Chapter 9 Sam
SAM
Menacing in the parking lot is none other than the towering figure of Pedro himself, who squints down on us from beneath the shade of his enormous sombrero. His hands clasp a sign that proclaims the name of this Day-Glo Tartarus: SOUTH OF THE BORDER.
“This seems offensive,” Ash mutters dubiously beside me. He seems to be very deliberately avoiding the seemingly omniscient gaze of Pedro. “This is offensive, right?”
“No way,” I protest half-heartedly, before I immediately concede. “Well, yeah. Probably.”
“So why are we stopping here?”
“Well, y’know, my family would vacation up this way sometimes, when we were kids, and me and my sisters would always beg my parents to stop when we passed this place. They never would, though.” I nudge his shoulder. “Hey. I’m just fulfilling my childhood curiosity.”
I turn my head this way and that, gaze roaming over the sprawling plaza.
It’s got an almost overwhelming number of buildings and attractions, most of which look like they’ve been plucked from some mid-century wild west cartoon and then dropped here untouched.
Everywhere I look there are signs, bidding us to stop and see Pedro! or buy fireworks here!
For the size of it, though, there aren’t many visitors I can see. Or maybe they all went inside where the air conditioning is. It’s positively blistering out, sun brutal and scorching, and I know Ash must be broiling inside of his ratty sweater.
I was kind of hoping that this whole oddity of a roadside attraction would jostle him out of his foul mood, actually, but no dice so far. He’s been totally listless since I put the kibosh on the stupid game.
And I don’t know why I even said it. He basically gave me the perfect chance to confess, a real easy segue: Yes, I’m attracted to men, and specifically you. Let’s get it on at the next hotel! Hell, let’s pull over and fuck on the side of the I-95.
I just couldn’t. Make myself say it. Admit it? Out loud?
The way he’s sulking, maybe he was hoping I’d say yes?
Maybe that was his way of telling me he wants to fuck.
But without him telling me in so many words, I don’t know for sure, and I don’t want to put myself out there and look like a fool.
I’m not good at the rejection thing. I’ve had more than enough of it the past few days.
I feel like I’m on a timer, and that timer expires the minute we reach Miami.
Like I’m being rushed to explore this thing, urgently, but I’m just too scared.
But if I wait, the pretty boy I want to explore it with so badly is going to slip away and disappear and I won’t get another chance with him.
But that’s not the end of the world, right?
Except I want him. Specifically.
Nothing I can do about it now. I’ll make it up to him later. For now I lead him to a tower topped with yet another giant sombrero, accompanied by another sign entreating us to ride to the top. There’s a small line for the glass elevator that will take us there.
“It’s a dollar apiece?” Ash gasps, astounded.
I fish out my wallet. “I’ll pay for it. This shit was my idea, anyway.”
We inch forward in line until it’s our turn, then pay the fare, and we’re in and on our way.
Ash stumbles as the rickety car bears us steadily upwards, lids drooping and his chin touching his chest and oh no, not another seizure.
I have visions of him punching through the glass as he collapses and falls to his death to the pavement below.
I take firm hold of his arm. “Ash, you good? You faded out on me.”
He raises his head. “Just dizzy.”
We step out of the elevator and onto the observation deck in the shade of the festive overhang, and now I can really see the full extent of the whole place.
It’s even vaster than it seems from the parking lot, taking up both sides of the road: restaurants and gift shops, a motel and even a post office.
There’s a small amusement park of sorts, too.
I can hear, faintly, the funhouse music emitting from the carousel as it whirls around and around.
And of course there’s bright neon signage absolutely friggin’ everywhere.
“Look, Ash,” I intone. “Everything the neon touches is Pedro’s kingdom.”
Ash grips the handrail. I can tell he’s fighting a smile. “This is hell,” he says. “This is where I’m gonna go when I die. I just know it.”
I laugh, my shoulder bumping his as I lean my arms on the rail. “Guess I’ll see you there. Don’t worry, I’ll translate all the bad Spanish for you.”
His blue-hazel eyes seem to trace the course of the veins in my forearms down to my hands, before they flick up to meet my gaze.
And man, in the light of day, they really are spectacular.
His face in general is. I can count every freckle scattered across the bridge of his adorable nose. “Had your fill yet?” he asks.
“No way. Look.” Reaching around him just so I have an excuse to touch him, enveloping him into an almost-hug, I point off into the distance. “They’ve got putt-putt, Ash. I love putt-putt.”
