Cooler than Jesus

By G. H. Thomason

After unexpectedly returning to his hometown in Oklahoma, Boone tries to reignite relationships with his old friends, a motley assortment of former artists, students, and regular people. His recent appearance on a reality dating show has created a buzz that follows him wherever he goes, often leading to compromising situations and unwanted attention.

In the meantime, Noel, the girlfriend who diligently waited for Boone to return, tries to pull him back into her life so he can fulfill promises made months ago under very different circumstances.

Cooler than Jesus is a novel about twenty-something Americans in search of love, fun, meaning, and higher purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. H. Thomason
• Release date: Sep 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465991416

G. H. Thomason

G. H. Thomason was born in Lawton, Oklahoma. He graduated from Cameron University with degrees in English and creative writing.

Book preview

Cooler than Jesus

by

G. H. Thomason

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Cooler than Jesus

Copyright 2011 by G.H. Thomason. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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CHAPTER 1

You know, Clint says to me, taking a long pull from the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He holds it for a long time and then exhales violently, the blue smoke hovering momentarily around his head before it’s sucked out the window of his speeding pickup. There is an unnatural pause in his speech rhythm, a brief instant where he seems to be feeling out the situation, testing the water. Dogs only exhibit homosexual behavior in captivity. Wild ones don’t try to fuck each other in the ass.

Really? It’s hot even though the air conditioner is on so I roll down the window. Warm air gushes in and strikes me directly in the face, causing my eyes to tear. I wipe away the tears and aim the air conditioner vents at my body and carefully roll up the sleeves of my black silk shirt. Where’d you come up with that one?

Think I read it somewhere.

I roll my neck and shoulders to loosen them.

Bad flight?

Always, I answer. He knows I’ve had a fear of heights ever since I fell from a high-dive board when we were kids, and he chuckles until it turns into a cough. This is all just diversionary anyway because he’ll never come out and ask me why I only called him once while I was in New York — last night — to ask for a ride today.

The pickup rounds the final off-ramp from Will Rogers World Airport and then slows to a crawl, waiting to merge with the heavy highway traffic. It’s close to six o’clock and everyone is filing home after a day of work. When Clint sees an opening he punches the gas pedal and plunges us into the stream of cars and semi-trucks. He flicks his cigarette butt out the window and twists the long hairs on his chin between his fingers. You wanna get somethin' to eat before we get outta the city?

I had something on the plane.

He's watching the road. It'll be an hour before we get home.

Only if you want something.

I had some nachos waitin’ for your ass to show up. Cost me six goddamn dollars at the airport cafeteria. His head shakes slowly, methodically. He’s been waiting to tell me that. It’s one of those things that would grate on him. I thought you might be hungry. It's a long drive back home. Then, They were pretty good nachos, though.

Really, I say, rubbing my eyes. I'm fine.

OK.

The highway stretches out from the city like a large black river; the white lines seem to float slowly toward and away from us as the truck propels us forward. Orange work signs are scattered along the sides of the road at the outskirts of Oklahoma City, and the speeding tires kick the fresh blacktop against the sides and belly of Clint's truck. The car in front of us throws a barrage of the loose rocks onto the windshield. Goddamn new roads, Clint says, then slows down and changes lanes. He turns on the wipers and they smear the tar and rocks across the windshield. Goddamn blacktop! Then he lights another cigarette.

When'd you start smoking so much?

Always smoked.

Not this much.

He inhales deeply and holds it. Don't know. Used to only smoke when I drank. The more I drank, the more I'd smoke. Smoke all the time, now. His voice is strained until he exhales. Guess it snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking.

Things have a way of doing that, I say. I adjust my shirt and then wipe the sweat from the back of my neck. I stick my hand outside the window to dry it and let the hot wind blow over and through my fingers. My hand opens and closes around nothing.

Clint turns on the radio, can't find a station he likes and turns it back off.

Got to see a few Knicks games, I finally say.

Yeah?

Had great seats a couple of times. Right on the court.

How'd you manage those?

One of the producers from the show had season tickets.

He exhales. Never liked the Knicks too much.

