“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” Paul sang merrily in the back of Benji’s beat-up piss yellow Ford F-150, the unexplained grinding of metal and 6 hours of nothing but Paul Showtunes on account of the busted radio was biting at both Joel and Benji’s nerve endings.
“Shut the fuck up,” Benji sang along with Paul, a cheesy grin plastered on his face.
“Sorry,” Paul apologies begrudgingly, wrapping his pudgy arms around the chest of his black The Vines T Shirt, “I’m going stir-crazy back here.”
“Why didn’t we take a plane again, Benji?” Joel asked, needing a reminder of why he was tolerating no air conditioning.
“Because that costs money which we don’t have,” Benji informed Joel, smacking the dashboard to try to revive the futile efforts of the fan. “And doesn’t this remind you of the old days? The wind in our hair, stuffing all our stuff in the back of this truck and our ghetto-ass mini van, driving for hours to gigs?”
After much silence and the buzzing of the engine, Paul replied with a simple “No.”
“Why don’t you trade in this hunk of junk for something smaller?” Joel asked, hearing the fan stall.
“Or something quieter,” Paul complained, pressing his hands against his ears to drown out the sound of a truck near the end of its days.
“I can’t believe you guys!” Benji shouted, offense and hurt softening his face, patting the fuzzy black steering wheel affectionately, “How many guys can say they’re still with their first woman?”
“Oh brother,” Paul complained, throwing his head back against the dusty gray seat.
“Are we lost?” Joel asked, peaking down at the map, the buzzing of interstate traffic dead along with all signs of civilization, only sparatic patches of trees covering the green plain.
“Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” Paul responded softly, the sky beginning to blacken, the horizon seeming to stretch farther away like they’re going backwards.
“Nope!” Benji responded confidently, pointing to a blue sign with “Beach Grove – 3 miles” printed on it and an arrow pointing to a dirt road on the right. “I heard this is a very reclusive spot.”
“Yeah,” Paul cringed, holding on tight to Joel’s seat as the sky began to rumble and the road began to take drastic dips and turns, marshy bogs popping up on the side of the road, “A perfect spot to bury your victims…”
~*~
“Are you sure this is the place?” Joel asked cautiously, Benji crawling slowly towards a worn and rotten dock that stretched for about a mile along the coast, a few boats occupying the quaint and reclusive harbor.
“Why does everyone doubt the Benji?” Benji asked aloud as he pulled up next to the girls’ Firebird. “See?” Benji asked, thumbing over to the hot pink Firebird. “The Benji is always right.”
“The Benji needs to stop talking in 3rd person,” Paul teased, filing out of the backseat behind Benji. Joel follows, trailing behind the other two like a young duckling, the guys reaching into the trunk for their duffel bags.
“Ahoy there, maties!” They heard a voice call from behind them. Their eyes laid upon a slate gray houseboat, complete with a screened outdoor sitting area, 2 floors, and spacious walking room. Deon stood at the main ladder in the front of the boat, leaning both hands on the silver guardrail, dressed in a white bikini with matching sarong, revealing her dangly star belly ring, her short hair curled beneath her crooked sailor hat.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain,” Benji stated, saluting her as he stalked up the brown duck and then brown plank, his black duffel bag hoisted on his left shoulder, a hungry gleam in his hazel eyes.
“Permission granted,” Den almost growled, Benji letting his duffel bag plummet from his arm as he scooped her tiny waist up in his arms, giving her neck a few quick but sensual pecks. “Howdy, boys,” Deon yelled to them as they strolled up the plank, presenting them with brief hugs. “How was the trip?” Deon asked, swinging the screen door open, leading the boys through the sitting area, their feet scudding across the maroon, white, and green door mat, the area cluttered with a few green plastic chairs. Inside, the area was dimly lit, the “living room” adorned with a wood couch and adjoining seat, with stiff brown and bashe cushions you’d encounter in your Grandparent’s homes, a meager entertainment center with a 20 inch TV and 3-Disc Stereo, and stunning photographs of sunsets nailed on the wood walls. From the living room, there’s a staircase to the left leading down to the bedrooms and bathroom, and straight ahead Wyllah could be found in the kitchen dicing tomatoes on a tan chopping block, the kitchen painted a peeling blue.
“Wasn’t too bad,” Paul lied, Paul’s knees knocking for most of the trip because of the forlorn weather and his nerves.
“Hey guys,” Wyllah looked up to find company, her wavy hair tied behind her in a brown claw clip, a few sweaty strands framing her face loosely and limply. “I was hoping you’d get here before dark.”
“What is all this?” Joel asked amazed, reveling over the bowls of diced cucumbers, shredded lettuce, grated cheeses, salsa, nacho cheese, olives, chives, tomatoes, and piles of hard and soft tacos.
