The call (b)...

The phone rings. It is three o’clock in the morning. All I can think about is Harmony. I pick up and call her angel.

“Love you too sweet heart. Your fat girl friend ever call you back?’ It takes me a minute to register. It is Jim Baker.

“Dude, what the hell man, it is three thirty in the morning.”

“Man, just had to call you guys. Turn on channel 31.”

“Fawht?” I soporifically sputter.

Jim is giddy.

“Naw man you won’t believe this shit. Just turn on channel 31.”

There is a click. Justin is up and reminding me that it is three a.m.

“Purportedly there is something on channel 31 that Jim Baker deems so essential as to call us up at three in the morning just to turn on the tv.”

I click the receiver down on the handle. I press the pillow down on my face.

“Yer not going to turn on the TV?” Justin inquires. I tell him no. I’m tired. Justin says that maybe we should just turn on the TV because something important might be happening global wise.

“I mean maybe there’s another riot in L.A. Maybe something happen in the Gulf war again or something. You never know.”

The tv springs to life via a cylinder reminiscent of the plastic nipple Nat was fondling on the Skipper out of Peoria.  It takes us a while to turn the channels. Most are a blizzard of static. One channel seems to be airing an opera.  There is one channel where cricket is being played by Asians. We find channel thirty-one.

“Fuck,” we both say. In unison.

On screen is a bald British mid-thirties, a tad overweight. His underwear is being yanked down by a woman with long permy red hair and bad teeth. She is grabbing his cock like she is playing Sega.

The phone erupts again,

“You see this? You see this shit? She’s sucking some serious cock man. She’s fingering  his balls.”

“Damn Jim I’m trying to sleep.”

Jim tells me that no one is asleep here. Jim tells me the the counselors went out again and got drunk and just got back to their rooms a couple of hours ago.

“Trevor and Sir Charles are men of character. They don’t drink.”

Jim tells me whatever dude. He tells me look at that. He tells me that it looks like the bald British dude is about ready to cum.

“Goodnight Jim.” I say, about ready to hang up before Jim shouts out my name.

“Hey Harry, can you imagine the fat girl you were dancing with last night doing that to you. Can you imagine her just lickin’ at your wad like that.

Jim is making llating sounds with his tongue as I hang up the phone.

I tell Justin that we have London in a couple of hours. He doesn't repsond.

His eyes are adhered to the fizz of the television screen.

He is not saying a word.