Hobcaw

Hobcaw

The girl held onto Hobcaw's cock, looked up at him. "You got the best cock," she told him. "Can't hardly reach all the way around him.

She looked back down at the tool, the cock, in her hand; resumed sucking.

They were parked down at the end of the Murrells Inlet boat launch, it closed for the day.

"Ain't nobody ever sucked me like that," he said; his fingers in her raven black hair, his hands holding her head. "... where'd you learn to do it that good?

"My sister used to let me watch," she said; the words coming out garbled, what with her mouth being filled up with the vermillion knob. "... I would hide in the closet, watch her do it. She liked to show off, liked me to watch. -- Her boyfriends never knew!"

They had left Myrtle Beach at quitting time; US 17 south toward Georgetown, Mt. Pleasant, Charleston.

"You got to fuck me soon," she told him, them barely out of town; not even down to Garden City yet.

Chica slid over next to Hobcaw, unzipped the fly of his jeans; reached in and fetched out the heftiest dick she had ever encountered.

"I got to have some of this!" she said. Lowered her head, reached out with her tongue.

"Oh, god!" Hobcaw said. "... at least let me stop! Don't want to have a wreck."

He followed the signs, the arrows pointing to the Murrells Inlet boat launch.

"Now -- " he said; turning toward the Portuguese girl. "Suck me now."

~~*~~

Three Days Earlier

Man wanted a new name.

He didn't want to be George anymore; had already been George. A forgettable name, George was. Folk didn't pay attention, promptly forget all about George'.'

And, he damned sure knew he didn't want one of them Old Testament prophet names: Amos, Enos, Jared, or ( heaven forbid ) Noah or Jeremiah. His grandma had poked too much of that bible shit down his throat before he run away from home and joined the Coast Guard.

But, mostly the man needed a new name.

Now, that was an entirely different story; why George needed a new name. Thing was, he didn't want to wind up in jail... or worse, dead (or maybe both!) he needed a new name. One didn't nobody know.

~~*~~

What happen was, he was in Charlotte, trying to make it down to McClellanville, maybe Awendaw; see could he get a job on a shrimp boat. Him fresh out of the Coast Guard, knew all about boats, wasn't afraid to be out on the open water; wasn't scared of ugly weather. So, there he was walking across the city, trying to make it over to US 74 east; North Carolina highway patrol dudes had chased him off the interstate.

"You ain't allowed to hitch hike on the interstate," they told him.

Fellow in a beat up F-150 passed him by, George walking and with his thumb stuck out at the same time. Fellow drove on down Independence a block or so, turned around, came back; did a U-turn in the middle of the street, stopped and shouted through the open window.

"Where you going?... Can you drive?"

George leaned down, studied the man looking at him from across the cab.

"Wilmington, Myrtle Beach," George told him. "It's got wheels, I can drive it,"

"... I had a few too many," the man said. "Ain't wanting to get no DUI.... Need somebody to drive me down to Rockingham.'

Ten minutes later they were in downtown Matthews, coming up on I-485.

"Pull off up here," the man pointed toward a run-down strip mall. "I gotta see a man about a dog; won't take but a minute."

Actually it was a defunct Esso service station where they stopped; a couple of men in the shop area working on what looked like a dirt track race car.

'George' took advantage of the break from driving; the heavy traffic on 74 east. Searched for, and found, a country & western radio station. Searched for, and found, a pouch of Prince Albert pipe tobacco in his duffle, extracted a pack of roll-your-own paper from his shirt pocket. Rolled himself a smoke.

"What the fuck?!" George mouthed the words.

The man running across the parking lot carrying a camouflage duffle bag; then stopped, shot out the left front tire of a parked new and shinny Dodge Ram with what looked and sounded like a 'snake gun': a 410 shotgun shell in an old dueling hand piece. Then he, the man, yanked open the passenger side door; jumped in.

"Go!... Go!" he shouted. "Git the hell out 'a here!" He dropped a duffle bag down onto the floorboard.

George slammed it into first gear; burned rubber across the asphalt, fish-tailed out onto the road: US 74 east bound.

"What the hell was that all about?" George asked; keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.

"Dude owed me money; didn't want to pay." Man took the smoke from George's mouth; took a deep drag. Handed it back to him.

"Sheriff gonna be after us?" George wanted to know; him still watching the road back behind them.

"Most likely not.... Them fellows ain't wanting to converse with no law officers."

Silence: then some minutes later, them coming into Monroe.

"You think you can git to Rockingham? Find the race track?"

