1: Sand In Improper Places

My skin was taut over my bones like dehydrated elastic and leeched of every drop of moisture it possessed. Try as I might I could not find a comfortable position on the searing veneer of the bench-seat; sliding to and fro while being scalded by the surface. My arms were burnt possibly beyond repair by the harsh glare of the sun filtering through the windows, the delicate skin flamed an angry shade of magenta. I was so wet with perspiration that I could not feel myself sweat any longer. Had I been wearing cosmetics my face would be a dissolved canvas reminiscent of tactless infant finger-painting. Unsurprisingly, I found it all very disgusting.

Late July was unbearable in this godforsaken plain of Nowhere; a landscape of mundane flatlands and mountains that rose like ungainly tumors from the otherwise featureless ground. The mountains were pure dirt and the ground was the ancient cracked leather of soil too long left to the mercy of summer. It was ugly and hot and completely horrible. They say there are few places worse to be in mid-year than Newark, for the humidity is atrocious and no one's air conditioner cooperates, but I beg to differ. At least humidity offers moisture whereas Southern California is a long eyesore of parched desert spattered with the indomitable carcasses of cities. They were dirty and crude and nothing at all like the green bloom of home. Call me a pathetic Jersey boy if you must but I longed for the tall grasses and shelter of cherry blossom branches regardless of drive-by shootings and frequent discovery of bodies in the pond.

“Oh my god. It's so hot here. I want to claw my skin off!” Callisto moaned beside me, slumped in a pitiable heap that battled occasionally with the adhesive cling of the seat.

I couldn't bring myself to agree because my tongue was a thick husk of crumpled newspaper caged by my saliva-barren teeth. I cast him a sympathetic look, concerned that perhaps the heat would irritate his chronic poor health. My seat-mate's idyllic eyes regarded me with some naïve hope that I might magically change the weather. Resolutely I resisted the urge to pet his sweat-soaked hair (as contact with another human being sounded like the Chinese Water Torture at the present time). Cooper grunted a vague agreement with Callisto's previous exclamation from the seat ahead, sitting miserable in his boxer shorts with his beefy hands pressed to the vent. Old Bertha had left us without air-conditioning somewhere back in Ohio where the temperature did not suggest the apocalypse. At the time the failure (and our utter lack of finances with which to fix it) did not seem dire. However, now we suffered with the heat and hoped to god she made it to San Diego without exhausting indefinitely. Note to self: never drive secondhand van from New Jersey to San Diego ever again.

It seemed forever since I had seen a gas station and I wondered if indeed we were truly, completely abandoned by civilization. All around was highway, dirt, more dirt, a bit of scrub grass, dirt, and occasionally another car speeding past with its happy Californian license plate kicking up more goddamn DIRT. Two hours previous we had stopped at a seedy Mini-Mart to relieve their cooler of ten bottled waters, numerous Nutri-Gran bars, and ourselves of as much clothing as possible. I envied Callisto his Italian heritage as his dusky skin fended off sunburn and allowed him to lie about in next to nothing. And goddamn Aaron, our resident African-American, seemed entirely unbothered by the demonic light. I, on the other hand, was forced to endure the deadly denim of my jeans and sodden cotton of a BLACK t-shirt. I proclaim myself no longer a strictly-black individual. In fact, I think I may never wear it again. At least my brother somewhat shared my pain, moaning about the sting of the sun as it layered his farmer's tan with a generous lacquer of ripe red. I am so getting a tan. I do not care about looking like a china doll anymore; I AM ADAPTING TO DESERTS IF IT IS THE LAST CHOICE I EVER MAKE.

“You know, now I get why all the sand-people are so skinny.” Cooper exclaimed, apparently in the midst of one of his awkward epiphanies.

“How can you tell? Don't their robes hide it?” Dominique asked from the back seat, his skin squealing against the faux-leather as he shifted.

“Not sand-people like from Star Wars, Dom. I mean the guys that live out here where it's wretchedly hot.”

I wonder whether we'll be mugged if the local Hispanic population intercept Cooper calling them 'sand-people'? That would be a disappointing newscast. 'Skeletons of an unidentifiable punk band were found in the desert today. Experts estimate they may have been dumped there twenty years past by an angry mob of Mexicans. Attempted removal of the remains incited a riot and unfortunately resulted in abandonment of the cause.' Nice. We are doomed to die in this ghastly desert either of heatstroke, disgruntled illegal immigrants, thirst, or the stench of five un-deodorized bodies. I would estimate it to be the smell but it is more realistic that we will dehydrate like raisins. Raisins? Good god! Halt right there, train of thought.

“Why are they thin, Cooper?” I asked with feigned interest, choking on the shriveled skin of my tongue.

Cooper turned in his seat as far as possible, beads of perspiration trickling idly across his forehead. Reaching out toward our (me and Callisto's) seat he lightly slapped my seat-mate's belly, prompting a shriek and swinging fist from the tiny bassist.

