Dar spent every Saturday the same way that summer and into the fall: She woke up at 8:00 a.m., masturbated, painted naked awhile, put on her comfiest clothes and drove to the Village for lunch at the counter restaurant, then returned to the Montrose to paint some more. If James, the homosexual who lived in her small apartment complex, had his door ajar, she might stop by for a chat. James was handsome if effeminate, always full of colorful stories about the “queens, fairies and butches” he ran into at the gay bars on Friday nights.
James always offered to get Dar high on marijuana, and sometimes she took him up on the offer, but never if she was close to finishing a painting. She’d made that mistake the first time she got high with him – indeed the first time she’d ever gotten high; she felt confident and creative, and ruined a painting she had been working on for a month. She had been high exactly six times, and she had a few canvases set aside for her more abstract works, which she titled “Under the Influence No. 1,” “Under the Influence No. 2,” et cetera.
In her first two years at Rice, Dar had seen her work evolve, a style she could call her own was beginning to emerge. Her favorite art teacher had commented on it, as had a reporter from the Houston Chronicle, writing about the student art show; he compared her work favorably to Edward Hopper’s. In fact, Dar was very inspired by Hopper’s paintings, by the muted colors he used and the mournful subject matter. His death the previous year gave Dar permission to lean less toward homage and more toward picking up where Hopper had left off.
Dar’s breakfast nook had no table or chairs – she usually ate out or in bed – instead, she referred to it as her “art nook,” outfitted with an easel on top of a drop cloth surrounded by art supplies. The two walls in that corner of the apartment were covered from floor to ceiling with paintings in varying stages of doneness, in varying stages of dryness.
She painted Realist landscapes, slightly out of focus because she was near-sighted, with an object along one or more edges of the canvas. Just a hint of the seedy tops of weeds, the elbow of a rusty water faucet, or part of an oil derrick frame was revealed, but revealed in minute detail and contrastingly sharp focus.
When she worked in her apartment, she did so naked; whenever she was in her apartment, she was usually naked. After the last couple of times she had gotten high, Dar experimented with painting a sliver of her naked body along one edge of a landscape scene – a jutting hipbone, an arm from shoulder to pinkie finger, a bump of breast and nipple – as if the nude subject were standing in the foreground of the outside scene. This seemed to be the latest and most important evolution of her work, and she kept doing it even when she wasn’t under the influence. She was forever dragging the full-length mirror back and forth between the art nook to paint and the bedside so she could watch herself masturbate.
But everything about that Saturday following Thanksgiving 1968 was different. In the middle of a colorful dream, Dar said “Yes?” out loud and woke herself, instantly forgetting everything that came before. She felt unsettled; not upset, just a vague sense of having missed out on something. She slid a hand under the covers, touched herself at the hairy crease between her legs, but there wasn’t the usual sensation, there was no tingle, only moist, unresponsive warmth against her fingertips.
The alarm clock next to the bed said 7:15. She thought maybe it was too early to masturbate; perhaps the raucous clanging alarm had something to do with putting her in the mood. The two options she had to choose from were going back to sleep for another forty-five minutes or getting up and making a cup of coffee.
Then a third option came to mind: Getting high. She had never smoked marijuana first thing in the morning and had in fact told James that she never would before noon, but three days earlier he had knocked on her door, casually and unceremoniously announced that it was his twenty-ninth birthday “again,” and handed her a freshly rolled joint. It was the night before Thanksgiving, Dar was expected in River Oaks the next morning to help her mother and their maid prepare dinner; she didn’t dare get high the night before. James told her to keep the joint anyway, to smoke it “in memory of lost youth.”
She had stashed it in the kitchen cabinet and forgot about it. She forgot about it being James’ birthday, too, and for that she felt a certain amount of regret. As she lay there she struck upon the idea of painting something for James as a belated birthday present; maybe she would even get high to inspire the work.
Dar tossed the covers to the foot of the bed. The wisp of the sheet across her nipples made them plump. She pinched one; it stung. Usually it gave her a familiar tingle, but not today.
