Virgin Territory Read Online Free PDF Page B

better to say what you mean. My mother was a poet, after all. She taught me that words are precious symbols that allow us, depending on the way we arrange them, to express just about anything in the world. We have to choose our words wisely, she told me on more than one occasion; if we have any chance of being understood in this world, we have to say what we mean and we have tomean what we say. That was a tall order for me as a kid, but then after she died it became even more of a challenge because most of the time I didn’t know what I meant or what to say.
    “Anyway,” Chad continues, “wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few terrorists out there, too.”
    “Terrorists? In Jupiter?”
    “Yeah, man. It could happen,” he says, pulling on his khakis. Chad’s hair is a noncolor, and it pokes out of his head as straight and coarse as packing straw. His eyes are dirt-water gray, and they just sit there in his head staring out like the shot-out headlights of a junked car.
    “I heard there are gangs of kids hanging out behind the clubhouse, too. They’re up to no good. Crack is what I heard.”
    “Crack, Chad? For real?”
    “I don’t know. Something.”
    Of course, I’m no expert on the habits of teenage crackheads from the Sunshine State, but I’m pretty sure that a third-rate seaside golf club isn’t their idea of a perfect hangout. But just to be sure, I decide to check things out.
    The Black Hole is an old concrete structure located out behind the clubhouse. Ages ago it was used by the kitchen staff of the golf club; they went there to change clothes, place bets, swap meals, make deals, and trade gossip. More recently, it’s become a popular place for make-out sessions between the senior caddies and the kind of girls who have low standards when it comes to romance. Because the place is shrouded inmystery and is a source of unreliable information, it’s became known as “the Black Hole.” And now, according to Chad, it’s the gathering place of crack addicts, terrorists, and “Dayglows.”
    I’m only a few feet away from the Hole when I realize that someone’s in there. Lit matches are being flicked one by one at an empty beer bottle that’s been placed within spitting distance. Every thirty seconds or so, a little flash of fire makes an arc out into the daylight and then exhausts itself on the grass in a tiny puff of smoke. Not one of them comes close to hitting the bottle. This seems a useless way to spend a morning, but then who am I to judge? I’m a person watching someone spend a useless morning flicking matches.
    “Somebody out there?” asks a voice from inside.
    It’s a girl’s voice with a trace of a Spanish accent. I have a vision. She’s hot, and she thinks I’m hot. We fall in love, buy a used car, drive to New York City. We have lots of sex. I’m hoping she has a driver’s license.
    “Hell-o-oh?” she sings out when I don’t respond right away.
    I poke my head around the corner, and as soon as I see her I disqualify myself as a participant in my own fantasy. She’s way out of my league. This girl is a total first-class, type-A hottie with a tangle of long black hair and smart, dark eyes. She isn’t wearing trendy designer clothes or carrying a purse the size of her head. She doesn’t have a lot of rings or bracelets or a fancy cell phone with a jeweled case. When she leans forward to get a better look at me, her shoulder dips into the light and looks fresh baked.She’s wearing a pair of tight white shorts, and her long bare legs stick out like they’re doing advertising in a catalog.
    I stand there unable to say a word, forgetting everything, including my name. She seems to take pity on me. She tilts her head, and her eyes light up as though she’s just about to recognize me. Then, without the slightest warning and for no apparent reason, she tosses her hair and laughs. She laughs so hard she knocks her head against the concrete wall behind her and then drops her