Cool as Dry Ice in Missouri

Images by Scot Sothern

1968.

It’s around midnight when I hit Sedalia, Missouri. I’m on my bike, a 1967 BSA Hornet, and I’ve just come 115 exhilarating, two-lane-blacktop miles at top speed, daring the world to try to catch me. It doesn’t look like much is here—a gas station and a couple of stoplights on the main drag. In the summer Sedalia hosts the state fair, though I’ve never been. The attendant at the all-night gas station gives me directions to Black Nat’s Whorehouse and advises me not to go there. I follow the directions and ignore the advice.

Sitting idle, the Hornet thump-thumps like a canon under deep water. I hit the kill button and release the center stand. Black Nat’s is a one-story dump on a corner below the overpass. There are no street lamps, but a blue fuzz from the gas station overhead illuminates the shadows. I don’t know what to expect inside of Black Nat’s. I’ve been told a girl costs $7, and I’ve got two fives, four ones, and a ten in my pocket.

Up on the porch, yellow light pulses through the drawn curtains, and musical notes slip out from under the door. I light a cigarette and ring the bell, and ten seconds later a girl appears and gives me the up and down while I do the same with her. She has black hair in a white-girl hairstyle—loose waves and curls. She’s got red lips and a mouthful of straight white teeth. “I heard that motorcycle,” she says, “and I thought you were gonna be a big man. Hells bells, I’ll bet you ain’t no more than a buck 15.”

“Yeah, well, maybe not, but I've got a big dick, and I’ve got some money to spend. Can I come in?”

She’s wearing a yellow baby-doll nightie and high-waisted panties with rows of ruffles. She’s not wearing shoes but pink socks with the beginnings of a hole at the left big toe. “You know where you are, white boy?”

“Yeah, I’m right here, and I’m not really a boy and can’t help it if I’m white.”

“You got $10?”

“If that’s what you cost I do.”

She’s younger than I am but not by much. She’s tall and skinny, and we’re separated by the screen door. “Come on in, hot stuff.” She opens the screen, and I step into the living room, which is lit with a string of red bulbs and a big shiny jukebox playing Etta James’s “I’d Rather Go Blind.” An old purple velvet couch, two chairs and a table, a three-stool bar. Five Baby Boomer black dudes, hipsters with oily conks and skinny black pants, two other girls, one with a blond bouffant, the other with a loose Afro.

My girl is pulling me through the room by the hand, and I’m having a good time. A guy with a gold tooth blows smoke from a Kool King, and I blow smoke rings from my Kool King. I tell her to hold up a second, and I stop at the bar and ask for a can of Schlitz and I’m so mother-fuckin’ cool I’m dry ice. Guy behind the bar is husky and has short hair with a shaved-out part. He says, “Are you 21? I need to see your ID.”

“Ah… What? Seriously?”

He busts out a grin and tells me, “Shit, cousin, I’m just having fun.” He pulls a Schlitz from thin air, opens it with a church key, and imitates the sound of escaping air, pseww pseww. He hands it to me and tells me I owe him a quarter. I give him a dollar and tell him, "Hold onto it. I’ll get another can on my way out."

Into a short hallway to a bedroom door, and I notice a creepy guy in a hat leaning back into the shadows of the far corner. The girl tells me I need to pay her now, so I give her the ten, and she takes it over and gives it to the guy. We go into the bedroom and close the door. I’ve already got my boots off, and I’m pulling off my socks. “You don’t have to get all naked, big-shot—we ain’t taking a bath together. We just gonna screw.”

“Yeah, well, that’s OK. I just really like getting naked, and it would be real groovy if you got naked too.”

“I can get as groovy as you ever had,” she says. “You go sit on the bed, show me your johnson.”

My pants are on the floor, and I’m hard as gritted teeth. She gives my johnson a pinch, checking for communicable discharge, then she strips naked and gets on the bed.

There is no such thing as AIDS, and herpes is just a cold sore. The clap is around, but it’s an easy fix with a shot of penicillin. Crabs are common, but a few shakes of Sergeant's Flea & Tick Powder stops them dead. Pregnancy is a possibility, but she’s probably on the pill, and maybe I’m an asshole, but that’s her risk, not mine.

She sits next to me, and I ask her name.

“Roxanne. How come you let your hair all long like that?”

“It’s not really all that long. I was just in California. Everybody in California has long hair.”

“Looks too sissy to me,” she says, “and you could be a good lookin’ boy, even if you are all gristle and bone.”

“Yeah, well, I can live with that. Let’s fuck.”

We do it, and I ejaculate way too soon, so I give Roxanne another ten to wait for me to recharge and do it again, more slowly. I try to get her to snuggle, and I beg for a long wet kiss. I’m telling her about LSD and about how cool I am, when there is a knock at the door. The guy with the hat comes in and tells us time's up. Roxanne jumps from the bed and grabs her clothes, the extra $10 hidden in her fist.

“We’re not done,” I tell the guy. “We’re going to do it again.”

“No, you’re not,” he tells me. “You all done, lest you got another ten spot.”

I look at Roxanne, but she doesn’t look at me, and she walks behind the guy and out of the room. I get dressed and get another beer at the bar, but the guy in the hat tells me I’m all done out here as well. I tell him "fuck you" on my way out the door. Then I crank up the Hornet and rev the engine and leave a strip of rubber as if it might restore my cool and leave a lasting impression.

Scot's first book, Lowlife, was released last year and his memoir, Curb Service, is out now. You can find more information on his website.