The marijuana cigarette was in the cabinet on the same shelf as the instant coffee crystals. Dar picked up the kettle from the stove, rocked it to survey its contents, replaced it on the burner and turned the knob to high. She took a cup out of the sink, rinsed it, ran a finger on its insides to feel for stuck-on gunk then placed it on the counter next to the stove. She took down the jar of instant coffee, the sugar bowl, and the joint, which she put in her mouth and pretended to smoke like a regular cigarette while she scooped crystals and sugar into the cup.
The electric coil glowed orange under the kettle, the water inside moved about restlessly, though not enough yet to engage the whistle. Dar balanced the joint between her knuckles and looked closely at it, then at her hand; the creases of skin over her knuckles were little faces with wide smiles and Frida Kahlo eyebrows.
The kettle wound up to whistle, but before it reached a solid screeching tone Dar picked it up and sloshed water into her cup. She set the kettle on a cold coil and turned off the glowing one, but before it dimmed much she touched the joint to it. The paper crackled, glowed red-orange and smoked. She took a drag, careful not to inhale too much, held it in a moment then exhaled, deciding that was enough for a morning high. She loosened a saucer from the stack of dishes in the sink, dried it on a dishtowel, carefully stubbed out the joint, laid it in the saucer then stirred her coffee. Ting-ting-ting! The spoon on the stoneware made a delightful noise.
Dar went to the bathroom for a morning pee. She sat with her legs spread wide so she could watch her urine turn the blue water bright green. She got a silly notion to hold her hand in her urine stream, but no sooner had she put it down there, not long enough for the hot wetness to register, she chickened out, yanked her hand back and rested it on the toilet paper roll.
She wiped, flushed, then stood up too fast; a rush of thc-tinged blood hit the top of her skull. She saw whiteness and sat back on the flushing toilet. The sound of the swirling water stimulated her bladder and she was peeing again. This time she held both hands between her legs and giddily wet them.
At the easel, with a small blank canvas before her, Dar felt primed to create. “Under the Influence No. 9, here goes.” The paintbrush came up from the palette daubed in flesh tone. As the brush touched the canvas, Dar decided she was going to paint a “gay penis.” This was the only kind of penis she had ever seen erect – in one of James’ porno magazines she discovered under a couch cushion when she was visiting him and he was in the bathroom. It would be a good joke, considering James’ embarrassed reaction when he walked in on Dar flipping through what he called his “jerk-off lit.” (Of course, it wasn’t literature at all, but, as James explained, “Who has time for a plot?”)
Suddenly, the eight-o’clock alarm went off. Dar jumped and splashed a mistake onto the middle of the canvas. But she was undeterred. She kept working on the painting, piling layer upon layer of paint onto it, making a big mess of brown that was more like a turd than a penis. She had splotches of paint on her naked body as well, from her head to her belly, which was grumbling with hunger (the coffee cup sat where it was, cold with the spoon still in it, and she’d never gotten around to her morning slice of toast). She stepped back from the easel smearing the paint into her flesh with a rag as she tried to figure out what good she had done in the past three-and-a-half hours.
The dirty jeans she wore most often were at the foot of the bed as always. Dar pulled them on and grabbed a rice u. sweatshirt from the back of the armchair and slid it over her head. She brushed her teeth and hair at the same time then smiled at the barely put together wildness staring back at her from the mirror and said in her best Barbra Streisand voice, “Hello, gorgeous!”
James’ apartment door was shut and his curtains were drawn; he wasn’t usually awake before one or two in the afternoon. That was a relief. Dar couldn’t imagine getting high again, particularly not if she was seriously going to try to complete a painting for him anytime soon.
Surely she wasn’t still high from the one drag early that morning, but she still felt affected. The tropical plants in the apartment complex courtyard were waxy green like Dar had never recalled them being; the apartment bricks were the color of a Georgia O’Keefe desert; the sky was more gray than blue; the roads were more blue than gray. The oak trees hugging Sunset and then Rice Boulevard were more animated than ever before; they waved her baby blue Beetle down the gently curving roads toward her weekly tuna melt with swiss on rye.
