Mom Swap, Chapter One, 1st Draft
Chapter One of Kevin's and my fake nonfiction book: (this is probably too long to be of interest to anyone but Kevin)
Billy Hughes is a shy kid. When he talks, he has a way of staring at the grass, the sidewalk, the neighbor's orange pumpkin-shaped mailbox—anything but your face. His head bobs around on a scrawny neck, and washed-out blonde bangs hide his eyes. In his pockets, hands clench and release. Billy doesn't like talking to strangers, especially ones who ask questions about his Mom.
It's late 2005 when I catch up with Billy, the winter months. October's gone, buried beneath November's first snow, and let me tell you—here in Northern Iowa you know that snow's not melting anytime soon. Winds tear across flat farmland, and by the time they hit your face you can feel your nose turning red, can feel crimson blooming in your cheeks. Snot freezes. Tears solidify at the rims of your eyes.
Billy doesn't seem to mind the cold. It's the second thing I notice about him.
"Inside," he says. "It's pretty hot. Mom keeps the heat on all the time."
"That's what I hear," I say. "I hear you help her keep it that way."
He cocks his head, frowns. He realizes, for the first time, why I'm here. I'm not a Mormon, not a Jehovah's Witness. I'm not selling tubs of cookie dough for my daughter's 5th Grade band. I'm here to ask about his Mom, and I'm here to ask about her flat-out.
"You're one of those," he says. "You with the Courier?"
"I'm a private researcher," I say. "Freelance. You talked to anybody about this yet?"
He shakes his head.
"You're not going to, either." I cross arms, stamp feet. My boots grate against the smooth suburban sidewalk. "Between you and me, this story's too fucked up for the Courier. It's too fucked for the mainstream media."
He squirms, looks down the road, hunches forward. Maybe now that cold's getting to him. The door behind him is still open, and I can see a fake fireplace, and atop its brick mantle a row of photos. There's a bowling trophy there too, probably plastic, probably from Billy's childhood. I can see the kitchen, too: tile floor, glass table, low counter lined with a breadbox and a Mr. Coffee and a toaster that looks like it could calculate square roots. There's heat in that house, and the muted sound of dinnertime television, maybe Alex Trebek asking questions or Jerry Seinfeld telling jokes. Billy's one of those kids, then—he comes home from school, walks down these suburban streets, nods at the dads and moms shoveling snow outside these identical houses, and then walks into his own, flips on the TV, throws together a turkey sandwich from the fridge. Is his Mom home? His Mom is probably not home.
"How'd you hear about this?" he says, and then gapes a little. "I mean, if there's anything to hear about . . ."
I crane up on my toes, then drop down, try to look confident. I remove a glove and fish out my notebook. Already my fingers turn stiff, the skin under the knuckles turns hard. But it has to be done. "I got a call from a friend with the Courier, Billy. They know, see. Not a lot of people around here know, but some do. Someone's gonna tell your story, Billy, and not everybody's gonna agree to give you and your Mom and your buddies false names. The Courier is not gonna touch this story, but if you don't talk to me, you wait around another week, US News is gonna show up here, the Enquirer, fucking Entertainment Weekly."
Billy shifts around some more, shuffles his sneakers against the ice and salt on the doorstep.
"You know how US News operates, Billy? Week from now you're gonna be in there in your little sockeys watching Jackoff Jones and the Honeybunny Squad and someone's gonna ring your doorbell. You're gonna come to the door and instead of me out here, me with my notebook and pen and cold fuckin fingers, instead of me you're gonna find three guys with tape recorders and a woman with a video camera pointed at your face."
Billy's eyebrows quiver. He folds and refolds his arms. He bobs up and down, peeks over my shoulder, looks down the street both ways, and then nods toward the door. "Come in," he says, and sounds dejected enough that I feel a little bad.
. . .
"I love my mom," he says. He's buried in a couch that's soft enough to swallow a cow. He hugs his heels to his ass, his knees to his chest. He looks like he's 8. Across the room, lounging in a recliner more expensive than my monthly rent back in Des Moines, I make a point of spreading my legs, throwing out an arm, scratching my head. I tousle my hair. I'm relaxed. Over on the couch, Billy's making a freakshow of himself.