George gave him a look. Then: "... man, I can find rabbit tracks in the dark."

"Okay.... Drop me off at that Baptist church up yonder. It's a woman I wanna check on.... Leave this old truck at the main ticket office. Mavis 'll bring me down later. I'll pick it up come dark."

They had hardly stopped moving, them in front of the church; the man grabbed the duffle bag. Jumped out of the truck, disappeared around corner of the red brick building.

George just shook his head, pulled back out onto the highway. He didn't believe the man was checking on no woman; him too busy watching the road back behind them. Just wanted to be the hell out 'a that truck in case them two fellows working on the dirt track race car was catching up.

At a traffic light in Wingate George reached for the duffle bag; time to roll another cigarette. But, it wasn't his duffle bag; he knew straight-away. Didn't feel right in his hand. The man had taken, him in a hurry jumping out and running around the corner of that Baptist church, the wrong duffle bag.

"Shit," he cursed softly. "Where I'm gon' get some more Prince Albert."

The pouch of pipe tobacco wasn't in it, of course. What was in the other dude's duffle bag was rolls of green-back money, bound up by rubber bands! $20's, $50's, one roll of $100's.

"Shit!" he cursed again; louder this time.

Out past the edge of town was a God's Word Ministry; an empty parking lot. A good spot to study on the situation, count the money.

"Shit!" He only mouthed the word this time; didn't say it out loud. ( 'Shit' was getting to be his favorite word; most versatile, useful word in the English language. ) 'Must be twenty, maybe thirty grand in here.'

There were, he thought, two options: go back and find them two fellows working on that dirt track race car, give 'em the money back. ( 'I bet,' he thought, 'them dudes ain't the friendly type. Might not like somebody knowing that they had had that money. )

Or...

Go down to Rockingham, wait at the race track for that fellow to show up; him driving Mavis' car like a bat-out-a-hell getting there. ( 'Man ain't 'right', ain't predictable... ain't mentally stable,' George thought, remembering that snake gun. '... ain't no tellin' what he might do.' )

Now: George had never considered himself a thief... his Tennessee mountain grandma had drilled it into him, Exodus 20: 15 -- Thou shalt not steal.

He didn't, however, take his grandma in to account coming to a decision. Relied more on what his grandpa might do: grandpa being a snake-handling-church preacher, did moonshine whiskey on the side.

'Fellow took my tote; I just take his.... Swap 'em out, so to speak,' he thought; told himself. 'That's what grandpa would do.'

He took eight fifty's and five twenty's from the rolls; folded them, stuck them into his shirt pocket. Buttoned it up.

He knew he had to get off US 74 east; kept checking the rear view for a green and yellow dirt track race car to come roaring up behind him.... Turned off to the north at Marshville; past chicken houses and little country churches; worked his was to the east.

"US-1 'll be over there somewhere," he told himself.... and it was: the Pee Dee River, I-74, then US-1. "... The race track down just a ways."

George stopped the beat-up F-150 at an intersection just east of the speedway; studied the situation. There didn't appear to be any green and yellow racer anywhere around. No sign of two guys dressed in blue coveralls looking for a beat-up Ford and some guy run off with their money.

Across the side road from the speedway ( expansive enough to accommodate twelve-thousand vehicles! ) parking was a used car lot; which also sold fireworks on the Fourth -- at Christmas and New Years. Six 'junkers' lined up in front of a camping trailer which appeared to serve as an office.

"Now, there's an idea," George thought.

Then...

The F-150 he parked; pulled up into a small grove of pine trees on the lane leading to the tunnels that got one into the oval shaped infield.

"Most likely the man 'll find it," he said out loud.

He walked the half-mile back up US-1 to the intersection; the place with used cars for sale.

A pot-bellied man, wearing army surplus khaki trousers and a blue cotton shirt -- suspenders holding up the pants, watched George kicking the tires on the first of the five used cars and the one pickup.

"What's the cheapest thing you got?" George asked.

"Cheap is a relative term," the man said. "How much you aiming to spend?"

"Not much," George answered. "... Which you had longest; want get rid of?"

The man spit a stream of Beech Nut tobacco juice into the gravel at the bottom of the steps. "... That little Fiesta," he said; started walking to the far end of the little collection of vehicles.

"I ain't never had a yellow car," George said; as much to himself as to the man selling cars.

"Yellow, blue -- what's the difference," the man said. "It runs.... Where you goin? You come in here walking."

"Wilmington," George told him. ( Wasn't no need telling the man he was really headed to Myrtle Beach, maybe Georgetown. ) "I'm tired 'a walking.... How much?"

