Jumper. Steven Gould

jeez. You look like you came out all right. Do you recommend it?”

      “It would depend.”

      “On what?”

      “On how bad you had it at home. It’s got to be pretty awful before being a runaway is better.”

      “Well, what about in your case?”

      I put my glass down. “I’d rather not talk about my case.”

      She blinked. “Well, I’m sure I didn’t mean to pry. Sorry.”

      “No problem. Nice weather we’re having.”

      Robert looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, some weather. David, I’m going to run Trish home. I can come get you after.”

      I shook my head. “Thanks. I can get home from here.”

      They got up to leave. Sue said, “Contraception, Trish. That vital conversation before.”

      Trish and Robert blushed in unison.

      “Yeah, right,” said Robert.

      When they were gone Sue turned back to me.

      “Nice kids. Where do you live?”

      I saw no reason to lie. “New York City.”

      “Oh. So you’re just visiting the old hometown.”

      “I do that.”

      She laughed. “What else do you do?”

      “I read a lot.”

      She swallowed some more of her drink.

      “What is that you’re drinking.”

      “Glenlivet.”

      I shook my head, not understanding.

      “Scotch.”

      “Oh.”

      “Want some?”

      An image of a man in his underwear, black socks, hairy legs, unshaven, an empty bottle of scotch cradled in his arm like an infant, mouth open, eyes shut—Dad.

      “No. Thank you for asking.”

      She leaned forward, her neckline drooping. I looked away. She straightened, pulled up a shoulder strap. I sipped at my ginger ale.

      “So, have you seen the house, David?”

      I shook my head.

      “Come on. We can find someplace quieter to have a conversation.”

      She stood and, staggering slightly, led me back into the house and up the stairs. Her tour consisted of “this is the upstairs hall. This is my bedroom.”

      Oh my God.

      “Uh, Sue. What are we doing up here?”

      She shut the door behind us.

      “Conversation. That conversation that I was talking about earlier. You know, to Trish and Robert.” She walked up to me; I took a step back and fetched up against the closed door. She kept coming.

      “You don’t know me from Charles Manson, Sue. I could have every STD in the book.”

      She put her hands on my shoulders. In her heels she was slightly taller than me. “Do you?”

      “Do I what?”

      “Have any sexually transmitted diseases.”

      “Uh, not to my knowledge.”

      She pressed her mouth hard against mine. Her tongue flicked along my lips, darted between my teeth. I felt the skin crawl along the back of my head and down my back, an eerie, not unpleasurable sensation. Her mouth, though, tasted of scotch. I pushed her gently away.

      “Uh, hold up.” Oh God, she’s beautiful. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to sleep with her. I wanted to run. I wanted to just jump away.

       What about Millie?

      She molded her body to mine. “What? You don’t like me? Is this something else you don’t do?”

      “Uh, uh … Where’s your bathroom?”

      She pointed to a door on the other side of the room and followed me over to it. I went inside and found a small bathroom with no other exit. Oh shit.

      She turned on the light

      “Condoms,” she said. “Are in the bottom drawer.” She shut the door with a snap, not unlike the popping noise a mousetrap makes when it trips.

      I opened the bottom drawer. One box of Trojan Gold condoms sat among hair ties, curlers, and a tube of K-Y jelly. Only one box? Does that make her conservative or easy? I pushed it shut and looked at the window. It was two feet square, to the right of the sink. It opened inward. I stuck my head out. There was a drop of twenty feet on a sheer brick wall.

      It would have to do.

      I took some of her lipstick and wrote on the mirror, “SORRY, I CAN’T.” Then I flushed the toilet, made sure the door was unlocked, and jumped home to Brooklyn.

      “They found someone who matched your physical stats and duplicated his license with your picture. The name may be a little different, but close. Of course the address is his, but if they run your license, the dispatcher will find everything agrees in the computer.” He paused and looked at me. “Oh. They also have access to the real plastic, and stock, and embossers. Your license is real.”

      “What about the signature?” I asked Leo.

      “Well, you’ll have to practice that.”

      I walked in silence thinking about it, glancing occasionally at the card.

      We reached Lexington and started up it.

      “It’s really a good deal, Mr. Rice. Honest.”

      “Relax, Leo. It’s okay. I agree.” I paid him the fee, plus a bonus, and we parted.

      Later that day, I put thirty thousand dollars in a share draft account at Liberty Savings & Loan for David Michael Reece. That was the name on my newly acquired driver’s license. I made up a Social Security number. The girl offered me a choice of a toaster oven or a food processor. I took the toaster.

      With my new checks I bought a ticket, first-class, one-way, to Will Rogers World Airport, Oklahoma City.

      “Are you sure you don’t want a round-trip ticket? If you buy a one-way ticket back, it’ll cost you over three hundred dollars more … first-class.”

      “No thank you. I don’t need a return ticket.”

      “Oh, you’re not coming back?”

      I shook my head. “No. I’m coming back. Just by other means.”

      “Oh. You must be driving.”

      I shrugged. Let her think what she wanted.

      Since I didn’t have a “major credit card” she said I’d have to pick up the ticket after the check cleared.

      My ears started to burn and I felt like I’d done something wrong. “Why don’t I just pay in cash then?” I took out a roll of fifties.

      She stared. “Uh, we prefer not to deal in cash. Are you in a hurry to get the ticket?”

      “Yes.” I bit off the word. What’s wrong with me?

      “Let me check with my boss.”

      She walked back through a door. I felt, for some reason, like I was sitting outside the principal’s office, waiting to be lectured on proper behavior. I felt like walking out. I felt like smashing things. I felt like crying.

      I’d just about decided to jump back to my apartment and blow off the whole experience when she came back through the