John Locke - Now & Then

“But he was afraid of you and Karen. And Karen hit Sam with one punch and nearly killed him.”

“So?”

Rachel took my hand in hers, put it to her lips.

“I’m not wearing panties,” she said.

I took a moment to marvel at her facility for random discourse.

“Always useful information for a boyfriend to have,” I said.

At that moment, for no apparent reason, she bit the shit out of my hand. I wondered briefly if she was really crazy or just messing with me.

“I never wear panties,” I said.

“Did you feel it just now when I bit you? ‘Cause you never yelled or anything.”

“Was that you?” I said. “Yeah, I felt it.”

“That’s why I love you so much,” Rachel said.

“Because I don’t yell when you bite me?”

“No, ‘cause you’re funny.”

“Good to know,” I said, rubbing my hand.

“I bet you’ve got a hell of a history, Kevin.”

“I won’t deny it.”

“Maybe someday you’ll tell me,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll write a book.”

She smiled. “If you do, will you put me in it?”

“Of course.”

“You promise?”

“If I write a book, I’ll put you in it. I’ll call it Now and Then. ”

“I hope you’re not married to that title,” she said, “or you’ll never make the first sale.”

It was getting dark. Lights in the beach rentals up and down the highway began popping on. In front of us, to the left, a little boy with a buzz cut raced onto the balcony of a two-story, pulled his pants down to his ankles and tried to pee through the rail. His mother yelped and caught him in the nick of time and dragged him back through the sliding glass door. By then they were both laughing.

Rachel and I smiled at each other.

“Kids,” I said.

“Boys, you mean.”

I looked at her. “What, you’re saying girls don’t pee outdoors?”

“Not from heights.”

We walked in silence while I pondered the validity of her remark.

Rachel said, “I haven’t told my mom.”

“Told her what?”

“About us.”

“What about us?”

“About us getting married, silly.”

“Oh, that.” I said.

“Maybe I should tell her in person,” she said.

“That’s probably a good idea.”

We’d come to an open area, maybe eighty yards from the nearest house. I heard a car coming up behind us, moving slowly. I instinctively moved Rachel to the left side of the road.

“You dudes need a ride?”

Several of them in the car: blue, 69 Camaro Super Sport, dual white racing stripes on the hood.

The driver had done the talking. He was Rachel’s age, meaning late twenties. He had a chipped front tooth, and greasy, stringy hair. His eyes had the glazed look of a pothead who took his weed seriously. When the back window zipped down, a cloud of smoke leaked out and swirled in the breeze.

An alarmingly ugly guy with thick lips said, “We’ll give the girl a ride.” Addressing Rachel, he said, “Hey chica, you want a little strange? Climb in. We’ll give you a ride you won’t never forget!”

“Back off, fuck wad,” Rachel said. “Or my fiancé will kick your ass.”

The ugly guy’s eyelids were at half-mast. He showed me a dull, vacant stare. “That right, pops?”

“Move along,” I said.

“You believe this shit?” he said to someone in the back seat. “Bitch turning down our sweet ride. Pops prob’ly got a Oldsmobile nearby. Maybe we drive around, see we can find it. Maybe we torch that motherfucker for you, eh pops?”

I returned his stare. “Like the lady said: I want a ride, I’ll kick your ass and take your car.”

The scumbags in the car erupted like Springer’s audience when Jerry trots out the trailer trash. There were numerous threats hurled in our direction, and someone in the back seat on the far side—a kid with a colorful bandana—lifted himself out the window and aimed a gun at me sideways.

It was dusk, but not too dark for me to get a good look at the piece.

“Be careful with that thing,” I said.

“Ha! You ain’t so brave now, are you, pops?”

“Braver,” I said. “That piece of shit gun is all wrong. No way it fires without blowing up in your face.”

“You want, I’ll shoot it now.”

“I’d pay to see that,” I said, “but I got a question.”

“What’s that, asshole?”

“You think your friends will take your body to the hospital, or just dump you here on the road?”

The kid looked at his gun.

“Fuck you!” he said, and climbed back in the car.

The driver said, “Another time, pops.”

“What’s wrong with right now?” I said.

“Another time.”

He hoisted his arm out the window and gave us the finger. They laughed and roared away.

“You think they’ll come back?” Rachel said.

“I hope so,” I said.

Chapter 3

THE YOUNG MAN was lying on his back on a sand dune thick with saw grass. Few people knew him. Those who did called him D’Augie.

D’Augie had followed Creed and Rachel from a careful distance. When D’Augie saw them speaking, he knew they were about to turn and head back to the bed and breakfast, which is why he got a running start and dove into the sand dune, face first. After waiting a moment, he rolled onto his back and heard a car full of punks pull up to the couple, heard what sounded like smack talk, but he was too far away to discern the words. When the car drove noisily away, D’Augie kept still, slowed his breathing, and relaxed his body until it virtually melted into the sand dune. He touched the knife in his pocket with his right hand.

He’d be using it soon.

Lying on the sand dune, D’Augie was, for all intents and purposes, invisible. The breeze coming off the ocean blew sand crystals into his face, but D’Augie didn’t twitch. He was one with nature, and nothing had the power to affect him.

