Roomies: A Boone Butters Adventure Read online

  ROOMIES

  A BOONE BUTTERS ADVENTURE

  Scott S. Phillips

  PENULTIMATE DITCH EFFORTS

  BERNALILLO, NM

  Roomies: A Boone Butters Adventure

  © 2011 Scott S. Phillips

  Cover photo: © Ucebistu/Dreamstime.com

  Without limiting the rights under copyright as reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored into or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic bulletin board, e-mail or any other means now known, extant, or yet invented), without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the Publisher.

  Penultimate Ditch Efforts

  Bernalillo, New Mexico

  ROOMIES

  by

  Scott S. Phillips

  Distracted as he was by thoughts of his new roommate, Boone's grasp on the third chicken wasn't what it should've been: the clucking hen managed to sink one of its claws into his left forearm, gouging a four-inch long gash before he dropped the bird.

  "ChickenASS!" Boone hollered, kicking at the hen as it scurried around his feet.

  "Don't hurt my chickens," Mrs. Talbot scolded from her spot on the back steps of the house.

  "You got a towel or something?" Boone asked the withered old woman. He eyeballed the blood oozing from the cut in his arm. "Do chickens have diseases in their feet?"

  Mrs. Talbot took hold of one of the wooden rails running the length of the four back steps and hoisted herself to her feet with an overwrought groan. "I think that's all in their shit," she said. She shuffled into the house, the ancient screen door mimicking her groan as she disappeared inside.

  Boone pressed his right hand to the gash, trying to hold back the flow of blood. Doing a little groaning himself, he walked to the steps and nestled his bulk into the narrow space between the handrails. As his overflowing torso pushed against the wooden beams, he noticed the one on the left was loose. He'd have to fix that before he left, or he'd catch hell for sure.

  His breath whistled with a peculiar squeal as he watched the vicious chicken stroll haltingly around the yard, taunting him with its freedom. Mrs. Talbot kept four hens — Walter, Bradley, Steven and Donald, named for her sons — and one rooster with the unfortunate name of Sir Cocksalot. During the previous night's windstorm, part of the chicken coop had been damaged and the chickens had escaped. Sir Cocksalot had opted to remain in the coop, apparently knowing which side his bread was buttered on. One of the hens — Boone was pretty sure it was Bradley — had been killed by the neighbor's cat, but Mrs. Talbot had called Boone in to round up the others and fix the coop. The repair work was a cinch, but chasing those damn chickens around the yard had really put the stress test on Boone's labored lungs. The first two had nearly caused him to pass out, and that third one was the bitch of the bunch. Boone was developing a terrific hatred towards the beast.

  As he waited for Mrs. Talbot to return with a towel — the old lady was no doubt searching for the crappiest one in the house, since he planned to bleed all over it — Boone tongued the small, perfectly round hole that cut neatly through his right front tooth and contemplated the issue of his new roommate. It was definitely a curious situation, although he was loathe to use the word curious in regards to this matter, and the gory wound in his arm was testament to how much it was beginning to get to him. Sure, the gal was easy on the eyes — hell, Boone hadn't seen a woman as gorgeous in many a month, and having her right there in his house was nothing to gripe about.

  Problem was, she was a dude.

  The screen door wailed its lament as Mrs. Talbot finally reappeared, towel in hand. "I don't want it back," she said, offering it to Boone.

  Boone wiped his bloody hand on his pants and took the towel. Sure enough, it was a raggedy-ass old thing, full of holes and sporting a picture of another goddamn chicken on it.

  "Here," Mrs. Talbot said, holding out a bottle of peroxide. "Pour some'a that on there, too."

  Boone accepted the bottle, noting the expiration date: 9/27/94. And here we were in the year 2000 (or THE YEAR 2000, as Boone always heard it in his head, in the ominous voice of a sci fi flick's narrator). He unscrewed the cap and dribbled some of the peroxide on his wound, watching as it foamed unenthusiastically.

  "That'll clear you up," Mrs. Talbot said, peering down at the pinkish foam.

