The first time I saw her, she was beating up a guy.
He was short and puffy, and she was slender, which is
why I suppose his frat buddies were pointing at them and howling from
inside the yellow Oldsmobile that idled ten feet away. Problem was, he
couldn't stop the barrage as fist after fist, foot after foot plowed
into him in rapid succession.
More howling. When he fell to his knees, the laughter
stopped, and she whipped a three-sixty, landing the heel of her bare
foot into his mouth. We all heard the tooth bounce off the Olds. I stood
there open-mouthed, staring at her, thinking, Holy shit, that's a nice
ass.
* * *
An hour later on campus, I told the story to my roommate
David Sagan. He was spread out in the grass, propping himself up with a
giant arm. "Is she hotter than her?" David thrust his chin at
a really pretty woman walking nearby.
"Hotter."
"What's her name?"
"I have no idea."
"But she knew yours?"
"Yep."
"And afterward, you gave her a ride to campus on
your handlebars."
"So?"
"And yet you didn't get her name?"
I looked away. "I was a little freaked, David. My
mind was swimming -- 'the fight, her butt, her face, the fight, the
butt, the fight, her eyes, the butt.' I was all over the place."
David Sagan crossed his legs and gazed at the nearby
rose garden, then at the red bricks of Chico State's administration
building, Kendall Hall.
"We're such beasts, Cole. This is the plight of the
man. We are enchanted by the woman."
He peered up at a lovely, dark-haired student who was
walking right past us. "I yearn to be held by one of these women,
Cole."
She glanced down at him and kept walking.
* * *
An hour later I was leaving campus when she came out of
nowhere, glancing at my harachis. Grinning. "Cole," she
hollered. "All of a sudden you can't get enough of me."
"By the way." I stopped and faced her,
grinning back. "Who are you?"
She walked past me, leaving me to soak her in.
"Where's your cruiser, Cole Boy? I need a lift."
It was a little before noon as we walked under the giant
burr oaks and through throngs of students rushing to class. She
swaggered two steps ahead of me -- her back arched slightly, her steps
high -- as we passed over a narrow footbridge and approached the bike
racks. She slapped her flip-flops with each step, her tush shifting
happily, and glanced back at me. "You like my legs, Cole?"
* * *
She hopped onto my handlebars, her feet finding the axle
like it was the most natural thing on Earth, light hairs contrasting
against her legs, her butt hanging over my handlebars in faded Levi's
cut-offs, inches from my fingertips. She leaned back so her hair tickled
my chin as I pedaled us under the canopy of oaks and elms on Warner
Street.
After a while, I said, "All right, what happened
this morning?"
She chuckled and glanced back. "Didn't we go over
this already? Puffy heckled, I kicked ass. End of story."
I began to slow down.
"Who said we're stopping here?"
"It's my house."
She hopped off, looking like she was about to leave.
"Well, it's not mine."
"So this is it?" I said, and instantly
regretted it.
She laughed. "I don't know, Cole. Is it?"
Slowly, she walked toward me, her hips thrust forward in that flirty
way, and reached into the front pocket of my cargo shorts, getting
closer, studying my frozen reaction with amusement as she pulled out my
pen. She took my hand, glanced at me with a tiny grin and wrote
"Gina" and her phone number on my palm, her pinkie wrapped
around mine.
I told her, "You need a beer."
"I do, eh?"
* * *
During late summer and early fall, Chico can heat up
like a clay oven. The temperatures are known to sear past 110 degrees,
and the heat inside some of the old Victorian houses, including mine,
got so unbearable that you either stayed away or did something creative.
At our house, the solution was a kiddie pool filled with tap water.
The kiddie pool was made of hard, Shamrock-green
plastic. David and I had purchased it for three dollars at a garage sale
and placed it in the center of our family room. We thought it would
serve mostly as a novelty, but we found that it actually provided some
relief from the inescapable heat. Every morning, he would toss two
tablespoons of chlorine into the tiny pool, and just about every
afternoon one of us could be found in it, cooling off.
