Derelict on HotGuySecret
39
The carpet is green. The carpet is unflappable. The carpet is lake tranquil. I am not. The carpet is dirty. The carpet is green.
The young man who delivers food to me. He’s not handsome and he smells bad – damp, like maybe his shoes are rotting? but he still has something of the shine of youth about him, it shows in the pinkness of his lips and the way the light shines thru his ears and also in the general ungainlyness of his still newly aquired natural physique. Its been years and years and he still doesnt know how to handle all its changes yet. His body is shaggy and long limbed, his eyes nerveous and sullen, darting about here and there in a semi automatic way, sorting out his surroundings until he feels no immediate danger. Then they still, turn dull, muddy. Vacuous clotted pools, permanently stunned.
Its funny how, in these bombed-out disheveled days, the gvt so threadbear and hollow, certain home industries have flurished. People take in washing, make or mend clothes, act as all-purpose handydoers, run shops from their front rooms or out of garages. They cant tackle the really big jobs tho, poor old citizens of Morgantown. Four out of seven of the major access roads are cratered so bad no one hardly uses them at all anymore, the bridges are slowly crumbling and parts of the highway are oh about half washed away. The streets in town are getting pretty ruff too but the young man who comes to do for me is still able to make his way on a motorbike. Three times a week he comes over to wash my dishes, once a week he vaccuums, twice a week he cleans my bathroom and gets me my groceries. I pay him for all this of course, doling out a little extra for any further duties I may feel the whim to assign him. Ten years ago a guy like that might have offered to let me suck him off, maybe do more, for enough $$. Yet this one has not made that offer, nor even indicated that he’s aware its possibility exists. He does the cleaning and the washing-up and then he goes. Today at least he sat in a dilapidated old chair for awhile, twenty minutes or so, holding my cat, stroking my female, as darkness slowly filled the room. When he noticed that he shoved the cat off his lap and left. Aparently a strangers darkness wasnt safe? I dunno. He took up some of it at least, for me.
I lie in bed and watch my old CompuSurv. There are many things still to see. Sometimes its now, sometimes its last week, sometimes its twenty, thirty years ago. Sometimes its me, mostly its you. Adorable, ghostly you.
Time eddies around me. The seasons flow one into another and all with such swing. The Wave has not killed it, it has not killed this, it has not killed that, there are still trees and grass and birds. Maybe not so many, but the ones that are left sing all the more beautifly.
40
Where is that lie? The shadows of winter trees scrabble stark upon the snow.
Theres an old man wandering through the cemetery, old derelict old crow. He’s been doing it for years. Rocking crooked side to side. Blasted by the wind. Flapping tattered clothes. They say he was my lover once. A raging rebellious soul, its why he’s still here now. They say I ate him. All thats left is a husk, a shell with a shock of white hair, arms and legs akimbo, eyes flailing about. Crossed on a promise never given. I suppose I ate that too. For lunch. Silly old man.
My young man, Thomás, pushes the vacuum cleaner back and forth, back and forth, his arm moving like a piston. He does a good job. He’s a good worker, slow but methodicle, we’ve only got a few hours electric so he knows to keep it moving. His eyes seem to exact spots of dirt without his realizing or knowing that theyve seen. Theres no judgment in them, only a dim subterranium recognition as he moves in with the vacuum, with a dust rag or a sponge. Its almost like instinct. In what place and time would he have been a success? I see him in a wood, naked, laying down a slag of phesents, his leather slingshot and a parcel of stones, I see him kneeling by a stream, cupping water . . .
Or I see him here, moving awkwardly about, arm jerking like a piston, eyes cast down to where the carpet is green, the carpet is dirty.
Later on in the day I tell him to fix me a sandwich, and to make one for himself too. He sits at my kitchen table, chewing slowly, methodicly, occasional random remarks dropping like crumbs from his mouth. “You have ants,” he says, squashing one beneath his broad flat thumb. Or, “Theres a hole in your tablecloth.” I look at his face as he stares downward seeing reacting, but without thinking never really thinking. He glances often at his food, looks at it before and after almost every bite. Without realizing without knowing. He does not look at me. I dont think I’ve ever had the chance to look into his eyes for longer than a second. I look at his face instead. I look at his mouth, his throat, as he chews and swallows chews and swallows, he says nothing more. My fingertips drum the tabletop. I feel myself going irritably patient inside.
After he finishes his sandwich I give him a cookie. He’s still young enough for that to make him smile, however brief that smile is. “I got a girl pregnant once,” he says, apropo of nothing except sugar maybe. But I’m interested. He was only fourteen at the time, the girl was eighteen, she seduced him. His mom gave the girl an abortion drug. “She dropped it in her fizzy,” Thomás says. The girl thought she’d simply miscarried. Or pretended to. She didnt have to pretend her relief, they havent seen each other since. His mother beat him with a belt afterwards. She’s beat him regularly ever since. He turned and pulled up his shirt to show me the reddened skin, the long white-edged welts, that were apparently a more or less constant feature of his lower back.
I touched them. Or imagined I did. Lightly, just a fingertip caress. “Dont” he grunted and jerked his shirt down quickly. When he turned round again he looked blushed. “I better go” he mumbled, digging a finger up under one eye, pushing white knuckles into his cheek.
I was surprised. “I’m going” he said. He stood up. His shoulders were stooped. He stared down at something like the floor. The curve of his neck was gorgious, the tiny fine hairs growing on the knob at the top of his spine looked delicious to my eyes. His shoulders twitched, he almost shrugged. Then his legs moved, he clomped heavily down the stairs. The door behind him closed quietly. I heard it clicking shut
41
Shivery slivery shivery winter winter winnterrr. Brrrr. Shivery slivery cold, shards of it piercing. Small of it bits stinging, burning ashy flakes driven thru the air by hard sharp slaps of wind. And all day and all night it blows.
Pistoline shards of ice. Blasts. Shock. What rises from the snow, from the snow, from the cold, cold snow. Where shadows lie like discarded talismans. I miss Thomás . . .
He sits in a chair in front of the window. He does not look out. He strokes the cat. Thomás is stroking the cat. Thomás sits in a chair in front of the window/he is stroking the cat. The evening light is fading/fading. The cat jumps down. Thomás looks down at his lap where the cat was. He looks and he looks and he does not see. What he does not see is nothing/just a stirring of dust in streaks of light. But the cat the cat is gone. I see him see that. I see him begin to know.
I crouch down beside him. The wind blows and blows. I ask him if, when he was a boy, he ever made angels in the snow. He does not know what that means. He does not know what the word ‘angels’ means. He gets up. He hangs about the room loosely. He doesnt quite fit in anywhere. He walks across the floor, he walks back and forth. Soon he will go. When then is now he does not see. He does not know. He just goes. I disappear with him
42
It was a large bowl, what they used to call a ‘mixing bowl,’ made of – what, glass? No, not glass, but something like it, some mixture of glass and plastic, absolutely unblemished ‘smooth beyond smooth’ and completely unbreakable. With a glaze of yellow color on the outside. Brite, brite yellow but the color chipping away all around the rim to reveal the brite brite whiteness underneath. The inside of the bowl a scoop of pure white – almost a blinding whiteness if you stuck your whole face inside which I used to do as a boy. Memory. I remember that bowl intimately well. Bowl/flash yellow/white. But it was it in my mothers cupboard or my grandmothers? I should know. I should know its placement in history I should know its home. I saw this object often. But I cant remember where it goes. What hole does it fill? That memorys gone. Not just misplaced, erased. There’s only a smudge, a blur, where the memory was, just enough of a trace left behind for me to know that I no longer know.
to begin to disappear. This is how. I disappear/begin to die. This is how I begin to disappear as the body of me dies, cold, alone, its life vanquished, gone and whats left behind crumples/crumbles into dust and its time flees in fear a ghost. Then:
Does angle of perception go? Individuality? Does the mind still know even when it no longer knows it knows? Can it still float, can it still fly, no longer buoyed by/by its itself?
Hello.
43
Autumn haze. Vainglorious blaze. As crisply as a newly fallen dead leaf. As green fades. The autumn sun burns the trees alive. Autumn fires under a metal sky, first the trees, then the birds, then worms, beetles, mosquitos, flies. Then women young, women old, then the children, and the babies, and the men, young and old. All bursting into flame, one by one. Then all burning together, dancing, singing raising hands high to mother sun as their ashes fly . . .
But it leaves me alone. Until that is Thomás comes. What howls this ageing moon-man burning to fire at the sight of his lips? The tenderness of his skin. The roughness of his hair.
I see him see me seeing him. I see him begin to comprehend. It turns his face as blank as noon.
44
Heavy. Heaviness. The. The heaviness of late summer. Everything heavy, the limbs of trees sagging, bushes drowning in lassitude, the grass yellow with exhaustion. The air is thick with heat. Time slows. Its waiting for a breeze.
Old leaves ragged, chewed up, bit into. Can you believe this is muscle? Can you believe this hair. Hairy. Hairyness. Violence. Raining down from the sky like little exploding gods. But under the uniform, mmm. Its one way I’ve managed to survive.
Shriek, shrriek, shrrrriek! That damned old lady down the hall. I fused her but good, now she wont leave. In the hall are streets, whole blocks of houses. In the hall its late summer. Its the heat of September, everything past redemption – past belief/violence bursts down from the sky, lightning bugs these ones are called, or sometimes spiders. I look into windows as I pass by. People all plugged into their CompuSurvs, waiting for Word. Someone getting drunk. Someone getting stoned. Someone shaking his head, staring at the screen someones mouth moving with anger leaking saliva like a sour tear.
The old lady down the hall is only old because I am. I fused her but good. Damned old frightened fool. Her brain exploded. I hear her every time I listen. Only.
But my brother is gone! Now there is Thomás. I must make myself younger for Thomás, the thought of whom consumes my brain like a zombie germ. I must go back, grow myself younger again, for Thomás . . . Where is my brother? Where is Steve? Propped up on my pillows/eyelids closed, hot and scratchy. I call to my angels/they come, one here/one there, staring blindly. Meanwhile my mouth falls open, dank air puddles out. I have a pot belly. My arms and legs are flabby. My muscles are soft my skin is dry. But between my legs I still feel a tingle sometimes. I’m feeling one now. And the memory is sweet. I like how it tastes to my body.
45
I remember how it felt, for instance, taking pleasure in looking good to other people. He clearly felt that way too. He was posh – if only small-town posh. Cheap posh I might have called it, first time I met him. His grooming was just a little bit on the precious side: Take for instance the freshness of his haircut, the quality of his cologne. The mere fact that these things had cost was enough to give him, or so I’m sure he thought, a signature style, and he waved that syle like a flag. Everything about him seemed geared towards revealing – proudly revealing – a man who held himself high in self-regard, and wanted everyone to know it. It was his sword and shield. His nose was long and narrow, without any discernible crooked slant or humorous bump, also he had rather nice ears. Some men go wrong in the ears, they’re too large or peculiarly shaped, but his lay flat against his head and were neither too big nor too small, their outlines neatly contoured. He was wearing a pair of rather expensive looking blue dress pants and a crisp short-sleeved white dress shirt open at the collar. I looked about for a tie, and yes, there it lay on his desk, a twisted coil of a rather nice maroon and navy stripe. Of course, I thought. He takes it off.
Did his surroundings suit him? I considered. He was the manager of a fairly run-of-the-mill clothing store – well, perhaps it was a cut above average around here – in a not especially prosperous small town. He might dress for success, but he was, evidently, as stuck as the rest of us or he wouldn’t be here. Unless this position was a mere stepping stone towards something better, something higher up in the food chain. Or perhaps, I considered, he liked being stuck here, big fish in a little pond, that kind of a thing. “Come in,” he said, flashing me a rather sterile as I thought little nodding smile of politeness “Have a seat.” What was it about him made me want to call him ‘cheap’? Something in his manner? I thanked him and sat in a chair positioned in front of his desk, scooching about to get comfortable while he, standing just a few feet away, scanned through the pages of my application. I noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. Was he nervous? Anxious? It might of course be something as simple as too much caffeine, but what must it be like, I wondered, for a kid his age – I figured him to be all of maybe twenty-five years old – to have been put in charge of a large (relatively speaking) and fairly successful (speaking relatively) establishment like this? I wondered if it might not be just a bit too much for him somehow. Something he hadn’t yet grown into. And here I sat before him, a man of fifty-three . . . or two, one . . .
Ahem he coughed gently. I raised my eyes up to meet his face and tried to re-focus. I must have been drifting again. I needed to watch that – “So, Mr Ott,” he said, then added, “I’m Mr M—, by the way,” and leaned forward to shake my hand. I held mine very stiffly, palm flat and rigid, as I figured him for the type who would judge me by the pith and timbre of my handshake. He squeezed my knuckles tightly and I squeeezed back as we pumped our arms up and down. I’d half-risen from my chair during this process, assuming he’d meant me to stand and then discovering belatedly that he had not. Flashing me another smile, this one meant to assist me through my moment of physical awkwardness, he released my hand and motioned me back in my chair – and as I settled myself there again though this time not quite so comfortably I wondered just who this guy must have slept with to get where he was. Was he bright? Not especially I decided. Quick, yes. Clever, yes. But there was something sly about the narrowness of his eyes, something about the way they grew hard at the corners that gave him the look of . . . of . . . of a weasel, I decided. Adding to the effect was a rather narrow, clefted chin – “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” he asked. He pursed his lips up in a sharp, pointy little smile. A solicitous smile –
“I, uhh . . .” He was waiting for me to respond and nothing was coming out. I attempted to compose my face into something resembling attentiveness. “Umm . . . Well, what would you like to know?” I finally managed. My face (I could feel it) now told him I was as curious as he to hear what my response to any question he might care to ask me would be. My ears were almost visibly pricking at the prospect of our finding out.
Mr M—, however, didn’t seem to be responding well to my answer. His lips – thin, but pink as a blush – pulled down at the corners. “Well, I see from your job history,” he said, heaving a sigh that I fear betrayed his expectation of nothing more than boredom to come, “that you’ve had some experience in sales . . .”
“Yes – but never for an establishment as fine as this,” I interjected – too eagerly perhaps; I suddenly found myself hoping I hadn’t come off sounding sarcastic instead. Or ironic. I sometimes did without meaning to. Then again, was this the type of . . . fellow, guy – boy sounded too young and man too old – who would even understand the meaning of ‘ironic’? Silence stretched between us. “I’ve worked in sales at several different businesses,” I stumbled on, “uhhh doing everything from oral solicitation to sales-floor marketing –”
“Oral solicitation?”
“Yes –”
“Sales-floor marketing?”
“Yes, I –”
“You interacted with customers,” he said.
“Yes, I –”
“You tried to sell them things,” he said.
“Well, yes,” I said, “yes. And uhh, right before I moved back to Morgantown what I was selling was furniture. Uhh – at a furniture store, that is,” I clarified – and suddenly, unexpectedly, guffawed at the image that had sprung into my head of me, going from house to house with a couch hoisted up high on my back. “Please buy this,” I’d say to the anxious face peering at me through the door. “Pleeease.” Mr M— cocked an eyebrow. “Sorry,” I said, and faltering for something more to say blundered on with, “I got paid salary plus commission. And I was happy enough working there, until I decided to come back to Morgantown. My parents live here you see, and they’re getting older now, so I felt I should be near at hand, just in case . . .” This last was complete rubbish of course. I’d left the town I was living in because I owed rent at three different, uhh, establishments, had a few other unpaid bills floating around, and it was time for me to go go go!
Mr M— was nodding. “I see,” he said. “But you liked sales well enough to want to continue on in that profession, is that right?”
“Yes.” Actually, that was perfect. Just what I would’ve liked to have said if I’d thought of it. Then, as he was still looking at me as if expecting something more, I added, “I’m a people person!” and nearly guffawed again. But I didn’t. He was watching me rather too closely.
“Alright,” he said at last, and leaning back against his desk somberly regarded my application again. I gazed absently at his knees awhile and then, with nothing better to do, allowed my eyes to drift slowly upwards. My prospective new boss stood I’d guess a good six feet in height, maybe more. He had a slim though athletic build, the build of a swimmer perhaps, or a runner. It was, I had to admit, the kind of body that looked good in dress clothes. In fact, now that I looked more closely I could see that his pants, and presumably the suit jacket that went with them, must have been professionally tailored. They were cut to show off his almost boyishly slender waist, and when he turned just a little to the right, as he did now, and if I leaned juuust a little to one side, I could see that the drape of material over his butt was . . . hmm not bad . . . not bad at all . . . Satisfied, my eyes began to traverse their way back towards his front again but before they could get more than half way he turned, abruptly, to face me (so to speak) –
“The position being offered here is that of salesperson in the Men’s Apparel Dept. To be frank, your age actually works a little in your favor regarding that position.”
“Uhhh, oh?” I said, and gazed up at his face again. I felt a little lost. How had my age suddenly become a matter of relevance?
He held a hand up in anticipatory fashion. “Believe me, I meant no offense.” I stiffened slightly. I hadn’t yet realized I’d taken any. “It’s just that, since I’ve taken on the role of manager here at Carla & Carl’s – C & C’s, as it’s more commonly known –” had he come from someplace else, I wondered? Not Morgantown, but a nearby city? I hadn’t thought of that. There were plenty of cheap places to grow up in in the city – “I’ve been pushing to bring a more youthful energy into the store. But, to keep the owners happy –”
“Carla and Carl,” I interjected.
