Wholesome Carrie And The Crawdad

Position. That was the problem.

He was sitting in the cheap apartment he'd rented to save money while he was getting his credit equivalencies, after getting back. He was frustrated and pissed off. The school work bored the shit out of him and he hated the professors at the community college. They were a pack of soft, pudgy, pasty, smirking, condescending civilians used to dealing with a bunch of kids. It all seemed irrelevant and meaningless, and the people around him seemed aimless and ill-behaved. He knew also that he was wrong, that his perceptions were fucked up, but he had a hard time controlling the reaction.

He knew what his problem was. Navidad, his one and only buddy at the school, had pointed it out while they were sitting in the cafeteria, surrounded by kids and single mothers and out-of-work older guys coming back for their last shot.

Navidad said, "You don't know who you gotta be, man."

That was it. His problem here was social position: he didn't know who or what he was supposed to be. It was easy, before, shit man, they told you what to do and where to go and how to do it, for the most part: you had your parameters and that was it, you knew your shit, knew your role and place and function. You could build yourself on that. But now that wasn't there anymore, and he knew, right that moment, he was floundering around because he didn't know what he was supposed to do or even how to act anymore. He had to reinvent himself.

He had a job, the part-time gig, but it was unimportant: he didn't need a 'job', he needed work. He needed life work, and he was going to have to make a decision about what to do and how to fit back in after being in a totally different structure that didn't apply out here, in The World. He couldn't even view it as The World anymore; his world was elsewhere, and he had to readjust. It was like having to re-learn how to walk, or even re-learn how to breathe. He was unhappy and pissed off and angry because he was lost and didn't know his social place. He had to make decisions, about life, work, place, location, a woman. The woman thing was making him frustrated and he knew that was making everything worse. It was all a row of dominoes: he'd know about the woman thing when he had his place, and he'd know his place when he got work, which he'd have when he finished his school shit and...

...he shook his head, then bent over and put it in his palm. He felt himself trembling with unsatisfied energy and an undefined sense of dissatisfaction. He needed something. He maybe needed to get laid.

He thought about Wholesome Carrie, the orange juice spokesmodel, who had blown him off a month earlier. She had said the following Saturday after the storm encounter, and then when he'd called had made some excuse about family and some other shit; then she'd avoided him when he'd seen her at the community college; after a few days of trying he'd flicked it aside and said 'fuck it'. If she was going to be that way fuck it. He trembled some more. He had to make decisions. Decisions, decisions.

It was too late: he was thinking about Wholesome Carrie, and her tight little body and nice smile, her freshness and niceness. Maybe she wasn't so nice after all, but man, that had been good. It had been very fulfilling to be able to get close to someone like that, and he knew right then that he really liked that woman, liked her a lot. He couldn't say why, but did there have to be a reason? And then she'd taken the walk away, and he was upset.

He laughed at himself: chick shit, 'upset'; but he was, badly. He wished he could see her again. Hell, the sex didn't matter even, it would just be nice to talk to her, to be around her, to hang out, go on the paddle boats again. Shit.

He still had the bra she'd left behind. What was that all about? Was it some kind of mind-fuck, a manipulation? He smiled in a wry mask: his buddy Navidad would have had that bra crusty by now.

The first thing Navidad would say about it would be, "Dude, you jerk off into it yet? Does it smell like her? You gotta hit that shit!"

He started laughing. Fucking Navidad. And yeah, it smelled like her. He'd folded it and put it in his top drawer without washing it. He'd learned a long time ago not to try to wash women's clothes, after he'd fucked up his sister's things in the family washing machine. His older sister.

Well, that was after he'd sold a lacy thong panty to a high school classmate, a guy who had the hots for her. He got $20 for them, and when it got back to his sister she'd gone absolutely insane with fury. For punishment he had to do all the laundry and clean the house for three months, and then he'd shrunk a bunch of her clothes. Really by accident, but... he started laughing again. He should call his sister. All that was long past, kid stuff.

He remembered her screaming, "You sold my underwear, you little bastard?! You fucker! You little pervert!" Their parents trying to calm her down, holding up their hands and trying to calm her rage.

