SHORT STORIES: The Killer Whales

Short Stories

Hitchhiking through Illinois on Highway 57 isn’t glamorous, even when you’re nineteen and restless. The terrain is flat and dull, with cornfields and fast food restaurants like Bob Evans and Long John Silver’s. The signs’ garish images promise delicious, exciting meals. However, when you wander inside one of the establishments, a surly cashier shoves a plastic basket at you and demands money.

You step into the entryway and find a pay phone. It’s dented and filthy, with a long chain dangling limply underneath. Somebody stole the directory, and you’ll need to spend a dime to call directory assistance. It’s a gamble, paying a stranger to do your research, but you have no choice.

You dial 411 and wait until a nasal voice answers. Breathlessly, you utter Jim’s last name. You get lucky, and the operator gives you the correct combination of numbers. Jim’s spending the summer with his parents in the tiny, wretched town of Odin. You’re fifteen miles away in Marion, not doing much of anything, and wonder if he’d like to see you.

Jim covers the receiver with one hand, asks his mother whether he can borrow the car. He already knows the answer. He’s a Geology honors student at Eastern Illinois University, and his parents let him do whatever he wants. You met Jim at Eastern a year ago, before you dropped out. The two of you spent the night on your roommate’s couch, alternately fucking and talking about his divorce. He’d impregnated his high school sweetheart a couple of years beforehand. She insisted upon a shotgun wedding, but he left her a few months later. Fortunately, none of this had affected his GPA.

You step into the parking lot and lean against the side of the restaurant. Minutes later, Jim arrives in his parents’ station wagon. He doesn’t embrace you, but leers at your body instead. “Looking good,” he says appreciatively. “Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one,” you say. “I hitchhiked here. I’m headed north. I happened to be passing through, with occasional automotive assistance.”

“Wow,” he exclaims. “Where do you live now?”

“New Orleans,” you reply, breezily. “What would you like to do?”

“Let’s go to a motel,” he says, without skipping a beat.

You nod and climb into the passenger seat. Jim places one hand on your thigh, squeezes firmly. He maneuvers the steering wheel and sneaks a peek at your breasts. You’re bra-less and wearing a sundress, a look that attracts rides in a matter of seconds. Most of the time, the guys leave you alone, but occasionally you have to ditch the peskier ones at rest stops.

Jim pulls into a motel parking lot and cuts the engine. The blinking sign reads, “Marion Motel: Economical Lodging for Families and Groups.” The two of you enter the lobby, and Jim gapes at you nervously. Then he remembers it’s 1978, and he doesn’t have to pretend the two of you are married. He writes his name on the small white card, and smiles.

The desk clerk accepts Jim’s pile of bills, and hands him a plastic key. Inside the room, Jim sticks his hand down the front of your sundress. The two of you kiss, lapping the inside of each others’ mouths. Finally, he withdraws and asks, “Are you hungry? I could buy some Big Macs.”

You’re always hungry, so you nod. Jim returns a half hour later with a bulging, greasy bag. You’re stretched out on the bed, watching “Orca, the Killer Whale” on television. “Poor whale,” Jim says. “He’s just following his biology.” He tosses the bag on the mattress. You devour your burger, eyes riveted to the screen. Fishermen with spear guns attack Orca repeatedly. The whale is wily and gives them trouble when they least expect it. He fights furiously, but the men triumph anyway.

Jim switches off the television. He sticks his hands inside your underwear, rubs your clitoris awkwardly with his thumb and forefinger. You’re not wet, and it’s going to take a while at the rate he’s going. You remember him as a better lover, but that was a while ago.

Jim dips his head, goes to work with his mouth. This maneuver is a slight improvement, but his tongue isn’t quite in the right place, and you don’t know how to tell him. You sway back and forth, hoping it will land in the correct spot. Your tactic doesn’t work, and you aren’t able to come, even though oral sex is usually a slam-dunk.

Jim stares at you for a moment, unsure of his next move. Finally, he unzips his cutoffs and deposits them on the floor. His dick is skinny and hard. He pushes it into your vagina, thrusts quickly and mechanically, like a jackhammer. After a minute, his body erupts into spasms, and he collapses on top of you.

The room is quiet, except for the distant blast of a truck horn. Jim rises to his feet. “That was a good one,” he says with satisfaction. He wanders into the bathroom, then re-emerges, looking refreshed. “I’d better head home now,” he says.

You stare at him with disbelief. “You’re not spending the night?” you ask. You’re not certain why you want him to stay overnight, except it seems like the right thing to do after sex.

Jim shakes his head apologetically. “I can’t,” he says. “My parents will be pissed. I told them I’d bring the car back in a couple of hours.”

You suddenly remember that you’re dealing with somebody from an alien world, a person with parents who care about his whereabouts. Jim stares down at your prostrate body with pity. “You shouldn’t hitchhike,” he says gently. “You should buy a car, like everyone else.” He wanders towards the door, pauses for a moment with his hand on the knob. Finally, he steps across the threshold, climbs into his mother’s car, and roars across the parking lot towards the interstate. You listen until you can no longer hear the engine.

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