D’Augie began a mental chant: Lay here, wait till they pass, then jump up and kill Creed. Lay, wait, jump, kill. Lay, wait, jump -

Some type of insect—an ant, probably—found an unguarded whisper of skin above one of his socks and began crawling up his leg.

Unfortunate, D’Augie thought, but hardly a threat to my willpower.

D’Augie knew Creed and Rachel were approaching the part of the road he’d occupied moments earlier. It wouldn’t be long, a minute maybe.

D’Augie’s pants were baggy, and he was wearing boxers—a combination of clothing that provided the insect a bare-skinned freeway all the way to his waist, should it care to journey that far. D’Augie wasn’t dwelling on it, but he seemed to feel every step the insect made as it crawled past his knee and up his thigh.

Within seconds, a dozen more insects formed a line and began a steady march up his leg. D’Augie ignored them until there were more than thirty of the bastards crawling all over his testicles. He was finding it increasingly harder to remain one with nature. He wanted to scream, wanted to jump to his feet, throw off his clothes, and get the fuck off the sand dune.

But he couldn’t. Creed and Rachel had been making steady progress, and were practically on top of him. He could hear their footsteps on the asphalt. To be precise, he heard only Rachel’s feet, since Creed moved over the pavement as soundlessly as D’Augie himself had moved earlier.

D’Augie strained to hold his position. If he could remain perfectly still for another thirty seconds he could escape detection. Creed and Rachel would pass him, then D’Augie could spring up and catch Creed by surprise, slice his throat, and decide what to do with Rachel after ridding himself of these goddamned insects.

But Creed and Rachel didn’t walk past him. They stopped just short of his position.

Shit!

Could they have noticed him?

D’Augie didn’t think so. Though he was a scant fifteen feet from the road, it was practically dark and the saw grass where he lay was nearly three feet high. The sea oat clusters all around him were bending in the breeze, providing additional camouflage.

So no, they couldn’t have seen him.

But something made them stop.

D’Augie felt another wave of insects crawl up his leg. How many more, he wondered. Fifty? A hundred?

Too many to count.

He heard Creed and Rachel kiss.

Then—O h my God! —suddenly his nuts were on fire!

Christ, it hurt.

It felt—

Christ, Almighty!

It felt like someone had built a fire in his lap and sent a bunch of bees to put it out.

The pain was horrific. D’Augie’s body started to twitch and tremble. His face contorted involuntarily. His eyes became slits, and his upper lip peeled away, exposing his entire top row of teeth. D’Augie bit his lower lip so hard he drew blood. Then he opened and closed his mouth, faster and faster, raising and lowering his teeth, sinking them into his mangled lip again and again—until he realized this activity was only making things worse.

Lying there with his upper teeth exposed, clenched against his lower lip, D’Augie imagined he looked like a lounge lizard doing the “white man overbite” dance. Except that he wasn’t dancing. He’d love to be dancing, hopping around, squishing the bugs—but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move because he knew he couldn’t beat Creed from the front. He wanted to move. Had to move! But he couldn’t. D’Augie squeezed his eyelids together, and tears poured out, slid down the sides of his face, pooled in his ears.

The pain was intolerable.

Other-worldly.

D’Augie was being eaten alive.

What the fuck kind of bugs were these? It was as if they’d burrowed a centimeter into his flesh and laid a dozen acid eggs. Then the eggs exploded into flame at the same time. This was worse than bee stings, a million times worse, because it wasn’t a “one and done” burn. No, these little fuckers tore into his skin like shark on chum. They bit and kept on biting or stinging or whatever the hell they were doing to him and he was trembling and shaking and chattering his teeth and—

And his nuts were swelling at an alarming rate, which seemed only to serve the purpose of creating a larger area to accommodate the reinforcement bugs. The more they bit, the more his nuts swelled, and this ever-expanding battlefield encouraged a hundred more insects to join the assault.

Get out of here! he silently screamed to Creed. For the love of God, keep walking down the road!

The woman said, “Kevin, let’s do it right here.”

What?

No! D’Augie thought. Please God, don’t let them do it right here! Twenty feet. Do it twenty feet down the road. Give me twenty feet and I’ll kill them before they get their pants off.

Creed said, “Best offer I’ve had all day. But there’s gravel on the road, and possibly broken glass. You might get cut.”

D’Augie didn’t know why she was calling Creed Kevin, and he didn’t care. All he could think about was how his nuts were twice their normal size and how the motherfuckers wouldn’t stop stinging him. His testicles hurt so bad he almost didn’t feel the insects stinging the rest of his privates.

Almost didn’t.

Holy Shit!

D’Augie’s insides began churning. He needed to vomit. Started to vomit, but swallowed back the bile. The contents of his stomach lurched, preparing for a second attempt. D’Augie realized he was having an allergic reaction to the venom from the bites or stings. Itchy welts were forming on his face and forehead. His upper chest throbbed. His throat started closing up. His eyelids fluttered. Barely conscious, slipping fast, he heard Rachel say: