ham fisted theatrics

“He’s going to want some of the weed,” Danny said when the guy pulled his blue 1980’s ragtop sedan over and we all let our thumbs drop. Danny has weed in his pants.

“If nobody mentions it, it shouldn’t be a problem,” I say.

“He’s going to kill us,” Tom says, but nobody pays much attention because Tom has said this about every hitchhiker since Arizona.

“You boys shouldn’t be out here doin’ this,” Tadd says, right after he tells us his name is spelled with two D’s. It’s not very worrisome because everybody who picks you up when you’re hitchhiking tells you you should know better than to be hitchhiking.

It does worry us, though, when he pulls over, takes out a big shiny gun, and asks us if we want to play a game.

We all start crying or going “Holy shit! Chill out! It’s cool, man!” or stuff like that, which he takes to mean, yes, we want to play a game. He drives the car a football-field-length out into the wasteland, leaves it running, and motions for us to get out. Tom, blubbering in the front seat, needs Tadd to scream “GET THE FUCK OUT!” at him before he will move, but he does.

Tadd brings his smell of potato chips and sweaty hat-band around the car with him when he herds us all to face the trunk.

“I told you he was gonna kill us,” Tom whispers when Tadd turns back and ducks into the driver’s seat for a second to pop the trunk.

The trunk light flicks on. Inside the trunk, laying on top of normal trunk things like a tire iron and some road flares, are three fluffy white dresses, a fluffy pink dress, and a powder blue tuxedo. They are nicely folded and laid out one next to the other. The clothes make Danny and I, who weren’t crying already, start crying for some reason. I assume they were the clothes of his previous victims. Maybe Danny assumes the same thing.

Tadd makes his way back to where we’re standing. With the hand that doesn’t have the gun, he lights a cigarette. He exhales. He says: “Put ‘em on.”

Alan reaches for the tuxedo. Tadd pins it where it is with the barrel of the gun. “Mm-mm,” he says, “Not that one.”

Tom ends up with the pink dress and the rest of us, the white ones. None of us have ever put dresses on before. If we were having to put dresses on in a situation where we weren’t in the desert at night with a gun to our head, we might make fun of the guy who got his dress on first. Like, say that he must have a lot of experience with dresses because he’s a drag queen. But tonight, Danny getting out of his clothes and into the dress while the rest of us are still crying and struggling with straps and zippers and big puffy shoulders just makes it seem like maybe he wants to live more than we do.

Meanwhile, Tadd has finished his cigarette and is attempting to put on the tuxedo while still holding the gun. It is another thing that would be funny if we thought we were going to leave here alive.

Once we’re all done fumbling, Tadd motions for us to go around the car again, into a clearing lit up by the headlights. He throws his cap into the driver’s seat and starts parting his hair to the side with his gun hand. Then he starts positioning us like we’re going to take a picture or something: Tom, in the pink dress, in the center, the rest of us in a sort of semi-circle around him. “Very nice,” Tadd says, “Now hold on.”

He goes back into the car, turns the radio volume WAY up, then starts searching the dial. Farm reports and oldies stations whiz by: I wish the radio was two-way so we could scream and they would hear us. He stops on a mariachi station. “Perfect!” He comes back drinking a fifth of something clear.

“You.” He points the gun at Alan.

“…yea?” says Alan, wincing.

“You’re Nena, Ivalise’s cousin who eats too much.”

“What?”

He points the gun at Danny. “You’re Maria, Nena’s sister. You’re not as fat but you’re getting there.”

“Whatever you say, man--“

“And you.” He points the gun at Tom. “You’re Angela, Ivalise’s bitchy older sister.”

“…Okay.”

“And you.” The gun is now pointed at me. “You’re Ivalise.”

“Uhm.”

“Nena…Angela…Maria...wish Ivalise a feliz quincinera.”

“Quincinera?” Tom says. “You mean like the Hispanic girl’s coming-of-age ceremony?” I met Tom in high school Spanish class. He always did way better than me.

“ANGELA ALREADY KNOWS WHAT A QUINCINERA IS, SHE DOESN’T NEED TO ASK!” Tadd screams. “Now wish Ivalise a FELIZ QUINCINERA.”

“Feliz Quincinera, Ivalise,” they all three say at once.

“Uhm…Gracias?” I say, hoping that’s something Ivalise would say.

“Now let’s eat cake,” Tadd says.

We all stand there bewildered for a second, tears drying on our faces, wearing dresses in the middle of the desert after midnight. I half-expect Tadd to pull out an ancient cake from between the backseat cushions. Instead leans down, gathers some dirt in his hand and extends the hand to Alan.

“Cake,” Tadd says. “Nena, you eat the most.”

Alan eats Tadd’s handful of dirt.

“Everybody eat some cake! It’s a party!” For some reason Tadd’s voice is suddenly an octave lower. He starts waving the gun around and we all start eating dirt.

“Angela, share with your uncle,” Tadd says in his new, low voice.

Tom makes to give Tadd whatever dirt he hasn’t swallowed. Tadd says, “No, not that…something else,” and touches Tom where Tom’s boob would be, presumably, if Tom were really Angela.

“Now you,” Tadd says, pointing the gun at me and speaking once again in his normal voice, “you say ‘Get your hands off my sister, Uncle Ramon, you’re embarrassing everyone!’”

“Get your hands off my sister Uncle Ramon you’re embarrassing everyone,” I say as fast as I can without screwing up.

“Whassa matter,” Tadd says, in what I guess is his Uncle Ramon voice, “issa party, we just having a good time!” He takes a hit off the bottle and stumbles toward me, instantly drunk. “You’re fifteen now, you’re a woman, you could have a drink with your uncle! Here, have a drink!” Tadd offers me the bottle. I start to take it when he puts the gun right in my face.

“You don’t take it! You say, ‘You’re disgusting, I wish I wasn’t a part of this stupid family!’”

“You’re disgusting I wish I wasn’t part of this stupid family.”

“Thassa way you talk about your family, huh?” Tadd says as Ramon. “Is that the way your fucking gringo boyfriend teach you to talk?”

“Uhm…”

“Then you say, ‘He’s not my gringo boyfriend, he has a name!’”

“He’s not my gringo boyfriend he has a name.”

“Oh yea? Whas your gringo boyfriend’s name?”

I don’t know so I don’t say anything.

“’Tadd,’” Tadd says as Tadd.

“Tadd,” I say.

“That’s a stupid name. What a fucking gringo name. TADD,” Tadd says. He scoffs, swaggers backwards, and takes another hit of what smells like tequila. In mid-swig he coughs, spits, and bursts into tears. He falls on his knees. He sits there for a minute or two, clutching the gun and crying, and we really don’t know what to do.