  Boone put the cap back on the bottle and handed it the old lady. As he pressed the towel to the wound once again, the stray chicken came sauntering towards the steps. When it drew dangerously close, Boone dropped the towel over the chicken's head and quickly grabbed it. The thing clucked and struggled, to no avail.

  "Which one is this?" he asked.

  "I can't tell 'em apart," Mrs. Talbot said.

  • • •

  With the chicken situation resolved (and that handrail on the steps repaired), Boone drove home by way of the drive-through at Carl's Jr., where he purchased two Western Bacon Cheeseburgers and a large fry and ate while trying to figure out what the hell his plan was for the new roommate. He didn't feel right asking her to move out but he wasn't sure what else to do. She was obviously driving him to distraction and he'd suffered for it at the hands — well, feet — of that chicken. Money was tight as hell, though, and her rent payment was gonna come in real handy when the mortgage came due.

  But then again, she had a dong.

  I find myself with quite the dilemma, Boone thought, chewing a handful of fries.

  The jack-of-all-trades business had been slow in recent months and Boone had placed the ad on Craigslist looking for someone to rent the spare bedroom. He'd gone the extra mile and stated that he preferred a female tenant, under the pretense that women were more quiet and clean — but Boone was no saint, and what he really hoped for was a nice MILFy broad who might be looking for a little casual action. He had no illusions about getting some foxy mama in there, but when Shandi showed up on his doorstep, he figured he'd struck gold. She was tall, slim and stacked, with a face like a freaking supermodel. Not to mention she seemed to have her shit together.

  The first night after Shandi moved in, Boone got up in the middle of the night for a glass of water. As he passed the open bathroom door, he caught sight of a dude standing at the toilet taking a noisy leak. At first Boone felt a twinge of jealousy, thinking Shandi had brought a guy home. Then the guy asked — in Shandi's voice — if Boone needed to use the bathroom. That's when he finally connected the dots.

  He should've known — no real chick would be named after a song on a not-very-good KISS album.

  Boone pulled into his driveway alongside Shandi's immaculate little Toyota RAV4. He thought about quickly eating his remaining cheeseburger, then decided to see if Shandi wanted it. With the figure she was sportin', he doubted she was much of a cheeseburger-eater but still, it seemed like the decent thing to do — particularly if he was gonna kick her out. Grabbing the greasy paper bag, he got out of the car and headed for the door, his breath squealing like a loose fan belt.

  Dammit, what the hell was he gonna do? It's not like Shandi had him questioning his masculinity or anything — cock she might have, but as pretty as she was Boone wasn't ready to jump the fence and start honking knob. Or so he hoped, anyway. And he could care less if Shandi was gay, straight, bi or monkey-lord, her rent money was as green as anyone's. Truth be told, more than anything he just felt befuddled.

  Pausing at the door, Boone collected himself as best he could, then entered.

  For a moment, he almost thought he’d walked into the wrong house. Gone was the familiar reek of cheese or feet (or both) that he never seemed able to eliminate, replaced by something… interestin
gly feminine. Boone stood there stupidly, door open, cheeseburger bag clutched in his hand, simply enjoying the aroma.

  “Hey,” Shandi said, rounding the corner from the kitchen. She was wearing sweatpants and an old V-neck T-shirt, wiping her thin hands on a dishtowel.

  Good God, Boone marveled. This guy is stunning. He held the greasy paper sack out as if it were a bouquet of flowers. “You — this — I brought you a Western Bacon Cheeseburger.”

  Shandi smiled. “Seriously?”

  Boone tried not to watch her — his — hips as she approached and took the bag. “There’s probably some loose fries in there, too.”

  “I owe you anything?”

  “Naw.” Boone finally remembered to shut the door. Gawking around, he walked slowly to the center of the living room as Shandi flopped on the couch and withdrew the burger from the sack. All the usual crap that had been strewn everywhere had been neatened up or — incredibly — put away somewhere. Even the assortment of Bruce Lee posters looked cleaner, somehow.

  “It smells like… what is that, fruit or something?” he asked.

  Shandi took a bite of the burger, losing a little hunk of bacon to her cleavage. “Lavender,” she said, chewing. “It was kinda funky in here.”