Not that he hasn't already.
"Had you been with a girl before?" I ask. "Or a woman?"
He shakes his head, then grimaces as I make notes. Really I don't need the notebook, I'll remember all of this, but it's a useful prop. A notebook can make a journalist out of just about anybody with a button shirt and a pair of glasses.
"So you thought this would be a good way to toss out the ol' vir-gin-i-tay."
"Um," he says. "Actually, it wasn't really my idea."
"Your friend came up with it?"
"He said it's sort of a thing, you know. A trend." Billy coughs. "You want something to drink?"
"How'd he bring it up?" I say. "How'd he talk you into swapping your Mom."
Billy sighs, runs a hand through his hair. The bangs stick up like bent antennae. If he wasn't staring at the floor before, he is now.
"Billy," I say. "How'd he talk you into swapping your Mom for his?"
"Just one night," he says, and I can't tell if he's going to cry or scream, just bawl or hurl the TV's 40-pound remote at my face. "Just one night, he said. Everybody was doing it. It came over from the West Coast, I don't know, Rob's got this cousin in Seattle I guess, and Rob heard about it and liked the idea, and . . ."
"What?"
"He's always liked my Mom."
I ask for Rob's last name, write it down and circle it in my notebook.
"My mom was cool with the idea," he says. "I mean, it's not like I forced her. My dad's been gone three years now, Mom's lonely—"
"How'd you bring it up?" I ask.
He exhales, hard, like he just came up out of eight feet of water. "I dunno. Rob and I, we had some beers. Mom gets home at 8 or 9 most nights, so we were down in the basement and by the time Mom came down with a DiGiorno we were drunk enough to ask her. She sort of looked . . . shocked at first, but then she smiled at Rob, a little weird like, and I came upstairs and finished my beer."
"And then what?"
Billy's not crying yet, but he's close. He's breathing hard and slow, and his hands can't stay away from his face. He presses palms to eyes, to temples. He can't look at me. "Then I don't know, I get through my beer. In the basement, I hear Mom laughing, and Rob talking to her. And then—"
"Yeah?"
"Then there's someone at the door. The doorbell rings, I mean. And I'm drunk, I am hammered. I get up and get the door and Katrina's out there. Katrina, that's Rob's Mom. And for a second I think she's here to pick up Rob, to bring him home cause he's had so much to drink, but she just smiles at me, and her eyes are, you know, slanted in a little, like she's thinking something dirty.
"'Robby called,'" she says. "'He says you two have an arrangement.'
"And I'm like . . . floored, you know? I'm shocked. Down in the basement, Mom laughs at something real hard like, and then there's this weird moment where she stops laughing and sort of . . . you know . . ."
"Moans?"
He nods. "And Katrina comes in and shuts the door. She puts a finger underneath my chin—" He demonstrates. "And says I've always been a cute little boy. She fiddles around in her purse for a second and I'm terrified she's looking for a condom, but she pulls out a flask. I don't drink liquor, but I did that night, and she did, and beneath us Mom and Rob were starting to really make too much noise."
"And then what?" I ask, but my imagination is lost, I'm staring at the door, at the lines of shoes and the hanging coats, and now I can see her there, Katrina, this 40 year-old brunette in pumps and a business suit, flirting up her son's 17 year-old friend.
"I ask—" He swallows, hard enough for me to hear. "I ask if she wants to go up to my room. But she grabs my shoulders and says no, right here's fine. She likes to listen, see. And you can hear my Mom and Rob downstairs, Rob's grunting a lot and Mom's almost screaming, it sounds like someone's torturing her."
"Did you go upstairs, then?"
He shakes his head, swallows again. "She pushed me down onto a chair, and I was drunk, you know? And then she's on her knees in front of me, and she's got my pants unzipped and off and—"
"And where'd this happen?"
He nods at me, at the recliner I'm in. "We had sex on the couch, but she went down on me right there."
