3. 1980s
“Get out. You piece of shit. Out!”
It wasn’t the first time Jason Young had been kicked out of a house. Naked.
Buck-ass, twig and berries swaying in the breeze. He didn’t even blush. He did, however, try to prevent it. This was one place he wasn’t eager to cross off the map.
“Come on, honey. Calm down! Will you just hold on?”
“Get your shit and get out of my house.”
His pants were…
Where were his pants?
Around his ankles on the couch last night…
then… She tossed them out the door and they landed in a pile at his feet with his socks and underwear.
Then one boot wedged itself under the lawn chair Maggie had tanned on yesterday.
She’d untied the strap of her string bikini to get the sun on her back, her bronze skin slick and glistening with baby oil.
She aimed the other boot at his head. He ducked at the last second, and the boot bounced off the back tire of his Panhead instead of his skull.
“Go easy, honey. It was an honest mistake,” he said.
“You know what?” Maggie leaned against the door frame and popped out her hip, her small, perky tits peeking through a strip of pale pink lace.
“I’ve put up with a lot, Jay. Coming by whenever you feel like it, disappearing for weeks at a time.
Showing up again, thinking you’re gonna get a piece of this. ”
She motioned to her crotch, barely covered by the bottom edge of her nightie. A chorus of catcalls and whistles sounded around the trailer park.
Great. They had an audience. Maggie did enjoy putting on a show.
“Not anymore. No sir. Not calling, getting wasted and passing out on my bathroom floor—those things I can take. The shit you just pulled? No sir, I will not stand for that.”
“I said I was sorry!”
She disappeared and came back with the T-shirt he wore last night and his leather jacket.
“I ought to keep this just to piss on it and light it on fire.”
“Come on. You don’t want to do that.”
“You’re right. I don’t. My piss is too good for it. As far as you’re concerned, my vagina is closed. You got it? We are done.”
She tossed the jacket, and he caught it inches from the ground.
“Now get off my lot, Jason Young. Don’t make me call Digger. You know damn well what he’ll do.”
“You don’t need to call Digger, honey.”
Jason always managed to talk himself back inside her trailer and into her creaky queen bed before her brother Lance, aka Digger, pulled up in his rust-bucket pickup truck to pound his ass.
Today, the door slamming on his naked ass felt permanent.
“Sweet mother Mary, what did you do this time?”
Jason turned and found Jim from the trailer next door scratching his balls through a pair of stained sweatpants.
Clutching his jacket over his junk, his butt cheeks catching a few rays of morning sunshine, Jason started collecting his other clothes from the sparse grass and cigarette butts making up Maggie’s front lawn.
“Nothing.” Jason sighed. “I called her Molly.”
“Her name’s Maggie,” Jim said.
“Uh-huh.”
The kicker was, he didn’t even know a Molly. Whoever she was messed up a perfectly good thing. He actually liked Maggie and Tennessee. Dressing to the spirited cheers around the trailer park, Jason doubted he would be welcome back any time soon.