  How is there cleavage in this scenario? Boone wondered. “God damn, this place is really clean.”

  “I figured you wouldn’t mind if I did a little house — Oop — ” Shandi interrupted herself as she noticed the bacon that had slipped away. Catching the crispy bit on the end of her finger, she lifted it to her mouth, her eyes flicking towards Boone.

  He felt a little like Dustin Hoffman facing off with Anne Bancroft in The Graduate.

  “Jesus, what happened to your arm?”

  Boone looked down at the chicken wound. It had mostly scabbed over but was still oozing a little blood. “Got in a fight with a chicken. It looks worse than it is. I think.”

  Shandi put her burger on the coffee table and gestured for Boone to approach. He hesitated, then went to her. “It looks awful,” she said, taking his wrist in her hand. “Don’t chickens have some kind of chicken virus or something? It could get infected.”

  “I put peroxide on it.”

  “That’s a start. Let’s clean this up.” She rose — almost equalling Boone’s towering height — and tugged on his arm, dragging him to the kitchen.

  Vanilla, Boone noticed. She smells like vanilla.

  As Boone held his arm over the kitchen sink, Shandi scrubbed the long gash clean and looked it over. “I’m no expert but this looks pretty deep — you might need stitches,” she said.

  “Aw, I don’t want any stitches.”

  “Well, let’s at least get some Neosporin on there and bandage it up good. Stay here.” As Shandi headed for the bathroom, the phone rang. She grabbed it off the wall. “Hello?”

  “Say Improvements,” Boone whispered.

  Shandi shot a puzzled look at Boone. “Hang on.” She held the phone out.

  As Boone took the receiver, Shandi continued about her business. “Improvements,” he said.

  “Mr. Butters? This is Ed Dokken, you did some work on my driveway a few weeks back,” the gruff voice on the other end explained. “Dokken like the band.”

  “Yeah, I remember — that driveway’s still under warranty,” Boone said, hoping like hell he wasn’t gonna have to do any free repair work.

  “No, no, driveway’s fine, in great shape. I’ve got… sort of an oddball request,” Dokken said.

  Shandi returned to the kitchen carrying a tube of Neosporin, a box of gauze and a roll of adhesive tape. Boone switched the receiver to his other hand and stuck out his chicken-hurt arm. “Oddball requests are my specialty, Mr. Dokken.”

  Dokken hesitated as if unsure of how to frame this oddball request of his. “There’s a guy I need, uh, found,” he finally said.

  Boone watched as Shandi gently greased his wound with Neosporin. “Found how,” Boone asked. He wasn’t sure he liked the direction this could be headed. Shandi set aside the Neosporin and began cutting a piece of gauze to size.

  “Found as in he was messin’ with my daughter,” Dokken said. “My sixteen-year-old daughter.”

  Yikes, Boone thought. “Sounds like you’ve got more of a police matter, to me.”

  “It ain’t like that, he’s an okay guy, maybe not super-bright. I just wanna teach him a thing or two about a thing or two.”

  Between Shandi tending his wound and Dokken’s request, Boone was feeling a little off-kilter. “I’m no bounty hunter, Mr. Dokken.”

  Shandi looked up at him then, brow furrowed questioningly, as she taped the gauze down to create a nice little bandage.

  “No, look — this guy, he’s my next-door neighbor, did a little makin’ out with my girl. She’s kind of a tramp so I don’t entirely blame him but he needs to know better. All I’m sayin’ is, I’ve got —” A pause then, and Boone could hear paper rustling — “I’ve got seven-hunnerd thirty-two dollars if you find him, bring him back here, and throw him on my lawn. I’ll handle everything else.”

  “When you say everything else, what does that mean exactly?” Boone asked.

  “I’m just gonna kick his ass a little.”

  Well, that seemed reasonable. Seven hundred bucks would go down mighty smooth, too. “You know if this guy is armed?”

  Shandi looked very puzzled by that.

  “No, he’s just a guy, he’s a scrawny backwoods guy from Kentucky. I’d go so far as to call him a gentle soul,” Dokken said.