He remembered her telling the story in front of her husband, a really good guy, who'd immediately asked him, "Why didn't you just get one at a store, so it wasn't really your sister's? The guy couldn't have known the difference, and you would have gotten your money and not actually stolen your sister's panties." He'd reflected. "You could have split the money."

He and his sister had just stared at each other, then burst out laughing.

He looked at the clock on the big box store microwave, and almost freaked out: he'd been sitting in the living room for more than an hour, thinking, by himself. He decided to go running, to get out, do anything. Do anything.

He rethought the decision he'd made when he got back, to not get involved with anybody until he had his shit figured out; to not complicate his life. He had to get his own shit straight before he did anything, and he had tried really hard to stick to that. Now this Carrie chick had derailed him, thrown him off, and that was not cool. Not cool at all.

Being close to her and that had been a real boost, had made him feel... more accepted? Confident?

Human?

His phone rang. He looked at it, thinking. Then he answered it without looking to see who it was.

He answered it with more of a declaration than a question: "Hello." He almost spoke in tactical communications to see how they answered, but decided not to. He heard a woman's voice on the line, and, for a second, thought it was his sister checking on him, but it wasn't her.

It was Wholesome Carrie.

"Hi."

He listened to her voice, trying to, what, interpret her tone? He wondered what was up. Maybe she was going to ask for her bra back. He caught himself rolling his eyes.

"Hey." He hesitated, then decided to be polite and formal. "Hello, how are you?"

"I'm good, I'm fine. Listen..." She paused, then went on. "I have the afternoon free, would you like to go do something today? Something simple? A walk or something?"

He thought frantically, trying to resolve her offer with her behavior over the last few weeks, avoiding him. He remembered being with her, naked, the other things, and made his decision.

"I'd love to."

He mentally kicked himself. Dumbass.

She said some more things, about being in the vicinity, some other stuff about being busy and being rude at school or something; he wasn't really listening at all. He nodded his head, being polite over the phone. He found himself intensely excited. Not really even sexually, just thrilled to hear from her. It made him agitated. They finished the conversation and he hung up.

He looked around the apartment. It was pretty clean. He tried to guess whether she'd come inside, gauged the chances, and decided to try to get ready for the possibility. He straightened some things out on the kitchen counter, gathered up books and magazines into a stack.

He had a sudden thought and rushed to the bedroom. He felt under the pillow for the M9, popped the mag out, locked the two things in the closet fire safe, then made the bed. He thought about whether he had condoms, then laughed at himself: that wasn't going to happen. He threw on a pair of shorts and a clean t-shirt; Converse.

In the bathroom he checked himself in the mirror and sprayed some cranberry-smelling crap his sister had given him. He felt vulnerable, awkward and stupid in the clothes, but he guessed he looked decent enough. Then his doorbell rang. She really had been right around the corner. He muttered, "Shit." and looked around the apartment. It looked okay. It was okay. It was okay. He went down the stairs and found Carrie at the door.

She was holding an old-fashioned, three-speed woman's bike. It was different than the one she'd had before. It was a really nice, perfectly preserved vintage Schwinn, white and green, with brand-new tires and a wire basket on the front. He looked again: it had a thumb-lever bell. Carrie swiveled the handlebars; she was wearing a blue polo shirt, denim capris, and paint-spattered canvas slip-ons. Her hair was back in a ponytail and she looked fresh and wholesome.

He thought it again: "Absolutely ridiculous." He asked, making conversation, "Did you get a new bike?"

Carrie looked down at the sparkling machine. "Well, sort of. It's my grandmother's. She can't ride it any more so I'm using it, for now." She patted the seat: it was in perfect shape, a real Schwinn seat in matching colors.

A stupid song from years past, from the Dr. Demento show he and his goofy preteen friends used to listen to, popped into his head: "Life would be, oh so neat, if I was a bicycle seat..." He smiled, then caught himself.

He thought; a walk in a park. There was the park across the way with the paddle boats, but it was always crowded and really more of a picnic grounds. Think man, think. It came to him. "Hey, there's a big park with woods and a creek up the road, that way. Does that..." His narrative somehow ground to an embarrassing halt. He tried to think.

Carrie said, "Sure! I just want to be outside, in the sun. That's all." She smiled, a dazzling, healthy, fresh smile. Ridiculous.

