In the wee hours of February 27th, a Saturday, Randy Reardon found himself sitting behind the wheel of his mother’s 1974 Dodge Dart in rest area 63 on Interstate 10 near Pascagoula, Mississippi. He was looking down at the atlas cover in his lap, only the shiny cover; the inside portion was lying in the floor next to him having come off of its staples, randomly open to pages 26 and 27, the map of the State of Florida. Randy’s home state caught his eye peripherally because it looked a bit like an uncircumcised penis, pierced near the head (that would Lake Okeechobee).
He was in the centermost parking space, next to the wheelchair lanes, at the ramp to the triple-wide sidewalk leading regally to the snack shack and restrooms building. He was there because when he arrived, there was a sports car in the first available parking spot, right where the sidewalk began, and an eighteen-wheeler taking up four or five outside spots farther up. The sports car was a midnight blue Trans Am with fat tires and dark windows; it was still there. The truck had pulled out of the rest area shortly after Randy parked, and even though he wasn’t in the most ideal place for what he was about to do, he was too wired to start up the car and move again.
He situated the atlas cover on the dash, propped up on the near side by the steering wheel, and began once again the ritual of turning two Trucker Zoom capsules into cocaine substitute and snorting them up into his head. This would be the fourth time in eight hours. It wasn’t anything at all like the real thing, but the ritual kept him going even if the chemicals did not.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t speeding across the map of the United States as quickly as he’d expected. Part of that was because the old Dodge Dart just didn’t go very fast; another part was that Randy found himself stopping at every rest area he came to, sometimes to snort and pee or buy a Coke, but also to cruise for sex. The writing was literally on the walls of every restroom he visited. He’d had a close call with a pudgy man in a Members Only jacket outside of Tallahassee and a near encounter with a pockmark-faced Latino just before Pensacola; he was convinced that sex was going on all around him, he just had to be at the right place at the right time. He had a good feeling about rest area 63.
Of course he wasn’t hungry, but he bought himself a skinny bag of peanuts to give himself something to do while he waited for a pickup truck that was at that very moment arriving in the rest area. The driver turned out to be a woman in an orange Home Depot vest.
Randy wandered around the rest area – “stretching his legs,” if anybody asked – waiting for something to happen. He got the idea that if he stayed in one place long enough, the sex would catch up with him. In his zooming mind it made perfect sense, so he paced.
A station wagon full of sleepy kids, a wife who didn’t budge from her spot, and the bleary-eyed man behind the wheel, arrived. They made Randy nervous so he followed the sidewalk around to the back of the building, which continued to the back parking lot that had bigger parking spaces for eighteen-wheelers and rvs. The ones that were there hummed with sleeping life.
As Randy stood there, another eighteen-wheeler arrived. He stayed put, waiting for the driver to emerge, just in case, ready to follow him into the restroom (even if he was only going in to take a dump); or maybe he would lead him out into the picnic area in the middle of the little pine tree grove for a suck and fuck. Randy watched and waited, never more optimistic than in that moment (though plenty of times just as optimistic). But the driver didn’t open a door or even crack a window. The lights inside the cab went out and this truck driver joined the other sleepers.
Which made Randy think back on the Trans Am, still parked in the first spot in the front parking lot. Up to that moment, he had assumed the car had been abandoned, or belonged to someone who worked at the rest area – a security guard or janitor maybe – or that the driver was a woman who had been in the restroom for a long time. But now he got the notion that the driver might actually still be in the car.
With nothing better to do, Randy returned to the front parking lot, just to see. As if summoned by desire, a young man with a moppy head of shoulder length blond hair and no shirt stood leaning against the door of the Trans Am smoking a cigarette and staring westward.
When Randy got to the Dart, he realized that neither climbing in through the window nor entering through the passenger side and scooting into place would look very cool, so he leaned into the driver’s side window purposefully, twisted the top of the peanut bag closed, dropped it on his seat and glanced over at the exposed flesh. He was thankful for the unseasonably warm weather as he took in the view, the shiny blue running pants with the bump in the middle, the rippling stomach muscles and the one nipple that wasn’t hidden by the t-shirt flung over the shoulder.
The Trans Am man tossed one cigarette on the ground in front of him and pulled another out of the pack he had tucked in the elastic band of his pants. Randy knew he would look ridiculous if he stayed in this position much longer – not to mention the Trucker Zoom made it impossible to stay put – so he reached in for his mother’s cigarettes. He slipped a pack of Vantages out of the carton, stood up, leaned against his own door, looking away from the Trans Am for the moment as he fiddled with the cellophane and silver paper.
