<3 <3 <3 Journey to Makeout Point <3 <3 <3

By Mike Meginnis and Simon Jacobs

m: You are seated in your car. Your car isn't moving. You have no memory of how you got to the car. You don't know why the car isn't moving. There is a girl beside you. You're not sure what her name is. But she looks dressed for makeout point. Short skirt, big shoes, small shirt. If only your car were moving. If only you knew where you were. If only you knew the way from here to there.

s: Investigate shoes.

m: Her shoes are purple pumps. She looks perpetually on the verge of removing them -- she rubs the heels against each other. Your own shoes are white sneakers with blazing orange details. Your name is written on each one in black permanent marker.

s: My name was Justin way before I even thought of getting into this car. Ask her name; she must have one. Even my cat has a name.

m: "You sure like to talk," she says. Either she hates this about you or it turns her on. After a too-long pause, she says, "It's Candy Corn." She says, "Don't laugh."

s: OH GOD HAVE I BROUGHT PROTECTION INVENTORY INVENTORY INVENTORY INVENTORY TELL ME WHAT IS IN THE FUCKING GLOVE COMPARTMENT

m: Your glove compartment has a small collection of forgeries: forged proof of insurance, forged title for the car, forged learner's permit (from before you got the laminator and forged your current license), forged little black book (featuring a long list of randomly generated presumably-real phone numbers (they all have seven digits) next to a long list of real names for imaginary girls, just in case you need to prove to someone, for instance Candy Corn how studly you are), and forged thousand dollar bill, extremely unconvincing (just in case you need to get arrested). In your wallet there are, you remember, no fewer than three (3) condoms, all Trojan, all extra-thin.

s: Retrieve all of the forged documents from the glove compartment and display them to Candy Corn, proudly proclaiming, "These are all fake." Leave the condoms. For now. Turn on the suave.

m: "Wow," says Candy Corn. "Even the little black book? You sure put a lot of effort into it. Martha Washington, ‘Plain’ Jane ‘Eyre’ Fonda. Sadie Hawkins. Julia Julia. Even the thousand dollar bill? It's so unconvincing. I wonder if the slow guy at the Circle K would believe it."

s: Recall that, in a previous life, I was one of the slow guys. I move the car forward by turning it on and putting it in reverse. But I do it on purpose.

m: Where do you want to take the car? Do you want to drive in revere the whole way? You are presently in a suburb, in a cul de sac, possibly outside Candy Corn's home. The road heads north and east from the cul de sac. Somewhere there are police.

s: South, into house. Take Candy maybe home. Fast, just to see how her body moves.

m: Both her heels break in the dash to the house, but she seems to be prepared for this -- she doesn't even stumble. "My house is not makeout point!" she shouts. "And this might be my house!" The door is locked, but you hear movement inside. North there is the door. East, a window, dark, the shades mostly drawn. Southeast, a lawn gnome with a backpack.

s: Collect Candy's heels (I am a gentleman), then go east. Press Candy's face to the window. Ask her what she sees, if it looks familiar, if it looks like makeout point.

m: Candy says she sees a man who might be her father. He is facing away from the window, seated on the bed. The lights are off. She says that he is eating ice cream. He wears a nice shirt, she says, but it's open. All the buttons undone. She says, "It might be makeout point. If he makes out with someone or something, then maybe."

s: Ask her if her father is a real man or just one of the fakes like the documents in the glove compartment. Offer to show her the thousand dollar bill again, offer to buy her ice cream. Touch her shoulder. Feel back pocket for wallet.

m: "I never had the chance to test him," she says. "He wears nice shirts." She says, "You can buy me anything you want if you'll use the thousand dollar bill to do it." Your back pocket, or hers?

s: Hers, knowing full well that her skirt is very unlikely to have a back pocket.

m: She keeps her wallet in her underpants, up against the left cheek. Make of that what you will. The wallet is thick. Maybe Candy Corn is rich. Maybe she likes to keep things in her wallet that aren't legal tender.

s: I make diamonds out of it: the diamonds she keeps in her wallet. Pick-panty her, while nuzzling. Keep eyes on window.

m: Now the ice cream-eating possible father lies down on his back. He is a dark, amorphous lump with a nose sticking up in the air. The sweaty ice cream carton balances on his chest. Candy Corn pretends not to notice that you've taken her wallet. The diamonds are all shaped like bullets. She smells like a plate.

s: Remember technicolor charm from TV. Whisper in her ear, "You're a dish." Pocket the bullets with the heels. I want to be lying down.

m: Then you want it. That's up to you, to do what you want. ... She doesn't smell like just a plate, but one fresh out of the dishwasher, warm and moist, but a sterile sort of warm moisture. She has maybe forgotten about you. The maybe-father's nose breathes in.

