Shriver (19 page)

“And here I was beginning to
like
you,” he thought he
heard her say through the glass. Or maybe she said, “Isn't that just
like
you.” In any case, he was almost certain he saw tears rolling down her face.

“Please, Simone,” he cried, but she ignored him. He held on for three blocks before realizing she really was not going to stop. She made a hard right turn and the wheels jumped a curb. Shriver went sailing and landed hard on the sidewalk.

He lay on the cement, rubbing his now doubly sore behind, and watched Simone's taillights disappear into the night. “Simone,” he shouted after her, “I am an imposter!” But she was gone.

“Well,” he said to a stop sign, “that didn't work out very well.”

On the brief but hair-raising ride, he'd gotten all turned around and was not at all sure which way led back to Dr. Keaudeen's house. On still-shuddering legs he walked a block or so in one direction, but nothing seemed familiar, so he headed in the opposite direction, but that didn't seem right either. Eventually he found himself on a major town road. He walked on for several blocks, then, totally lost, he sat on the curb and rested.

How could he possibly screw this up more? he wondered. Still, there was one silver lining: Simone must have had feelings for him to have reacted that way.

He was consoling himself with this thought when a single sheet of paper, blown by a warm, mosquito-infested breeze, landed at his feet. He picked it up and saw a block of the familiar font. At the top: “The Imposter,
page 6
.” He started to read:

“. . . and as he gazed down at the clouds far below, the imposter wondered if . . .”

And then the words turned into little black rivulets, and he
was unable to read further. At that moment, he felt like the loneliest man in this harsh, unforgiving universe.

Then he heard the familiar rattle of Edsel Nixon's jeep. He looked up to see the unmistakable vehicle pass through the intersection a block away. He jumped up and ran down the street, waving his arms like a madman. “Edsel!” he shouted, his eyes half-shut as the bugs bounced off his face. At the intersection he turned left. He thought he saw the jeep's taillights, now two or three blocks away. “Edsel!”

He ran on, seeing only a few feet of sidewalk through his slitted eyes. There was no way he was going to catch the jeep. The tiny red taillights were getting smaller. He considered slowing down but feared the loss of blood—at least at his present velocity the insects seemed to have a hard time landing and digging in—so he carried on. But after a few blocks he felt his lungs burning, his legs losing steam. It had been years since he'd run like this—so long ago he couldn't remember.

Walking now, his lungs aching, he felt the mosquitoes latch on to his hands and neck, but he didn't care. In the pale light of the street lamps he saw only a deserted block. An insect buzzed into his open mouth. He gagged and spat it onto the sidewalk.

Wait. He recognized the street. He'd been here before. Across the way stood a familiar building—Slander's Restaurant. He reached the restaurant door and pulled. Locked.

“No!” he cried. Inside, the place was dark, chairs upturned on top of tables. Bugs ricocheted off the windows.

He looked up the street, saw a red neon light:
OPEN
. He ran to the door. Inside, he found a large room lit by weak fluorescent tubes that hummed across the ceiling.

“Hello.” On the far side of the room a young woman sat behind a tall counter reading a book. Shriver took several
steps toward her. “Mr. Shriver?” she said. He looked closer. Cassandra, from Teresa Apple's class. “What are
you
doing here?” she asked.

“I'm just taking shelter,” he answered, peeling another bug from his tongue.

“Uh-huh. That's a new one.”

“No, really. It's the mosquitoes.”

“Whatever.” She turned back to her book. “Take your time. Let me know if you have any questions.”

As he stepped farther into the room he saw that display cases lined the walls, front to back. He paused, taking in the bold titles of the magazines there:
Swank
,
Cavalier
,
Stud
,
Gent
,
Wet
,
Slit
,
Juggs
,
Hombre
,
Pump
,
MiLF
,
GiLF
,
18 & Anxious
,
Horndog
,
Hard, Wood
,
Spunk
,
Facial
,
Hole
,
Hairy Hole
,
Aureole
,
Skank
,
Slut
,
Teen Slut
,
Slut Mamas
,
Boobs
,
Bodacious Boobs
,
Tiny Tits
,
Splooge
,
Babysitters
,
Candy Stripers
,
Teabaggers
,
Teen Teabaggers
,
Ho
,
Dirty Sanchez's House of Ho's
,
Golden Shower
,
D Cup
,
A Cup
,
Cleveland Steamer
,
Mammal
—and the endless cover photos of naked flesh.

Shriver's face went warm. He turned away from the magazines only to see, on the opposite wall, row after row of video boxes, all featuring more exposed skin:
Genital Hospital
,
Anal Babies
,
On Golden Blonde
,
Sorest Rump
,
Foreskins and a Funeral
,
A Beautiful Behind
,
Gonad the Barbarian
,
Anal Babies 2
,
Schindler's Fist
,
Free My Willy
,
Shaving Ryan's Privates
,
Edward Penishands
,
A Hard Man Is Good to Find, Million Dollar Boobies
,
Glad He Ate Her
,
Legally Boned
,
Anal Babies 3
.

“You probably think it's pretty funny,” Cassandra said from her perch behind the counter. “After all that grief I gave you about your novel being so dirty, huh?” She held up the book she was reading:
Goat Time
.

Shriver turned and headed for the exit. Through a small
window in the door he saw a blizzard of mosquitoes. He couldn't go out there again. His hands, his arms, his neck—they all itched.

“Do you know how much a college education costs nowadays?” Cassandra asked.

He peered up and down the block.

“This is my third job,” Cassandra continued. “And it pays better than the other two put together.”

Headlights spilled across the pavement, bugs dancing in the beams. A sleek sports car sped past the store, its engine growling remarkably loud, its cloth top down. Inside sat Delta Malarkey-Jones, one pudgy hand on the steering wheel, the other fending off a swarm of bugs.

