it, Al?”
“Tuesday.
“I mean like is it yesterday or tomorrow?”
“Today’s today.”
She looked at him with a concern approaching fear. “That’s what I was afraid of. I got to meet Papa. I was hoping it was yesterday. I didn’t see Papa yesterday, because I’m fresh and sweet.”
Ordinarily Ward might have wondered about her confusion, but his hand supporting her arm was far enough down that his knuckles touched her breast, and Ward felt like some prehistoric saurian with two nerve centers. The message from his knuckles warped the impulses from his brain.
In her innocence, Dolores had lied to herself in the corridor. He was a teat man. Ruth Gordon had been right about his obsession, but Dolores was in worse shape.
“Your attitude’s abnormal, Dolores. Your father shouldn’t be so protective, and you shouldn’t let him be. An Electra complex can lead to complications. Your father should see a psychiatrist.”
“My father is a psychiatrist.”
“Then he lacks insight… Freddie told me your papa was in politics.”
“He is.”
Well, Ward thought, the two professions did overlap in certain areas, and perhaps her father needed more help than she. Buoyed by the thought of making love to this splendid girl in a three-way manner, therapy for him, for her, and for her father, Ward was prancing when they rounded the corner of the building and headed down through the parking lot.
Suddenly Ward spotted a Schweinjaeger 605, first in a line of motorcycles angled backwards against the wall. He whirled Dolores around to inspect the machine, all of its details visible in the overhead light of the parking lot. It had double chrome mufflers with a bank of triple headlights, the center one a spot, and a tandem seat with a leather-upholstered backrest and safety belt. Instead of the conventional chain drive, it had a stainless steel differential rod.
“Look at this,” he breathed in admiration to Dolores, noticing below them three motorcyclists lounging against the wall, each with his right boot sole propped against the bricks in identical fashion, each with helmet slung on the right side of the belt.
The Schweinjaeger’s speedometer was set for r.p.m.s rather than miles per hour, the mark of a quality product, but Ward thought the owner had overdone the decorations. Raccoon tails dangled from the handlebars. A decal of an American flag was pasted on the side of the gas tank, and, circling, he could read on the mud guard: SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL HARD HATS.
One of the loungers left the wall and approached Ward and Dolores, walking with a crab-like sidling, keeping his left thigh forward. Probably a victim of a traffic accident, Ward thought, as he drew nearer. He wore a crew cut, Ward noticed before the man put on his helmet. Most of his hair was in his heavy, scarred black eyebrows and tufting from his nose and ears.
Deference seemed appropriate, as the man was almost thirty, over six feet tall, and nearly half as wide across the shoulders.
“Is this your bike, sir?” Ward asked, smiling.
The man’s helmet also displayed an American flag, and sewn above his right pocket was a blue strip holding three white Navy stars with red centers. He didn’t return Ward’s smile, and his voice rumbled, “That’s my hawg.”
“Whatever you call it, it’s beautiful.”
“Take a good long look, boy. Most likely it’s the last you’ll ever see… You all right, Little Mama?”
“I’m coming down too fast, Big Papa,” Dolores said. “I’m going to get the agonies.”
“I’ll get you to a brewery, directly… Honey, has this Pinko been molesting you?”
“He’s not a Red. He’s Al. He wants to ask you if he can take me home.”
“All the way to Orange County? Little Mama, you know you can’t tell it when you meet a Red. They’re subversive.” He swung his massive head toward Ward. “Whose home you aiming to take Little Mama to, Pinko?”
With sickening certainty Ward realized he had misread the
“Tuesday.
“I mean like is it yesterday or tomorrow?”
“Today’s today.”
She looked at him with a concern approaching fear. “That’s what I was afraid of. I got to meet Papa. I was hoping it was yesterday. I didn’t see Papa yesterday, because I’m fresh and sweet.”
Ordinarily Ward might have wondered about her confusion, but his hand supporting her arm was far enough down that his knuckles touched her breast, and Ward felt like some prehistoric saurian with two nerve centers. The message from his knuckles warped the impulses from his brain.
In her innocence, Dolores had lied to herself in the corridor. He was a teat man. Ruth Gordon had been right about his obsession, but Dolores was in worse shape.
“Your attitude’s abnormal, Dolores. Your father shouldn’t be so protective, and you shouldn’t let him be. An Electra complex can lead to complications. Your father should see a psychiatrist.”
“My father is a psychiatrist.”
“Then he lacks insight… Freddie told me your papa was in politics.”
“He is.”
Well, Ward thought, the two professions did overlap in certain areas, and perhaps her father needed more help than she. Buoyed by the thought of making love to this splendid girl in a three-way manner, therapy for him, for her, and for her father, Ward was prancing when they rounded the corner of the building and headed down through the parking lot.
Suddenly Ward spotted a Schweinjaeger 605, first in a line of motorcycles angled backwards against the wall. He whirled Dolores around to inspect the machine, all of its details visible in the overhead light of the parking lot. It had double chrome mufflers with a bank of triple headlights, the center one a spot, and a tandem seat with a leather-upholstered backrest and safety belt. Instead of the conventional chain drive, it had a stainless steel differential rod.
“Look at this,” he breathed in admiration to Dolores, noticing below them three motorcyclists lounging against the wall, each with his right boot sole propped against the bricks in identical fashion, each with helmet slung on the right side of the belt.
The Schweinjaeger’s speedometer was set for r.p.m.s rather than miles per hour, the mark of a quality product, but Ward thought the owner had overdone the decorations. Raccoon tails dangled from the handlebars. A decal of an American flag was pasted on the side of the gas tank, and, circling, he could read on the mud guard: SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL HARD HATS.
One of the loungers left the wall and approached Ward and Dolores, walking with a crab-like sidling, keeping his left thigh forward. Probably a victim of a traffic accident, Ward thought, as he drew nearer. He wore a crew cut, Ward noticed before the man put on his helmet. Most of his hair was in his heavy, scarred black eyebrows and tufting from his nose and ears.
Deference seemed appropriate, as the man was almost thirty, over six feet tall, and nearly half as wide across the shoulders.
“Is this your bike, sir?” Ward asked, smiling.
The man’s helmet also displayed an American flag, and sewn above his right pocket was a blue strip holding three white Navy stars with red centers. He didn’t return Ward’s smile, and his voice rumbled, “That’s my hawg.”
“Whatever you call it, it’s beautiful.”
“Take a good long look, boy. Most likely it’s the last you’ll ever see… You all right, Little Mama?”
“I’m coming down too fast, Big Papa,” Dolores said. “I’m going to get the agonies.”
“I’ll get you to a brewery, directly… Honey, has this Pinko been molesting you?”
“He’s not a Red. He’s Al. He wants to ask you if he can take me home.”
“All the way to Orange County? Little Mama, you know you can’t tell it when you meet a Red. They’re subversive.” He swung his massive head toward Ward. “Whose home you aiming to take Little Mama to, Pinko?”
With sickening certainty Ward realized he had misread the
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