Night fell like a one-legged hooker in high heel shoes. Que Mal was crying. ElvisRex was downstairs whining to his mother. Gina and Mike had come in, tuned out, and got back in their car for more sightseeing. I was trying to make sense of how I'd gotten myself to this point. I blamed Demerol. I blamed kidney stones. I blamed RexElvisSeith. I blamed myself. I blamed my parents for fucking. I blamed Kool & the Gang. Everyone in the entire world was responsible for me sitting upstairs in my room, trying to read a copy of Tom Robbin's Skinny Legs and All while Whateverthefuckhisnamewas sat down stairs whining to his mother about how he wanted to go home. Not a word about a grandfather.
This is when I got the sinking feeling. It was the last weekend in August and Seith was doing everything he could to get home. School. He'd lied to me about his name, his family history, his sex life, he'd even lied about his father dying. What if he'd lied about his age? What if he was some sixteen year old who'd somehow convinced his mother he was going to spend time with...I don't know anyone who raised this kid would either swallow just about anything or else just didn't care about him. For all I knew the ID was his brother's (not the fictional Stepbrother, but maybe a real one). I'd just assumed that since the his mother asked for Byron, and the ID said Elvis B. Hayes that the B stood for Byron. Maybe Elvis Beauragard Hayes was his older brother, and he was Byron Wizwell Hayes.
I envisioned courtroom melodramas, made-for-tv movies, his mother crying on Montel about how her poor innocent boy had been led astray by a 21 year old pervert who'd used his vast financial resources to fly RexSeithByronElvisWhatever up to Cranberry Lake to be a sex slave.
His profile said he was 18. I had a chatlog where he told me he was 18. I'd seen the ID he brought with him which stated he was 18. Until that moment I had never doubted he was 18. I was a moron. But I was a moron who probably hadn't done anything wrong in the eyes of the law. What was I supposed to do? Fingerprint him and take him to the police office? Ok, in retrospect, that would have been a wonderful thing to do.
I decided to go out for a drive to get away from the sound of his voice and his chinchilla's voice. A drive. A drive would clear my head for the moment.
This is the point in the story where the poor narrator goes out to clear his mind and ends up hitting a deer or running over a small child. Wouldn't that make the story great? Or at least interesting?
No dice. A Mormon casino.
I returned home somewhat calmer than I had been when I left. I didn't even talk to Seithvisronex, I just headed straight to bed. The bad car karma would come the next night. It would not be pretty.