At the corner of Rice and Greenbriar, Dar stopped for a red light. A hippie was waiting to cross the street; he stepped off of the curb as she came to a complete halt. When he was directly in front of her, he turned and smiled sweetly. His big white teeth shone through his scruff of moustache and beard, but his eyes were what really stood out. They were bright and blue, so blue that Dar could tell from inside her car that they were blue. She twiddled her fingers at him, he waved back; a familiar tingle ran down her spine from the base of her skull to her crotch and settled there between her legs. My, my, Dar thought, there’s a handsome stranger. That was it. The hippie kept walking, the light turned green, Dar drove on.
As she turned into a parking space in front of the restaurant, Dar blinked at the sight of the handsome stranger walking casually up the sidewalk in her direction. He was suppressing the smile from before, but he couldn’t suppress those baby blues!
He was at the front end of her car by the time she was getting out. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid of men; karate lessons from a young age had given her confidence. Besides, it was the middle of the day, they were in the middle of the Village; what was there to be afraid of?
Dar had learned in a “Women’s Practical Self-Defense” class that being the first to speak when approached by a stranger gave her a certain advantage. She said, “You sure got here fast!”
“I ran all the way,” he said, smiling. He had a curious, hilly accent that was definitely not Houston.
She said, “Did you really? Just to see me?!”
“And your car. I love Volkswagens.”
“Oh, it’s my car you’re after, huh? That hurts my feelings, I think.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d take too kindly to me sayin’ I was after you!”
“No, that’s true,” Dar said, “But how can you resist this?” She laughed, knowing full well what she looked like.
“I bet you clean up real good…”
Dar mocked a Southern Belle accent and attitude, “Well, I swan! Men are just after one thing.”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I don’t offend very easily. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Tom Collins,” he said, holding out a big hand.
“What?”
“Tom Collins. That’s my name.”
“Tom Collins is your name?”
He took his hand back. “Yeah… Is there something wrong with that?”
“Only that it’s the name of my favorite drink!”
“Pardon?”
“My favorite drink.”
“Drink?”
“Yeah, you know, cocktail.”
“Oh. No, ma’am. I didn’t know that.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you have the same name as a cocktail?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t think they have!”
Dar stepped closer to him. “Where are you from?”
“Big Flat, Arkansas.”
“Big Fat what?”
“Big Flat,” he said, “Arkansas.”
“You mean to tell me they don’t have Tom Collinses in Big Flat, Arkansas?”
“No, ma’am. Only me.”
“And not even you anymore!”
“That’s right. –And what’s your name, ma’am?”
“I’ll tell you, if you promise to stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ You’re making me feel like your mother!”
“I’m sorry. I just—”
“It’s okay. I bet they don’t have many women’s libbers in Big Flat, Arkansas, either!”
“Is that what you are?”
“No. I’m Dar. Just Dar.”
Tom said, “Just Dar.”
“d-a-r.”
“Dar. That’s a pretty name.”
“Is that what you say to all the girls?”
“You’re the first one I’ve met!”
They passed a heated smile between them.
Dar said, “So, Tom Collins, can I buy you a cup of coffee? Or a tuna melt?”
“A tuna melt?”
“That’s how I pick up fellas, don’t you know; I offer them a tuna melt.”
“Pardon?”
“I offer them a tuna melt. It never fails! Usually.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s a sandwich.”
“I know it’s a sandwich.”
“Well, I didn’t know if you had tuna melts in Arkansas.”
“Yes, ma’am, we have tuna melts in Arkansas. Not in all parts, but you can definitely get ‘em here and there.”
“I’m sorry. Am I being rude?”
Tom chuckled, “I’m not sure. I just didn’t know why you offered me a tuna melt.”
“I come here for lunch every Saturday, I have a tuna melt. I feel like I’m making a fool of myself out here, so I thought I’d offer to buy you lunch as an apology.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
Dar continued, “I’m also afraid Connie’s gonna gossip about me spending so much time talking to a stranger.”
“Connie?”
