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Down in the Dirt v062

Charlie and Marcie along the 47th parallel

Frank T. Sikora

    She stood in the soft dirt buttoning her blouse. He stood against the door of his truck watching her: A familiar chill building within; knowing with morning clarity he should never have brought this young, perhaps illegally young, girl to his favorite parking spot. As expected, he felt nothing when he fucked her. He had barely managed to stay hard during the ordeal.
    She was a redhead, top to bottom. He always preferred reds. Only reds moved him. Still, this girl was way too young, way too thin, and way too sober.
     “Be a dear, Chucky, and hand me my sweater,” she said. “It’s on the front seat. And close your mouth when you breathe. You look like a fish at the aquarium.”
    And she had a mouth on her. “It’s Charles or Charlie,” he said. “It’s not Chuck, and it is never Chucky.”
    “Yeah, right,” she said, “This is from a man who likes to fuck in the mud.”
    Christ. This could get complicated. He thought and gazed passed her and out over the parched plains. Nothing but scrub brush and withered Silver Maples for miles. They were at the forgotten end of an unmarked utility road.
    “The sweater, Chucky. I know we’re disappointed with your performance, but try to stay focused.”
    He opened the door, grabbed the sweater, and tossed it at her feet.
    “Chucky, think. That’s a $30 dollar sweater. Don’t piss on me just because your dick isn’t Ford tough. It’s not my fault.”
     “True,” Charlie said softly.
    She smiled, somehow managing to convey sweetness and contempt. “Good, Chucky, very good. Admitting the problem is the first step toward recovering.” She stepped into her jeans and slipped on her sneakers. “Sexual recovery, Chucky, it’s all the rage today. It’s for those with fuck issues. And unless you want to pop a pill every time you want to get laid, you should check into it. Face it Chucky. If you can’t fuck a woman like me, you’re in for a long and not so hard life.”
    Charlie silently admitted the little witch was right. With her full red lips and long legs, she was, by any standards, especially those of the northern plains, a knockout. “An off day, that’s all,” he said. “Nobody’s perfect.”
    She cast another look at Charlie; one suggesting his worthlessness could only be measured in large prime numbers.
    Yeah. Complicated.
    As she tied the pink laces of her shoes, his thoughts drifted to another red head—Aunt Marcie. Each New Year’s Eve good ol’ Auntie Marcie would sneak away from the basement gathering of parents and relatives and into Charlie’s room and deliver long, sloppy kisses. Aunt Marcie’s holiday gifts began when Charlie was seven and ended six years later. One February night, Aunt Marcie went out for a drive and never came back, vanishing as if she had never existed. Fifteen years later, the taste of her rough tongue and wine soaked, soft lips lingered; just thinking of those kisses and the agonizing slow days building up to those evenings caused Charlie’s head to pound and his dick to harden like a god-damn canon.
    When finished with her shoes, she picked up the sweater and brushed the dirt off it. “I’m not asking for perfection, Chucky, just competency. How old did you say you were?”
    “29.”
    “Well, you fuck like you’re 59.”
    “That’s right, keep grinding it in.”
    “Someone has too,” she said and laughed, a girlish laugh. “And the next time, consider springing for a hotel room. I know you like it all dirty and natural and in middle of nowhere, but I prefer clean sheets and HBO.”
     “Next time?”
    “Sure Chucky. I’m a generous, gal. You may fuck like shit, but you’re awfully pretty. Pretty, pretty Chucky. Oh so pretty like a girl. Chucky from Minot got eyes like a fashion model. You’d make one pretty girl, Chucky. Something to consider if the guy thing doesn’t work out.” She tied the sweater around her waist. “Come Chucky, let’s go throw a penny in the river for luck. We’ll ask the fuck gods to grant you a decent hard on.”
    “It’s Charlie, and we really should head home.”
    “Until you do me right,” she replied, “it’s Chuck.” She turned and sprinted towards the bluff. She ran gracefully. Her long, quick strides easily navigated the rolling terrain. When she reached the end of the bluff, she climbed onto a rocky outcropping, straddling the edge with the confidence of an Olympic diver. “What a view, Chucky,” she yelled. “There’s not a soul on the river or anywhere.” She turned her back to the precipice and took out a handful of change. “Let’s make a load of wishes, Chucky.”
    Charlie followed tentatively. He did not like heights. He stopped a half dozen of steps short of her. To the west, a line of low gray clouds smothered the horizon. To the east, he heard the steady grind of a single engine plane. He listened closely. It was heading away from them.
    “Chuck, you got the fish look going again. Come on up.”
    Charlie sighed. He should have stayed north, away from Bismarck and its coffee houses. She was sitting alone reading The North American Review while he pretended to read from a book of Tolstoy short stories. He kept a bookmark on page 272, five pages into The Death of Ivan Illych. Charlie didn’t understand why the story was considered great. The main character spent the whole time bitching about his shitty life. The idiot should try living in Minot where cattle fucking is more than a hobby. Still, Tolstoy always impressed. “Come, Marcie. Let’s leave before things become complicated.”
    She tossed the coins behind her. “Christ. Weak dick and a weak mind. My name’s not Marcie. That’s the fifth fucking time you got my name wrong. My name is Lucy. Lucy. Lucy. Lucy. Lucy.”
    Charlie’s head began to pound. “I know your name,” he said and stepped onto the rocks.



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