The Blob

6

Freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, Paul Tyler strolled along a Morgan City street with his friend Scott Jesky, feeling like a million dollars.

“I can’t believe it! I catch the winning touchdown pass, and get a date with a dreamboat to boot! Have I had a good day, or what?”

Dusk was settling down over Morgan City, cooling it a bit. The streets still smelled of hot dust and car exhaust fumes, and people, exuberant from the football victory, had returned to repopulate it, walking home, or perhaps doing a little bit of shopping.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve said that, man,” said Scott. “I admit I’m proud of you, pal, but if you pat yourself on the back any more, your arm is going to fall off.”

“Sorry, but I just can’t believe it,” said Paul. “I’m really happy, really and truly. You know, it’s not often I get to go out with someone I really like! It’s hard enough to ask plain girls out! But Meg Penny! Sheesh, my brain is getting foggy just thinking about her.”

“Nah, it was just all the tackles today. You’ll be fine, Tyler.” Then Scott seemed to notice something. He snagged the crook of his friend’s elbow and dragged him off toward a row of small stores. “C’mon in here for a moment.”

It suddenly registered with Paul that Scott was dragging him into the Rexall drugstore. “What are we doing here?” Paul asked. “I gotta go home and get ready!”

The door chimed as they walked in. The Rexall store was clean and neat, but its narrow aisles were heavily stocked, and the effect was rather claustrophobic. The place smelled of syrups, powders, antiseptics, and chewing gum. Scott pulled Paul along toward the drug counter in the back, his voice lowered to just above a whisper.

“Lend me five bucks till tomorrow.”

Paul was aghast. “What for?”

Scott’s narrow lips formed into a self-satisfied smile. “You’re not the only one with a date, pal. I’m bound to score with Vicki tonight and I gotta invest in a little protection. No tellin’ what bugs are creepin’ around town tonight!”

Paul stopped in his tracks, doing a double take. Vickie? Vickie Desoto? The girl most likely to make Penthouse Pet of the Year? (And if she made Playboy, they’d have to have an L-shaped gatefold to fit her all in!) No, he didn’t buy it for a moment. “You’re gonna score with Vickie Desoto?”

Scott beamed. “That’s right. I understand women like Vicki,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “They’re like frying pans. You gotta get ’em hot before you put the meat in.”

“You’re a true romantic,” said Paul, feeling pretty disgusted, but amused nonetheless.

“C’mon, spot me a five,” Scott persisted.

A voice called from behind a stack of tampons. “C’mon, boys. It’s closing time.” That would be the pharmacist. Paul could see a mound of graying hair bobbing near the cash register, below it a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

Exasperated, Paul dug into his pocket, pulled out his money. He separated a five from his thin stack of bills and handed it to Scott. “Just make it quick.”

Scott grabbed the five and sauntered confidently to the back, while Paul turned to the magazine rack and picked up the latest Time magazine.

Carl Sagan was on the cover, framed against a picture of the Milky Way. The words read: “Outer Space… What’s Really Out There?”

Paul just hoped that whatever was out there, it wasn’t as creepy as his friend Scott Jesky.

Yep. He was gonna score tonight, no question, thought Scott Jesky, as he strode past the rack of aspirin and painkillers to where the pharmacist stood, a surly expression causing his mustache to curve up at the ends. Clearly the guy wanted to go home, which was okay with Scott, since this wasn’t gonna take long.

“Hey, pal,” he said, “gimme a pack of Trojans and a Binaca spray!” Somewhere behind him the door chimed. Another last-minute customer.

The pharmacist seemed to be considering Scott’s request, looking as though he’d just as soon kick the kid out as serve him. Finally, with a contemptuous grunt, he turned away to get the stuff.

Scott waited, drumming his fingers on the counter top, trying to disguise both his nervousness and the rising excitement about tonight’s date. He’d had his mind set on dating Vicki Desoto for weeks, and tonight was finally the night!

A man walked up behind Scott and plopped a package of Contac on the counter. Out of the corner of his eye Scott saw a dark suit and a white clerical collar; above that, a balding head. Holy shit! thought Scott. It’s my minister!

Reverend Fredrick Meeker, pastor of All Souls Lutheran Church, gave Scott a beatific smile. “Well, Scott Jesky. Good game today!”

For a moment Scott felt as though he were frozen in his shoes. Caught by his own minister, buying a pack of rubbers! Sheesh! This was the guy who’d christened him, for Chrissakes! This was the guy who’d lectured about the sins of the flesh and the desires of the heart! He just prayed that the pharmacist was going to put his stuff in a brown paper bag.

“Uh, thanks, Reverend. How you doing?” he managed through a rigid smile.

“My hay fever’s acting up, but I’ll live.” The reverend pursed his lips. “You know, I haven’t seen you at Sunday services lately, have I?”

“Well, uh…” said Scott, but he got no chance to continue, since the pharmacist had reappeared, displaying two bright red packs of condoms.

“You want the ribbed or the regular?” he asked.

Oh, no! Unless he got brilliant real fast, his mom was gonna get an earful of this, Scott thought, hemming and hawing. Then inspiration struck.

“Ribbed, I guess. They’re not really for me.” He ventured a look at Reverend Meeker. The guy’s eyebrows were raised so high it almost looked like he was growing his hair back!

“Oh?” he said.

Scott pointed over to Paul, immersed in a magazine. “No, they’re for my friend over there.”

The pharmacist and the reverend both craned their necks to get a good look at the guy in question. Their reaction encouraged Scott and he forged on. “Yeah! He’s planning to take advantage of some poor young girl tonight. You should hear him talk about it. Disgusting!”

The pharmacist looked doubtful. “Why doesn’t he buy them?”

“I had to drag him in here as it is. The guy’s totally irresponsible.” He slapped his five dollars down, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible and get away while he still had these guys actually believing his story.

As if sensing the people were staring at him, Paul looked up from his magazine and called down to his friend. “C’mon, Scott! What’s the holdup? I don’t want to keep her waiting, I told you!”

Perfect! Scott shrugged to the pastor as if to say, See? What did I tell you!

Reverend Meeker seemed to believe Scott’s story, looking down the aisle at Paul with concern and compassion.

The surly pharmacist shook his head. “That boy doesn’t need condoms. He needs a muzzle!”

“You really can’t blame him, sir,” said Scott. “It’s the school food. Far too much glandular-reactives, I say! I think we ought to get the FDA in to check it. Me, I always brown-bag it!” He got his change, snatched the sack, and tipped an imaginary hat. “Well, gotta run. Maybe I can discourage him from the error of his ways.”

The pastor looked as though he wanted to ask Scott if he was going to start coming back to church, but seemed too stunned to get the words out. The pharmacist just gave a disgusted grunt and started ringing up the pastor’s purchase.

“Well, get the stuff?” said Paul, putting the magazine back on the rack.

Scott slapped the sack. “You bet.”

“What were you talking about with the collar there?”

“I was gonna just settle for plain rubbers, but good ole Reverend Meeker, he highly recommended the lubricated sort.” He grinned. “He says he likes ’em bright red too.”

Shocked, Scott looked back over his shoulder. “Good grief, he must have gone to Jim Bakker University!”