"...sixteen-tons and whadda-ya-get...another day older and deeper in debt..."
The words faded into a low hum, Baxter's constant trudge in-step with the imagined beat. His sneakers probably still waiting to enter the cabin on the train, bare feet met the cool pavement without notice. The lyrics to a song, that he could not remember, swam loosely in his head, and would abruptly go from low-hum to off-key word-blurting at the sign of any extra physical exertion. Like hopping. Skipping. Jumping.
None of which he was currently doing.
"...and then one day he was shooting at some...uhhh... fool...and up from the ground came-ah bubbling crude..."
Okay, so he hopped over a small, intersecting ditch. Big deal.
The point was, no one would ever be able to identify the mish-mash of songs, and lyrics. No theologian, no scholar...not even an archaeologist in the forty-second-century, should Baxter ever feel the need to try and write them down. This was Ozzy's specialty. Murdering perfectly good, and relatively innocent songs.
"...oil, that is...black gold...Texas-tea-bagging-chokeslam..."
The highway was bustling with activity...small, little European cars whizzing to and fro at speeds that would make U.S. traffic laws vomit. The morning air was brisk, and fresh, yet, hinting at a textile plant not too terribly far away.
It wasn't the first time Baxter had ever hitchhiked. And, let's be honest....it wouldn't be the last. The first time, around nineteen, he made his Spring Break trip from Harvard to Florida in under two days. All due to the very simple theory that he lived by concerning hitchhiking...
If you can figure out where most people are heading, then, decide to go in that direction.
And, given that he could see the tip-top edges of city buildings in the distance, he was currently headed with the massive flow of the morning rush hour, thumb constantly extended.
"...don't call it a comeback...I've been here for years..."
Bits of grass still here and there, dotting his cranial landscape of white, Ozzy didn't exactly look his best. Still, the more telling was the shredded sweater...a gaping, burned hole exposing his bare chest...that continued to hang from his body more out of spite, than, it seemed, anything else. Dark green stains all over his frayed-edged-jeans, he looked like someone that had gotten the shit kicked out of him by a really nasty pile of wet grass, and then slept it off in an old English farmhouse. Or, like someone that had gotten blown out the side of a train at speeds reaching two-ten.
"...making fun of your momma, through blood, sweat, and tears..."
You would think that given his doubtful appearance, and murderous singing tendencies, that he wouldn't be able to catch a ride this morning. And, given that he had been walking for the last six hours, you would be right.
Up until now, of course.
A small blue compact swerved from the traffic, sliding to a quick stop on the side of the road. Baxter stopped singing, suddenly amazed that a car had stopped for him. He quickly glanced at his still extended thumb with an expression that would lead you to believe he was so impressed with the power of his opposable digit that he had considered taking pictures of it, and then, half-sprinted to the car.
"Bonsieur..." the quite lovely lady extended from her open window.
"Morning..." Ozzy smiled, jogging up to the car. "...heading to the city?"
"Ze city?" she asked with coy eyes. "No, no...I am just cruising for dirty strangers on ze side of ze highway..."
"Ah...okay..." Baxter nodded with a smirk, accepting that he had walked into that one.
"I juz enjoy the dangerous notion of involving myzelf with people zat I have no relation to..." she continued, her breath fogging a bit in the cool air.
"Okay, okay...I get it.." Baxter sighed, rolling his eyes.
"Get in, silly..." she motioned.
Baxter slid into the passenger seat, closing the smallframed door. The compact was exactly that: compact. His knees against the dashboard, Baxter made no mention of any discomfort, finding this much improved over walking and singing to himself.
"I appreciate this..." he began as the car merged quickly back into the flow.
"From ze looks of things, I would think you would appreciate a great many things..." she replied, noticing his ripped clothing. "...zuch as, a tailor?"
"Oh, these...yeah..." he nodded, thumbing his sweater. "...wild night..."
"Zounds fun."
"Trust me...the word 'fun' never entered my vocabulary." he smiled.
She just grunted a laugh, eyes constantly watching the speedy pace of the traffic around her.
"My name's Ozzy, by the way. Ozzy Baxter."
She glanced at him, a small smile coming to her face.
"Polly."
"Polly. Nice." he nodded. "Is that short for anything?"
"Well, depends on who you ask..." she shrugged. "...ma'mere zays it is short for 'Portia'...my father zays it is for 'Polyphenus'..."
