The Tribes of Palos Verdes by Joy Nicholson Page B

introduces me to his bong.
    â€œMeet Miss Lady Highness,” he says, tipping the bong as if in a bow, running his wrinkled fingers up and down its neck, caressing it. “She’s my best girl. I don’t want her to get jealous.”
    The bong is yellow, cracked with age, very tall and thick like a plumbing pipe. “Miss Lady Highness” is scripted sloppily on its sides with a red marking pen. Dan lights a match to the pipe end, and tells me to suck deeply. He laughs. The pot crackles and burns, sweet in the hot air.
    I smoke two deep hits, looking at him. He winks at me again; his dry, bony hand comes clamping down on my leg. I move back a little, but his hand stays locked, squeezing. The pot is very strong, the bus glows surreal orange in the sunset. Floral patterns on the pillow seem to skip and jump. His hand traverses up my leg as he tells me about a wave he surfed in Java.
    â€œThere were these electric eels underneath us, man. It was crazy!”
    He puts his mouth close to my ear.
    â€œHave you ever smoked Thai stick before, girlie?”
    â€œNooooo,” I say, my voice very low and floating.
    His hands rub rough, like a dry towel up and down my legs, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. His face hovers close to mine, expanding. He draws in a hit and exhales slowly, licking his lips, blowing hard. I put my hands in front of my eyes, waving the smoke away. I smell fish and beer on his breath as he squeezes me.
    I think about how much older he is, how much respect he gets from the Bayboys. I feel good. I smile at him, wondering if he’ll surf the bay with me in front of everyone. I pretend not to notice his hand.
    Suddenly Dan lowers his face onto mine and pushes his tongue into my mouth, flicking it in and out like a lizard’s, rough. The wrinkles around his eyes look like lacy webs up close, his lips are rough and cracked. I concentrate on keeping my mouth open as his tongue fishes around, grazing my teeth, slimy, warm. I feel his hand slip over my breast. Queer flashes of heat and light surge through the bus; I back away, gagging.
    â€œI feel like throwing up,” I say. “Are you sure this is pot?”
    He gives me a shot of tequila.
    â€œSwallow,” he says.
    *   *   *
    I’m kneeling over the bong, naked except for the boardshorts, drawing in another hit and another, confused, hoping to black out. When I try to stand up my head hits the quilted ceiling. I see a cascade of falling stars, shimmering silver and blue. Dan speaks, his voice hard, crystalline in the silence.
    â€œSo you like me,” he says, giggling. “You think I’m really keen and neato. ” His hand locks on to my right breast, rubbing it in a circle, faster and faster, looking me in the eye. I feel nothing except the scraping of his hand dry against my skin. The water roars below, and I imagine I’m far away from the bus, taking off on a warm wave. I put my arms out as he thrusts a thin, pointed finger between my legs, jiggling it around.
    â€œDo you like that?”
    I feel his bony erection against my leg. I close my eyes, lying very still as he slides his pants off. He throws towels and clothes out of his way, laying his weight on top of me, pulling my boardshorts halfway off. They dangle, loose, around my ankles. Then he pushes into me.
    â€œThere.” His eyes roll back in his head as he shudders, moaning low. He stops moving, and closes his eyes, smiling, licking his mouth. After a while, he gets up. He looks at me and winks again.
    â€œI hope you got what you came for, girlie,” he says. “Did you like your secret?”
    I stare at the hollow wrinkles around his eyes, trying to focus. Warm fluid is dripping off the pillow under my back so I turn it over, wiping it carefully on the carpeted shelf.
    The next thing I remember is downing two more shots of tequila, swishing it around my mouth. Then I grab a towel, run down the cliffs