High school jock Cash Hamilton has almost everything: he’s tall, handsome, a star football player and beloved by all the girls. The one thing he hasn’t got is his namesake: Cash is dead broke. But a rich novelty manufacturer has a way out – all Cash has to do is date his hated school rival, brainiac Stu Carrey.
Add to his problems an amorous snake, a New Age swami, an angry not-so-ex girlfriend, and a room of wombats, and you get a complete picture of dating in The Modern Age.
Cash and Carrey is the first adult romcom by Bob Madison, author of the acclaimed young adult novel Spiked!
Gay for pay has never been so much fun—or so dangerous.
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Extract
“Where do you plan on going to college?”
I moved on to the nuts. I hadn’t had this type before, but they were salty and crunched nicely between the teeth. Having my mouth full gave me time to figure what to say next. Truth to tell, there was no guarantee that I was even going to college. My teachers gave me grades good enough to play football, and I played well enough to make Pacific High look great, but that didn’t necessarily translate into a scholarship. If things did not go my way, by this time next year I may be working next to my father in Walmart or Big Lots. Truth was, without college, I’d never get anywhere.
“I’m keeping my options open,” I said.
“Dad,” Carol said. It seemed to be her all-purpose word.
Poppa Larson scooped up a handful of nuts from the table nearest him, and slid it over to Tom, who slid it back with a look of disgust.
“Do you live nearby?” Momma asked.
“Here in Huntington.”
“Best place in all of California to raise a family,” Poppa said.
“Well, I don’t know about that.” I made a show of throwing Carol a shy glance. “At least, not yet.”
A show of honest intentions always gets you far with the parents.
“And do you like school?”
I ate more of the crisps and scooped up a handful of nuts. “Love it. I just wish I got to spend more time there.”
Momma and Poppa shook heads at one another as if to say, This one is a keeper.
Carol grabbed a handful of nuts and rolled a coffee table closer to Tommy. “Eat.”
“NO!”
Carol looked at her mother. “Mom.”
“Not now dear. Let him get used to it.” Momma Larson now turned her attention back to me. “What’s Carol like at school?”
“MOM!”
“Well, dear, we have no idea how other people see you.”
I turned to Carol and took her hand. The little slut fingered my palm. “Carol’s very popular. All the girls want to be like her, and all the boys want to date her.” I turned to her mother. “Maybe I’ll be the lucky one.”
And if that didn’t get me a least a hand job in the car later on, I’ve been doing this wrong for years.
“Do you want a Chardonnay, or some sparkling water?” Poppa Larson offered.
“Neither,” I said, virtue pouring off me like sweat. “I’m in training.”
It was at this point that the final member of our party decided to make an appearance. I had been feeling something press against the back of my foot and figured the cat was under the couch. I moved a foot for a better look and saw what looked like a brightly speckled hatband.
When a forked tongue gave a quick lick to my rear boot heel, I let out a little yell.
“Don’t worry,” Poppa Larson said. “That’s just our pet snake, Bernie.”
Here, the old man dove between my legs and reached under the couch. He pulled out about six feet of thick snake from under the couch and went back to his chair. The snake coiled itself around him, giving his chin a little lick.
“Who’s daddy’s baby?” he cooed to the snake.
“Mamma’s little Bernie,” Mrs. Larson tickled the monster.
“His name is Bernie Sanders,” Carol said.
I looked at her.
“We named him after Bernie Sanders.”
“Yeah, I got that.” I looked at Bernie. He slithered over Poppa Larson and then started trailing down the side of his armchair. Suddenly I was happy I had kept my shoes on.
“He’s not a . . . python, is he?”
Both parents laughed, as if I had asked if they usually ate with their feet.
“Just a rat snake,” Momma Larson said. “Perfectly harmless.”
Perfectly harmless Bernie proceeded to undulate over the living room floor towards the coffee table nearest me.
“Push that aside, dear,” Momma said. “We don’t like him to snack between meals.”
I understood their concern, what with the scarcity of rats here in Huntington Beach. I reached over and slid the table aside. The snake paid no attention to the celestial mechanics of the living room and slid between my legs and back under the couch.
I lifted both feet onto the couch and sat, Indian style.
“Oh, he won’t bite you,” Momma said.
He sure as hell won’t, I thought, with my legs up. I pulled the table nearer and grabbed a handful of nuts.
Bernie Sanders cast a shadow over our innocent fun, and there was a moment of silence as I figured what to say next. Finally, I chewed some crisps and nodded at the picture of the turbaned dude.
“And who is that?”
Momma Larson genuflected toward the portrait, and then turned to me, face alight.
“That,” she said, “is a great and holy man. His name is Swami Rabbitina.”
“Swami . . .”
“Rabbitina.”
“Swami Rabbitina.”
“Yes, Swami Rabbitina,” she agreed. “He lives here in Southern California, and he is the wisest, kindest and holiest of men.”
“My gal here,” Poppa Larson said with pride, “is a Second Degree Priestess at his Enlightenment Center over in Cucamonga.”
Momma Larson shrugged the accolade aside.
I nodded with encouragement. Why not? It was almost dinner time.
“Have you heard of him?”
“Everyone has heard of Swami Rabbitina,” I lied with a mouthful of nuts. “I just didn’t recognize him.”
“Have you followed his teachings?”
“I can’t say that I’m all that familiar with them.”
“Oh, you should be,” Momma said, and that got her motor running. “He offers the most profound truths.”
I nodded again.
“For instance,” she leaned forward, giving me full view of her magnificent cleavage, “there is the profound truth that we all simply . . . are.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Yes. And our place in the universe is secure because we have a place within it. And our place within it demonstrates the very fact that we . . .”
“Are?”
She nodded in communion. “Yes! We are.”
“That’s very deep.”
“Oh, but there’s more.” And sure enough, there was. Swami Rabbitina had an opinion on everything, and I had to hear every damn one of them while I was sure dinner was burning in the kitchen. Did I know that Swami Rabbitina thought that future of energy was green energy? Or that our declaring something about the future was all we needed for it to come true? That there was a green crystal, hidden deep inside each and every one of us, and that green crystal harnessed the cosmic green energies of the environment, making us simple extensions of nature, but not superior or subordinate to it? Or that nature was all natural, and, consequently, all good? That science was real when it was most convenient, and a worldly illusion when it was not? And, best of all, that sexual energy was really a manifestation of cosmic energy, and that cosmic energy was the only energy that was really energetic?
You would think that all this talk about cosmic sexual energy would be hot from an older woman with triple wanger-wangers, but it had the opposite effect. Honestly, the moment a girl got too wound up in religion or in politics, no matter how hot they were, to me they all started to look like Eleanor Roosevelt.
I figured now was the time to show that I was impressed. I looked up at the portrait and said, “Swami, how I love you.”
That worked. Momma Larson gazed reverently as the portrait. “Yes. My dear, old Swami.”
Thank you
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About the author
Bob Madison is a former communications executive turned writer. He has written everything from magazine articles, blogposts, television documentaries, nonfiction books, cookbooks, novels and even … trading cards. Bob Madison has been married to Russell Frost since 1990, and the two live in Huntington Beach, CA. Bob currently sits on the board for The Literacy Volunteers of Huntington Beach Public Library.
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Author Links
Twitter @thatbobmadison
Website http://www.thatbobmadison.com
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Book Link
Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0C8PVSWRN
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