Dar pointed. “The waitress.”
Tom looked over his shoulder. An onyx-haired older woman in a form-fitting pink outfit moved back and forth behind the counter, taking orders, delivering food, pouring coffee. She seemed to be keeping an eye on the two of them in the parking lot as well. Tom waved. Connie smiled and waved. Dar waved and shook her head, looking back at Tom.
“So would you do me a favor and go in there with me and pretend we know each other so I can save face?”
Tom said, “Are you sure you can afford that?”
“I know I look a bit like a female hobo right now,” Dar said, “but yes, I can afford it. –Or I should say Albert can afford it.”
“Who’s Albert?”
“My daddy.”
“Oh. Did Albert buy you this car, too?”
“Well, Tom Collins, you finally said something rude!”
“I’m sorry. –I love it. I just—I meant—” He was sorry; he blushed and turned away.
“It’s okay. Really. Actually, Albert did buy it for me, when I graduated from high school.”
“It’s very nice.”
“She cleans up pretty good.”
Tom laughed. “Yeah, I bet she does!”
Dar walked past Tom to the front door of the restaurant. “Let’s have a bite to eat and then we can take her for a spin.”
“Are you serious?”
Dar paused at the door. “Are you a murderer or rapist or anything like that?”
Tom said, “No, are you?”
She laughed as she opened the door. “I don’t know yet!”
Tom ran to the door. “Let me get that.”
They struggled a moment, his arm in front of her face, an awkward exchange of body parts as they entered the restaurant.
She said, “If I was a women’s libber, this would be very offensive, I think.”
He said, “You’re somethin’ else!”
Dar walked into the restaurant beaming. “Hi, Connie. Have you met my cousin Tom from Arkansas yet?”
Connie said, “No, ma’am, I can’t say as I have. Hiya, Tom. Welcome to Houston!”
Tom said, “Thanks.”
Dar said, “Distant cousin,” but Connie was already gone. She took Tom by the hand and led him to the far end of the counter, as far away from the restaurant hubbub as possible.
As they sat next to each other on stools, Tom whispered, “Cousin?”
Dar said, “Yeah, sure, shh…”
Connie arrived with menus, waters and the coffee pot. “Y’all want coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, please.”
“Y’all need a minute to look at the menu?”
Tom said, “No, ma’am, I think we’re ready, right, Cuz?”
Dar laughed. “Get the coffee cups and we’ll be ready.”
“All righty, hun.”
Over tuna melts, French fries, coffee and one banana milkshake with two straws, Dar and Tom told each other their life stories, his in Big Flat, Arkansas, with seven brothers, church three times a week, a sawmill looming on the horizon; hers starting in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, until high school when her father took a position with Shell Oil and moved them to Houston to get ready for Shell’s more recent move there. Their histories couldn’t have been more different, yet in everything Tom said Dar heard something inside of her telling her they had everything in common, from their restrictive religious upbringings (hers Catholic, his Fundamentalist) to their desire to make some sort of an impact in the world.
Dar was twenty years old, barely a year older than Tom, though she was halfway through her junior year of college and he had never graduated from high school; he had been held back a year somewhere along the way then ran away from home a week before graduation for fear that he would end up like his father and brothers, working full-time at the sawmill, perhaps losing a finger or two, maybe finding a wife and starting a family, maybe not finding one. He had spent the six months before he arrived in Houston hitchhiking around the country, inspired by reading On the Road. He hadn’t followed the same path as Kerouac, hadn’t done the drugs or hung out in the jazz clubs like they did in the novel, but he did get a taste of the country, up to Minnesota, over to Pittsburgh, down to New Orleans before winding up in Houston broke and looking for work earlier that week. He was currently considering joining the Army.
“Why don’t you go to college?” she asked him excitedly.
“Oh. Well…”
“It’s very important to get a degree, Tom. And besides, if you’re in college, you won’t have to go to Vietnam.”
“Yes, ma’am—I mean, yes, that’s true. But the Army pays you to go to college.”
“You could get a scholarship, or a loan.”