" $800.00... " the man spit brown tobacco juice into the dirt.

"That's the cheapest you got?!... I'll just walk; hitch hike." He turned, crossed the highway; stuck out his thumb at a passing SUV. Walked on up toward Marston.

The man shouted at him, "... you got cash? -- $600.00, I'll take $600.00 if you got cash."

George stopped, pulled the money from his buttoned up shirt pocket.

"I got $480.00," he, still standing in the road, told the man.

"$500.00... "

George gave him a look. "I got five," he said. "But I'm gotta have to have that last $20.00 for gas.... That 'll just about get me to Wilmington."

"God damn! What's a man got to do.... Let me get the keys."

"And a quart of oil," George told the man. "Chances are it's gonna need oil before we get there.... You got a quart of oil?"

The man cursed again. Two minutes later he came back: keys, the pink slip, a quart of oil in hand. George counted out, handed him the $480.00. He drove north, then east. Hit US 17 just north of the state line, did the right hand turn that would take him down to Myrtle Beach.

"Maybe find a 'beach music' bar,' he thought. But he didn't. Parked down at the end of a truck stop; tilted the seat back as far as it would go. Slept fitfully until dawn.

~~*~~

The Army surplus store didn't open until 8:30; gave George time to have grits, bacon, a double order of over-easy -- a stack of pancakes, lots of down-home syrup.

"You eat good," the waitress said; topping off his third cup of coffee.

He grinned. "Growin' boy's got to eat."

"Oh -- you a full grown man; I can tell."

He checked her out. She was twice his age, mid-40's maybe. Still she did have good tits.

Thirty minutes later, him paying, she said, "I get off at 10:30.... If you was to be in the neighborhood."

He looked down between the unbuttoned top of her uniform blouse, at the swell of her breast. "... we'll see," he said.

He didn't go back. He was in a pawn shop on Socastee Blvd.

He had, already, been to the Army Surplus store. Come out with a pair of New Balance deck shoes, three long sleeve khaki cotton shirts, and a two pairs of Coast Guard ODU trousers. Then it was back to the truck stop; get a shower, shave ( the razor, toothbrush, etc. were available on site ) put on the new 'gear'-- throw the old stuff in the dumpster.

"A pawn shop," he told himself. "Pawn shop 'd be a good place to start.

George took his time checking things out. A typical pawn shop. He selected, put down on the counter a small portable radio, two screw drivers, a pair of pliers, and vice grips down on the counter. "I'll take these," he said.

Then: "... can I take a look at that Martin guitar?"

"You can play?" the man asked.

"Good enough."

"Let's try this one first," the man said. Took down a Donner Acoustic.

George ran his thumb across the strings; looked at the man and gave him a grin -- to show he wasn't offended. He gave the man back the Donner.

"Was I looking for a piece, we got to do better than that.... I'm really on the lookout for a banjo. You ever get a banjo?"

"Now and again," the man said. "Not often. Ain't many people looking for banjos."

The man took the Martin down from the wall, turned toward George. Held it out.

"That's alright," George said. "I'll just check back once in a while; see if you got a five-string."

"You a Bella Fleck man?... maybe Earl Scruggs?" the pawn shop fellow asked.

"Don Reno actually.... My grandpa had all the old records. Played 'em until they wore out."

"Guitar man myself," the man said. "Merle Travis, Les Paul." He slipped the strap over his shoulder; played the first four bars of Wildwood Flower.

"You've done that before."

"Used to play on the radio," the man said. "Years ago up in Boone, Wilkesboro.... Then the wife wanted to live at the beach."

They discussed was Reba McEntire better, or Tammy Wynette. And, maybe Roy Clark was a better picker than he was a comedian.

Finally George started to the door. "I gotta go," he said.

Then, opening it, he looked back at the man. "... a fellow was looking for a driver's license, where would he go?"

The man studied him. "I'm takin' it you ain't talking about the SC DOT?"

George didn't answer, just watched the pawn shop man.

"It's a print shop up on Broadway, just off Ocean Blvd.... Old fellow named Adriano. Tell 'im Clyde sent you. You don't tell 'im Clyde sent you, most likely he won't do it."

George took a step through the door; then turned, said, "you still got that Martin guitar next week I might come back and get it."

He hadn't needed the tools; sure didn't need the banjo or the Martin guitar. Just wanted to build up a little trust with the man. What he sure as hell needed to know was where to go to get a driver's license. He didn't want to be George anymore.

~~*~~

Adriano wasn't there. Chica was there.