“Dinner,” Wyllah simply replied, looking behind her shoulder to see that the meat was ready. She chucked the tomatoes into a frosted green bowl and turned towards the mini electric stove, picking up the meat with a pink potholder and slowly sliding the meat into a big tin bowl. “We’re the hostesses. We’ve got to make sure you enjoy your stay so you guys will come back and visit us.”
“I’m culinarily inept,” Deon defended herself, opening the small white fridge and placing a few bottles of liquor, mostly wine and tequila, onto the wood countertop, “But I did provide the bubbly.”
“I’m never leaving here!” Benji shouted, enveloping both Wyllah and Deon in a grateful hug…
~*~
Lightning whipped through the black sky, the gang sloshed out on the couch and chair, their eyes wide with fear as ‘The Silence of the Lamb’ flickered on HBO, Wyllah in the middle of a Paul and Joel sandwich on the couch, Wyllah holding Paul’s hand for comfort, in her other hand held a glass of red wine. Deon sprawled across Benji’s lap, a light Hurley sweatshirt covering her cold frame, leaning fearfully on his chest, her arms linked around his neck like a necklace.
“This is the perfect date movie,” Benji chuckled, Deon staring up at him timidly, pushing hard at his shoulder.
“It freaks the fuck out of me,” Deon admitted, parting her lips sensually so Benji could feed her some popcorn.
“Let’s go swimming instead!” Benji eagerly responded, playfully tugging at the neck tie of Deon’s bikini.
“I only do that for…special people,” Deon replied sweetly, brushing her fingers gently down Benji’s stubbly chin.
“It freaks me out too,” Joel agreed, tugging slightly at Wyllah’s elbow, Wyllah directing her attention to Joel. “Can we go for a walk?”
“Did you notice the rain?” Wyllah responded surprisingly genuinely, a pixie smile following her stern face.
“I’m stealing your shoulder to cry on for a few, Pauly,” Joel regretted to inform Paul, tugging her out of Paul’s grasp as she placed her wine on the coffee table.
“Ha ha,” Paul responded with a counterfeit laugh, reaching for his bottle of Coors sitting on the wood coffee table and taking a swig. Joel looked over nervously at Benji as Wyllah grabbed a dark green hooded sweatshirt, Benji giving Joel a nod of confidence before Deon’s finger began to play gently with Benji’s lip rings.
The door slammed with a bang, mimicking the thunder that was clashing in the air. Joel followed Wyllah into the stoned parking area, the rain gently tapping on their heads. “Can you tell me why you wanna walk in the rain?” Wyllah asked with a chuckle, tugging her arms under her chest, leaning over to condense body heat.
“I actually wanted to talk in the rain,” Joel corrected her, taking her hand and leading her under a large willow tree.
“About what?” Wyllah asked curiously, her heart starting to thud against her chest in uneasiness.
Joel opened his mouth, but no words would break through his barrier of uncertancy and anxiety. “This is really odd…” he began, staring into her familiar hazel eyes. “But Benji and I…find it weird that we’re all born on the same day…and…you sort of…well, actually…”
“Joel,” Wyllah replied, taking his hand in hers, utterly uncomfortable with Joel’s struggling. “What are you trying to say?”
“Benji and I…” Joel began, melting her lips, her eyes into his memory, as if she would wisk away like a dream. “We think you’re out triplet, Wyllah.”
Wyllah store at him befuddled, her face exhibiting a look of confusion, disgust, and incredulousness. “What are you talking about?!” Wyllah whispered hoarsely, dropping Joel’s hand and raising one to her throat, her throat about to cave in.
“I know it sounds crazy…” Joel cut her off, cupping her hands in his, “But isn’t it possible? My parents hid so much from my brother and me, and, now that I think about it…” Joel traveled back 15 years, when Benji dared him to put on Mom’s jewelry and walk around the neighborhood like a girl. “I once found this picture in the bottom of Mom’s jewelry box of me and Benji from when we were born, crying in our baby beds at the hospital…and there’s another baby in between us. I didn’t think much of it back then, but all that’s surfaced…”
Wyllah ripped her hand away, so confused, “I have a Mom and had a wonderful dad. I an only child.”
“Do you look like them?” Joel asked heatedly, dragging one finger down her nose and over her lips, as if he was blind.
Wyllah gazed into his eyes fearfully, not enjoying the look in his eye. “Well not really,” Wyllah finally replied, turning her back to him, lacing her arms around her stomach, “But that doesn’t prove anything. There’s a lot of people who don’t look like their parents.”
“How can you be so sure of that? Of everything?” Joel demanded gently, walking around to face her, holding her shoulders firmly.
“There’s so much you don’t know about me, Joel,” Wyllah informed him brusquely, yanking herself from his grasp, leaning one hand against the old willow, her breathing becoming heavy, “Things that make me feel…like I’m dead inside. If what you say is true, I don’t know how I could handle it.”