“Then I would be in debt for the rest of my life, and I’ve seen what that can be like.”
“No, you wouldn’t, because you’d get a good job because you’d have a degree.”
“I don’t even have a high school diploma yet.”
“You’re too smart and, and sweet, and—smart to get involved in that stupid war!” She was very impassioned, not sure exactly where this was coming from.
Tom, for his part, seemed to be remaining calm, engaging Dar for the entertainment of it. “But what if the war came to America? What then?”
“Oh, that’s not gonna happen and you know it. –And besides, you’re worried about losing a finger at that sawmill while men are losing arms and legs and their whole bodies over there in Vietnam.”
“That’s a good point.”
“I know it is!” She caught herself, lowered her voice, looked around the restaurant at the diners remaining after the lunch rush, the one man glancing her direction.
Tom said, “You’re very opinionated, aren’t you?”
She smiled. “I’m sorry. You’re right; I shouldn’t be.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s been a weird day.”
“Maybe for you,” Tom said. “I’d say it’s been a pretty good day. For me.”
Dar caught Connie’s attention across the restaurant, mimed scribbling in the air to request the check. “Why’s that?” she asked Tom.
“Well, number one, I met you.”
She looked at him, into his beautiful blue eyes. He smiled; she melted. “Can you drive a stick?”
“Pardon?”
“My Beetle’s a stick shift.”
“Oh. Yeah, definitely. Our tractor was a standard transmission.”
“My car isn’t a tractor!”
“I know! I’m just sayin’ I’ve been driving that beast since I was nine, so your Volkswagen probably drives like a cloud!”
Connie arrived with the check and coffee pot. “D’y’all wanna freshen-upper?”
“No, thanks, Connie.”
“Was everything all right today?”
“Mm-hm.”
She stacked the plates and French fry basket. “Looks like y’all did a pretty good job on everything.”
Tom said, “That was the best meal I’ve had in I-don’t-know-how-long!”
“Well, handsome, I’m sure glad you enjoyed it!”
“Yes, ma’am, I did. I’m just as full as a tick on a hound dog!”
Connie tossed her head back laughing. The stack of plates rattled in her hand. “Aren’t you somethin’?” She turned to Dar, still laughing, “Isn’t he somethin’?”
“He sure is!”
Connie walked off with the stack of plates in one hand and the coffee pot in the other, laughing and repeating Tom’s line to the fat bald short-order cook at the grill. “Joe! Joe! That fella down there said he’s as full as a tick on a hound dog!”
Dar put a ten-dollar bill on the check then spotted a dot of ketchup on Tom’s moustache.
“Hold still,” she said, picking up a napkin.
“What?”
She wiped the napkin across his smile and felt that tingle again.
Tom shuddered. “Whoo! I got a chill!”
“Really?”
“Yes’m!”
“I did, too.”
“Isn’t that somethin’?”
Dar stood up, forgetting to wait for change, leaving Connie a great big tip. “Let’s go.”
Tom reached the door ahead of Dar this time and pushed it open, but again there was an awkward exchange. She had to duck under his arm to get out of the restaurant before him.
“We’re gonna have to work on that!” She looked back to see Tom blushing fiercely and wished she could take back what she’d just said.
Connie hollered out a cheerful goodbye over the check, Dar and Tom returned it in unison.
From there, Dar guided Tom on a little tour of her city. He was most impressed with the Astrodome and the newly opened Astroworld theme park across the highway. They also sputtered through the medical center, Hermann Park and downtown. At one point, Tom stuck his head out of the driver’s side window and hollered so that his voice echoed off of the canyon wall of buildings they were in the middle of, “Gol-lee! I’ve never seen so many tall buildings in all my life!”
That was the instant Dar would later say she knew she was in love with Tom. Not because of what he’d said, but just because of the fact that he was willing to stick his head out the window and speak his heart. He seemed completely unaware of his good looks, and he made Dar feel like she was the prettiest woman in Houston. She knew there were lots of much prettier “girls” and women on campus, and partly because of that she avoided taking him there. She had considered showing him her two award-winning paintings hanging in the Rice Gallery, but was actually more excited about the recent paintings she’d been doing. She couldn’t believe she was hearing herself ask this relative stranger to her apartment to see her work.
