volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

also has a head of frothy, brown curls. Parrot-friendly gold hoops
dangle from alabaster ears. A lightly-freckled lass, she wisely
eschews the sun’s damaging rays; her skin is a milky carnation,
and her lips a new shade of red.
And her smile—like that of her friend’s—is aimed at Roy.
Roy smiles back.
The young blonde girl returns with Roy’s double-tall
Americano (Misto) and sets it on the plastic counter that looks
like tan granite.
“Sir?”
Her eyes lose focus on Roy as they take in the growing line.
The bleary-eyed crowd behind the bald doofus has
reproduced, like, ten times.
Any minute they could mutate into a decafinated mob.
“Hello?”
She forces another pert smile, reminding herself that the
cameras are watching.
The two pretty girls start to giggle. The one with the curls
dips the tip of her nose into her friend’s fine, black hair, and
speaks. The recipient of her words snickers—yes, snickers—then
shakes her head as if and turns her attention to other humorous
distractions elsewhere in the room.
The curly one gives Roy a wrinkly-nosed rejection and
withdraws her toothy approval.
For a moment, Roy had forgotten they were Yuppie scum;
for a moment, Roy had become convinced they, too, had
surrendered their powers of critical judgement; for a moment,
Roy had been certain they shared his pheromone fantasy; for a
moment—for the briefest and stupidest of moments—Roy had
been blindsided by love.
“That’llbetwoseventyfive. Doyouwantanythingelse?”
Involuntarily devoured by lust.
“Thereareotherpeoplewaiting.”
Slave to hearts’ alchemy.
“Small cake in a cup—three double-talls, two without, one with room!”
Roy shifts his eyes away from the Yuppie couple, their long,
lean, yoga-stretched backs to him now, their blinding tooth
enamel illuminating other parts of the brown room.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 101