"You're braver than the other women."
"Yeah?"
"They usually pass on the pool."
Gina shrugged and pulled her T-shirt off, revealing a
white sports bra. "It's crystal clear and smells like a hospital in
here." She glanced at me. "And plus, we both know I can handle
you."
"We do."
* * *
Gina seemed like two parts Marisa Tomei, three parts
Grace Kelly. As we sipped our Sierra Nevada, I stared at her perfect
cheeks, the full lips, the smooth skin, the little scar on her chin, the
larger one on her left temple, the teeth that were a little crooked, and
she smiled to herself and let me take her in.
She touched her chin. "Cole Williams is such a
white name, and yet I'm sitting here looking at a dark-skinned,
black-haired guy with brown eyes. Are you Italian?"
Women always asked that. I think they really wanted me
to be Italian.
Finally I said, "Why don't you tell me what's going
on?"
She laughed at me. "You're the one who invited
me."
"No, c'mon. You beat the shit out of some dude on
the street and ask me for a lift. I've never seen you in my life. Then
we run into each other again two hours later. And you know my
name."
"So?" She seemed embarrassed. "I know how
to fight."
"But who the hell are you?"
She shook her head. "You've got these conspiracy
theories brewing under all that black hair, don't you?"
"I've got questions."
"I tell you what," she said. "You do some
investigating and get back to me." She stood up and I watched as
the water streamed under her cut-offs and down her legs. Dripping, she
stood over me and dried off with my T-shirt.
I stared.
When she was done, she leaned down and kissed me on the
cheekbone, just missing my eye. A peck. "There you go, Cole. I
gotta book."
* * *
The next day, I did investigate.
I took her name and number to the registrar's office,
where a friend of mine worked as a clerk, and within ten minutes had my
data. Her last name was Dean. Twenty-two years old. Hometown of
Philadelphia. Her Chico address was just a few blocks from mine and,
most surprisingly, she was a transfer student from Penn State. I still
couldn't believe that last nugget. Fucking Penn State? Why in the hell
would she transfer from Penn State to a medium-sized Californnia school
nestled near the foothills of the Northern Sierra?
I called her.
"Cole, Cole, Cole." She sounded good on the
phone.
Really good.
"I keep going back to the kiddie pool."
She laughed. "You liked that, didn't you, Cole
Boy?"
It was true. Cole Boy liked. Cole Boy liked a lot.
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
* * *
Do not underestimate woman hunger. It can move mountains
and cross large bodies of water, or at least die trying. If you doubt
this, think about the two young men in Washington state who once threw
themselves into kayaks and attempted to paddle across a rough and stormy
channel at dusk and were promptly swept out to sea. Their original
objective? To reach the San Juan Islands where young single women were
said to be hot-tubbing and drinking all weekend.
The mere hope of a woman is one thing. The promise of
spending time with one who is interested is a far more potent kettle of
fish. At this point, valuable mental faculties drain away like fat from
a salted ham. Judgment skills liquefy into a puddle of futility. The man
brain will ignore behavior traits in a woman that normally would be
considered troubling, such as a demonstrated willingness (and ability)
to beat the shit out of grown men.
Which explains why the next day, Gina and I were tubing
down the Sacramento River, staring at each other.
* * *
The Chico tubing experience starts just a few miles west
of town, in farm country, where Highway 32 crosses the lethargic
Sacramento River. This is where you and a crew of friends splash into
the cold water in your river clothes, clutching inner tubes and a few
floating ice chests of beer.
Gina wore old Nike hightops, her faded 501 cut-offs, a
peach-colored bikini top and a straw hat, hair behind her ears. A red
string hugged her hips like a little belt, and a chrome key chain was
tucked into her front pocket. She floated right in front of me, her
inner tube arching her back just right, drawing prolonged stares from
the other guys.
