistence is paying off. She’s appraising me.

  “How old are you?” she asks, going straight for the jugular.

  I frown. Besides my personality, my age is my biggest weakness. I’m forty-two. She can’t be more than…

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Eighteen.”

  Shit. The last eighteen-year-old I dated turned out to be a seventeen-year-old identity thief.

  “Eighteen?” I say. “You’re sure about that?”

  I’d go after older women, but those north of twenty see me coming a mile away.

  “Eighteen-and-a-half,” she says. “Almost nineteen.”

  Going the extra mile to make herself appear older tells me she might be interested. But I’ve been wrong before. In fact, I’m wrong most of the time.

  I know one sure-fire way to find out.

  I focus my eyes on her chest, and keep them there a long moment before looking up. In my experience, it’s fifty-fifty she’ll either be flattered or offended. Of course, my success rate is padded by strippers and hookers. What I’m saying, my social skills are so lacking I’ve offended half the strippers and hookers I’ve flirted with.

  But Trudy’s expression reveals nothing.

  She looks at her chest.

  “Have I spilt somethin’?” she says. “Or are you just bein’ a guy?”

  “I’m just being a guy.”

  She nods, but shows no anger, disgust, or any other emotion I’ve encountered when blatantly fixing my gaze on a woman’s chest. Her nod seems to say, “It is what it is. Girls have boobs, guys have eyes.”

  Maybe country girls are more worldly than I thought.

  “What time do you get off?” I ask.

  “Ten.”

  “An hour from now? More or less?”

  “You’re the one with the fancy watch,” she says, then tosses her hair, spins, and heads for the kitchen.

  Five minutes later she comes out with a gleam in her eye, looks from side to side, lowers her voice, and says, “Want to do somethin’ wild?”

  3.

  I HAVE NO idea what a backwoods rural beauty like Trudy considers wild.

  Greasing a pig?

  Shooting a pig?

  Fucking a pig?

  “What do you have in mind?” I say.

  “Scooter Bing just pulled up out front.”

  My eyes grow big. “Seriously? Scooter Bing? You’re shitting me!”

  She looks puzzled. “You know Scooter?”

  I laugh. “I’ve been in town ninety minutes. I don’t know if Scooter’s man, woman, or beast.”

  “He’s two of those things.”

  “Which two?”

  “Man and beast.”

  “And is he gainfully employed?”

  “Sir?”

  “Does Scooter have a profession?”

  “He’s our big, fat, deputy sheriff.”

  “I see. And is there some significance to him having just pulled up outside?”

  She laughs. “You talk like a TV lawyer.”

  I smile, hoping that’s a compliment.

  She smiles back, waiting for me to say something.

  It strikes me how much I love watching her beautiful, expressive mouth form sentences and smiles, and adore how she mangles the English language with her sexy southern drawl. She has a way of taking a monosyllabic word like “Hi!” and making it sound like a full sentence. On the other hand, her conversations require great patience, since they aren’t driven by the need to make an actual point. Coming from most other mouths, this round-about style of speaking would annoy the shit out of me. In Manhattan, people say as little as possible and move the fuck along. I like Trudy’s world better, where conversation moves slower, and seems to require two people. But it will take some getting used to, and I’m impatient to hear what’s wild about Scooter Bing pulling up in front of the restaurant.

  She obliges me by saying, “In a minute Scooter will come in, sit at that counter…”—she points to a spot thirty feet away—“and he’ll order a cup of coffee.”

  I say nothing, realizing the slightest comment will delay her getting to the point.

  “He’ll put a laxative in the coffee. Fifteen minutes later he’ll go to the men’s room to take a dump.”

  I can’t take it any longer.

  “Wow, Trudy. All this time I’ve felt sorry for you, thinking how bored you must be, living in this little town. And now you tell me this type of excitement is going on all around us?”

  She smiles.

  It’s a helluva smile.

  She says, “Before droppin’ his pants, Deputy Bing hangs his gun belt over the door of the stall.”

  “So?”

  “He’ll have the gun side facin’ him, but the handcuffs will be hangin’ on the other side of the door.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “It’s his way.”

  “His way?”

  “His habit.”

  “What’s the wild part?”

  “You’re gonna steal his handcuffs.”

  “I’m what? Why the hell would I do that?”

  “How else are you gonna handcuff me to the chain-link fence out back?”

  I cock my head. “You’re going to let me handcuff you?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “To the fence out back?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Can I be honest about something?” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “No offense, Dr. Box, but it seems to take you a long time to figure things out.”

  Touche.