After some awkwardness on his part they locked up her bike, got in his car, and drove the few minutes to the park. It led off from the main road into a winding series of playgrounds and parking lots. It was a weekday, and there weren't many people out; an older couple playing tennis, a few mothers with toddlers at a contoured sandbox. They parked and got out.

It was a beautiful day; the air moved but it wasn't windy, and the sun was warm but not hot. It was gorgeous, perfect, lovely weather. Carrie wandered slowly away from him into a large open field. It had been dry, and the town hadn't mowed. The grass was short, but isolated tall weeds stuck up and flowered in places. Bees and insects wandered around. A tree line at the far end of the field signaled the creek. The park was old, named after some founding father, and a few remnants of WPA projects gave the place an atmosphere of small-town character.

He put his hands in his pockets and wandered towards the creek, letting Carrie stroll by herself in the field, basking in the sun. He heard a muffled 'pock' sound; he flinched and turned. A hairy retriever-looking dog came tearing across the field, head up and tongue waggling, watching the sky. A guy way at the far end of the field held a tennis racket: he was whaling balls for his dog. The dog bounded across the field, fur gleaming in the sun, slobber flying, scrambling. When the ball hit the dog leaped high in the air and nailed it on the first bounce.

Carrie laughed and clapped her hands, delighted. She turned and looked at him, smiling, then slowly walked over to him, moving her arms around. She kept away from him ten feet or so, moving to the creek.

They arrived at a small sunny spot, with a huge willow tree off to one side; a little area of stones and sand wound close to the bank, with an easy step down. Carrie hopped down onto it, testing the water with her canvas shoes. She walked into the water, splashing gently. He followed, leaving his shoes on the bank. Carrie looked around in the shallow water, moving slowly. He noticed some bubbles emerging from the creek bed. She watched intently, then lowered her hands into the water and wriggled a little. She brought her hand up, and it held a squirming crayfish. She smiled and touched its claws carefully, playing with it a little.

"Well, hello, little one!" She turned it around. "Oh, look... you're going to be a mother."

He was surprised. Very surprised. He'd never seen anyone catch a crayfish by hand. He had to ask about it. "Where did you learn to catch crayfish?"

Carrie laughed, holding the creature. "I did summer, uh, charity work, in the Appalachians, and the girls there taught me how to do it." She poked it gently, then lowered her hand back into the water and let it go. She wandered out further into the creek, mud swirling up around her legs. She said, kind of to herself, "It ain't a crayfish, it's a CRAW-DAD!" She laughed.

She walked in the creekbed, swaying her arms for balance, going in up to her knees, getting her capris wet. She bent over and hunted again. She came up with a flat rock. To his continued surprise she cocked her arm back and expertly skipped it down the surface of the creek. He counted: eight.

She didn't throw like a girl, and he had to say it: "Uh... okay."

He muttered, "Go figure..." He was more than a little thrown. Carrie hadn't seemed like the 'redneck gal' at all; this was completely unexpected. It was, though, kind of cool. He liked it.

He realized he liked it because it was unexpected. That might not be cool; he had to be careful about that, looking for chaotic situations or unpredictable people to try to feel 'normal'. A couple guys had warned him about that. He shook it off, trying to not think too much and relax.

Carrie continued wandering in the water, smiling and wading; he heard a weird noise and after a while heard her singing softly, some oddly-cadenced tune. Christ this was weird. And wholesome. Wandering a creek on a summer day, singing.

Carrie exclaimed. "AH!"

He started, and instinctively moved towards her, thinking she had maybe stepped on something sharp or, maybe, the crayfish had come around for revenge.

He asked, "Are you okay?"

"Ah!" She squealed, tottering and splashing with her hands. "I lost my shoe!"

He started wading towards her, thinking he could help out somehow, feeling the current slide around his legs.

She bent over carefully, trying to reach into the water without going too deep; it didn't work, and she said something he couldn't hear, some kind of exclamation. Then she yelped and fell over into the muddy water. He felt sucking mud on his own feet, and he knew wherever the shoe was it was probably lost for good. He reached her and tried to help her up. She expertly avoided his outstretched hand and stood up by herself.

