Page 25 of Missile Tow
“It’s Pooch,” he answered. “Like I said.”
“Your dog’s name is Pooch?”
“My ex named him Pooch,” he claimed. “It’s weird. I know, but the name fits. You’ll see.”
“Your ex named him? She sounds fun.”
“He,”Chip immediately corrected. “My ex is a he.Wasa he. Well, he’s still a he, but he is my ex.”
“You’re gay?” I asked, wondering where the lady had gone. I felt exposed now that he’d told me he was gay, and we were unchaperoned. “That surprises me.”
Suddenly, a sleepover seemed unwise. I wasn’t sure why I had that thought, considering the setup seemed like a steamy plot for a porno. Now I was nervous about staying with the stranger.
A flash of anger crossed his face. “Yes, I’m gay,” he stated. I recognized he may just be concerned that I had an issue with gay people. “Is that an issue?”
“No. Of course not,” I stated. “I’m gay too.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said, now looking around for the lady as well. “Did you see Bertie leave?”
“I didn’t,” I chuckled, realizing we’d moved on from the topic of our sexuality. “She always so stealthy?”
“Hardly,” he scoffed. “Normally, she’d be up in my business about right now. She maintains a keen interest in my love life.”
“I think that’s sweet,” I said. “I wish I had someone keen on my love life.”
Chip started to walk away, so I followed after him. His butt should have been a criminal offense, the way his Levi’s hugged the two mounds of muscle. A slight sag in them only made my desire to see flesh even more debilitating. I sensed my crotch stirring.
Once behind the counter, he pulled out the drawer from the cash register, handing me the bills. “Count that, please, while I do the credit card receipts.”
His carefree nature in handing a stranger a wad of cash surprised me. He wasn’t uptight, that was for sure. And I found the act of familiarity attractive. He was showing me that he trusted me.
We counted in silence, occasionally checking on the other with a glance and a smile. Up close, Chip was quite handsome. His facial hair was only visible from this distance because, like the hair on his head, the five o’clock shadow on his face was blond.
His lips were slightly chapped. I wanted to offer him my ChapStick, but it was in the SUV. He’d probably make fun of the cherry flavor. My thoughts about myself became critical as usual. I looked fussy. I was too gay acting. He admitted to being gay, but probably only liked manly men like himself.
“Give me your keys. I’m gonna park your rig ’round back in a locked and fenced lot,” he said, holding out his hand.
He used words likegonna,rig,and’round back,all at once, and in one sentence. Unlike any gay man I’d ever met, he appeared unconcerned with how most people would perceive his choice of grammar.
“Thank you,” I said, yanking keys out of my pocket. “I’m sorry I hit your trash can and nearly your business.”
“I’m not,” he replied.
And with that, he walked out the front door, hopped in my SUV, and drove around the back of the store. After he’d left, I had an opportunity to check out the mercantile. I only knew to refer to it as a mercantile because the unusual word was in the name printed on a wall. Missile Mercantile.
The front windows had lit up beer signs and posters for local events. Fishing gear and the heads of dead animals were mounted on the walls. Behind the counter was a rack full of cigarettes I found unusual. You couldn’t have cigarettes displayed that way in a grocery store in Seattle.
A handwritten sign said fishing licenses and deer tags were available for purchase. The smell of greasy food came from a hot case that was full of fried chicken and potato wedges. I think Bertie referred to them as jo-jos. I also remembered she’d recommended the food for our supper.Supper,another odd word in my opinion.
I wandered along the walls that were lined with refrigerated glass cases full of mostly beer and wine coolers. Soda and water were in one case, outnumbered severely by the alcohol selection. Perhaps living in a town this size required being inebriated. White Styrofoam coolers were collecting winter-time dust above the coolers.
The two short aisles had basic food supplies. Canned goods, a few sundries, and bread. Eggs and milk were in a different cooler, opposite the booze cases. Hostess had a large display at the end of one aisle. I reached out and touched a cellophane-wrapped package of Twinkies. I loved Twinkies and Ho-Hos the best.
“That’s some good stuff there,” Chip said from behind me.
I shoved the Twinkies back in place and spun around. “I love them,” I admitted, feeling six again.
“Grab us each a pack,” he said, grinning like a fool. “We’ll have those for dessert after the chicky.”
