Randy Dupree was my sister’s friend’s oldest brother, and his family lived just on the other side of the creek that ran in our backyard.
Randy was well built and good looking, particularly by trailer-park standards, smooth, with his tight Wranglers and his torso-hugging tee-shirts. He wore black leather boots, hung a black leather biker jacket across his rippling, 18-year-old shoulders. Randy sometimes kept his sunglasses on the top of his head, an unbelievably cool look in the eyes of this seventh-grade glasses-wearer.
Randy was the epitome of the tawdry end of high school sexuality.
Gail-Lynn does her best to keep the damage to a minimum.
“Now what do you need it for now?”
Sitting next to Karen and Cindy, I watch from the couch as Randy wheedles the car keys from his mother.
“The Club. Goin’ up to The Club.” He holds out his right hand, palm up, jiggles it up-and-down, up-and-down in a mute gesture of joking but impatient demand.
They have one car, Gail-Lynn and her three children. Gail-Lynn eyes him shrewdly, and I turn my attention away from Gilligan’s Island and toward the Saturday night ritual of Randy and the car keys.
“I got new wiper blades,” she says. “You’ll put them on before noon on Saturday.”
Randy grins. The hand stops jiggling. “Yes.”
“We’ve got a quarter tank now. It’ll be a half-tank when I wake up in the morning.” I had heard that Randy’s mom had been from somewhere south. Her “morning” sounds like “mawn-ing”.
Randy’s still grinning. “Yes.”
She turns to the chair by the door, fishes her keys out of her purse, drops them in to Randy’s outstretched hand. He’ll do what he says he will, or he won’t get to use it again. He made that mistake once and went without it for four straight Saturdays. That won’t happen again.
Keys in-hand, Randy moves swiftly toward the front door. The night awaits.
“Randy!” Gail-Lynn yells from the kitchen, where she is pouring her own ritual of Saturday night: a Crown and Coke.
His hand on the door knob, he turns back to face his mom.
“No pecker tracks in my backseat. That’s some good upholstery,” she yells. “You gonna have sex in my back seat, you lay a towel down.”
Grinning, Randy exits, stage-right.
Sort It Out
3 hours ago