"...yow....screwed either way, eh?"
"Perfectly."
"...well, what do you say it stands for?"
"Porn Queen, darling..." she smiled with a laugh.
Baxter chuckled a bit, his hangover finally seeming to be eaten away by his natural biology.
"Heh...yeah...my parents decided to go with 'Oswald'. Don't ask me why."
"And you call yourself Ozzy?"
"Yeah...I mean a name like 'Oswald' doesn't really go down that well in the States..." Baxter shrugged.
"Why?"
"Well, you know...with 'Lee Harvey', and all...bad karma, I guess..."
"Who iz zat?"
"Lee Harvey Oswald? The guy that shot JFK?"
"Oh, right...ze American President..." she nodded.
"Right." Ozzy replied. "Trust me, after about the twelvth beating I took because the bullies decided my name meant 'President Killer'...I decided that Ozzy was much more acceptable..."
"Because of Ozzy Osbourne?"
Baxter looked at her with narrow eyes.
"You don't know who killed President John F. Kennedy, but, you know Black Sabbath?" he asked dryly.
"Zo what?" she countered. "Who waz President of France during the 1960's, eh?"
Ozzy opened his mouth to respond, his brain supplying only a 'Boo-Dee-Deep! We're sorry. The information you are attempting recite cannot be retrieved at this time. Please check whether you slept through your history classes, and try your call again'.
"See?" she asked, a confident smile on her face.
"...that was a long time ago..." Ozzy murmured, looking away.
"Really?" she asked. "Who iz President of France, now?"
"Sooo...what do you do for a living?" he replied, absolutely ignoring her.
She laughed, turning down an off-ramp.
"I told you..." she said. "...I pick up ze strangers on the side of ze road..."
"Yeah, okay, smartass..." he nodded, sighing. "...if you don't want to tell me, fine."
"I have told you." she replied.
Ozzy looked at her with a smile.
"That you pick up strangers on the side of the road?"
"Yes."
"And, that's what you do for a living?"
"Yes."
Baxter chuckled again.
"Ha! Okay, how could you possibly make any money, picking up strangers on...the side.....of...." Ozzy's voice began to falter and trail, as obvious conclusions raced into his brain. ".....the road....?"
She smiled.
"You...you're...you are...a..."
"Prostitute?"
"I didn't say that!"
She laughed, turning her signal on.
"Well, zat is okay, because...I am..." she admitted.
Baxter stared at her, frozen for the moment.
"Are you serious?" he finally asked.
"Of course...why would I lie about zuch a thing?"
"...yeah...okay...cool..." he nodded, still wide-eyed.
She glanced at him, and back at the road.
"What?"
"...what?" he asked, shaking out of his stare.
"Does it bother you?" she asked.
"Bother me? Hell no!" he laughed. "I just can't believe my luck, is all."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you wouldn't believe the last day or so..."
"So, riding here with me is an improvement?" she cocked an eyebrow.
"Sure!"
"Why?"
"Well, because...you know...you're a prostitute!" he tried to explain.
"And that helps you how?"
He paused, actually thinking about it.
"Honestly, I'm not sure..." he finally admitted.
"Perhaps you think I would be inclined to have sex with you for free?"
He paused again, embarrassed.
"I...I didn't--I mean...you know...I..." he floundered.
"...because I will..." she added.
He stopped, looking straight over at her. It was at that moment that he realized they were pulling into a motel parking lot.
"Wait...are you for real?"
"Certainly..." she said, pulling the car to a halt, throwing it into 'Park'.
She looked over at him, and he could see her face perfectly clear for the first time. She was beautiful. A truly gorgeous specimen of the female species. And, no matter her accent, he could definitely detect a hint of Greecian by her olive complexion, and broad, eyes. Or, rather...eye.
While her right eye was a pooling, deep brown/black, her left was a light caramel. Not quite matching, really. Not quite...real.
It was glass.
Her smile dropped. He had been staring for too long.
"It's...it's the eye, isn't it?" she asked, turning away with a deep hurt.
"Oh, hey! No!" Ozzy assured her. "No, no, no, no...I swear! Eye? What eye? I don't even know what you're talking about..."
She grinned again, not really hurt at all, but, torturing him for pure pleasure.
"Come on." she added, opening the door...