He was wondering if she was going to be upset about losing her shoe, but she wasn't. She was laughing, filthy and splashing.

"Oh no! It's gone! I lost my shoe!" She laughed and laughed, making him laugh too. "It's way down in the mud!" She splashed and just sat down in the water, giving up, laughing, getting completely dirty. Then she got up and moved towards the sunny, grassy bank.

He decided to try looking for it. He felt around in the muck on the creek bed, feeling carefully, trying to figure out where she'd been, raking with his hands. He felt around, feeling slimy sticks and god knows what down there, but then caught ahold of something yielding, and made it as a shoe!

He yelled, feeling triumphant and manly, "I got it!" He wriggled it around and pulled it up, swishing it around to get it washed a little before displaying it.

She stood up as best she could, tottering and smiling, trying to stay upright, but reached down and took her other shoe off, maybe trying to match the two and reunite the pair. He pulled the shoe up and waded over to hand it to her. She burst out laughing all over again.

"That's not my shoe!"

He said, "What?"

He looked at it, and at the shoe in Carrie's hand. They were different, completely. It was someone else's shoe.

He stood for a second, confused, then said, "Well... what the-"

She burst out laughing. She laughed and laughed and laughed, until she almost started crying, then dramatically swung her arm back, launched, and threw her remaining shoe far into the creek. She stammered, "It's, it's, the shoe Bermuda Triangle! Oh no! Ha ha ha ha!" and started for the bank, swishing through the water and sucking her feet up through the muck, until she hit the gravel and sand near the grass-lined edge.

He held the refugee shoe for a minute, then simply raised his arm and dropped it into the water. Carrie made it to the bank and collapsed on her back, laughing, splaying her arms out. He followed, giving up. They lay in the sun, drying, not speaking, just together.

Carrie looked serious and pointed up to the sky, at an isolated cloud. "That cloud looks like a swan."

He looked; it did.

After a while Carrie turned her head and said, "Is there anywhere to get ice cream around? Close?"

He internally goggled. Walking in the park and ice cream. Holy shit. He thought about it, remembered, then pointed in a direction.

"Yes. Next town over there's a stand. It's not far."

She asked, "A stand? Like an old fashioned, real ice cream stand?"

He said, "Yeah, like a... like a soft serve... I think it's called, like, 'The Cow Lick' or something..."

Carrie laughed and popped up, barely using her hands. "Can we go? Do you mind?"

They walked back to his car. Carrie asked about her clothes and his seats; he told her not to worry about it. She shot him a very odd look, as if she were anticipating some fussiness from him or something. He didn't care; it was Carrie. He rolled all the windows down. They drove, not talking, to the unincorporated, one-horse burg a few miles away, named after a famous city in Europe, and went to The Cow Lick.

The gravel parking lot was full of pickup trucks, motorcycles, and little teenager cars. It was families, older people, farm kids on dates, picnic tables, little kids. They leaned on the fender of his car, having swirl ice cream, commenting about nothing in particular. He noticed she'd walked across the gravel in her bare feet without any mincing or anything; that was interesting.

The time was really weird; he didn't feel the need to talk it up or try to make conversation, even. Just being with Carrie was enough. He felt relaxed, fun. They finished up their ice cream; the sun was at a low angle.

Carrie licked her fingers carefully. She said, "I really have to get back. I have a, a family thing this evening."

He opened the passenger door for her, trying to be a gentleman. She hesitated, then got in and grabbed the door before he could shut it for her. He looked down at her; she looked disheveled and stained but great. They drove back to his apartment building. It didn't take long. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun made the air an orange-ish color. He thought about asking her to come in, but didn't. He couldn't say why. He watched as she walked to her bike and unlocked it. She got on, barefoot. The seat and handlebars were set so she sat squarely upright.

Carrie pedaled, got going, then rode in a circle around the parking lot, waved to him, and shouted, "Bye! Thank you!"

He watched while she rode away. She looked back, once, and waved again. Her smile was visible even at a distance. When she was out of sight he went inside and cracked a beer. He leaned against the counter, smelling the creek water on his clothes. An image stuck in his head, of Carrie walking in the water, gently waving her arms and singing softly.