“That’s right, C & C. I promised C & C to make an effort to ensure that our current client base would continue to be appropriately represented here. That’s where you’d fit in – were you to get the job.”
“I see . . .” I said. “Excuse me, but it sounds as if the position you’re thinking of offering might be one that would be phased out eventually. Is that correct?”
Score. His mouth curved up at the corners, which had the odd effect of making his chin look all the more pointy. “Well,” he said, “that might be true, but perhaps now would also be the time to tell you that aside from the sales position, or rather along with it, I’m keeping an eye out for someone who might eventually be appointed Assistant Manager.”
“Oh?” I said. “Oh. Assistant Manager, huh?”
“Yes,” he said. “Does the sound of that idea . . . interest you?”
Good god, no. It sounded like work. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it certainly does. Definitely. Mmm. Mm-hmm.”
“You’d be working directly under me.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding.
“Of course,” he said, “there are others up for consideration, mostly people already employed here at the store. Were you hired to work in the Men’s Dept I’d put off making my decision until I’d had a chance to observe you for a time, to see how you interacted with the customers, handled yourself around the other employees and so forth, and to take stock of any particular strengths or weaknesses you might have. Perhaps, with your previous experience, you’d even have an idea or two of your own to offer . . .” His voice trailed off into another small smile as he leaned back against his desk, the fingertips of each hand curling under its edges. His forearms were long and pale and lean, the skin tight over the corded muscles. His stomach appeared to be very flat, almost concave. “At any rate, I’d be looking to see what kind of fit you’d make here at C & C’s. And, on that basis, I’d come to my final decision.”
“So you’d be looking,” I said, “to take the measure of the man. To see if I would . . . suit.” I grinned brightly: It was an inspired response, if I do say so myself. For the first time he gave me a genuine smile. I was treated to the sight of several rows of small, neat white teeth.
“Exactly,” he said. “Exactly. Okay, now, let’s discuss some of your other qualifications.” He turned slightly to glance down at my application again. “I notice that you’re single. Is that correct?”
“Uhh . . . yes,” I said, a bit surprised at his calling this a ‘qualification’.
“You’re . . . unattached? Flying solo at the moment?”
“. . . Yes.”
“Any children,” he asked, “from previous relationships?”
“No-o . . .”
He leaned forward and gazed at me steadily, one eyebrow slightly tilted. I suddenly noticed – his ears, nicely shaped though they might be, also slanted rather curiously towards the back of his head. And when he tipped his face towards me like that, the effect was really . . . Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started to squeak. “That’s actually quite helpful,” he was explaining. “You see, the tasks I’d expect an Assistant Manager to help me with or take on directly himself would require considerable energy and, I’m afraid, some long hours. Tracking inventory is an ongoing battle. Scheduling is another time-consuming job. Keeping an eye on the other employees is a daily necessity. And, of course, the Assistant would take over all the day’s duties any time I wasn’t present at the store. The fact that you’re unattached could be quite useful to me.” He paused. I nodded. “Still sound interesting?” he asked.
Did it? Hell, I had no idea. “Yes,” I said, and was surprised to hear that my voice at least sounded quite decided. Maybe it knew better than I did.
“Good.” He glanced about him quickly, then leaned forward again, this time with a more confidential air. I suddenly found myself noticing the way the fluorescent light struck his cheeks . . . He must be very close shaven. And the patch of skin exposed by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, it was equally smooth and pale. He dropped his voice. I found myself watching his throat, as if to better catch his words. “I need to speak to you off the record for a moment,” he said quietly. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Oh?” I said.
“And, if we might speak quite frankly . . .”
“Oh, of course,” I said. And though on the one hand, seriously, what else could I say? on the other hand, I admit, I was genuinely curious . . .
His eyes narrowed slightly, drawing me in. “Are you . . .” He paused a moment to consider his words. “Look, you’ve said that you’re single and I gather you always have been. You have no children. I’m assuming all this is because your preferred object of sexual desire is . . . well, other men. Is that correct?”
The question made my eyebrows jump. “Uh, hmm,” I stammered, “I’m not really sure what that has to do with –”
Mr M— lifted a conciliatory hand. “I know,” he said, “I know. It matters only in that you and I, should the situation I’ve described to you come to pass, would be working quite closely together. There would be days – evenings, nights – when we’d be alone here together in the store for long periods of time.”
