When Angie had walked over to Edsel’s house after the dance accident and discovered he was not at home, she had assumed he’d gone for a walk. It was not unusual to see him walking the streets after dark. She had encouraged him to get a dog so that people would be less likely to think he was up to no good. But most of the neighbors knew him, and were not the least concerned.
However, this was not a night for walking. Edsel had some serious thinking to do, and that called for a long drive. He’d checked the headlights and taillights before backing out of his attached two-car garage. It had been quite a while since he’d taken his convertible out at night. It was an orange and white 1958 Edsel Citation two-door.
He drove out of Orange via Highway 87, passing through Bridge City on his way to Port Arthur. It reminded of the many nights he’d made this trip two decades earlier. Back then, he would take 87 all the way down to Bolivar Peninsula, across the ferry to Galveston. On some parts of ‘Beach Road’ you could actually steer your car right onto the beach, and drive straight into the water—if you were crazy enough. Edsel would never have done that. He had been extremely depressed during that time, as Angie was about to marry Clifford Silverstern. But not enough to drown himself or his beautiful car.
Back in the 1980’s, once Edsel had made it to Galveston he would take I-45 to Interstate 10, and then head back to Orange. The entire trip took about six hours. He wished he could follow that same route tonight. But Beach Road was now gone—or, at least a big portion of it. That road had been there since the Civil War. It had been damaged and repaired many times. But when Hurricane Jerry came through in 1989, it was the last straw. Beach Road has been closed ever since.
So, there would be no long drive along the beach listening to the waves. No relaxing ride on the Bolivar Ferry. The ferry is still there, but he would have had to take the detour to get to there. It just wasn’t the same.
Instead, he planned to simply drive the triangle. The cities of Port Arthur, Beaumont, and Orange outline the area known as The Golden Triangle. He wasn’t sure how many revolutions it would take.
Edsel knew Greg was right. He needed to go ahead and tell Angie how he really felt about her. When Angie’s divorce had become final, he knew it was too soon to say anything. He needed to give her some time. Then, after about six months, when Angie seemed completely over the marriage and the divorce, Edsel considered bringing it up—until Clifford started calling and coming by nearly every day, trying to get her back. So, Edsel had continued to wait.
He tried not to dwell on the fact that they could have had all those years together. Going to bed with her every night. Not just for the sex. When you love someone as deeply as he loved Angie, the physical part could be fantastic. Mind-blowing. But as much as he wanted to make love to her, he also wanted to just sleep in the same bed with her. Wake up every morning with her.
Edsel loved working on cars, but he would have been lost without his daily dose of Angie. Even during the years she was married to Clifford, Edsel still got to see her a few minutes every day.
But that wasn’t enough anymore. It didn’t have to be enough—if he would just tell her he loved her. And that he wanted to marry her. He felt a chill run up his spine. He had not said it in years—even to himself. But it was true. Edsel Torkman wanted to marry Angie Silverstern with all his heart.
Tomorrow would be the day. He would tell her before they went to Ralph’s birthday party.
*
“Look at them,” said Billy-Eye. “They’re all pushing and shoving, trying to get right up close to the stage.”
“Somebody might get hurt,” said Craig. “Maybe we’d better break it up.”
“I don’t think we could, even if we wanted to. And believe me—we don’t want to. This is why they came.”
It was 10:55 PM, and Orange Puke was nearly at the end of their second set. The Buttard boys had calculated that scheduling the first set at 7:00 would get the kids there early, and the second set at 10:00 would keep them hanging around. Nobody wanted to miss the final song of the night—_Orange Puke’s_ signature song_:_ “Puking My Guts Out (All Over You).”
A few of the kids were wearing caps. One girl was in a raincoat. But most appeared ready and willing to bear the full brunt of the inevitable vomit shower. It might as well have been real vomit as far as many mothers were concerned. Those orange stains would never come out in the wash.
“I know how they do it,” yelled a 14-year-old boy into his friend’s ear.
“How?”
“Remember last night when they tilted their heads back?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s when they did it. That’s when they poured the stuff in their mouths.”
“No. We would have seen that.”
“I’m telling you. Watch them. They must have a bottle hidden under their coats.”
“I don’t think so.”
The song was almost over. The three guitarists stepped to the edge of the stage, as they swung their guitars to their backs.
“Okay. Watch,” shouted the boy. “Here they go.”
The three women tilted their heads back. Then they hurled on top of the crowd. Girls screamed. Boys yelled. Everyone scattered.
“Yuk,” said one of the girls.
“Isn’t it cool?” Her friend wiped the orange goo off her own face.
“This place is a mess,” said Billy-Eye. “Worse than last night. We’ve got coke and popcorn and candy wrappers all over the floor. And now we’ve got puke.” He looked around. “And I think that over there is real puke.”
“But it’s worth it. Right?” Craig smiled proudly.
“I hope so,” said Billy-Eye.
“Definitely,” said Lenny as he walked up. We’re nearly out of candy. And we had a ton of it. We’ll have to make a run to Sam’s tomorrow, so we’ll have some for tomorrow night.”
“How about the video games?” said Billy-Eye.
“I don’t how much we’ve taken in, but the kids have been playing them non-stop. So, I think we’re good,” said Lenny.
“I just hope this vomit gimmick doesn’t wear off too soon,” said Billy-Eye. “When the kids get tired the band throwing up on them we’ll find out if they actually like their music.”
*
Greg was sitting on their hotel room bed in his underwear when Cynthia emerged from the bathroom. He assumed she would slither out into the dimly lit room wearing her most skimpy lingerie. So, he was surprised to see her in one of his Oxford dress shirts.
“Let’s play a little game,” she said.
“Okay.” The way she looked, he would have done anything she asked. Even if it was something crazy, like: walk down to the truck stop and get me the shoe of a truck driver. Hopefully it wouldn’t be that. But Greg could already picture the big guy chasing him down the hotel hallway wearing only one shoe.
“You can be the student, and I’ll be the teacher.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” It sounded much easier than going after that shoe.
“Greg, you’ve been a very bad boy.” She pulled a chair away from the table and slid it to a corner of the room. “So, you must be punished.”
“I understand, Miss Cynthia.”
“You’re going to have to sit here in the corner for a while.”
“For how long, Miss Cynthia?”
“I’ll let you know when your time is up. Now come over here.”
Greg walked to the chair and sat down. “I really like your shirt, Miss Cynthia.”
“Thanks. Would you like to see it up close?”
“Yes, Ma’ma. Very much.”
Cynthia sat down on Greg’s lap, facing him. “It’s a nice fabric isn’t it?”
“I think so. It’s a little hard to see in here.”
“Yes. It is kinda dark. Tell me if you can see this.” She unbuttoned the shirt and opened it.
“Oh, Miss Cynthia. I really like this fabric.” Greg kissed her on the neck and began to work his way downward.
Then they heard another woman’s voice. It almost sounded like she was in the room with them. They suddenly realized they were close to the door that opened into the adjoining room.
It was a young woman voice, speaking in perfect monotone. “Oh, Baby, you’re so good. Keep going. Yeah, Baby. That’s right.”
“Would you buy that?” whispered Cynthia.
“She needs acting lessons,” said Greg.
They both wanted to laugh out loud, but they knew they’d be heard, so they fought it. Then the man groaned loudly, followed by dead silence.
“I guess he bought it,” said Cynthia.
They started snickering and nearly fell off the chair.
“Let’s get away from this door,” whispered Greg.
They ran to the bed and jumped in. It would be their best night of lovemaking since the honeymoon.
And it wouldn’t be until the next morning that they would wonder if anyone had heard them.