I asked, "So that puffy guy was a heckler?"
Gina laughed and looked away. "I was in a foul
mood, Cole. I'm afraid Puffy got the worst of me."
"I'd agree."
"You know what Puffy said to me, Cole?"
"No."
"Never saw those guys in my life, and Puffy's
yelling something about my ass, and his buddies are laughing."
"And you didn't like that."
"I just don't tolerate that shit, Cole. I just
don't let people fuck with me like that. So I say, Get out of the car
and say it to my face, blubber boy."
After a while I said, "They have hecklers at Penn
State?"
She smiled. "Good, you've done you homework on
me."
"Only one thing I don't know."
"Yeah?"
"Why you transferred across the country."
She looked at me from behind her shades. "Spice of
life, Cole Boy. I like to step out of my normal life now and then. I can
be anybody I want." She thought about it and kind of stiffened.
"Don't know why I'm telling you this."
People always said that to me.
* * *
An hour later, she asked "Are you a bad boy,
Cole?"
"Depends on your criteria."
"Gimme something bad, Cole Boy. Real bad."
I racked my brain for a while. "My roommate is
growing cannabis skunk in our backyard."
It sounded like I was making an offer.
She giggled, stretched and extended her foot over mine.
"You crack me up, Cole Boy."
We looked at each other until I said, "You wanna go
to an Oakland Raiders game tomorrow? I got free tickets."
The shades still covered her eyes, but the slightest of
grins gave her away.
* * *
Part of the reason I loved the Raiders was because
sometimes I did like to be a bad boy. Not really bad. Not fuck-you-up
bad, and not evil-and-mean bad. Just a little bad. I liked to be around
naughty people -- not delinquents, mind you, but people who "did
naughty," people who would keep things interesting. I liked to
watch them be naughty, and sometimes I'd be naughty with them, maybe
letting the wrong thing come out of my mouth and seeing what happens, or
letting my nuts hang out of my shorts just to piss off some uptight guy
across the aisle. Or like hanging out with a hottie who will happily
beat the shit out of male hecklers.
Or like watering your roommate's pot plants in the
backyard, and maybe fertilizing them, and maybe pruning the stems just
so, not because you wanted to help or even make money, but just because
it felt good to be a little bad.
Yeah, I was a bad boy sometimes.
* * *
The next day, when we arrived at the Oakland Coliseum
parking lot, Gina said, "Good lord."
Dark smoke hovered over us. Pirate flags and banners
jutted from the assemblage of tailgate parties. Everywhere you looked
were young men with ski caps pulled even with their brows, gang tattoos
on their necks, giant beer bottles in their hands, shoulders slouched to
the right or left-and all of them wearing black. Interspersed among them
were older men with long beards or mullets, plenty of body art and old
leather vests or perhaps Black Sabbath or Iron Maiden T-shirts.
There were thousands of other guys with thick mustaches
and giant arms in tidy black clothes, guys who worked hard for their
money and followed the rules in life, but were ready to smash your face
into someone's truck bumper if you accidentally spilled beer on them.
Peppered throughout the lot were women, some in old and
loose biker tank-tops, with sagging breasts exposed at the sides, some
in neat sweat suits and black baseball caps, others in giant Raider
jerseys covering short-shorts. And then there was everyone else --
people of all races, education levels, economic classes and criminal
backgrounds.
God, I loved it.
Gina looked out the window. "They really do attract
a tough crowd."
"Yep."
"It's not just some marketing gimmick."
"Ummm, no."
* * *
It was eleven o'clock. We sat on my lawn chairs and
watched the spectacles passing before us. Thousands of people milled
around, looking like they'd just escaped their cells during a prison
mele. Punks walking around with exaggerated gaits. Body builders
strolling past with their giant arms thrust forward. Heavily costumed
men wearing black leather, spikes and rotting-head masks.