Me either, I nod, watching the long rows of vast fields speed past. Cattle congregate along the fences close to the highway, stretching their heads through the thick barbed wire to get at the tall weeds and grass that grow freely. Outside the window my hand clutches at the air.

Yeah, I continue. Seems like everyone's always handing you a drink in New York. Everywhere you go someone's always slapping something in your hand.

Sounds like my kind of town.

"And the women."

Better than the women in Dallas? he says, twisting his beard.

Well, I answer, I don’t know about that. But some of them were nice, just the same.

Let me ask you something, he says slyly. Does everyone in New York wear shirts like that, or just the goddamn TV stars?

I look down at what I’m wearing. What? You like it?

He laughs a little. How much'd it set you back?

I don't know, I say seriously. It was a gift. Probably a couple of hundred.

Clint glances at the shirt out of the corner of his eye and then returns his stare to the black road in front of us. Ahead, in the distance, heat waves ripple in the air above the highway. "Sheeit. For two hundred dollars it better iron itself and suck my dick."

We both laugh hard. After I recover I ask him how work is going.

Same as usual.

Huh, is all I can think to say. I pull my arm back in and roll the window up halfway to cut out the dry wind. The truck begins to slow for a tollbooth and I dig in my pants pocket for my wallet. Clint quickly snatches four quarters from his ashtray — I'm puzzled by how clean it is — and cuts into the next lane behind a gasoline tanker. When it comes our turn he tosses the change into the mechanical basket and the truck creeps forward until the green light comes on and then we are almost immediately at full speed again.

For a mile after the tollbooth there is a slight hint of civilization, houses and gas stations crop up against the skyline here and there. But quite suddenly there is nothing again except for the flatness of the land and the miles and miles of fences that line the highway. It's hard to tell exactly what the fences are keeping in. Sometimes there are trees, but mostly not. Every mile there is a large yellow dot painted on the side of the road. Highway-patrol airplanes use the dots to calculate the speed of the cars below them and relay the information to nearby patrol cars. The red clay dusted along the edges of the pavement is an all too familiar sight.

Clint taps his thumb against the steering wheel while he silently mouths a song. For a time I think I should try to get some sleep, maybe rest my head against the window and doze, the steady hum of the truck's engine a hypnotic lullaby. I couldn't rest on the plane, and the night before there was hurried packing and wondering and it was very late the last time I looked at a clock. This doesn't seem like the right time for a nap, though, and I roll the window back down hoping the dry wind will revive me.

Clint thumps the steering wheel, turns his head away from me and coughs. He dislodges phlegm from his throat with a loud, guttural hack and then spits whatever it was he knocked loose out the window, shaking his head when he's done.

Sick?

Gotta cold.

How'd you manage that in this heat?

Amazing what people can manage, he says.

I guess.

The heat ain’t so bad.

I'll get used to it again in a few days. The hottest it got in New York was ninety degrees, and people thought it was a goddamn heat wave. You should’ve seen the way they carried on.

It was one-oh-nine on Monday. He flicks the useless filter out the window. How long you gonna be stayin'?

I’m not sure.

Erlan thought maybe you were comin' home for good. I told'em I didn't think so, because you got such a sweet setup there. I mean, I’ve seen the show a couple of times.

You see Erlan much?

"No, not really. He came into the grocery store this morning. I was moppin’ up puke from some little piece of shit. Green, like he’d had ice cream or something. Ice cream, at eight in the goddamn morning! His mom didn’t even tell anybody, and some old bitch almost slipped on it. All I need is a grandma breakin’ her hip on my shift. Anyway, Erlan came into the store like I said. I talked to them on the produce aisle. I told them you were comin’ home."

Them?

Yeah, Clint answers. Maggie was with him. Didn't get a chance to say much to her, though.

You see her often?

Only when she comes in the store, and then she's usually with Erlan.

That’s odd.

They’re practically married, from what I hear.

I hadn't heard that.

Yeah, well, I’m not telepathic, he quips. Sometimes you can’t tell if Clint is just talking or if he’s baiting you into something else, so I dodge that topic altogether and ask, Who told you they were getting married?