"Here?" I say, and get it. "Oh," I say, and stand up, shudder. "Balls!"
Billy Hughes is a shy kid. When he talks, he has a way of staring at the grass, the sidewalk, the neighbor's orange pumpkin-shaped mailbox—anything but your face. His head bobs around on a scrawny neck, and washed-out blonde bangs hide his eyes. In his pockets, hands clench and release. Billy doesn't like talking to strangers, especially ones who ask questions about his Mom.
It's late 2005 when I catch up with Billy, the winter months. October's gone, buried beneath November's first snow, and let me tell you—here in Northern Iowa you know that snow's not melting anytime soon. Winds tear across flat farmland, and by the time they hit your face you can feel your nose turning red, can feel crimson blooming in your cheeks. Snot freezes. Tears solidify at the rims of your eyes.
Billy doesn't seem to mind the cold. It's the second thing I notice about him.
"Inside," he says. "It's pretty hot. Mom keeps the heat on all the time."
"That's what I hear," I say. "I hear you help her keep it that way."
He cocks his head, frowns. He realizes, for the first time, why I'm here. I'm not a Mormon, not a Jehovah's Witness. I'm not selling tubs of cookie dough for my daughter's 5th Grade band. I'm here to ask about his Mom, and I'm here to ask about her flat-out.
"You're one of those," he says. "You with the Courier?"
"I'm a private researcher," I say. "Freelance. You talked to anybody about this yet?"
He shakes his head.
"You're not going to, either." I cross arms, stamp feet. My boots grate against the smooth suburban sidewalk. "Between you and me, this story's too fucked up for the Courier. It's too fucked for the mainstream media."
He squirms, looks down the road, hunches forward. Maybe now that cold's getting to him. The door behind him is still open, and I can see a fake fireplace, and atop its brick mantle a row of photos. There's a bowling trophy there too, probably plastic, probably from Billy's childhood. I can see the kitchen, too: tile floor, glass table, low counter lined with a breadbox and a Mr. Coffee and a toaster that looks like it could calculate square roots. There's heat in that house, and the muted sound of dinnertime television, maybe Alex Trebek asking questions or Jerry Seinfeld telling jokes. Billy's one of those kids, then—he comes home from school, walks down these suburban streets, nods at the dads and moms shoveling snow outside these identical houses, and then walks into his own, flips on the TV, throws together a turkey sandwich from the fridge. Is his Mom home? His Mom is probably not home.
"How'd you hear about this?" he says, and then gapes a little. "I mean, if there's anything to hear about . . ."
I crane up on my toes, then drop down, try to look confident. I remove a glove and fish out my notebook. Already my fingers turn stiff, the skin under the knuckles turns hard. But it has to be done. "I got a call from a friend with the Courier, Billy. They know, see. Not a lot of people around here know, but some do. Someone's gonna tell your story, Billy, and not everybody's gonna agree to give you and your Mom and your buddies false names. The Courier is not gonna touch this story, but if you don't talk to me, you wait around another week, US News is gonna show up here, the Enquirer, fucking Entertainment Weekly."
Billy shifts around some more, shuffles his sneakers against the ice and salt on the doorstep.
"You know how US News operates, Billy? Week from now you're gonna be in there in your little sockeys watching Jackoff Jones and the Honeybunny Squad and someone's gonna ring your doorbell. You're gonna come to the door and instead of me out here, me with my notebook and pen and cold fuckin fingers, instead of me you're gonna find three guys with tape recorders and a woman with a video camera pointed at your face."
Billy's eyebrows quiver. He folds and refolds his arms. He bobs up and down, peeks over my shoulder, looks down the street both ways, and then nods toward the door. "Come in," he says, and sounds dejected enough that I feel a little bad.
. . .
"I love my mom," he says. He's buried in a couch that's soft enough to swallow a cow. He hugs his heels to his ass, his knees to his chest. He looks like he's 8. Across the room, lounging in a recliner more expensive than my monthly rent back in Des Moines, I make a point of spreading my legs, throwing out an arm, scratching my head. I tousle my hair. I'm relaxed. Over on the couch, Billy's making a freakshow of himself.