A screaming white guy in a tweed jacket and khaki pants
ran past us, followed by a giant bearded man in shoulder pads and a
black cape. We sat and watched as the bearded man descended on the tweed
jacket, taking him down, the black cape covering them as they struggled
on the asphalt.
Gina folded her arms, shifted her weight and pointed a
foot out. "This is like the African planes out here. Full of
predators."
Ten feet away, the cape still rustled. Every few seconds
we could see the outline of an elbow or a knee. There was a muffled
yelp.
She asked,"Is this an act?"
"I don't think so."
"Do you hear buzzing?"
The cape twitched and pulsated.
"Maybe I should find a cop," I said.
The cape released the tweed jacket, who ran back toward
us, only now he was bald-shaven, except for a few patches of sandy hair
on the frontal lobe. His face was frozen in terror as he sprinted past
us, pulled a right, darted through another row of cars and blended into
the larger population of the Raider Nation. Onlookers cheered.
I shook my head. What the hell is a guy thinking wearing
a tweed jacket to a Raiders game?
The caped man switched off his hair clippers, wobbled to
his left and began to urinate onto the hood of a silver Buick, his
stream strong and loud against the thin metal.
When he was done, Gina approached him. "What was
his problem?"
He turned and looked at us, and I twitched. There was a
chilling vacancy to his face -- a distant gaze, an open mouth, an
expression that seemed unable to absorb the world around him. "His
problem was ... he met me."
He was dark-brown, about six-foot five, probably three
hundred pounds, with monstrous, hairy arms and tree-trunk legs. His
black, kinky beard reached his collar bone, and a lighter shade of fur
coated almost all of his chest in naturally wavy patterns. I decided he
was the hairiest Homosapiens I had ever met.
He sported a spiked dog collar around his neck, the
black shoulder pads with more spikes and the black cape, which trumpeted
"CUJO" in crude, hand-stitched lettering. He wore tight
leather shorts with no shirt, exposing his formidable upper body and
legs. A chipped black hatchet hung on his side, and two little rubber
horns protruded from his bald, tattooed head.
Gina smiled at him. "Nice costume."
"This ain't a costume, sweetie." He puffed his
chest out. "This is me."
* * *
We watched from a distance as Cujo sat on a bucket and
stared into space.
Gina said, "I think I'm gonna to talk to him."
I kept watching Cujo. "You're fucking crazy."
* * *
I was enjoying this. Mostly.
The Raiders were beating the hated Chiefs 28-7, with
forty seconds 'til half, and the fans were worked into a lather. All
sixty-three thousand of them, cloaked in silver and black, were off
their seats howling and dancing. People couldn't believe it; the Raiders
were actually pounding the shit out of the Chiefs for the first time in
more than a decade, and now they were looking to score again before
halftime.
Gina and I had great seats, on the first deck at the
forty yard line, behind the Raiders' bench. A spectacle of colors --
Raider silver and black, Chiefs red and white, and a deep grass green --
bounced off the field and charged my senses. I imagined myself inhaling
the colors, then gazed at all the happy people -- tough guys jumping up
and down, strangers high-fiving each other, women dancing.
And maybe it was because we were at a football game, a
spectacle of controlled violence, but for whatever reason, I kept
thinking of what Gina had done to Puffy the heckler. Somehow, it
endeared her to me. Gina the tough cookie. Gina the transfer student who
"doesn't tolerate that shit." Gina the sexy co-ed who now was
swishing her rump against my crotchal region.
She was beside herself, intoxicated from the beer, the
roar of the crowd, the energy of the surrounding felons and the theater
of the Raiders' last-second drive before half.
Gina hopped and danced in front of me, brushing against
me ever so slightly, holding out her beer cup so the sloshing foam
slapped the pavement. I squeezed her in a mixture of delight and
frustration.
"This is starting to feel too good."
"Shshhh. Don't ruin it."