“Dude, hands off my stomach!” Callisto growled, his glance speaking volumes of death.

“They're so skinny because it sucks to be fat in this weather. You get sweat all in-between the folds of flesh.” Cooper continued with his explanation, ignoring the silent curses being sent to him.

“Oh gross, Rooster. We didn't need to know all that.” Aaron protested, his face betraying disgust beneath the damp explosion of curls that were clinging to his sweaty cheekbones.

I pressed a hand to my stomach and might have blushed if my face had not been red with the heat already, realizing that Cooper was in fact quite right. Ewww. Diet. Diet and tan: the first steps toward contentment. The West Coast had it right all along.

“Actually, they're thin because they sweat off all their pounds.” Callisto corrected petulantly, poised to hit Cooper should the elder man attempt to pat his teddy-belly again.

“Have it your way, Tummy Pudge.” Our lead guitarist leered, wiping at the sweat on his face in vain.

“Don't call me that!”

I giggled and then coughed, my throat invoking the voice of a starving African child in its cry for water. What if my voice was damaged by the lack of lubrication? Would I be crippled as a vocalist? Unable to perform? To speak? To make those noises Callisto is so fond of in bed? SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF HERE!

“Quick, call a paramedic! Réme’s dying!” Dominique mocked, thumping my back with the heel of his hand as I continued to hack.

“O-ow!” I whined, my enfeebled skin throbbing as my stomach slammed against the seatbelt.

Little fucker. You're only meant to hit people when they're choking on an object! I may have broken a rib! Or at least a blood vessel. Or collected several unsightly lumps of swelling that rendered me unable to take my clothes off for weeks! No sex for that long? How will I survive? How will Callisto survive? He'll leave me for some hot little Emo kid with a twiggy body and better teeth. And I'll be black and blue in addition to heartbroken, most likely be hit with something heavy directly in the same spot when we play tomorrow night, and–

“I think Réme is about to have an epileptic seizure. Judging by the look on his face, at least.” Aaron announced after being greeted by my petrified stare in the rearview mirror.

“Uh-oh. I seriously doubt there are any paramedics out here. Unless vultures count.” A thoughtful pause. “We'll just have to give him mouth to mouth!” Callisto proclaimed enthusiastically, launching his midget self at my horrified body.

Ow. Now I've had my thighs broken. What if they swell too?

“Under normal circumstances I wouldn't protest, but you're all sticky!” I groaned, trying to shove the considerable weight from my lap before my thighs swelled to the size of an Elephant's ass.

He pressed against me disobediently in response. Hothothothot! I'm about to be consumed by flames! Or very hot male body, whichever implodes me first.

“I'll die of heat-stroke!” I cried, wriggling as best I could without accidentally striking Callisto.

“Don't fuss, stinky boy. You'll live.” My lapful of twenty-four-year-old scolded, taking my face in his tattooed hands and pressing his lips to mine in an unarguable manner.

I considered struggling (THE HEAT! THE SWEATINESS!) but submitted as I always did to his fingers and mouth. Callisto is my astonishing, beautiful, very affectionate long-term boyfriend and I still fail to comprehend why he stays with me... so who am I to deny him anything in life? Even if he does happen to be very near to icky (he is not officially so due to an incapability of being repulsive). Perhaps I would survive his assaultMy hands clasped at the smooth sweat-slick back of his neck and I reassessed my judgment of the unpleasantness of kissing in this heat. He has honed through unknown means his oral skills and therefore it is never too hot too kiss.

“Awww, the cuteness!” Aaron cooed, his merry face beaming in the rear-view mirror.

Voyeur. Total voyeur. And Aaron claims to be straight! Pfft! He totally gets off on the memories of the time Callisto and I became drunk and rather voraciously make out in public.

“If I spot tongue I won't hesitate to toss both of you out of the van.” Dominique dead-panned from somewhere behind my head.

Callisto and I parted reluctantly and I glared at my brother, who returned my ill-humored look with his slender arms folded over his chest paternally.

“Dude, we were totally close-lipped.” My human lap-pillow informed him.

Dominique didn't respond, just made a shrill nose inside the oddly-shaped contour of his nose and allowed his head to loll back onto the sun-soaked interior of the van.

My fun has been completely, utterly, irreversibly decimated. I pouted.

“Now that you aren't kissing me, I would appreciate it if you removed yourself from my lap. I'm going to melt.” I informed Callisto regretfully, petting his head as I had declined to do earlier.

A soft mewling noise rose from his throat and he pressed his wet cheek to my collarbone. WETSTICKY! Gah! Must sit still. I resisted the need to shift away from his offending skin purely out of love. Thank god for my worship of him. The things I do for that boy.

“I'll melt, too.” He reminded me unnecessarily.