She heard him gulp, saw his Adam’s apple dip then rise, heard his voice break. “Y-yeah, that would be…nice.”
“My apartment’s a wreck.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter.”
“I never have anybody over.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ve never had anybody over. Not even my parents.”
“Right.” He continued driving and nodding as she babbled on.
“I mean, it’s really more my studio than an apartment. A studio with a bed. It’s a small apartment. Really small. It’s fine for me. It’s perfect, really. But I haven’t…tidied up in awhile. My mother would faint if she saw it! –That’s why I never invite her over.”
Tom said, “Uh-huh. Are we going the right direction?”
After they pulled into her assigned parking place – “d for Dar,” she told him – Tom handed her the keys and they climbed out of their opposite sides. She noticed across the courtyard that James’ door was ajar. Her heart pounded thinking of the possibility of James coming to his door right at that moment and seeing them. Would she introduce Tom as her cousin again? Would she introduce him at all?
She unlocked her apartment door, stepped in kicking off her shoes and caught herself before she stripped naked like she usually did when she arrived home. She rushed around scooping up loose clothing and small piles and threw them into the bathroom in a bigger pile, calling over her shoulder as she ran about, “Make yourself comfortable. Close the door. Take off your shoes. If you want!”
Tom closed the door and stayed put for the time being, not sure where to go. Dar quickly tossed the covers over the bed to simulate order, picked up errant cups and saucers and put them on the island counter separating the kitchenette from the living room.
Dar saw Tom standing frozen and beckoned him into the apartment. He shuffled into the kitchen as he tried to stay out of her way and as he also tried to look at the paintings hanging on the walls. She stepped into the bathroom to take off her sweatshirt and put on a cooler, more flattering t-shirt, but had to climb into the bathtub and hide behind the shower curtain because the pile she’d created on the bathroom floor obstructed the door. When she finally joined Tom at the archway between breakfast nook and kitchenette he was standing transfixed, gazing glassy-eyed at the paintings all around him. Dar slid her arm into his.
Tom said, “Oh, my goodness, Dar, they’re beautiful.”
“You like?”
“Mm-hm, yes, very much.”
Dar spotted suddenly the morning’s mistake on the easel, the unfortunate centerpiece before them. “Oh—except for this,” she said, moving the painting to the floor.
Tom said, “What is that?”
“Nothing. It’s a mess. My attempt at Abstract Expressionism!”
“Hm.”
“As you can see, I’m much more versed in Realism.”
“Is that what this is?”
“Well, sort of. I cheat a little bit, but essentially that’s the style, that’s what people would call it.”
Tom pointed to the small painting Dar had removed from the easel, “That one’s not so bad.”
“Oh, it’s awful,” Dar said defensively.
“It’s not like the others, but I like it.”
“Well, you don’t know anything about art, though.”
“That’s true.” Tom turned away to scan the rest of the apartment.
“I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“No it wasn’t.”
Dar said, “I’m not very socially adept.”
“That’s okay, I’m not either. And I wasn’t offended.”
Tom’s eyes fell on the saucer with the marijuana cigarette lying on it. Dar found his gaze and quickly swooped it up and closed it in the cabinet. “That’s not mine! I’m sorry, it’s just—I don’t know.”
“Is that marijuana?”
“Yes,” Dar said. “I’m so embarrassed. You aren’t a policeman, are you?”
“Hardly. I’m just kinda surprised that a girl like you…”
“I know. –Rarely! Seven times total.”
Tom smiled.
“In my life. I’m serious.”
Tom said, “I believe you.”
“My neighbor gave it to me as a present.”
“What’s it like?”
“Well, it’s probably not as strong as what you’re used to, but it’s plenty strong for ‘a girl like me!’” She pointed at the brown blob painting on the floor. “That’s what I did this morning after just one drag off of that.”
“Hm.”
She pointed out other paintings. “But this one, too. I did this part high.”