The Raiders were orchestrating a textbook two-minute
drive. Oakland quarterback Ramon Galvan had fired bullets to receivers
on three consecutive passes and now shouted another play at the line of
scrimmage. Forty seconds left. All eyes were on the field as Gina
swished like the sea.
I grimaced. "You really fucked up Puffy, didn't
you?"
"I hate hecklers, Cole."
Galvan backpedaled into the pocket and fired a pass to
the ten-yard line. The crowd jumped up and down but kept quiet so Galvan
could call out another play as the clock ticked. Twenty-three seconds.
Gina kept moving.
"You're killing me," I whispered, and squeezed
her waist harder.
She glanced back, smiling.
The players rushed to the line of scrimmage and pointed
out blocking assignments. Gina grinned and kept moving.
Galvan handed the ball to fullback Pete Chutney, who
plowed to the four yard line.
Players rushed to the line of scrimmage to get off
another play. Twelve seconds and ticking.
I clenched my teeth and dug my fingers into Gina's
swirling hips.
Galvan spiked the ball, stopping the clock at eight
seconds, and the fans roared.
Gina kept moving.
"You've turned me into Mount Saint Helens." My
voice quaked. "I'm gonna blow."
She stuck her lip out. "Poor Cole Boy. He's gonna
blow."
I tried to pull away, but ended up gripping even
tighter. Galvan went back to pass, looked left and saw his receivers
covered. He turned right and barely ducked the reach of a giant
linebacker, fans screaming.
Four seconds. Fans yelling.
Galvan pivoted again and bolted toward the end zone.
Blocking assignments shifted and black jerseys flew across his path,
opening holes.
Gina moved excitedly. My eyelids fluttered. Gina
swished. I yelled out.
Galvan leapt head-first over a heap of red and white and
plunged into the end zone. Some 120,000 arms shot into the air, a
deafening roar enveloped the place and everyone started jumping up and
down. Including Gina.
I hollered, crossed my eyes and hugged her from behind,
and no one seemed to notice. Gina shot a fist into the air and hollered,
"Touchdown Cole Boy!"
Who was Gina? How did she learn to fight that way? Why
would she want to talk to a guy like Cujo? At the moment, who gave a
shit?
* * *
The next morning David was in class, and Gina was in my
bed.
She was like a drug, a warm and creamy narcotic that was
literally intoxicating my skin, my brain and my heart in an exquisite
massage so mesmerizing that I felt like I could cry. That I would cry.
She opened an eye.
I ran my fingers through her hair. "You sleep
well?"
Slowly, she nodded yes and smiled. "This weren't
Monday, I'd just take care of you -- take you downtown for
breakfast,hang out at One Mile beside the water, under the old
oaks,exchange stories all day. A few pints at Juanita's. Come home and
screw around, spark up the barbecue, sit on the porch and watch
people."
I closed my eyes and exhaled. "Just a few more
minutes. Then we get up."
When I did get up, I went down the hallway and found
Cujo in the kiddie pool.
* * *
I was about to faint. Not that Cujo cared. His lidded
eyes stared into space, his mouth open, his fingers wrapped around a
forty-ounce bottle of King Cobra.
Finally, he turned and looked at me. "Well if it
ain't Maxine." Cujo rearranged himself. "Sleep good,
princess?"
I was so freaked, my vision blurred and I slurred my
words. "Howsh'd you finds me?"
Cujo raised an eyebrow and chuckled.
I drew a breath. "Dude, this is not cool. You need
to leave."
More chuckling.
"I mean it," I said. "This is not
cool."
Cujo's chuckle turned into a wet laugh. "Dude,
you'll be lucky if I lift my hairy bung out of this pool by tonight. I
ain't going nowhere."
"You can't stay here."
"No," he said slowly, "I'm not going no
place." Cujo farted, sending three giant bubbles to the surface,
and exhaled. He grabbed my remote off the rug, clicked on the television
and flipped through the channels until he found "All My
Children." A gorgeous man was caressing the face of a pretty
brunette as she looked up at him with giant, adoring eyes. Cujo stared
at the screen, his mouth open, his face half saddened, half raptured.
