Dark End of the Street

Jon held the fat microphone to his lips and called out that sacred song, so haunting and beautiful that he almost wanted to cry, as the words escaped from his lips:

Down in Louisiana,

Where the alligators grow so mean,

There lives a girl, I swear to the world,

Makes the alligators seem tame.

Polk Salad Annie.

The college kids went wild, man, as he dipped his shoulders and shook all over. Perfect just kept watching, jaw dropped down, and cigarette burning between her cherry-red nails. He sang like E would, right to her. He wanted the holy words to float through the air and into her ears twisting through the miles of veins right to her heart. He wanted to see her wiggle that fine heart-shaped butt and crinkle up that little rabbit nose. Man, he could feel himself heatin’ up singin’ about ole Polk Salad Annie, that woman wild as hell. He started imaginin’ as he was singin’ – beer splatterin’ all around him – that Perfect was like Annie. He imagined her in a bikini made out of animal hide, showin’ off her tight little belly, maybe carryin’ a spear down in the bayou. She’d have a wildcat she kept like a damned pet and she’d scream like hell when Jon made love to her up in the trees and sloshin’ around in the mud.

“Polk Salad Annie!” Jon sang on the second chorus. “Everybody said it was a shame… that her mamma was workin’ on a chain gang.”

Jon sang it like Perfect’s mamma was the one who done wrong. And she had. She’d created a woman so damned fine that it was distractin’ to men ’round the world.

Jon looked over at her and ignored the college girl runnin’ her tongue across her lips or the two women clawin’ at his feet. He just kept singin’ to his woman. His Ann-Margret.

Ten minutes later, Perfect had Jon by the arm and was leading him back to her car. She may not be an expert on killing people, but she knew they’d been seen way too much tonight. If there was killing to be done, they would do it outside Oxford.

“That was interesting,” she said, not wanting to tell him that he couldn’t sing a lick and that everyone was laughing at him. She didn’t want to blow the ego thing. She wanted him to think that all those loopy college girls wanted him for his talent, not ’cause he had a bulge the size of Texas in his leather pants.

After he sang, those girls wouldn’t leave him alone. They kept sending beers over to him, only to be replaced by Dr Peppers. They passed phone numbers like they were thirteen, ignoring Perfect completely, and making obscene eye contact across the room. But the thing that touched Perfect tonight, really made her feel like she had his balls in her handbag, was that not once did his eyes leave her face. Or tits.

He was droolin’ for her. But they all did. They all did what she wanted.

She popped the lock on the car door, feeling a little numb after the daiquiris. The drive-in’s parking lot empty and cold. No lights. Paper bags blowing around in the wind.

She felt his arms around her waist, a strong scent of leather and sweat. His thick lips against the back of her neck. She felt a shiver down her spine like before her time with Levi. Before sex became something that was done to her.

A present. He would do. He’d be her present to herself.

As Jon’s arms wrapped around her, his pelvis rotating against her butt, she said, “Jon, I want you to do something for me.”

“Yes, Miss Perfect?”

Miss Perfect done kicked in the door at the Ole Miss Motel surprising the hell out of Jon. All day long she’d been lookin’ at him like he rode the short bus to school, now she was rippin’ that nice Hanes T-shirt his mamma bought for him. Didn’t even close the door, wind and rain just bustin’ through, as she pushed him onto a bed like a dang bearcat.

Bed was round and red and had this real fancy canopy above it that reminded him of a little merry-go-round. Red lights ran up and around its four posts like blood workin’ in his veins as she crawled on top of his chest and pushed his wrists to the bed. Thought she was gonna tie him up or somethin’, until she reached over, still breathin’ real hard, and punched on this little ole car stereo on the bed. Country music came out from speakers up by a mirror at the top of the canopy as Miss Perfect got off him to close the door.

Must’ve been all them Dr Peppers makin’ him drunk, cause them little lights flickerin’ around the bed made him feel kind of woozy. He imagined the bed was their own little boat and they’d end up on an island somewhere, where’d she have to dress in animal hides like Polk Salad Annie and shimmy up twisted coconut trees so they could eat.