Chapter 2

A pair of furry dice hang from the rear mirror. Instead of numbers from one to six though, each face sported an extremely detailed depiction of men engaged in activities of a sexual nature, involving sheep nonetheless. Steve was looking at the dices with mystified awe as if he was, for the first time in his life, challenged to believe people could do such things.

The truck driver's name was Ivan Kerrilov, and when he spoke he never failed to make me think he had picked up English inside a fishing barrel, talking to tuna who couldn't read or talk but had learned it themselves using a Chinese electrical appliance manual as a textbook. Needless to say, it sounded like garbage.

"You are to each other? To get there?"

I tried to maintain a conversational tone without giving away the fact that I could not understand what the hell Ivan was saying, while Steve kept touching things that one could never know whether or not they had been inserted into orifices regularly as of late. So I tried to reply:

"We are who we are. Together. What does 'together' really mean, you know?"

With safety in mind first, and without taking his eyes off the road, Ivan took his hand off the wheel and made two little figures with his fingers that first walked casually next to each other, and then one seemed to bend over only to get the index finger of the other hand repeatedly inserted into an imaginary cavity. At first I squinted at the little charade, trying to think what could be going on in Ivan's stranger-than-fiction-mind. But when I saw his leery smile and rhythmical movement of his pelvis I irreversibly knew he was asking whether or not me and Steve were a 'thing'. I answered as delicately as appearances and circumstances allowed:

"The fuck no! We're guys!"

A bump on the road slightly jerked all three of us. Ivan grinned widely, seemingly to purposely reflect almost eighty percent of sunlight directly on to my face with his nickel-cased teeth. He constantly made me feel I was in a Bond parody film set, with the same supporting cast, only slightly bent.

"So?" asked Steve without provocation and without a care, delving deep into the insides of the truck's dashboard and assorted interior extras, like the small cupboard in the back and the impossibly tiny WC. I had seen where this kind of talk could lead and I always regretted rising to the bait. I resolved not to be tempted, especially then, and especially in that uncomfortably tiny space where touching was inevitable.

"I'm not doing that. I'm not getting into a discussion about homo-sex with you."

"Why not? Homo-sex? Who says that?" asked Steve while carefully studying the fine finishing in the beautifully lacquered cupboard doors in the miniscule kitchen area. A smell like vodka permeated the air.

"Look, he's smiling already! This must be some kind of perverted sexual fantasy coming true, two straight men hitching a hike, arguing about gay men, and sex between gay men, animals and straight men; like us. Right?"

A really big truck with a streamlined design overtook us on the left, blaring his horn all the way. At the end of the huge tank it was carrying, the driver had put up a neon sign that said 'HONK IF YOU'RE HUNG LIKE AN ARMADILLO'. Before my brain had time to fully explore the possibilities that such a statement entailed and what it really meant (for instance, what is an armadillo hung like? Is it hung like an anteater or some other animal beginning with an 'a'?), I was reflexively covering up my ears because Ivan had just honked, laughing like an immigrant version of Woody Woodpecker. On the other hand, I noticed Steve was browsing through the mini-bar, which seemed to contain enough alcohol to launch an amateur rocket into orbit. Most of the tiny bottles were empty and the rest of them were strewn around the driver's seat.

"Now do you see why we should just shut up till Memphis?"

"Ivan says talk. Good for pass time, therapy, hum, no? Like Op-Rah. Spring-er?"

"No thank you, we can have some quality time to talk later, mind you."

I thought that comment had put an end to the discussion, but when Steve sat next to me holding a mini bottle of Stolichnaya, he asked something that was a very punch-worthy thing to say:

"Haven't you ever been fingered by a lady?"

Had I the capacity, I would've boiled most of the water in my body into steam, turning my eyes into jelly in the process. But as I recall I simply foamed a bit while trying to restrain myself from actually hurting Steve, the curiously-inclined-to-talk-shit-like-that shaman:

"What the fuck kind of a question is that? Are you asking me about whether not I've ever had a finger inserted up my ass? What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Hey, just making some idle conversation. It's not like I asked if you like sucking-"

"Now wait just a minute. That's just sick."

"What? Why, women do it all the time!"

"Yeah, well, women do that all the time! Not guys!"

"Why not?"

"Because, women are supposed to suck and men to..."

"Blow?"

"Hell no!"

"So you think you're so much better than women? Is that why you're degrading them?"

"What kind of - I didn't say anything degrading, I just said -"

"That they suck. That they're not as good at you at-"

"What? Good at sucking cock? Is that what you're saying?"

I noticed Ivan gave me a very strange look that somehow implied that should sexual tension arise, it would be more than welcome on his part. For someone who couldn't talk a word of proper English, he communicated his wishes and intentions quite clearly.

"You bet your sweet ass they're better at sucking cock than I am!" I said, and Steve looked at me straight in the eye. He paused for a moment and asked with a flat, serious voice, the voice of someone doing a census:

"You think my ass is sweet? As in, lovely-looking? Perhaps, even, hot?"

"Stop saying shit like that."

"So you're just not as good at it as you'd like? Is that why you have this weird fascination and keep saying women ain't -"

"Not as good at - the hell. I do not ... Suck ... Cock! Period!"

I made it pretty certain then that the flustered red on my face was not war paint but blood past its boiling point. But Steve just had to try my limits on the subject:

"I knew you were weird, I just didn't know you hadn't come out of the closet yet."

