the transition from Hippie-dippie-doper into the Real World. Instead, he shifted the evolution of his consciousness into park in the late 70s. He kept body and soul together by working as a part-time motorcycle mechanic in North Myrtle Beach and toured occasionally as a fill-in roadie for the Grateful Dead. The rest of his waking hours were spent acquiring tattoos, raising marijuana in the woods of Horry County, sharing spliffs with the occasional Rastafarian who wandered through Myrtle Beach, and dropping acid with his fellow Deadheads.
His latest girlfriend, Ginger, had added a neo-Nashville patina to his chemically augmented life. She eschewed Kenny’s faded jeans and black Deadhead T-shirts for a more colorful fashion statement. Hers consisted of long, red fingernails, hot-pink Spandex mini-skirts, and tight tube tops, which displayed her two most noticeable charms to best advantage.
As soon as she moved in, she took down the poster of the Maharishi and replaced it with a large, dynamic painting of Elvis at the microphone, rendered on shimmering black velvet and framed in deeply carved, imitation-gold-leaf molding imported directly from Mexico. She completed the merge of cultures with the addition of several fake fur leopard and zebra skin rugs and an heirloom lava lamp.
Dolly’s call to Kenny caught him toking on the bong and watching a wet T-shirt contest on The Playboy Channel. “Hey, Babe, how’s it goin?” Kenny said in a deep voice which sounded like Papa Bear from the Goldilocks kiddie video. “Hear you got a big promotion. Congrats.”
“Thanks, Kenny,” Dolly said. “Sorry to bother you. I’m just calling to find out how April’s doing. Can I talk to her?”
“Sorry, Babe,” he replied. Dolly gritted her teeth. “She’s not here.”
“Where is she, Kenny?”
“I dunno. Out hangin’ with her friends, I guess. She didn’t say.”
“When will she back? I need to talk to her.”
“I dunno. She didn’t say that, either.”
“Dammit, Kenny, we’ve been over this a hundred times. She’s your daughter. Don’t you care where she is and what happens to her?”
“Of course I care, but shoot, Dolly. She’s almost eighteen. Remember yourself when you were eighteen? Didn’t you spend time hangin’ with your friends when you were that age?”
A chill ran through her body when Kenny reminded her of that time in her life: pregnant and ready to deliver April. Dolly visualized her daughter doing the things she did in her seventeenth year. It made her want to scream.
“Can’t she spend time with her friends?” Kenny continued.
“Who are her friends? What are their names? Where do they live? What do they do together? When will she be back?”
“How should I know?” Kenny said defensively. “They stopped by in a car. She got in. They left.”
“So, you don’t know who she’s with, where they live, where they went, what they’re doing, or when she’ll be back. Jesus, Kenny. She’s your own daughter. Aren’t you worried about how she looks? She’s been losing weight. She’s skinny as a rail, she has dark circles under her eyes, and her skin is as white as paper.”
“Whattayamean?” he said. “She looks just like all those high-fashion models in the magazines she reads. Every girl that age wants to look like the models.”
“What kind of father are you? Don’t you know that girl needs direction, guidance, needs attention? She worships you. Why can’t you be as good a father as you are a dope farmer?” Dolly snapped.
Dolly knew the moment the words crossed her lips that she had blown her only chance to get him to pay attention. “Kenny, I’m sorry....”
“Shoot, Dolly, you ain’t told me nothin’ I ain’t already heard from you a hundred times. That’s all you care about – bein’ in control of every person in the world and blamin’ me for your problems. The kid ain’t done you or me or anybody else no harm. She’s out with her friends like every other teenager in the world on a Saturday night, and I’m the lazy dope fiend who’s to blame for it. Well, go take your self-righteous sermon somewhere else tonight, Dolly.” Kenny took a long pull on the bong. The smoke slowly curled out of his nostrils. “Ginger and I are spending some quality time together right now, and your lecture ain’t improvin’ it any. G’bye.”
9. FunTastic
Aboard the FunTastic
Ronald Huntington Pawley, III, was in heaven. Known to his friends as “Ron” and to his ex-girlfriends as “Paws,” he beamed with the pride of ownership and the thrill of commanding the FunTastic’s powerful twin 240-horsepower diesel engines. As he pushed forward the two mahogany-tipped, stainless steel throttles, the sleek sport yacht leaped forward like a scared barracuda, pushing Dolly back deep into the glove-soft white leather seat next to the pilot’s chair.
“God, I love that,” he said to his beautiful, bikinied passenger. “Idle to full plane in eight seconds flat. That’s performance.” Dolly slipped her arm through his as the flared fiberglass bow parted the sea before them. She was as impressed with her new boyfriend as he was with his new boat. Ron was forty-five, fit, and tanned. She had a hunch that Ron’s performance in bed might just match that of his boat. But her long track record of dating men with flash and cash had taught her to go slowly when entering a new relationship.
Today, she sensed from experience, he’d make the big move. But Dolly was determined to give him just the appetizer this weekend and save the entrée until she’d gotten to know him better. She’d had enough little minnows – the short-timers and one-night stands. She had a new standard now: she was only after a big fish. So far, Ron qualified.
The discreet pulsing of the diesel engines sent a tingle through her skin. The feeling of power was contagious.
“Ron, would you like a drink? I think I have the bar in the salon figured out.”
“Sure, Baby, that would be great. I have everything you need for Singapore Slings, Margaritas, Banana Daiquiris and Sex on the Beach.”
“You mean you need a glass for that?” she joked.
He smiled. “You need a glass, vodka, Midori melon liqueur, Chambord raspberry liqueur, grapefruit juice, cranberry juice, ice, and cherries for a garnish.”
“This boat is amazing. I bet cruise ships don’t even stock their bars as well as you do.”
Ron chuckled. “I bought it for relaxing and for entertaining my clients. My business can drive me crazy,” he said. “This helps me get my sanity back.”
His cell phone beeped. “Damn,” he said, then answered it. He listened a moment, covered the mouthpiece, and said, “See what I mean? Can you excuse me for a minute?”
Dolly knew this was the signal for her to leave the bridge and move to the salon, the galley, or the rear deck. “Yeah, Baby, how’re you doing?” she overheard him say as she walked down the steps to the rear deck. She wondered exactly who he was calling “Baby.” Not competition, she hoped.
Down in the sculptured cherrywood galley, she looked up the “Sex On The Beach” recipe in Ron’s mixology handbook. Ten minutes later, she had completed the complicated procedure and proudly served up two drinks in frosted glasses engraved with the boat’s name, FunTastic.
“Thanks, Doll,” he said with a wink. “To sex on the beach,” he said with a wicked grin as he raised his glass. Dolly smiled, clinked her glass, but said nothing about his remark. “Who was on the phone?” she asked.
“Ah, just the wife of a client who wants a condo. Where shall we go ashore for lunch?” he replied. Dolly thought that he’d been awfully chummy with the woman if she was, in fact, the wife of a client. And the quick change of subject seemed suspicious, too. But, she thought, it's a beautiful day, he's a good-looking guy, I'm being treated like a queen on this