I'm going to read just a little bit from the opening.
Ander alluded a little bit to what this book is about.
I won't say too much.
It's about a murder.
And it coincides with the filming of a very--
sort of insignificant part of Psycho.
But the parallel is pretty much in there.
I privilege the people who are made up here.
And one of them is a young shoe clerk
named Candy because she appears here before "you."
And the second person is "you."
And this takes place at a drive-in.
And Michael Silverblatt on Bookworm told me.
He said, you know, drive-ins were called passion pits.
And I was so glad that he used that phrase because it is sexy.
So it might not just be the room or the heat
but I just hope I don't end up sounding like Piper Laurie
and Carrie when she starts talking
about the cheap Roadhouse whiskey.
All right.
"Just a little west of Bakersfield,
just far enough away from the city
lights is the local drive-in theater,
a line of cars idling at the dusty entrance at sundown.
A concession stand sits in the middle.
And everyone goes there for big striped boxes
of popcorn and hot dogs and candy,
cradling everything close so only one trip is necessary.
Horns beep whenever a car pulls in with its lights
on even though the sky is still lit
orange with sundown and the double bill
nowhere near beginning.
Music comes in over the speakers, old big band numbers
that no one listens to anymore.
Some couples sit out on the hoods
after the engines have cooled down.
The people returning from the concession
stand darkened to shadows as dusk finally breaks into night.
And the first feature starts, always
something of mild interest--
a monster movie with a beautiful blonde
raising her hands to her ears and screaming.
Then in pursuit, with gunfire popping
through the speakers all up and down the drive-in lot.
Laughter carries across several cars,
friends having spotted each other
and walking over to say hello.
Car trunks pop open quickly for six packs to be brought out.
By the end of the first film, night has settled indeed.
And the drive-in lights lights up once more to help people
make their way to the concession stand and the bathrooms,
where the girls walk together in 3's and edge for space
at the mirrors--
everyone finding out who came with whom.
She's there.
That girl.
You looked for her among the faces surrounding the bathroom
mirrors but she was nowhere to be found.
But you know she's there.
You spotted Dan Watson's beautiful form
gliding across the dusty lane toward the concession stand.
He returns now to his pickup just ahead,
holding a box of popcorn in his hand and sporting a cowboy hat.
His jeans taunt, everything lean and hard--
the way he glides from one end of the windshield to the other
before disappearing into the cab of that truck.
That girl is the other shadow.
He is handing her the box.
Ten minutes later, the lot darkens and the second feature
begins--
a detective story.
You can tell by the hat the lead actor is wearing.
No one wears hats like that around here
unless you're from Los Angeles.
On screen, a beautiful girl screams
for a pair of anonymous hands, clothes around her neck.
And she collapses as if struck with a sudden urge to sleep.
She did not scream as terribly as the beautiful blonde
who was attacked by the monster in that other movie.
But somehow, it was more real, more probable, and enough
to make you turn your head away and look out
past the edge of the drive-in's lot.
The stretch of oil fields, the ring
of mountains to the south and east
of Bakersfield to Los Angeles--
is that where the movie is set where something like this
could happen?
No one seems to care about questions like that,
not by how the shadows in the cars
begin to blend together one by one.
Some stay separate.
But most don't.
There's been beer and slugs of whiskey and lipstick applied
in the bathroom mirror and cigarettes and sweet talk,
hands on knees and short whispers and legs
shaved that evening, baby smooth.
All over town, getting ready, everyone knowing or hoping
the evening would come to this--
a lot of sweet talk in a dark car
and the squeak of the vinyl as your polite date
slides over, the taste of the beer in his mouth,
slightly bitter but sweet, too, the surprise
that men taste sweet inside.
All of them, rough and sweet.
Your hand on his cheek to feel the itch of his whiskers, which
you can't see but can feel.
Forceful but sweet.
And it's that sweetness that calms the alarm about where
his hands move--
sometimes above the knee or underneath the hem
at the back of your blouse, just two
fingertips in that hollow space at the bottom of the spine.
Forceful but gentle at the same time,
his mouth moving to your neck.
The smell of his hair, Prell shampoo, just like your room.
A moan escapes from your mouth, uncontrollable
because his weight is delicious.
And so is the thought that he's leaving that sweet taste
in his mouth on your skin.
He reaches over to turn the knob down on the speaker.
And the movie goes mute.
And you watch the screen while he's occupied--
the detective at a desk, saying something into a phone,
how you have to guess what he's saying,
the way you have to guess at everything in life--
what you see and what you make of it, what you know for sure
and what you have to experience, what others tell you
and what gets confirmed.
You can see Dan over in his pickup truck.
His shadow has merged with the other one,
slipped into the same space--
the passenger side of the cab.
It is that girl.
It must be.
She knows that sweet taste, too, what
that space in the hollow of his back feels like.