“Is that you?”
“Mm-hm. –Well, a tiny sliver of me! I wasn’t under the influence when I painted the landscape. But I did finish filling in this grassy area here. And this one, I was high when I painted my nipple!”
“That’s your nipple?”
“Yeah.” Tom gulped; Dar giggled then said, “You know more about me now than almost anybody, except for James.”
“James?”
“My neighbor, with the marijuana. He’s across the way in apartment c.”
Tom said, “Is he your…boyfriend?”
Dar laughed. “No! He’s a homosexual!”
“Pardon?”
“A homosexual. A fairy… He’s into men.”
“I’ve never smoked marijuana before,” Tom said abruptly.
“You’re kidding.”
“No. There’s not much of that in Big Flat.”
There was a long silence while Tom looked over the paintings again and Dar pondered whether or not to say what she was thinking.
Tom said, “You’re very talented.”
Dar said, “Would you like to get high?”
Tom froze. “Oh. What, now? Here?”
“Is that a bad thing to ask?”
“No, I just—I don’t know. Is it safe?”
“The marijuana?”
“Your apartment.”
Dar said, “This is the Montrose!”
“Well…okay.”
“Are you sure? You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m a little nervous. This was the kind of thing Brother Todd always said would get me into Hell.”
Dar laughed.
“I’m serious.”
Dar said, “You’re not serious.”
“Well, no, I don’t seriously believe that now, but that’s what my people believe.”
“You poor thing.”
He started pulling off his jacket as Dar reached into the cabinet.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Get comfy! Put your jacket on the bed or the chair. You can sit on the bed if you like. I’m sorry I don’t have a sofa. My mother always calls me a ‘Bohemian’ – she says it like it’s a bad word! – and I never could figure out where she was coming from, until now.”
Tom did as he was instructed; he carried his jacket into the main room of the small apartment, tossed it on the chair, sat on the bed and unlaced his shoes, removed them, put his feet up, leaned back against the wall. To see a man undressing, or at least taking off his shoes, in her apartment gave Dar a small thrill. She stepped out of the kitchenette carrying the saucer and a book of matches like they were delicate little sculptures that they were going admire together. As she crawled onto the bed next to Tom, she noticed the pronounced bulge in the crotch of his faded jeans, previously hidden by his leather jacket.
She set the saucer between them. “Okay, here we go!”
“Here we go,” Tom echoed.
“I’m really not a very experienced druggie,” Dar confessed.
“This is number eight, right?”
She guffawed. “Right!”
She passed the joint to Tom; he held it to his lips; she struck a match and held the flame toward him. Before he inhaled, he said, “Eight-to-one!” He sucked in a long drag of smoke, held it a brief moment then it came up in a huge cloud and he fell into a coughing fit.
Dar took the joint from his trembling hand. “Oh, my god, are you okay?!”
Tom nodded, then shook his head, coughing and gasping and laughing at the same time, motioning for Dar to smoke while he caught his breath.
She took a moderate hit then waited for Tom’s coughing to calm down. She asked if he wanted water or a Dr. Pepper; he pointed at the word “Dr. Pepper” when she said it again, and by the time she returned from the refrigerator with a couple cans of cold soda, he was fine if a little gunshy.
Tom cracked open his Dr. Pepper and took a swig. “Whoo-wee, Dar, I think I saw the Devil just now!”
“Don’t say that!”
“I did! I saw the Devil!”
She said suddenly, “Hey, I know a trick I can teach you.”
“Sure.”
She picked up the joint and puffed on it to make sure it was still lit then put the lit end inside her mouth, keeping her tongue out of the way. She blew so that a small stream of smoke exited through the unlit end of the joint, moving toward Tom.
He leaned back, “Wow.”
She took the joint out of her mouth. “You’re supposed to inhale the smoke.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Do you see anybody else here?!”
“Only you!”
Dar rolled her eyes. “Just do it!”
“Okay.” He chuckled, and this time when she approached him with the inverted joint, he leaned in close and inhaled the smoke, touching his forehead to hers, dimples, eyes and big white teeth flashing.