"Avo," she said. "Adriano's my grandfather.... I do most of the work."

She looked him up and down. He looked her up and down.

"Clyde said I needed to talk to Adriano.... I can come back later."

But he didn't leave; he just watched her.

"Whatever it is, I'm gonna wind up doing the work," she said. "Just tell me what it is you're needing.

He looked around the shop. Asked, "... you do passports?"

She laughed. "You needed a passport you'd be down at the post office."

He looked away, quick like; then back at her. Long black hair, almost black eyes.

"We do driver's license from time to time. You need a license?"

He watched her black eyes. "Is it obvious?"

Her eyes twinkled. "This ain't my first rodeo; you ain't my first cowboy."

She stood up, walked around the end of the counter.

He fell in love right there.... Or, at least, he fell in lust.

"How much?" he asked.

The rest of her was as alluring as her long black hair, her almost black eyes.

"$250.00," she said. She stood close to him; closer than was necessary. She held out her hand; moved thumb across fingertips: the universal sign for give-me-the-money.

"When can I get it?" he asked. "I need to be getting on the road."

She put her hand on his elbow. "We need to take a picture.... Come back tomorrow morning. I'll do it tonight."

"And if I wanted it today?"

"... $400.00. You want it right now; $400.00."

He counted out eight $50.00's.

She took the picture. "You got a name and an address?" she asked.

"Hobcaw Rivers.... Just make up an address. An Awendaw address maybe."

She took down all the other information: DOB, Sex, Weight, Height, Eye Color; wrote them down on a note pad.

"You ain't no Hobcaw," the girl laughed at him. "It's a place down in Charleston called Hobcaw.... Ain't nobody ever been named Hobcaw."

"Well, there is now.... I kind 'a like Hobcaw."

He heard her say, in an almost too quiet voice, " I kind 'a like Hobcaw too." Then louder, "give me a couple of hours. Come back early afternoon."

He ran the back of his right-hand fingers down her cheek; turned, started toward the door. Heard her say in that soft voice, "Hobcaw, or whatever your name is, I bet you fuck good. Bet you know your way around a woman's body."

Hobcaw missed a beat, stepping out the door; but just grinned, didn't look back. 'I bet you a pretty good fuck too,' he thought. '... We gonna find out,'.

Hobcaw found a used car lot; one that looked semi-reputable. "I need a pickup truck," he told the man. "Older one that runs good."

The man looked him over. "You a fellow looks after his stuff?... Look like a man takes good care of things."

"I like to think so," Hobcaw said. "Why?"

"Fellow brought one in couple 'a days ago.... School teacher fellow.... Said don't sell it to just anybody. -- Nobody's not gonna treat it right. "

He pointed to the back of the lot; an at least fifteen year old Kelly green Chevrolet. Hadn't even moved it 'up front' yet.

"Fellow's wife was having knee problems," he said, leading the way over to where the truck was parked. "Made him get rid of it; she had trouble getting in and out of a truck.... Man almost cried. Said he was planning on keeping it forever."

"I'll take it," Hobcaw said.

"Don't you want to drive it first?!"

"I do... and, I'll take it.... How much."

He had earlier counted out the money in the duffle bag; divided it up into $1000.00 bundles. Then rolled them up and secured them with rubber bands. The left over, something less than $1000.00, he folded, put into his shirt pocket.

'Half,' he thought. 'Half for a truck; no more than half.'

He counted out the money; handed it over.

"Don't sell many for cash," the used car man said. He looked down at the rolled up pack of bills.

"Had a good night playing poker," Hobcaw told him. "... Can you get rid of the Fiesta for me?" he asked.

"Can't give you anything for it," the man said.

"Don't need anything for it.... Pink slip's in the glove box."

~~*~~

Chica spotted him as soon as he parked the Kelly green pickup, watched him bound across the street. 'What kind of athlete is he?" she wondered. 'What was his sport?'

She had the license ready, enclosed in a white legal envelope. She also had a canvas carry-all duffel bag: packed.

"I'm going with you," she said, handing him the envelope. "Avo says he can manage without me for three or four days."

She ran her tongue, quick like, over her upper lip; pushed back, with one hand, the long black hair that hung over the left side of her face.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"We'll decide on the way," Hobcaw said. "South.... Somewhere with water, a beach."

Desire flowed directly into his loins. His legs growing momentarily stiff, awkward. He picked up the canvas duffel; lead her out the door, across the sidewalk, across the street ( ignoring traffic ). He threw the duffel into a just bought tool box. It joined his own; an almost matched set.