“What the hell is putt-putt?”
“You’ve never played putt-putt?” My eyes widen. “Oh, now we have to try it.”
He tugs at the collar of his sweater. “Okay, but I need something else to wear first. I’m dying.”
So we ride back down the elevator and stop in one of the many gift shops long enough for Ash to buy himself a colorful tee, and he changes quickly in the parking lot. Sweater safely stowed in the backseat, we’re off across the lot towards Pedroland Park, following the notes of the carousel music.
“Oh,” Ash says. “It’s mini-golf.”
“Yeah!”
“I have no idea how to play mini-golf. Or regular golf.”
“Hit the ball in the hole,” I say. “In as few swings as possible. It’s different. It’s fun. You’ll see.”
It’s not, really. I mean, it’s golf for kids.
It’s golf with colors and a theme, but that still makes it more interesting than regular golf, in my humble opinion.
With enthusiasm, I collect our putters and our balls—orange for Ash, blue for me—before we head to the course, the scorecard and a stubby pencil stashed in the pocket of my jeans.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Ash complains, wielding his putter with all the grace of a toddler on speed and nearly taking my head off in the process.
“You can stop swinging that thing around like a baseball bat for starters.”
He adopts the stance of a Major League batter instead, and now I’m really concerned he’s trying to give me a concussion. “Toss me the ball.”
“Dude, no. Here.” I approach from behind, sliding my hands down his arms to adjust his grip on the putter. “Like this,” I say.
And yes, of course I’m aware of his body against mine as I show him how to swing, the way his hair smells—herbal, like stolen hotel shampoo—because it’s currently pressed to my cheek.
And, really, just how well he fits between my arms, nice and pliant as he lets me hit the ball for him with just enough force to send it off across the tacky plastic grass.
It rolls to a halt just in front of the hole.
“Look,” I say. “You almost got a hole in one. You’re a natural.”
He looks away from me. “Right.”
I almost offer to help again. Just another excuse to touch him, to flirt, to get even more physical—but he’s obviously still smarting from my rejection.
I should’ve just told him the truth.
And then I sorta feel like I’m suffocating when I think about what if I did.
How different this interaction might be going now.
He’d be flirting back, probably, not stiffly giving me his back as he bumps his little orange ball into the hole and turns to me expectantly.
Face blank, carefully composed as I manage to get the ball in in one swing.
A deadpan good for you as we walk to the next hole, me scribbling our score down on the cards, the enthusiastic half of our party.
I don’t know how to walk it back though, if I have the guts, or when I even would.
There are too many people. Screaming flailing children with their road-weary families, waiting to get hit by one of Ash’s wayward swings, and he’s not really trying—he’s just seeing how far he can get the ball away from the hole at this point.
“The game ends faster if you aim for the hole,” I offer.
“I know how golf works.”
I don’t point out that he just finished telling me he didn’t know anything about golf. He’s in a snit and it’s my fault, I guess. Maybe he feels like I’m leading him on.
I want to tell him I’m not. I don’t, of course.
The game ends prematurely at the tenth hole when he sends the ball sky-high and we lose track of it entirely until we hear it plop in some distant fountain. He gives me a look that is part helpless and part defiant, swinging his putter like a baton.
“I lost,” he says.
I stifle a sigh. “I guess so.”
We never find his ball.
After that we seek refuge from the oppressive heat in one of the many restaurants, both of us sweaty by then. The air-conditioning is a welcome respite; even the menu looks good—if greasy—but after the ordeal of putt-putt it’s exactly what I’m in the mood for.
“I think you might be a little sunburnt,” I remark to Ash, setting my chin on my hand.
He glances at me, a stripe of pink across his nose, and shrugs. “Probably.”
“They might have something here at one of the gift shops. Aloe vera or whatever, you know. If it hurts too bad—”
“It’s fine.” He brushes me off. “Sunburn never killed anyone.”
“Just wait til you’re in Florida. The sun’s fucking brutal there.” I shove my hair out of my face. The wet heat’s made it crazy curly, clinging to my damp face in a way that’s driving me insane. “It’s like painful, it’s so strong. And you’re so pale it’ll burn you to a crisp.”
He observes his own forearms. “I’m not that pale. I just seem like it compared to you.”
So I reach across the table to align my arm with his and compare. The contrast is stark. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”