  “All right, gimme the info,” Boone said, grabbing up a pen.

  Boone could feel Shandi’s eyes peering at his crusty, scab-covered mitts as he scrawled the information on a notepad. When Dokken had spilled it all, Boone assured him he’d deliver the package asap, then cradled the receiver.

  “What in the hell was that about?” Shandi asked.

  Boone’s face flushed a little. “Work, work. I told you I do odd jobs and whatnot. That was… whatnot.”

  “Sounded like whatnot that could fuck you up worse than the chicken did,” Shandi said. “Do you need a little backup?’

  Oh my Heavens, Boone thought. She cleans the house, fixes up my cut, and now she wants to go with me on a job? His chest felt even tighter than usual and his voice whistled embarrassingly as he said “It’s probably not dangerous —”

  “Not like I’m doing anything else tonight,” Shandi said. “Lemme get into some different clothes.”

  “Okay,” Boone squeaked. As Shandi disappeared into the back of the house, Boone paced the living room nervously. Not a chick Not a chick She’s not a chick, he repeated to himself. Settle the hell down. It’s just that he hadn’t had this kind of attention from a woman in a hell of a long time. Only, y’know — she wasn’t a woman. Jesus, Boone thought. Complications, they do arise.

  “Ta-dahhh,” Shandi said, emerging from her bedroom, arms outstretched.

  Sweet fuck, Boone thought.

  She was wearing a clingy black dress that showed off every curve along the length of her six-foot frame (Except the one that lurked between her legs, Boone noted). To make matters worse, she was perched atop a wicked pair of high heels, boosting her another three or four inches in height.

  “Kind of an Emma Peel thing, don’t you think?” Shandi asked, grinning. “Figured it might be appropriate.”

  Boone stared for a very long moment before anything fell out of his mouth. “I, uh — it’s nice. But, you know — there’s, uh… can’t you go in your… secret identity?”

  “Secret identity?”

  Boone felt his face go all red and glistening. “Yeah… uh…”

  Shandi cocked a perfectly-groomed eyebrow at him. “You mean like my man-pants?”

  “I’m really stupid,” Boone offered.

  “Yes,” Shandi agreed. “Let’s get a move on.”

  • • •

  They rode in silence. Boone felt terrible about what he’d said, and as an added bonus, he knew his car
carried the same cheese-like funk that had haunted his house before Shandi performed her lavender-scented exorcism, and he was afraid the odor would make her doubly disgusted with him. Boone heaved a freakish, whistling sigh that only made him feel more like a creep.

  Following Ed Dokken’s instructions, their first stop was the Tops-O-Kreem drive-in, where their quarry was employed as a fry cook. The place was hopping — nearly every space in the small parking lot was full. Exiting the car, Boone was well aware that all eyes — male and female — were on he and Shandi as they approached the order window. How did a gigantic fat guy like that score a fine foxy mama such as her, Boone knew they were thinking. Or maybe it was Check out homeboy with his she-male girlfriend. He stole a glance at Shandi walking along next to him and immediately thought of yet another KISS song that suited her well: Strutter.

  Boone leaned against the small shelf outside the order window and smiled at the plump teenage girl inside.

  “WelcometoTopsOKreemcanItakeyourorder,” she asked robotically.

  “Is Radio Ketchum working tonight?”

  This was not the expected response to the plump girl’s question, and she was thrown off considerably by it. “Uhhh…” she said, mouth hanging open to reveal a small wad of gum. She glanced back towards the kitchen area, which was blocked from site by a grease-stained partition.

  Noting the massive herd of flies strolling across the partition, Boone decided never to eat at the joint. “He works here, right?” he pressed.

  “Umm…” the plump girl said.

  A car full of young Mexican lads rolled past, all of them letting fly with the peculiar, bird-like chirps that served as their form of appreciation for a hot mamacita. Shandi gave them a little wave and the driver of the car honked the horn enthusiastically.

  Boone gave her a look. She smiled at him, shrugging, and he returned his attention to the plump teenage girl. “Let’s try this: do you know when he’ll be in?”