Dar fell back onto her pillow, took the joint out of her mouth and put it on the saucer. “I think that’s probably enough.”
Tom said, “I should say so. I think I’m high.”
Dar closed her eyes a moment. “Mm…”
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“From James. It’s called shot-gunning.”
“You do that with him?”
“Are you jealous?”
“I think so, a little bit.”
“You don’t have many homosexuals in Arkansas either, do you?”
“Not on your life!”
Dar opened her soda and sat beside Tom on the bed, backs against the wall, legs on the bed in front of them. The art nook and paintings across the room were like a still life they were both contemplating.
After a while, Tom said, “Is that mirror so you can watch yourself paint?”
“So I can watch myself paint myself.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Then yeah.”
“You get naked to paint yourself like that?!”
“Yes. I’m not that good!”
“Oh, you are.”
“But really,” Dar confessed, accidentally, “I’m always naked in my apartment. I mean usually. –When I’m alone. Which is usually.”
After a while, Tom said in a distracted voice, “I hear ya.”
They lay silently for a long time. Tom pretended to fall asleep and started snoring loud. Dar let it go on as long as she could stand it; when it became more mischievous, she slapped him playfully on the chest. He whooped and grabbed her hand; they lingered briefly in that position then separated.
Tom said, “So this is high, huh?”
Dar laughed, “This is high!”
“I think I like it. I feel…”
Dar said, “What?”
“I don’t know, ‘nice.’”
Dar giggled. “Yeah. Nice!” She shot suddenly upright. “Hey!”
Tom shot up next to her, “What?”
“I’ve got a great idea!”
“Oh! You scared me!”
“I’m sorry.”
He lay back down.
Dar continued. “Model for me.”
“Pardon?”
“Let me paint you.”
“Paint me?”
“You need a job, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“And I need a model for something I’m working on.”
He stared at her silently.
She said, “I’ll pay you.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.”
“Then you’ll do it for free? As a favor?”
“Well, now, I don’t know about that.” He mulled it over. “What are we talking about here?”
“I can’t afford much,” Dar said. “Just like ten or fifteen dollars.”
“No, I mean what do you mean by ‘model’?”
“I need to do a male nude, sort of a commissioned piece.”
“Nude? Like naked?”
Dar said, “Okay, twenty dollars!”
“Huh-uh, no way, no ma’am!”
“Why not?”
He laughed nervously, “That’s like prostitution or somethin’.”
“No it’s not. It’s art!”
“Not where I come from. It’s dangerous!”
Dar slumped. “You’re making fun of me.”
Tom touched the tip of her nose. “You’re cute.”
Dar deadpanned, “Thanks.”
“No,” Tom said, “that means something.” He took a breath and became weirdly serious. “I just couldn’t, in front of you.”
“Come on, Tom, loosen up! It’ll be fun. I always feel really creative when I’m high. And I’ve never had a model when I’m high.”
“I just can’t.”
“Why not?”
Tom sat up. “Dar, I don’t know how else to say this but to just come out and say it: I haven’t ever been naked in front of a girl before. A woman.”
“Oh.” She snuck a look at the bulge in his jeans, more pronounced now.
He blushed but didn’t say a word.
“How about if I was naked too? Would that make you more comfortable? –I prefer to paint naked anyway.”
He smiled big, “Now, how is that gonna help anything?!”
Dar laughed and reached out to Tom. Her hand landed on his thigh then slid slowly toward the swell. Her fingertips touched it, she felt him throb, and felt her own crotch thicken. Tom hummed. Dar leaned closer, put her hand around the shape of Tom’s penis. Her nipples protruded from her soft t-shirt; Tom reached up casually and tweaked a nipple delicately between his finger and thumb. She looked into his blue, blue eyes, his constricted pupils giving way to even more blueness. Their chests heaved as they shared the oxygen between them. His breath smelled like fried onions, tuna fish and coffee. She couldn’t hold back; she knew that in no more than fifteen minutes, this man would be deep inside of her, a part of her.