"Come out of the what?" I asked him, and saw my fist involuntarily punching him in the face. A split second later Steve thought it was time for some kind of psychological evaluation.

"See now, that's typical behavior for a male with a repressed sexuality. You have a problem opening up to society as a homosexual man, so you become defensive; you try to look like the dominating male figure, while in fact you subconsciously chose to hitch a hike with an outspokenly gay man, in a milk truck no less. Just a moment ago admitted you're worse at sucking cock than most women. And that's why you punched me, because in this soul-searching quest you are too confined by your own-"

I punched him again, and this time it had the desired effect. He stopped talking shit and looked at me through half-open wary eyes, probably mindful that some things, and especially things concerning my manliness were better left unsaid for a good reason; a reason that involved jarred bones, bruises and broken teeth.

I was visibly seething with anger. My male pride had been hurt. I almost felt like a proud elk being stripped of its horns, an elephant without a trunk, or a stud without its junk. It also felt like Ivan was eying me creepily, and grinning incongruously to every mention of a word even remotely related to intercourse, like 'milk', 'butter', or 'hoe'. Before abject terror pulled at my instincts and made me leap outside a truck doing eighty on the interstate, he turned and said to me with an approving tone, proudly waving a badly groomed finger in the air:

"You talk like man. Ivan like that. Sexy; like a man."

I tried not to think of that as a compliment, or even a comment of any kind.

Steve looked slightly miffed, sitting somewhat uncomfortably, nursing his jaw. It looked like the last punch had left him a purple-coloured souvenir. It's only reasonable then that he must've unwillingly disconnected his mouth from his brain when he said:

"I hope you are not developing a thing for me, because I'd have you know I'm not into-"

I was about to punch him a third time in that exact same, bruised sweet spot and if God was a proponent of applied justice, I would have broken his jaw with the added bonus that that would have probably made him shut up for the rest of the ordeal. But I suddenly felt something with the apparent magnitude and force of a giant metal claw tugging at my left shoulder. It was Ivan who said:

"Memphis. We here. Look."

And I turned and saw the sign that said 'Memphis NEXT EXIT'. I saw the bleak unattractive greenish scenery that reminded me of mosquitoes and moonshine, and I was instantly overcome with agony, because the dreaded moment had arrived. We were about to meet Eileen. Which reminded me then to finish what I had started, so I punched Steve in the face. A moment, a grunt and an expletive later he was complaining:

"What the fuck was that for?"

"That's for starting this shard business with Eileen. Why her?"

"A close, intimate relationship. Female softness of heart. She's the best candidate."

"You might want to meet her before having an educated opinion first."

"I'm sure you're overreacting, just like with the whole homo thing."

I only had to slightly give him the eye, and he fell silent again, looking the other way. He then said with conviction:

"I'm pretty sure saying she's crazy and denouncing your relationship is just another way of coping with the fact that you're a homo-"

I'm not a violent man per se, and it definitely says something for a person when he's so eager to punch people in the face and break their legs, but in Steve's case, I would bet he could get the Pope mad enough to beat him to death with a bible. Before there was time to choke him to death, Ivan effectively disarmed me with but a few words that carried a very special meaning:

"So, who is going to pay Ivan by butt-sex now we here?"

I think my genitalia shrunk to microscopic levels instantly, and my anus clenched itself airtight. I looked at Steve in terror and he simply smiled back, impervious to what the words implied for my gender. Impossibly, trying to ignore the inevitable I smiled back as well and thought that staying alive had its good moments, and its rape moments. This looked like a rape moment. For some inexplicable reason, all I could think of was Nirvana and Kodak.

Ivan waved his goodbyes as enthusiastically as a little Russian kid who got vodka and tickets to a bear fight for Christmas. He was holding a small wad of cash in one hand, and his smile shone with the radiant intensity of the finest nickel cases soviet dentistry had to offer.

"'Buy' butt-sex! Jesus, what a horror. I thought he'd rape me and you'd just sit by and watch!"

"Would you have enjoyed that? It's understandable to have a fear of penetration."

"Steve ... Seriously. I don't want to hear that kind of bullshit. For the last time, I'm not a homo."

"Nobody is. Not the first time. You're just experimenting. I can grok that."

By that time I had mastered my instincts and even though a proper response would have been a punch in the face and a kick in the nuts, I was content to sigh and get on with the job at hand which seemed a lot more likely to test my limits than hearing Steve's rants about me being gay.

"Just ... Just ring the bell."

Steve shrugged and rang the bell. We were standing in the front porch of Eileen's house, a three-story typical southern mansion that reeked of money. If I closed my eyes I could almost hear "Ol' man river" and smell the corn. A moment or two passed. Nothing happened while we waited. I was looking at the old, thick wooden door idly. Steve rang the bell once more. Still, the buzz didn't come. So we exchanged a couple of knowing looks; I looked under the door mat while Steve picked up a couple of plant pots and looked underneath. Nothing. No key. Steve said:

"Maybe she popped out for a while."

"'Crazy' Eileen Novorski does not just 'pop out' for a while. Crazy people, at least Eileen-crazy people do not 'pop out'."

"Why?"

"Because she's agoraphobic, among many other things."

Steve's face froze in a blank expression while he was trying to connect the dots. Failing miserably, he asked nonetheless: