Chapter Fifty-One - Charlotte's Advice
I left a day early, planning to take nice-but-slow Route 29 to Greensboro before getting on ugly-but-slow I-85 for the rest of the trip to Atlanta. I had texted this to B. J. but apparently he gets lots of texts these days and missed it. He sounded convincingly surprised and disappointed when he called to say when he'd be “home” and I told him I was leaving that morning.
“Do you still think of it as home, B.J.?” I asked him.
“Of course I do, Racer.”
“You're not here much.” I stated it as a fact, not an accusation.
“I know, but we have to get all these high school promo's done before the kids get all into proms and graduations and stuff. It'll taper off after that.”
I refused my impulse to ask him if he loved me, since he wasn't volunteering the information. I'm not going to be hanging on him like some … Images of spurned high school girls came to mind, images I didn't like.
“Every night I spend with Sue reminds me of how much I'd rather be with you.” He sounded like he meant it. “I love you, Racer,” convinced me and brightened my mood.
The quiet of the Virginia countryside did the rest the next morning. Before I even got to Lynchburg, I had a stupid smile on my face, happy to be on the road, listening to Rascal Flats and Raelyn Nelson and Joel Crouse, except I didn't always get Joel's college references. It was a bright morning when even blues-y songs sounded cheery. I slowed the truck to under fifty and just enjoyed the day.
The upshot of this slow traveling was I spent the night in Pelham, just over the North Carolina line; but that was ok. I had time and only needed about five hours of it to finish the trip in the morning. Ches had said he'd be setting up the pit in the afternoon.
George Brightwater had said I should spend a little more money, but I enjoyed the challenge of finding the cheapest place to stay. In Pelham it looked like a house with rooms to rent.
“It's like a B and B,” the proprietor told me, “Except we don't offer the second 'B' and there's no eating in your room, neither.” He laughed at this; I'm not sure why. “'Cause Marthalette, that's my wife, don't like the smell of used pizza boxes and things like 'at,” was the explanation.
“Restaurant near by?” I asked and he offered a couple choices; only one of them served drinks. I got cleaned up a little and walked to Pescaderos, the one that served drinks. It was a longer walk than I expected and a bigger bar than the town seemed to need. I sat one stool away from the other customer. I smiled politely and nodded to an older man nursing an almost empty beer that sat next to a drained shot glass. The bartender approached the guy.
“Beer, booze, or a blowjob, Charlotte?” he offered.
I must have looked surprised by the name. The guy was plainly not a woman but there was a softness to him. He turned to me and smiled. “My professional name … once,” he said to me. “Blowjob,” he said to the bartender.
The bartender nodded and turned to me. “How 'bout you? Beer or booze?”
“No blowjob?” I asked.
“A blowjob is Bailey's Irish and amaretto. You don't look like the 'blowjob' type to me.”
“Right … Could you put a double shot of vodka in the freezer for a while and I'll drink water in the meantime.”
“No need to wait,” he said and set a frosty shot glass in front of me. It was icy and it was vodka and it burned going down. The shot left me breathless; I could only nod when he offered another.
“I'm Charlie,” said the former and now I realized very effeminate Charlotte. “Mark's the bartender. You new or passing through?”
“On my way to Atlanta. For the some of the NASCAR season.” I noticed Mark's ears pick up.
“You must be a mechanic. You're too cute to be a driver.”
“Both, actually. They hired me for brake work and let me drive now and then. So, uh … Pescaderos? You got a menu?” I asked Mark.
“Dude, you don't want to eat here. The chef quit a week ago. We got nothing but nacho chips and pretzels.”
“The chef was Mark's boyfriend,” Charlie/Charlotte put in.
“He was a lousy fuck and he couldn't cook, neither; an' that's the truth.” Mark watched another customer come in and sit at the other end of the bar. “ 'Scuse me. Signal when you want another.” He walked the length of the bar and drew a draft beer for the customer.
To make conversation, I said to Charlie/Charlotte, “Pescaderos sounds like it might be Mexican or something.”