When he had a cigarette secured between his lips, he coolly turned around, tossed the pack into the car, leaned in after it and pushed the lighter on the console in. It ticked. He waited, and watched. Occasionally, Randy caught the Trans Am man’s eyes but mostly he kept his own high enough so that the roof of his car hid them from one another.
The lighter popped out. Randy reached in for it, held the glowing metal coil to the end of the cigarette and puffed until it lit. He replaced the lighter then walked to the hood of the Dart to sit and smoke. The cigarette felt silly between his two stiff fingers, but he couldn’t figure out any other way to hold it. He took a drag and blew out, but there was no smoke. He wondered if the lungs had to be lubricated the first time before smoke started coming out. He took a bigger hit, and his lungs seized up like he’d inhaled a bellows full of dust. The cough that overtook him knocked the cigarette out of his hand, yanked him off of the hood and doubled him over to his knees on the sidewalk.
When he finally recomposed himself, he felt the need to explain, felt the need to lie. He mentioned between the last couple of throat-clearing coughs – not to anyone in particular but in the direction of the Trans Am man – that he had a bit of a cough but otherwise was okay. Trans Am Man looked at him, then away; his response was not completely devoid of interest, but it wasn’t overflowing either.
When he was back on the hood of the Dart, the cigarette between his awkward fingers, taking more manageable drags, Randy knew he probably shouldn’t be looking in the Trans Am man’s direction anymore. But he couldn’t help himself. How could he be expected to? Trans Am Man couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old – barely a man at all – but at least sixteen since he was driving; and even though he wasn’t all that cute, he was definitely hot in the way that any half naked teenager would be, in his shiny blue running pants and the red shirt over his shoulder.
Randy glanced over occasionally, casually – “looking at the entrance ramp from the interstate,” if anyone asked – and got up once to light a second cigarette from the tip of the first to keep this scenario playing a little longer. As he smoked the second cigarette, he felt the effects of the nicotine: The space behind his eyes tickled; his forehead and forearms felt clammy; the crown of his head itched; he felt a little dizzy. He didn’t know it was the nicotine –likely there was some Trucker Zoom working in the mix as well; he convinced himself that he had figured out how to control Trans Am Man with his thoughts.
And so he had. He instructed Trans Am Man to touch himself, to adjust himself inside his running pants, to hang his thumb on the elastic band and pull it down to widen the space between belly button and fabric. He was sure he could have seen exposed pubic hairs if he had better eyesight and the pubes weren’t blond.
Randy was well versed in the rules of cruising for sex in public places, over the years he had even developed his own style, using the subtleties of the rules to his best benefit. He was trained in the Big Apple, and knew he could take this Mississippi Johnny Appleseed with little effort.
He hopped off of the Dodge and walked away from the Trans Am to the water fountain halfway to the restrooms, assuming blondie would follow. As he slurped the tepid water he heard the long Trans Am door slam shut. Randy looked at the shape behind the windshield, stared him down, waited a moment. The engine didn’t start up; Randy knew the game was not over. Maybe this country bumpkin knew more than he let on.
Randy made the brave choice. He walked back to the parking lot, turned and left the Dodge Dart behind him as he continued to where the sidewalk began. When he got there, he didn’t look immediately in the direction of the Trans Am, he looked out into the mystery that lingered in the darkness around the concrete picnic tables and tall, skinny pine trees.
There was a click at the ignition switch, Randy heard it clearly; but still the engine didn’t start up. This is it, Randy told himself.
A familiar rock song filled the Trans Am interior with guitars, drums, bass and tambourine. Randy turned to look. The blond man in the car was reclined all the way back but his head was upright, his eyes trained on Randy. His hands were busy somewhere below his chest, out of view. Randy took a step closer. A hand waved him closer still. Randy stepped off of the sidewalk onto the blacktop, moving cautiously toward the door handle, the pale young body slowly coming into view.
Trans Am Man had his running pants pushed to the floorboard; he was rubbing and wiggling his limp dick frantically. It wasn’t the invitation Randy had hoped for, but it was definitely an invitation, and in Pascagoula, Mississippi, he wasn’t sure he could hope for much more. He lifted the door handle; it was locked. Trans Am Man leaned over and unlocked the door, apology in his movements.
When Randy opened the door, the falsetto voices of Boston blasted into rest area 63:
I finally see the dawn arriving.
I see beyond the road I’m driving,
Far away and left behind,
Left behind…
Randy stepped one foot into the car and Trans Am Man leaned toward him.
trans am man: No butts in the car.
randy: What?
trans am man turned the radio down: No butts in the car.
randy froze: What?
trans am man: The cigarette. Lose it.
randy: Oh.
