Okay…the van is fixed, and we’re at the Bardo Drive-in, waiting for the movie to start.
Dogs have settled in, everyone’s comfortable, popcorn is being passed around, and…action!
Edmond penetrates Violette, without any foreplay, at 10:28 p.m. on November 19, 1949, just as Frankie Laine starts singing Mule Train on the radio.
Clippety cloppin’ over hill and plain…
Eddy is drunk. And seeing he’s been married to Violette for over a year now, he’s stopped washing every day and stinks of week-old sweat and hundreds of cigarettes. His breath is a mix of rotting teeth, cooked cabbage, and beer burps. Violette turns her head away to look at the Emerson Aristocrat radio that’s sitting on the mahogany night table. “It’s such a pretty shade of red…I suppose one could call it cherry red,” she thinks, and then wishes she could switch the channel and maybe catch Dinah Shore singing Buttons And Bows. But no.
Clippety cloppin’ o’er the mountain chain
Soon they’re gonna reach the top, clippety clop, clippety clop…
Violette turns her head back up again, watches Eddy’s blood-shot baby blue eyes stare right through her for a while, then continues her circular movement towards the other side of the bed. Setting her focus on the closet door—which is slightly ajar—she sees her old pink satin slipper sticking out; she recalls seeing the left one under the couch, that morning, when she vacuumed the living room rug. She pans over to the oak dresser—a gift from her in-laws, a bulky art-deco piece with a cracked, stained mirror. Next to it stands a chair…what’s left of it to see, that is. It’s piled so high with dirty clothes that some of it has spilled onto the floor—mostly socks and underwear. “I’ll do the laundry first thing in the morning,” she decides, and hopes she’ll remember to get the broom out and sweep that cobweb off the ceiling. She can’t understand why she hadn’t noticed it till now, it must be a good eight inches in diameter, right above the door leading out to the kitchen.
Clippety cloppin’ through the wind and rain
They’ll keep goin’ till they drop, clippety clop, clippety clop
Banging away, Eddy recollects the prostitute who serviced him in his brother’s Ford pick-up the day before. How her red, heavily teased hairsprayed hair swept across his swollen beer belly. And this drives him crazy, and he stiffens and jerks and relieves himself with a growl, mouth wide open, saliva dribbling all over Violette’s ear and neck, and she remains limp while her husband crashes down on her cold body, then finally rolls over to sleep and fart and snore.
Get along, get along, get along…
And so it is that when Frankie belts out his final note, Eddy’s sperm fertilizes Violette’s egg.
(Or should I say…the beginning.)