s: SHE IS THINKING ABOUT HER FATHER ISN"T SHE SHE IS I KNOW IT SHE IS THINKING ABOUT HER FATHER NO SHE WILL NOT THINK ABOUT HER FATHER NOT NOW NOT WITH JUSTIN NOT WITH ME AND MY ORANGE DETAILS NO NOT HER FATHER NO NO GET BACK IN THE MOTHERFUCKING CAR WE ARE GOING TO BUY SOME ICE CREAM WITH THESE MOTHERFUCKING BULLETS

m: Candy Corn is surprised by your shouting. (You shouted all of that.) And now neither of you can pretend she doesn't know you took the diamonds from her hidden wallet, which might make men with lesser shoes uncomfortable. You take her east, and then north, and then east, and then north for a while, and you are heading for the Dairy Queen. There is a certain Dairy Queen you're fond of. Candy Corn is telling you how she got her name.

s: "I mean, come on, everybody around here knows the Corns. You don't ask a Corns girl out on a date without knowing the history. You take the baggage, too. How we've owned this neighborhood for like four decades. How until me we were all Charlottes and Emilys and Dianas. How my mother was in the delivery room when she had me and she said, and I quote, 'Fuck all this high-minded bullshit, I want a pun this time. I want a pun for a daughter. I'm lucky I didn't end up with Creamed,' and Jesus, Mother, have you lost your freaking mind? Have you??" Except I am the one telling her.

m: "You do my voice too well," she says. "I don't like it. Stop." But maybe she does like it, and maybe she likes you. You are in the Dairy Queen parking lot. The certain Dairy Queen you like. North to the Dairy Queen. Northeast to the Circle K. Northwest to the Papa John's Pizza. West, down the road. East, down the road. South, across it, where there is a Village Inn, a CVS, a Carl's Jr. Nobody likes Candy Corn. Not the girl but the candy. It always tastes like it's stale already, even at its freshest. It is sweet to no end. You can't even get it on your cone at the Dairy Queen, not even at this Dairy Queen. She gets out of the car without waiting for you to climb out first. The bulge of the wallet in the back of her skirt excites you. You have a fantasy that the wallet is a big, stinking turd. This is, make no mistake, a sexual fantasy. "Baffling," you say, but is it really? Something about the way it shapes the cloth. Well, here we are.

s: I am a good suburban boy. I am a good suburban boy. I am a good suburban boy. I am a good suburban boy. I am a suburban boy. I am a suburban boy. I am a suburban boy. I am a boy. I am a boy. I only fantasize about missonary. Missionaries building schools in third-world countries. Mint chocolate chip please, for the two of us. I slap the bullets on the counter.

m: The cashier looks to Candy Corn for help. Candy Corn pretends that nothing is strange here (except possibly for your choice of mint chocolate chip). Candy Corn says, "And a soft drink." She emphasizes "soft." The cashier opens her register and searches for a place to put the bullets. Say, an empty gun.

s: "An empty gun."

m: The cashier is grateful for your suggestion. She takes a pistol from beneath the counter, a revolver, and slowly loads the chambers, one by one. "Two mint chocolate chip!" she shouts at the slow guy in the back. She considers the diamond-loaded gun's weight.

s: Remember, again, how I was once one of the slow guys in the back. Feel angry at the cashier, but she is armed now. Flinch when she shouts at the slow guy again, "I said TWO chocolate chip!" Recall locker room. Recall wearing a tie on picture day. Recall broken glass in frames on the mantle. Take Candy the person and run.

m: The cashier takes a shot at you as you leave. The diamond bullet doesn't even leave the chamber, it is so heavy, but the shot is so loud that all the windows in the Dairy Queen explode. You were fond of this Dairy Queen. Where do you run from here?

s: The car. West. West. West. To another cul-de-sac, the womb of suburbia, where I can huddle and talk this over, even if we're both a little deaf right now.

m: "But what's there to talk about?" says Candy Corn. She hitches her skirt up her thigh a little. Maybe you feel a twinge. But maybe you don't. Maybe she doesn't either. Maybe the makeout mood is ruined. Maybe there is no Point.

s: Blood flows south, inside. I feel more than a twinge, even if Candy is faking it. Her family is all diamonds anyway. I, I am the legacy of ticky tack, of all suburbia. I will bury myself in these manicured lawns.

Bio: Simon Jacobs is the reigning king of suburbia. He curates the Safety Pin Review -- a new, wearable medium for work under 30 words -- and lives out of the trunk at simonajacobs.blogspot.com.

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