A moan comes out of your mouth just from thinking about him.
And here, in this car, this boy, earnest but inconsequential,
strong but too sweet, hears your moan
and lets his hands glide up, cautious to the unworkable
bridge of the bra hooks.
There is patience and inexperience
all over the drive-in.
Some hands retreating in defeat.
And then there are others like this that manage and move
quickly before being denied.
On screen, the detective lights a cigarette
and seems to look out at all the cars.
There is a woman whom the detective loves.
But in the movie, you already know
he's going to have to wait to get her.
And still, it won't be this--
an earnest but inconsequential boy
who was sweating at the brow from nerves and delirium,
his mouth impatient at each nipple.
He has never felt a pair of breasts before, not by the way
his hands clamor underneath your bra.
He has to learn to open the blouse completely first,
how to caress buttons.
He has to learn to be gentle and enjoy the feel of skin,
give pleasure instead of just taking it.
But right now, his eyes round out, dewy and unblinking
at his first sight of rosy nipples.
He is 23 but still a boy.
He puts his mouth on each nipple and has
to have his hand guided to your other breast.
You reach down to feel him because this is
what he wants, what he needs.
And there's just the sound now of months and months
of his desires finally being met.
He's doing the moaning now.
The teenage voice from years ago stuck
in his throat as his thick cowboy belt buckle
gets undone for him and the top button released.
He wore brand new underwear.
The elastic is too tight.
And there is this warm thickness.
It's enormous and probably beautiful.
But he's too young and inexperienced to know that yet.
His stomach is coated with a familiar stickiness
and he rests his forehead on the car door
while he's being fondled.
Who can tell what he is thinking?
A soft hand stroking him hard enough that he actually
has to pull away but keeping his forehead on the door
as if he's ashamed.
The detective on the screen is giving chase
along the dark streets of a city but no one cares
about the pursuit.
A car just ahead is bobbing ever so slightly.
There is nothing wrong with wanting
like this, even better with a young man of 23,
still mired in shame.
He won't be bragging to anyone, still thinking
what he's doing is dirty.
And you can go back to work at the shoe store
with no one ever gossiping about you.
His hands have to be brought down to the wet warmth
that he's never even come close to, even in his imagination.
His hands guided around and inside.
He's a sweet boy.
We do know after he drops you off
that he'll be smelling those fingers all the way home.
The pickup truck is absolutely still.
Or is it moving?
There is no telling what they are or not doing in there.
But who could push away Dan Watson?
Because the speaker is off, from way over in the distance,
a girl's furious moans carry along the dirt lane, then
some quiet laughter from people sitting on their hoods,
watching the movie.
Whoever heard that laughter, how people
react when exposed to that kind of desire
with laughter or disgust or disapproval,
might stop what they were doing.
But it's happening all across this darkness--
panties slipping off and resting playfully on the gearshift,
on the radio knob.
Yours is 23 and doesn't know what he's doing.
And he admits that he's a virgin in a terrified voice.
His thrusts-- it feels good, only because you
close your eyes and picture yourself
in the pickup truck instead, the way Dan
walks, the waitresses who feel dirty for thinking
of him that way because they knew him
when he was a little boy.
They know his mother.
You close your eyes and think of Dan
but concentrate on this boy, holding him
at the hips when he begins walking too fast,
getting carried away to a point where he won't
be able to control himself.
He's sweet in his earnestness.
He truly is.
And he stops when you tell him to do so.
His face covered in sweat, he looks like he's about to cry.
Car engines begin to turn on even
before the movie is over and horns blast at the disorder.
Some people want to know who committed
the murder, who made the beautiful girl
scream like that.
The pickup truck stands absolutely still,
the silhouettes hard to pick out now because of the shifting
lights and shadows.
It's time to sit up back in the seat
since people are watching now and adjust bras, clothes,
blouses.
More and more cars begin to pull out,
so many there's actually a line for the exit.
It is better to wait.
The 23-year-old boy is in love.
You can tell by the way he sits there, his pants back
on but the bulge straining.
He wants a kiss.
That's the difference between him and a man like Dan.
This boy hasn't yet learned the power of wielding his body,
giving it over like a little boat on an ocean,
the thing you cling to getting rocked to sleep by the waves.
He thinks he's in love.
And why shouldn't he after a night like that?
It's easy to think that's what love
is after being naked in front of someone for the first time
as if it truly were an act of tenderness of secret honor.
In truth, love crumbles into something else--
an answer to lying awake at 2:00 in the morning
when the body demands one thing and one thing only.
The cars drive back into the sleepy streets of Bakersfield,
letting off dates at the porch lit
houses, last kisses before the neighborhood dogs begin
to bark at the idling engines.
Soon, the boy will start the hand-holding and the flowers--
cheap grocery store flowers, not holidays
flower shop but flowers, nonetheless,
because that's what sweet, earnest boys do."