A valid point, Callie-The-Wet.

I remained silent as he continued, “But just think: if I stay then we'll run together and no one will ever be able to separate us.”

Awww. I suspect he spends too much time listening to my inane rambles. He is beginning to conceptualize like me.

“Not that they could ever take me away anyhow, but it'd be a fine excuse.” The heat was becoming unbearable and he was babbling just a bit. “Kind of the same concept as having a baby. But a lot more final and less independent. I wouldn't mind that either, though! You know, the whole parenting occupation. What say you, Mr. Way? Will you have my babies?”

Yes, Callisto, I would be honored to bear your children. Although I do lack the necessary vagina. I swear on my very gay honor (such as it is) that I do. Callisto can testify.

“Call-ie! Stop trying to woo me and just get off!” I whimpered, bucking a bit underneath him.

“Réme Jean Saint-Clare, moving like that under my ass is NOT going to support any desire to move away.”

Oh. Duh, Réme. I went still as glass while Dominique feigned retching, attempting to sound appalled by the idea of his brother arousing someone whom he knows intimately. I say 'attempting' because I know that my sibling is as subversively kinky as I am. Hee hee.

“I wouldn't suggest going at it in this heat.” Aaron advised cheerily, prompting me to blush furiously for the second time and attempt to hide behind Callisto's broad shoulders.

“At least we'd die happy!” My resistant shield exulted, one fist in the air.

I raised my head from its ducked position to fix him with an offended frown. He blinked huge amber eyes at me with all the innocence of a mentally-incapacitated alter-boy. I sighed with as much suffering as I could voice and wrapped my arms around him.

“You retard.” I murmured affectionately.

“Hypocrite!” He responded while slapping the back of my head lightly.

“Ouch!” I squeaked, massaging the spot where palm had met cranium.

He seems to have developed a fond habit of beating me round the head when I misbehave. I do so hate the disadvantages of being submissive.

“Baby.” My lap-pillow snorted derisively.

“Fat-ass.” I countered, despite the unfairness of that remark.

“Morbidly obese chipmunk.” Callisto accused, tweaking my cheek between his fingers.

“Genitally-challenged munchkin!”

I groped him for emphasis, though that affirmed absolutely nothing to my point.

“I am not. I'm a Scorpio!” He protested vehemently, pointing at his crotch.

“Delusion-al!” I sang gleefully, tickling his belly in time to each syllable.

My boyfriend writhed and cackled while Dominique proceeded to complain loudly over our immature conduct.

“You two: stop! You'll infuriate the Mexicans!” Cooper shouted, his tone suggesting this was a fantastic notion.

I obeyed instantly.

“I like Mexicans.” Callisto decided.

“You won't when they descend on you in a writhing mob of toilet-paper-wielding fury.”

Silence.

“It was horrible foresight on our parts to do this. I doubt it's healthy to be traveling through desert terrain in the middle of July.” My lap-pillow sighed after three minutes of coiled hush had transpired, allowing his head to fall back onto my shoulder.

“No fucking way, really?” I responded morbidly, fighting to speak around the fuchsia spokes of hair that were invading my facial orifices. “Callisto, your hair.”

“It wins at life, I know.”

One thing that I can never conclude is if his ability to sound completely serious when making fun is a respectable talent.

“No. If you aren't careful I may swallow it.” I complained, suppressing a sneeze.

“So says the dude with hair like a Playboy model.” Callisto retorted, shaking his damn sea-urchin-purple head against my nose.

“Oh ew. Do I look like a porn star to you?” I managed to grunt, turning more toward the door and further from the two-eyed Purple People Eater.

“Yes.” Dominique volunteered.

“Now all you need are inflatable tits!” Cooper cackled.

“Please find the nearest amp and ram Rooster with it, sugar.” I requested pleasantly, risking the wrath of the fuchsia hair in favor of nuzzling my better half's shoulder.

“Hey! Whatever happened to the anti-violence code?” Aaron protested, his large hands expertly manipulating the steering wheel to avoid a crazed motorist.

“I’m Italian.” Callisto murmured sagely, eying Cooper with a slightly unsettling absorption.

“Great, I've got the one-man-Mafia in my van.” Cooper grunted, drawing closer to the vent and further from Callisto's perch.

“My van!” I exclaimed possessively, one hand plastering itself to the scalding metal of the door.

“Our van.” Aaron corrected, his hair springing into the rearview mirror as he attempted to pass me a paternal glance.

“Dad’s van?” Dominique wondered aloud.

Bertha elected to add her own argument; she choked, gagged, and halted entirely. An SUV in dire need of washing shrieked to stillness behind us, thudding a baritone horn repeatedly while we remained helpless in the center of the highway.

“Oh fuck.” Callisto exclaimed unnecessarily.

Thank you, Captain Obvious.