He tossed the cigarette on the blacktop, paused a moment then sat down in the passenger seat. It was farther down than he expected it to be; he plopped into the car, laughing at his mistake.
Woah!
trans am man: Close to door.
He did, with some difficulty.
randy: Hi.
trans am man: I don’t wanna talk.
randy: Oh, right. Sure. I just—
trans am man cut him off: You wanna suck it?
randy looked at the limp noodle: Yeah…
He leaned over the bucket seat; the gearshift handle caught him in the sternum. He yelped then repositioned himself and made his way to Trans Am Man’s crotch.
Trans Am Man leaned back, arms over his head, eyes closed.
trans am man: Hurry up.
His thighs were pressed tight together and his testicle sack lay loose in the crease. He only had one testicle; Randy thought it was the sexiest thing about him. He took the testicle into his mouth and rolled it around with his tongue. Trans Am Man grabbed Randy’s head.
Not my balls. Suck my dick, asshole.
Randy didn’t make the smartass remark that was in his head about the Trans Am Man’s plural mistake, he just slurped the thin, useless tool into his mouth and did his best to excite it. It tasted like cigarette smoke and had a gritty texture; it sapped Randy’s mouth of any moisture.
He took the dick out of his mouth, worked up a mouthful of spit and went back down on it. His mouth dried out in seconds. It had become slightly erect, but the more he worked it, the more it smelled and tasted like an ashtray. If he had an erection of his own, it was gone now.
randy sat up: I’m sorry, I can’t.
trans am man looked over at him angrily: What’s wrong with you?
randy: I don’t know. I’ve got cottonmouth.
Trans Am Man made a face that Randy read as confusion. He smiled apologetically but Trans Am Man’s expression didn’t change.
trans am man: You fuckin’ suck my dick!
randy: I can’t.
Randy reached for the door handle; Trans Am Man grabbed him swiftly by the back of the neck with a strong hand.
Hey—ow!
trans am man: Suck my dick, faggot!
randy: I can’t.
trans am man: Suck it!
Randy wriggled and tried to reach the door handle but Trans Am Man held fast.
randy: I would if I could. Seriously. But I can’t. It’s too dry.
He reached up to Trans Am Man’s hand.
–Now let go of me.
trans am man squeezed tighter: Not till you suck it.
Pause.
randy: Look, let me go get a drink, a Coke or some water or something, and then I’ll come right back.
trans am man: No you won’t.
randy: I swear to god. –You’re hurting me.
trans am man: I’m gonna hurt you a lot more if you don’t suck my dick.
randy: And I thought I had a one-track mind.
trans am man: What did you say?
randy: Fuck you! Let go of me!
Randy caught him off guard, freed himself and grabbed onto the door handle and pulled. Trans Am Man caught Randy’s neck again and brought his left hand around in a fist and punched Randy in the nose.
trans am man: What did you say?
randy: Fuck! Ouch! Let go!
trans am man: Suck my goddamn dick before I beat the shit out of you, faggot!
randy, his hand on his face: That hurts.
trans am man: It’s gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t suck my dick!
He forced Randy’s head to his crotch. Blood dripped out of Randy’s nose onto the one testicle and the now raging hard dick.
randy: I’m bleeding! You fuckin’ asshole!
trans am man: There’s your drink!
He pressed Randy’s face into his crotch.
Suck it!
randy: I’ll bite you!
trans am man: You fuckin’ bite me and you’ll regret it.
randy: I will!
trans am man: I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you with my bare hands!
Randy watched his blood dripping on Trans Am Man’s hairless thighs.
randy: I’ve got aids!
trans am man: What?
randy: I’ve got aids, asshole. I’m dead already.
Trans Am Man shoved Randy off of him.
trans am man: Get out of the car.
He wiped frantically at his crotch with his red t-shirt.
randy smeared blood across his face: You can kill me, but you’ll probably catch aids from me.
trans am man stopped: Get out of the car.
Randy didn’t move. They stared at each other a moment. Blood dripped on Randy’s shirt. Trans Am Man’s face turned to rage; he pounded the steering wheel.
Get out of the car! Get out of the fucking car! Get out of the goddamn fucking car!
Randy opened the long door and Trans Am Man turned the key and revved the engine.
randy slammed the door: Fuckin’ asshole!
trans am man: Goddamn faggot!
The Trans Am screamed backwards out of the parking space. Trans Am Man put it in drive and gunned it. The back tires spun hot on the blacktop, smoke surrounding them. As he sped out of the rest area and onto the interstate, Randy smelled the burning rubber.
He wiped his face and looked at the smear of blood on his palm and chuckled.
randy: Game over.