"I could use some real food, too," Randy Boggs said. He wanted a steak burnt on the outside and red inside. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about steaks when he first went Inside. Then--as with most of the things he enjoyed--he forgot about good meat. Or it was more that those things became distant. Like facts in a history book. He understood them, he remembered them, but they had no meaning for him.
Now, though, he was out and he wanted a steak. And the way Nestor had said real drink, Boggs was now thinking that he'd like his first shot of whisky in three years.
They parked the car and went into the motel office. Nestor gave a fake name and car license then asked for a room in the back, explaining to the young night clerk that he didn't sleep well; highway noise bothered him. The young man nodded apathetically, took the cash and gave him the key. Boggs was impressed at how smoothly Nestor had handled things. Boggs himself would have been more careless, leaving the car in front. But Nestor was right. The girl had probably gotten free by now and might've turned them in. Or maybe someone in New York had seen the license plate. He was glad he was with somebody like Nestor, somebody who could teach him to think Outside again.
Nestor lugged his duffel bag into the room and Boggs followed with the paper bag that was his suitcase. He was relieved to see there were two large beds. He hadn't wanted to spend his first night of freedom in bed with another man. Without commenting on the room, Nestor dropped his luggage onto the bed nearest the door and said, "Food."
Boggs said, "Hold up. I want to wash." He disappeared into the bathroom, amused and feeling almost heartsick with joy at how clean it was. At all the sweet smells. At the soap and wrapped glasses and a john behind a door that closed and locked. He ran the water cold, then hot, then cold again, then hot and washed his face and hands as the steam rose up and filled the room.
"I'm hungry," Nestor bellowed over the sound of the running water.
"Minute," Boggs shouted back and dried himself with luxurious towels that seemed thick as down comforters.
The bar-restaurant near the hotel was a local hangout, done up in prefab Tudor--dark beams, plastic windows mimicking stained glass, beige stucco walls. The place was half filled--mostly around the bar--with contractors and plumbers and truck drivers and their girlfriends. The men were in jeans and plaid shirts. A lot of beards. The women were in slacks, high heels and simple blouses. Almost everyone smoked. The Honeymooners was showing on a cockeyed TV above one end of the bar.
Nestor and Boggs sat down at a rickety table. Boggs stared at his place mat, which was printed with puzzles and word games. He could figure out the visual ones-- "What's Wrong With This Picture?"--but he had trouble unscrambling letters to make words. He turned the place mat over and looked at the women at the bar.
The waitress came by and told them the kitchen was closing in ten minutes. They ordered four Black Jacks, neat, Bud chasers, and steaks and fries.
"That girl," Nestor said. "Too bad you didn't fuck her."
"Who?"
"The one sprung you."
"Naw, I told you, we was mostly friends."
Nestor asked, "So?"
"Well, I only got out a few hours before you showed up."
"It was me, the first thing I woulda done was get me some poontang."
Boggs felt he was on the spot. He said, "Well, she had the baby there."
The drinks arrived and they poured the shots down without saying anything because neither of them could think of a toast. Boggs wheezed and Nestor laughed. The big guy did his second shot right after.
"Don't get any of that Inside, do you?" Nestor asked him.
"There was stuff you could get, depending on what you were willing to do or how much money you had. It was shit, though. Me, I didn't get any care packages, so I had to settle. Sometimes I'd get me some watered vodka or a joint or two. Mostly I didn't get nothing."
"When I was Inside we had it easy. Fucking country club. A lot of dealers from L.A. There was so much shit."
Boggs, dizzy from the liquor, asked, "You did time?"
"Fuck yeah, I was in. Did eighteen months in Obispo. Was fanfuckingtastic. You wanted blow, you got blow. You wanted sess, you got sess. You wanted fucking wine, you could get a good bottle of wine...."
Boggs was feeling the liquor sting his lips. They must've gotten windburned from the drive. "When were you in Obispo?"
"Four, five years ago about."
"I didn't know you'd done time."
Nestor looked at him, surprised. "Hey, there's probably a thing or two we don't know about each other. Like I don't know how long your dick is."
Boggs said, "Long enough to keep a grin on her face for an hour or two." His eyes slipped to the bar, where a round-faced young woman, with two-tone hair--blonde returning to black--sat with her elbow on the bar and her hand up, a cigarette aimed at the ceiling like a sixth finger. In front of her was a no-nonsense martini. The way she stared vacantly at the TV he figured the drink was the descendant of a long line of the same.
Nestor said, "You can have her. She don't have tits."