Dispatch 15 (The Trip, part II)

     "No, Gina. Uh uh."
     She’s smiling, but it’s the serious smile, the firm one that doesn’t invite dissention. "Heather, come on! What’s the matter with you?"
     "There’s nothing the matter with me. But I’m not going in." With that I sit, arms folded over chest, determined.
     "What are you afraid of? Are you offended by it?"
     She still doesn’t get it. Why would I want to go? "Gina, I’m not offended, I’m just not interested. What am I going to do there? Buy stuff?"
     Gina laughed. "I’ll buy you something if you want. Something flavored?"
     I laughed too, in spite of myself. "You’re really gonna go?"
     "Why not? It’s not like anybody’s gonna know us here," Gina said.
     Her logic, however flaky and flawed it has been in the past, was holding together pretty well considering where we were parked. "Five minutes," I said, my tone all Menacing Mother.
     "It’ll be fun," Gina said. She rushed out of the driver’s seat, closing the door behind her. I got out and caught up. We walked through a large set of heavy double doors to enter Star Adult Video, a convenient haven for all your pornography needs, located right off the highway in Dallas.
     Damn you, Gina.

* * *

     Just inside is a kind of alcove and then an entrance to the left and right. I saw signs to the left as Gina began drifting that way. "Gina!" I hissed, trying to keep my voice low. "Those are dancers!"
     "Oh," she said, smiling, and came back. "I didn’t know."
     To the left, I assumed, were the live strippers who I guess have fallen off the Gentleman’s Club food chain to end up here. To the right was the actual video store, instantly bonded to my mind with the scent of lingering antiseptic.
     Gina made off. (Insert kid in candy store analogy here). She browsed videos, occasionally bringing one to me to peruse. "Big Black Mommas!" she proclaimed, holding a box up to my face.
     There were three individual men wandering around with intent looks on their faces as they browsed the way yuppies might search for their favorite vintage of wine. Their brows were furrowed and they would inspect a video by turning it over, examining it just a few inches from their face and putting it back on the shelf, apparently not satisfied that the selection had passed their in-store erection test.
     You know, they’re not even clever. I grew up hearing names of pornos and they always sounded, at least to my virgin ears, like they were Naughty Hollywood. But nary did I see at Star’s a single clever title like I was expecting. No "Shaving Ryan’s Privates," or "The Joy Suck Club," or even an X-rated version of "Good Will Humping."
     Instead, there was "Oriental Tails 7," and "L.A. Hookers Undercovers." All the pictures of out-of-focus or glossed-over flesh started to make me feel nauseous, like standing too long in the meat aisle at the supermarket.
     I turned to look for Gina, to tell her that the five minutes were up. She was already in another section of the store, one that sold condoms, toys and leather-wear. Gina was looking at a French maid corset.
     She turned it over and looked to me. "Halloween?"
     "For a private party?" I asked.
     She turned it over again, looking at the front. "The breasts are cut out," she said. "I’d have to wear something under it."
     She wandered over to a counter full of assorted colorful what-nots (my inventory listing duties won’t be needed here). Gina got a clerk’s attention and pointed to something I couldn’t make out from where I was standing. I came closer and Gina turned, waving me away.
     "I’ll be done in a minute," she said. "I’ll meet you outside."
     More than happy to be out of there, I headed for the door. One of the men in the video section, a tall guy in a moustache wearing a John Deere cap, stared at me with glassy eyes as I walked by. He was holding a tape box in his hands. "Shaved Sluts," the box said. I walked a little faster.
     I waited next to the car, afraid for my safety even though it wasn’t dark yet. The rain had stopped, and the air seemed charged by static. Gina came out, smiling hugely and carrying a tiny bag.
     "For you," she said, handing it to me.
     She unlocked the doors and we got in. I took out my treat.
     A condom lollipop. Thank you, Gina.

* * *

     We drove back south toward the collection of skyscrapers, parking lots and restaurants that make up downtown Dallas. Maybe it was the gloom of the day, but things seemed less than lively. We drove through some of the main avenues of buildings that looked like shiny tombstones for the abandoned weekend.
     We arrived at West End, parking for a few dollars. Inside Planet Hollywood, we had drinks at the bar (recommended to get you drunk fast: The Terminator) and entered the connecting mini-mall. Gina stopped at the magic shop and toyed with buying a wand ("Could I turn men from toads to princes without kissing them?" she asked the overweight clerk). We had candy at The Fudgery and finally left near closing time.
     In the same area is a building with three floors of clubs. We paid the $8 cover and stepped inside The bottom floor was 70s and 80s music without the charm of Polly Esthers. The décor was Meat Market Circa Late 80s with lots of neon and mirrors. Across the hall was a piano bar with somebody playing "Piano Man," as customers swayed along.
     Upstairs was a little more promising – some techno music and an R&B room. Gina pulled me onto the dance floor in the techno area and soon I was sweating, closing my eyes and forgetting myself in the music.
     A guy in a frat shirt and baseball cap got behind Gina and began doing the bump and grind. Gina, looking disinterested, danced with him for a bit, then led me back to the bar for tequila shots.
     "I could never live in Dallas," Gina said, after the first shot. "No salsa music, no gente. I would get so homesick."
     We left a few minutes later, more out of boredom than anything else. We ate at a Denny’s off the highway. Gina seemed happy. She kept pointing out people at other booths, speculating on what their conversations might be. A young couple to our right was having what looked like an argument. The woman stared at her mate with eyes of fire as the man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. On the other side of the room a couple in their seventies ate eggs together. Every few minutes, the woman would help her husband when the man had trouble, placing food in his half-open mouth. Two teenaged girls smoked and talked and smoked and talked, giggling every few minutes.
     "There’s so much energy in a room full of people eating," Gina said. "Have you ever noticed that?"
     "It’s food," I said. "Food is energy."
     "The act of eating together is pretty primal," she said. "Hunting together in packs, providing food for the collective. It’s really powerful."
     "It would be more powerful without the grease," I said, pointing to a slimy puddle that had collected beneath my sausage links.
     "You don’t see that?" Gina asked. "You think I’m just being stupid?"
     I chose my words carefully. "No," I said slowly. "You just might be reading too much into it."
     "Maybe you’re not reading enough into it," she answered. "You’re supposed to be the writer. Aren’t you supposed to be observing?"
     "Fuck you, Gina," I said. The anger had flashed momentarily, but strongly, and I didn’t know why.
     Gina didn’t respond. She just watched me.
     "I’m sorry," I said. "I didn’t mean it."
     "Yes you did," Gina said. "Of course you meant it. Don’t apologize."
     I couldn’t say anything. I poked at the last of my food, and washed it down with my small cup of orange juice. My head was starting to pound.
     "Let’s go," I said when we were both finished. "I’m getting tired."
     We hunted for a hotel room along I-35 and found a Motel 6 for under $40. I took the bathroom first, undressing and showering in silence. When I came out, I could hear the TV in the room as Gina channel surfed, settling finally on a rap video.
     I got into one of the two beds, slipping under the tightly tucked covers. When Gina came out and slipped into hers, I’d already turned out the lights. The hum of the room’s air conditioner droned on, blowing lukewarm air. I breathed deeply, trying to lull myself into sleep.
     "Did you have fun at least?" Gina asked from her bed.
     "Yes," I said after a moment. "I had a good time."
     Sleep came soon.