Not that he hasn't already.
"Had you been with a girl before?" I ask. "Or a woman?"
He shakes his head, then grimaces as I make notes. Really I don't need the notebook, I'll remember all of this, but it's a useful prop. A notebook can make a journalist out of just about anybody with a button shirt and a pair of glasses.
"So you thought this would be a good way to toss out the ol' vir-gin-i-tay."
"Um," he says. "Actually, it wasn't really my idea."
"Your friend came up with it?"
"He said it's sort of a thing, you know. A trend." Billy coughs. "You want something to drink?"
"How'd he bring it up?" I say. "How'd he talk you into swapping your Mom."
Billy sighs, runs a hand through his hair. The bangs stick up like bent antennae. If he wasn't staring at the floor before, he is now.
"Billy," I say. "How'd he talk you into swapping your Mom for his?"
"Just one night," he says, and I can't tell if he's going to cry or scream, just bawl or hurl the TV's 40-pound remote at my face. "Just one night, he said. Everybody was doing it. It came over from the West Coast, I don't know, Rob's got this cousin in Seattle I guess, and Rob heard about it and liked the idea, and . . ."
"What?"
"He's always liked my Mom."
I ask for Rob's last name, write it down and circle it in my notebook.
"My mom was cool with the idea," he says. "I mean, it's not like I forced her. My dad's been gone three years now, Mom's lonely—"
"How'd you bring it up?" I ask.
He exhales, hard, like he just came up out of eight feet of water. "I dunno. Rob and I, we had some beers. Mom gets home at 8 or 9 most nights, so we were down in the basement and by the time Mom came down with a DiGiorno we were drunk enough to ask her. She sort of looked . . . shocked at first, but then she smiled at Rob, a little weird like, and I came upstairs and finished my beer."
"And then what?"
Billy's not crying yet, but he's close. He's breathing hard and slow, and his hands can't stay away from his face. He presses palms to eyes, to temples. He can't look at me. "Then I don't know, I get through my beer. In the basement, I hear Mom laughing, and Rob talking to her. And then—"
"Yeah?"
"Then there's someone at the door. The doorbell rings, I mean. And I'm drunk, I am hammered. I get up and get the door and Katrina's out there. Katrina, that's Rob's Mom. And for a second I think she's here to pick up Rob, to bring him home cause he's had so much to drink, but she just smiles at me, and her eyes are, you know, slanted in a little, like she's thinking something dirty.
"'Robby called,'" she says. "'He says you two have an arrangement.'
"And I'm like . . . floored, you know? I'm shocked. Down in the basement, Mom laughs at something real hard like, and then there's this weird moment where she stops laughing and sort of . . . you know . . ."
"Moans?"
He nods. "And Katrina comes in and shuts the door. She puts a finger underneath my chin—" He demonstrates. "And says I've always been a cute little boy. She fiddles around in her purse for a second and I'm terrified she's looking for a condom, but she pulls out a flask. I don't drink liquor, but I did that night, and she did, and beneath us Mom and Rob were starting to really make too much noise."
"And then what?" I ask, but my imagination is lost, I'm staring at the door, at the lines of shoes and the hanging coats, and now I can see her there, Katrina, this 40 year-old brunette in pumps and a business suit, flirting up her son's 17 year-old friend.
"I ask—" He swallows, hard enough for me to hear. "I ask if she wants to go up to my room. But she grabs my shoulders and says no, right here's fine. She likes to listen, see. And you can hear my Mom and Rob downstairs, Rob's grunting a lot and Mom's almost screaming, it sounds like someone's torturing her."
"Did you go upstairs, then?"
He shakes his head, swallows again. "She pushed me down onto a chair, and I was drunk, you know? And then she's on her knees in front of me, and she's got my pants unzipped and off and—"
"And where'd this happen?"
He nods at me, at the recliner I'm in. "We had sex on the couch, but she went down on me right there."
"Here?" I say, and get it. "Oh," I say, and stand up, shudder. "Balls!"
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