“Delta!” Shriver cried, pushing open the door. He ran across the sidewalk and into the street. “Delta!” But the roar of her car engine drowned out the sound of his voice. “Stop!” Up ahead, her taillights flared in the dark as she braked at a traffic light.

He ran as fast as he could. When he was about twenty yards away, he saw the side street traffic light turn yellow. Delta's light would turn green any second now. She sat in the convertible, waving her thick arms at the marauding bugs.

“
Delta!
”

He reached her just as the light switched to green.

Without bothering to open the door, he jumped into the passenger seat.

“Mr. Shriver?”

“Go!”

Delta applied her considerable weight onto the accelerator and the car jolted forward. Mosquitoes splattered against the windshield.

“I can't get the darn top to go down!” Delta yelled.

Mosquitoes buzzed inside Shriver's ears. He swatted at them, then realized the buzzing sound came from somewhere else. He turned to see a motorcycle fast approaching from behind. The driver wore all black, his face covered by a tinted, insect-flecked helmet visor. It was the man who'd been following him all day, the man who may have done away with Gonquin Smithee!

“Delta,” he said, “can you lose that motorcycle?”

She looked into the rearview mirror and smiled. “You betcha.” She leaned onto the gas pedal and the little convertible tore down the street. Shriver looked back and saw the motorcycle get smaller. The wheels screeched as Delta took a hard right at a yellow traffic light.

“This is exciting!” she said. “Where do you want to go?”

“There!” Shriver shouted, pointing to a familiar one-story building. Delta swung the wheel and the car caromed into a small parking lot. Shriver sprang from the seat and headed to the door.

Inside, the Bloody Duck was even smokier than yesterday.

“Well, hello there.”

From out of the cigarette fog came the alabaster waitress. She took Shriver's hand and led him to the same booth he'd sat in with Blunt. Delta followed close behind and plopped herself down across from him.

The waitress trained her green-apple eyes on Shriver. “What can I get you today?”

He turned to Delta. “I don't have any cash on me. Can you . . . ?”

“Don't you have any plastic?” she asked.

“Plastic?”

“Credit cards! You mean you don't have a credit card?”

“Course I do.” Shriver remembered he did have a credit card—sometimes he ordered items for delivery—but he kept it in a drawer at home. “I just don't have it with me.”

“We don't accept plastic,” the waitress said.

“Oh, all right,” Delta said, pulling cash from her purse. “I always bring a big wad to these things anyway. You never know when you're going to be out gallivanting around with some tightwad author.”

“Thank you. I'll take a whiskey, please,” Shriver told the waitress. “Make it a double.”

“And I'll have a Big Wet Screw on the Beach,” Delta said.

The waitress blinked. “Uh, I don't think we can make one of those here.”

“No problem. How about a shot of to-kill-ya and a beer on the side?”

The waitress turned and disappeared into the mist.

“So,” Delta said, “a car chase? What was
that
all about?”

Shriver removed his glasses and covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Delta. I'm in so much trouble.”

“What happened?”

Shriver peeked at her through his fingers.

“Tell me!” Delta ordered.

“I was at Dr. Keaudeen's house,” he began.

She gasped. “That nympho gynecologist? Did you sleep with her?”

“No! I mean—”

Delta gasped again. “You
did
sleep with her!”

“I didn't sleep with
anybody
.”

The waitress materialized, and as she set their drinks on the table, Shriver looked over Delta's shoulder and recognized the graffiti there:
NOW THAT I'M ENLIGHTENED, I'M JUST AS MISERABLE AS EVER
.

Delta picked up her shot glass. “
Salut.
” Shriver hoisted his tumbler and they both drank. Delta smacked her lips and said, “So, are you going to tell me what happened with Keaudeen or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

She watched him with eager, bulging eyes.

“That part doesn't matter,” he said.

“It matters to
me
.”

“What would you say,” he said, “if I told you I'm not who you think I am?”

She looked at him closely. He noticed that her eyes were slightly crossed, as if she were staring at her own nose.

“Okay. Then who
are
you?”

“I don't know anymore.”

“Is this some kind of existential riddle or something?”

“What I mean is,” Shriver said, “I'm not Shriver.”

“You're not Shriver?”

“No, I am Shriver, but I'm not the Shriver you think I am.”

“Are you drunk already?”

“That's beside the point.”

“Well, you're talking nonsense.”

“What I mean is, I'm not the Shriver who wrote
Goat Time
.”

“Of course you are.”

“I'm not.”

“Then which Shriver are you?”

“Some
other
Shriver.”

She cocked her head. “I don't get it.”

“It's a mistake. They got the wrong Shriver.”

“Nonsense. The brochure photo . . .”

“That's not even me in that picture!”

“Well, who is it, then?” she asked. “And why'd we have to lose that motorcycle, anyway?”

“I think someone might be trying to kill Shriver.”

“Who'd want to kill you?”

“Not
me
! The
real
Shriver.”

She thought a moment, then smiled.

“Ah, I get it. You're pulling my leg. This is some kind of stunt. It's just the kind of thing the Shriver in your book would do.”

“But it's not
my
book!”

“Sure, sure. Say, have you had a chance to look at
my
book? I really wrote it, by the way. I
am
the real Delta Malarkey-Jones.”

“You think I'm crazy,” Shriver said.

“You're
all
crazy,” she said with a laugh. “Every last one of you.”

What did it matter if Delta did or didn't believe him? He had to get to Simone and explain. But for now he would just get drunk. He finished his whiskey in one gulp.

“So, back to Lady Gyno,” Delta said.

Shriver wiped at his nose as he recalled the musky perfume of Dr. Keaudeen's thong. “Nothing happened.”