Lunch at the Piccadilly by Edgerton Clyde

Author:Edgerton, Clyde
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2003-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

DARLA AVERY HOLDS her eyes on the back of L. Ray’s head as he writes. The two ladies over there stand to go in because of the rain. L. Ray rolls back away from the porch railing.

Darla will stay where she is. She’s dry.

She and L. Ray left the Club Oasis at about eleven. When she got in the front seat with him this time, she moved a little ways away from the passenger door, toward him. He didn’t say anything at all as they left, which seemed odd, and he had driven less than a mile when he turned onto a side road, drove a half mile or so, pulled over on the shoulder, cut the ignition. She thought to herself, This is where we neck. She was nervous, wondering what it would be like, wondering if a car might drive by.

And this is where it gets almost too embarrassing to think about.

No sooner was his hand off the car keys than he said, of all things, “Darla, have you ever seen a man’s pecker?”

She was shocked. She couldn’t help picturing her brothers and daddy when they went swimming in the Vickers’ pond. “Yes.”

“Well, let me tell you what I’m going to have to do. I’m going to have to take mine out and give it a beating. He’s been a naughty boy.”

What could she do? She felt like she was locked in a casket, and she got scared.

He sat right there under the steering wheel, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his thing. She looked out the window, but it was like looking into a mirror: the window reflected everything in the eerie green light of the dashboard.

“Oh, blessed Jesus,” he said right before he started masturbating, and she just looked out the window at the night. Her mind was blank, everything suspended-like, and suddenly there were headlights coming from behind them. A car whizzed by, but he kept at it: “Oh, blessed Jesus, would you look at me, Darla? Would you look at me?”

She couldn’t help seeing his reflection. He threw his head back and started his hand going faster and . . . her insides collapsed, her heart and her hopes. What was happening might as well have been physical for the hurt, the dirty and completely useless and invisible way it made her feel. She tried to look out the window, and he said, “Look, look, look,” and she said, “I can see you in the reflection, L. Ray. I’m not going to look at you. You take me home right now.” And he said, “Arrrrrrrrr. Hallelujah!” Then he opened his door, the inside light came on, and he slung his hand toward the ground.

He needed to be castrated—still needs it. There’s no telling how many times he’s done something like that, or worse. Maybe even far worse. Ruined people, girls, no telling how young.

“L. Ray, you take me home now,” she’d said, “or I’m going to tell Mr. Albright.”

“Okay.” As cool and calm as he could be.

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