I forget.

Did she have anything to say?

In the store? No. Said we should come by after I pick you up. I said maybe, depends on you, you know? Didn't have much else to say to her with Erlan there. He always was your friend, really.

Married, huh?

Clint reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the dashboard and says, Practically. What I heard, anyway.

I guess we could stop by.

I didn't know how you'd be feelin', with the flight and all.

I'm OK. A little tired.

You look good, he says before he lights his cigarette. He fumbles with the lighter for a second, using his knees to steer the truck. Somethin' in New York sure must've agreed with you.

I pull the visor down and examine my eyes in the small mirror. They are clear despite the lack of sleep.

He cocks his head towards me and nods. Noel will be pleased.

We pass a small outcropping of withered mountains that runs through the federal wildlife refuge. The mountains are ancient and more like large hills now, but the land here is flat and the rounded peaks can be seen from miles away. So, in Oklahoma at least, they're considered mountains. From the highway I can see cars driving up the long, winding road that leads to the top of the largest of the outcroppings. The cars appear very small because of the distance. A broken herd of bison grazes at the foot of the mountains. Yeah, I say. Noel.

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CHAPTER 2

We get into town a little after seven. Clint wants to buy more cigarettes before we go to Erlan McKray's, and while he's in the Seven Eleven he decides to pick up a case of beer as well. For old time’s sake, he tells me when he comes back to the truck, easing the heavy box into the small area behind the driver’s seat. He gets in and adjusts his seatbelt.

We make our way through the early evening traffic and then the truck turns into a neighborhood and it isn't long before we pass the crumbling stadium where we used to play junior high football. Soon, we're at Erlan's and there are several cars parked out front of the small white house. The side of the house is illuminated by the electric blue glow of a bug light.

I get out of the truck and while I'm stretching I look at the cars lined down the street. I don't recognize any of them, but it's been a while. Clint breaks into the new pack of Marlboros and lights one inside the truck, smokes for a while and then gets out slowly. He grabs the case of beer from behind the seat and carries it with both hands, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lip, and he walks behind me up the crowded driveway and across the sunburned lawn. The shades are pulled over open windows and several conversations float above the music pouring into the street.

When we come around the corner of the house Maggie is waiting there, her arms folded and her hair darker and much shorter than when I left over a year ago. I'm surprised to see her standing there and we look at each other for a time, both of us trying to interpret the other’s expression. She is smoking nervously and smiles. Well, the prodigal son returns, she says to me awkwardly, the look on her face suggesting she thought it would sound a lot different before she said it; then, more seriously, Hello, Boone, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck.

What are you doing out here?

She presses herself into me. Nothing. I wanted to be the first to see you. Before you go inside and become theirs. Our faces are close and her breath smells of tobacco and Jim Beam. She lets go of my neck but keeps one arm around my waist. There are a thousand things I could tell you about this girl, but you wouldn’t believe any of them. How they hangin’ Clint? she says, still eyeing me.

Clint exhales through his clinched lips, nods. Low, Maggs, and to the left.

Classy, she laughs, and then it's quiet except for the muffled noises coming from the house. Her face takes on an eerie glow beneath the blue light. I nod at the door and ask her, What's going on?

A victory party. Her eyes wrinkle at the corners. For the conquering hero. You know Erlan. Everything has to be a big production. Don’t you hear the music?

Jesus, Maggie. I look at Clint asking how they knew I was coming. He doesn’t so much as blink.

Don't be a baby, she barks. With her free hand she touches a short wisp of hair behind her head. Clint, tell him not to be a baby about this.

Quit bein' a pussy, Clint says.

She laughs nervously.

What would you've done if I didn't show?

Clint said you would.

Really, I say to him. But what if I was too tired?

You weren’t, she says.

I might've been.

But you're here.

Yeah, I say. I suppose I am.

We climb the cement steps together and before we go in Maggie touches my shirt sleeve between her fingers and says, Goddamn, Boone, and then the three of us go inside.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I haven't taken two steps through the door before Erlan McKray is on me, his curly rust-colored hair level with my chin. He's talking real fast and then pauses to