"Dude, they run this early up here."
He took a sip of beer, licked his lips and gazed at the
screen as the couple engaged in a soft, passionate kiss. I moved toward
the kitchen and reached for the phone.
"I'm calling nine-one-one."
Cujo stared at the television. "Your little bunny
invited me up here."
I stopped and turned around. What? What did he just say?
"My bunny?"
The screen cut to a commercial for Palmolive, and Cujo
turned to give me a look. "Your little bunny in your bed there. She
invited me."
I took my hand off the phone and opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
"Yesterday in the parking lot, your bunny mentions
she has some projects, some jobs, for a guy like me. And I'm thinking,
works for me." He took a sip and stared at the television.
"Got nothing better to do."
I started walking backwards. "Excuse me."
* * *
I was pulling at my hair. "You invited him up
here?"
Gina was leaning back on the bed, relaxed. "How do
you think he got in?"
"Every window in this house is open. And he's not
leaving, so I'm calling the cops." I grabbed the phone on my
nightstand and had managed to punch the nine and the first one when the
receiver rocketed out of my hand and Gina's right foot sailed past me.
Gina reached down, grabbed the phone and yanked the cord out of the wall
socket. She yelled.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
I tried to shake the sting out of my hand.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Gina softened. "Cutie. Honey. You can't call the
cops. You don't want them here. Think about it." She gave me her
big eyes for a long moment, then nodded to the backyard. "And I
know your roommate wouldn't want them here."
Shit. I hadn't thought of the pot plants.
Cujo roared from the family room: "Maxine, get your
baby-doll ass out here."
* * *
I came out with Gina.
"What do you want?"
"Two grand."
"What?"
"Didn't your bunny tell ya?" Gina had tried to
stop him, waving her hands, but his words were already out, and now he
was giving her this tough-shit look, telling her, "Like he can't
figure this thing out already." Cujo looked up at me.
"Let's cut through the tofu here, Maxine. You give
me two G's, I give sweet-cheeks fifteen-hundred, and she sends me home.
And the cash crop out back? I leave it alone." He let that float a
second. "You don't pay up, I'm not going anywhere, 'cept to maybe
get a Weed Whacker."
I turned to Gina. "Are you fucking kidding me? What
is this, a shakedown?"
She looked away, fighting off a grin, so I picked up the
kitchen phone and dialed nine-one-one.
* * *
Cujo was making a puddle as he raided my fridge,
stacking loaves of bread and meat and beer under a giant arm.
"That was a bone-head move, Maxine. The pigs? How
you gonna explain the dope growing out back?"
I didn't care. I was cutting my losses. Before things
got worse. Before I ended up in a ditch somewhere. Before Gina could
hurt me even deeper.
Cujo took his loot and lumbered out the front door
toward his camper truck. When he reached the cab, he turned and flipped
me off.
Gina looked at me as I waited for a dispatcher to pick
up. "So that's it, huh, Cole Boy?"
I swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the apple-sized
lump in my throat, realizing Gina had seen me as nothing more than a
mark. I managed, "So none of this was real?"
"It was what it was."
"But-"
"Shshhh." She put a finger to her lips,
gathered her things and swished to the door, then stopped to give me the
eyes -- those fucking gorgeous eyes -- one last time. "Don't ruin
it."
Copyright 2007 by
Greg Bardsley
Greg Bardsley is a former newspaper
reporter who covered night crime, homicide and gangs in the San
Francisco Bay Area. His work later as a ghostwriter appeared in a
variety of publications, including Newsweek, USA Today and
Financial Times. Currently, he is making final revisions to a novel
involving the characters and events in Three-Sixty
Wondergirl. Shoot him a line or two at greg.bardsley@aboutur.com.