  But still, this is quite a shock. I’ve got a history of misunderstanding what women really mean when they say what I think I heard. So I risk one more level of clarification, and ask, “What’s going to happen when I handcuff you to the fence?”

  “We’ll find out if I can trust you.”

  “To do what?”

  “Kiss me.”

  I frown, taking everything she said into consideration.

  Then she sweetens the pot, adding, “And I’ll let you feel me up.”

  “No shit?”

  “Over my clothes. But that’s all.”

  I look at her blouse a minute, then say, “What about the key?”

  “To the handcuffs?”

  She opens her hand, revealing a key.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “I stole it a week ago.”

  “And he doesn’t know?”

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He hasn’t used those cuffs in ten years!”

  While we look at each other some more a giant man stuffed into a policeman’s uniform enters the restaurant and sits at the counter. I check out the cuffs attached to the back of his gun belt.

  “Think you can manage it?” she says.

  “Of course. I’m a surgeon, after all. So tell me, Trudy.”

  “Yes?”

  “How long can I feel you up?”

  “Twenty seconds.”

  “That’s a fast answer. You didn’t even hesitate.”

  “It’s a risky thing we’re doin’. Twenty seconds seems about right.”

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t give me a whole lot of time to have fun.”

  “It’ll be more fun than not feelin’ me up at all. And don’t sell the kissin’ part short.”

  “How long will Deputy Dawg be on the toilet?”
/>
  “Ten minutes, give or take.”

  “That should give us at least five minutes at the fence.”

  “It would,” she says, “and I might be so inclined, especially if you prove to be a better kisser than I’m expectin’. But there’s a criminal element in town that must be respected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll be chaining a local girl to a fence. In the middle of the night. Feeling her up.”

  “Those are good points.”

  “So are these,” she says, indicating her breasts.

  We look at each other some more.

  “How will I get the cuffs back on his belt afterward?”

  She frowns. “I hadn’t figured you for such a worry wart.”

  She turns, and starts to walk away.

  “Wait!” I say.

  She turns around.

  “I’m in!”

  She comes back to the table.

  “It’s best we don’t do it,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seemed like fun till you started analyzin’ it to death. This whole thing probably seems silly to you, instead of wild. You bein’ from New York City and all.”

  “On the contrary, it’s extremely wild.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Stealing a policeman’s handcuffs while he’s taking a shit, and using them to handcuff a beautiful waitress to a fence in the middle of the night and feeling her up—”

  She points to her lips.

  “—And kissing her, for twenty seconds, then trying to figure out how to replace the handcuffs on the cop’s belt without getting caught—trust me, it’s plenty wild.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to twist your arm, doctor.”

  “You’re not. I’m in. I love it!”

  “You sure you’re up for it?”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m not only in…” she says.

  She leans her hip into me and whispers, “…I’m wet with anticipation.”

  “Me too,” I say to her boobs.

  She nods toward Deputy Dawg and says, “Eyes on the prize, Doctor.”

  “They are on the prize!”

  4.

  Trudy Lake.

  DR. BOX COMES out of the bathroom grinnin’ like he’s stolen the Crown Jewels.

  “What took you so long?” I say.

  “I kept retching from the smell.”

  “That’s Scooter,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re bringing your purse?” he says.

  “I can’t very well leave it sittin’ there for the riff-raff.”

  We head out the back door quietly, and I lead him to the eight-foot-high fence that surrounds the dumpster.

  “Is this the only fence you’ve got?” he says, referrin’ to the smell.

  “It’s the only one close by.”

  “Why’s it so high?”

  “To keep the deer from gettin’ to the garbage.”

  “The light from the back door makes us easy to see.”

  “That’s why we’re only gonna be here twenty seconds.”

  “Makes sense,” he says.

  I put my back against the fence and say, “I can trust you, right?”

  “About what?”

  “Keepin’ your hands where I said you could.”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me your word.”

  “You have my word.”

  I unlock the cuffs, then hand him the key. Put my left wrist in one cuff and lock it. Then put both arms a foot above my head.

  “Put my right wrist in the open cuff, and hook it through the chain link before locking it,” I say.

  He does.

  Then he steps back to look at me.

  And grins.

  5.

  Dr. Gideon Box.

  I’VE HANDCUFFED A beautiful waitress to a chain link fence behind a family-style restaurant in Western Kentucky. She’s offered me twenty seconds worth of kissing and breast-fondling. Above her clothes.

  But there’s nothing on earth stopping me from reaching up under her dress, pulling down her panties, and taking her right here in front of the dumpster.

  She knows it.

  I know it.

  Nothing to stop me except my promise.

  “You’re wastin’ time,” Trudy says.