“It was. Went bust and Mark just kept the name. It would have cost a lot to change the sign.” He sipped his blowjob and I sipped my second vodka. Mark busied himself with a new couple who sat in the middle of the bar.
“It's a big place for five customers,” I said.
“Sweetie,” Charlie looked at me, “Do I detect a little sugar in your tank?”
“Do you mean …?”
“I mean, are you gay?”
“Uh ...”
“I thought so. Don't worry. It's nothing obvious. I'm just good at tellin'. Anyway, the town didn't take to well to Mark and Fresno – him being the cook – as a gay couple even thought they didn't flaunt it or anything. But now that Fresno's gone and Mark being a local boy and all … they're starting to come in more. Anything to break the monotony and it's hell driving to Greensboro for a mixed drink.”
Another couple came in, sat with the first couple and began a lively conversation about music and dancing. Mark put on a radio and cautioned, “No dancin', now. I ain't got a cabaret license.”
Charlie and I laughed as one of the women said she just wanted to demonstrate a step she was practicing and then landed flat on her ass. “Louellen, don't you be bruising anything back there. I don't like 'em black and blue marks staring me in the face while we're doing it. Makes you look old, honey!” Louellen gave him a playful slap on the leg and said “Get me up or you'll be lookin' at your hand for company tonight.”
“We're a basic bunch here,” Charlie said with drollness. “I used to live in Atlanta ...” he added, inviting my question. When I didn't ask, he continued, “I was an entertainer at Labia's, a drag bar, but Labia was such a nasty old queen … So now I'm here and I run a convenience store out near the highway.” He batted his eyes at me flirtatiously.
“Charlotte, keep your hands off,” Mark said. “Another?” he asked me and took a hard look. “You know … I probably should card you.”
I pulled out my wallet and almost gave him my fake ID. I gave him my real one instead. “Brendon Tyree from Warrenton, Virginia, is … AWESOME! Twenty-one last week! Next one's on the house! A birthday present!” He placed another frosty glass in front of me. “Happy birthday, Brendon Tyree.”
“They call me Racer.”
He took a harder look at me. “Of course they do.” I recognized the look, appraising, considering, wondering.
“He's gay,” Charlie volunteered. “But you figured that out, didn't you, Markie-poo?”
“Where are you staying?” Mark asked. I told him. “Lumpy beds. Why don't you come home with me?” I heard Charlie's gasp. Mark winked before I could say anything and went to refill glasses down the bar.
“Say yes, Racer. Tell him yes. He's been so broken up over Fresno leaving … He's a sweet boy. He'll give you a good night. You'll be glad you did.”
I paid more attention to Mark. He was no boy, no matter what Charlie called him. He was older … thirty something, I guessed … thickening a little in the middle … losing a little hair … but then he glanced over at me and I saw a look that was hard to describe, a sexiness in his stance and smile that I radiated heat from fifteen feet down the bar.
I checked out of the B and no-B and went back to Pescaderos, waiting while Mark closed up. I spent a wonderful night, with a wonderful man. Uncomplicated. Nice sex. I wasn't his love and he wasn't mine; but he was here, he was now, and he was attentive. He focused on me, seeing what I liked, showing me what he liked. He didn't pretend to love me in any spiritual way; he adored me instead, in a purely physical way. I got to understand what tenderness meant that night. I didn't mind that he wanted to fuck me, I kind of expected that, but after almost coming in me he back off and gave me his body instead. I figured that was how he and Fresno did it, sharing as they went along. I know he was thinking of Fresno when I came, but that was ok. At least he didn't call me Fresno by mistake. When we were done, neither one of us wanted to be done. A very pleasant glow lasted until we slept.
I got to Atlanta about three the next afternoon and checked in with Ches and Lucas. It was a comfortable feeling being back with the team again, smelling motor oil and burned rubber. I said “Hey” enthusiastically.
“Racer, what's got you all wired up?” Ches grinned. “I'll take two bottles of whatever you're having.”
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