  I detect a slight waver in her voice. She knows this could go south on her in a hurry. Knows I’ve got the key in my pocket. Knows I could take her right here, run to my car, and get the hell out of town. She knows I could be thirty miles away before someone finds a tool to cut the cuffs off her.

  She starts counting slowly.

  “One, two, three…”

  “Don’t be nervous,” I say. “I was just admiring the view.”

  “Four, five…”

  I move in for the kiss. She closes her eyes, puckers her lips.

  I kiss her.

  Then stop for a moment to look at her angelic face.

  She says, “Six, seven…”

  But she’s breathing heavily.

  I kiss her again. She parts her lips slightly, accepts my tongue. Instead of pulling back like most women who kiss me, she murmurs and probes my mouth with her tongue.

  I can’t believe she’s really getting into it like this. What I’m saying, women pretend. With me, it’s a routine occurrence. That’s because in the real world, women only have sex with me after being softened up with cash, or worn down by liquor or drugs. Women can fake sex. They can pretend they love it, pretend you’re the greatest lover they’ve ever had, you’ll never know the difference.

  But women can’t fake a kiss.

  It’s too intimate.

  Hookers know this. That’s why they’d rather give a blow job than a tongue kiss.

  Trudy’s not faking it.

  Her motor’s running.

  I put my hands on her boobs.

  She gasps.

  I come up for air.

  In a very shaky voice, she says, eight, nine, ten, eleven…”

  I’m cupping her breasts.

  Through her clothes, of course, but I’m getting plenty of action.

  She’s right about her “good points.” Her nipples are hard enough to poke holes in the vinyl seats of Alice T’s dining room.

  “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”

  I kiss her some more, feel her up some more.

  She moans.

  When I come up for air, she says, “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”

  I step back, but keep my hands on her boobs.

  “What’s wrong?” she says.

  I want more. Much more.

  She knows it.

  “Eighteen…” she says.

  I sigh. “You are absolutely adorable.”

  She smiles.

  “Nineteen…”

  I move in for one last kiss…

  …And wake up in the center of an old, empty barn, tied to a chair.

  Two feet in front of me is another chair.

  That one’s occupied by Scooter Bing, Deputy Sheriff.

  6.

  FOUR BATTERY-POWERED camping lanterns have been strategically placed to provide more light than I would have expected them to yield. Two are on the floor, six feet on either side of us, and the other two are perched atop the stall doors.

  My head hurts like hell. If my arms were free, I’d feel to see if the lump goes out or in. The answer to that question would help me calculate my odds of surviving the night.

  Assuming Scooter Bing doesn’t plan to kill me.

  “Nice watch,” he says.

  “Thanks. What did you hit me with?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” Scooter says.

  He’s a massive man. Built like a pro guard or tackle, gone to seed. He’s almost certainly wearing the largest cop uniform that can be purchased, but it’s clear he’s outgrown it. His belly’s so big he can’t tuck his shirt in.

  “How do you even wipe your ass?” I say.
/>
  “With doctors.”

  “Funny.”

  “You think?”

  The old horse barn we’re in is empty, save for the chairs and some old boards and paint cans. There’s some trash scattered about, scraps of newspaper, a rag or two, and remnants of ancient hay. A moldy cardboard box near my feet appears to have held nails at one time. Not far beyond, a mouse carcass, like Beethoven, is decomposing.

  “Nice office,” I say. “Or is this your police station?”

  “Interrogation room.”

  “What about an attorney?”

  “You got one?”

  “I do. And I’d like to call him.”

  “Would that make you feel better?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then go ahead.”

  “You’ve got my cell phone.”

  “So, call loudly.”

  I scream for help a few times at the top of my lungs. Then give up.

  “Feel better?” Scooter says.

  “Yeah. Thanks. What happens now?”

  “Normally I’d hang you.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I want to hear your side of things.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ll hang you.”

  “You got a rope?”

  “Trunk of my car.”

  “You know how to tie a noose?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Nope,” I say, mocking him. Then add, “Since neither of us can tie a noose, whaddya say we skip the hanging part.”

  He smiles. “Don’t need to know how to tie a proper noose.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s a seasoned rope.”

  7.

  “I UNDERSTAND HOW you stole my handcuffs,” he says. “How’d you steal the key?”

  “Is that your only question?”

  “I’ve got others.”

  “Can you ask them all up front?”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll save time. That way you can hang me and still have time to get to the county fair before the corn dogs sell out.”

  “How’d you talk Trudy into goin’ out back with you? And how’d you keep her from screamin’? ”

  “Screaming?”

  “When you raped her.”

  “Whoa,” I say. “I never raped her, and you know it.”

  He gets to his feet.