He stopped and waited as I stumbled about trying to think of something to say. “I’m not sure what . . .” I began uncertainly. “I mean, if you’re concerned that I’d . . .”
“Mr Ott, if I asked you a honest question, would you give me an honest answer? Off the record, of course.”
“Well, I . . . I can only try,” I offered. My throat was suddenly a little dry, my voice a little strained.
“Do you find me sexually attractive?”
“What?“
He smiled and again held up his hand. “Calm down, please. All I’m asking is if you consider me to be an attractive man.”
I suddenly began to feel a little spurt of anger bubbling up in me. “Why?” I demanded. “Am I required to?”
He pulled at the cleft in his narrow chin, stroked the corners of his smiling mouth. “You, uhh . . . have roving eyes, Mr Ott.”
“. . . Oh,” I said.
“Mmm. Look. I know, and I’m sure you know, that when people work closely together over a period of time attachments can form – bonds, friendships, attractions even – to people you might not have been attracted to at first, even to people you know you shouldn’t be attracted to, ever.” He leaned back against his desk. “I’m sure that somewhere along the line during all your years working you’ve seen this happen to others – maybe even experienced it yourself.” He parted his legs slightly. His crotch was right at eye level. Which he had to know – didn’t he? I didn’t look. I just glanced. Couldn’t help that. He smiled his pointy smile.
“Umm, sure,” I agreed. “But I assume relationships between coworkers are frowned upon here – would be against company policy even.”
“Ye-es,” he nodded slowly, “but the temptation may still exist. I’ve gotten pretty good at spotting when that’s happening between other members of the staff, and can usually stop it in its tracks either by transferring one party to a new department or through changes in scheduling. With you and me, however, it’s a different situation. We’d be working closely together a good deal of the time, and for some of that time we’d be alone.”
“I see . . .” I said slowly.
“Mm-hmm. Hours and hours. I hope that makes the reasoning behind my question a little clearer.” He lifted himself up from the desk and then settled back again a little more comfortably this time, crossing his arms across his chest and widening the stance of his legs a little more.
“Yes, I suppose it does . . .” I said, then fell silent, mulling his question over again.
“By the way, I guess I ought to mention that I know a little something about workplace attractions myself. At a personal level, I mean.” He leaned back and picked up a framed photograph from his desk. “Have you met my wife?” He handed the photograph to me.
The photo in the wooden frame showed a young, dark-haired woman with sullen, heavy-lidded, staring – no, make that glaring – eyes. Evidently, given the expression on her face, she hadn’t much liked the idea of having her picture taken. On her lap sat a rather stodgy looking little girl, her face equally sullen. The two of them together, each wearing the exact same expression, were kind of weirdly cute. I could see why Mr M— kept the photo on his desk. It made you want to laugh. I wondered if the marriage was a success. Then “Ahh,” I said, making the connection. “You worked here . . . together?”
“For a brief time, yes. Actually, she’s related to the owners.”
“Oh. She’s their daughter?”
“No, niece. Carla and Carl have no children.”
“I see,” I said. “But you began your relationship with her . . . here at the store?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Ahh.”
“She’s pregnant,” he added.
“Oh,” I said. “Right,” and glanced down at the photo again. “So this would be your second child . . . ?”
“No, the little girl you see there, Shara, she was from a previous, umm . . . relationship of my wife’s.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, congratulations on the new one. I’m sure you must be –”
“Mmm,” he said, “I am. Of course. We both are.” He fell silent a moment. Then “Unfortunately, she gets sick a lot.”
“Your wife?”
“Mmm. Because of the pregnancy. It happened the first time too, or so she tells me. Apparently it’ll ease up after awhile. Or so she tells me. Of course, by then she’ll be much larger, more uncomfortable . . . And there’ll be the summer heat to deal with . . .” He took the photograph from me and placed it back on the desk as it had been before – facing away from us. “It could be a problem,” he said, turning back to me. “Anyway, given all this, I guess you can understand why I take the matter so . . . seriously.”
“Relationships between co-workers?” I asked. “Yes, I guess –”
He interrupted me. “Actually I’d state the issue in even broader terms than that,” he said. “Sometimes it can be simply a question of one person finding another person they’re working with attractive, and wanting something more to happen. Or it’s just a matter of need, of unanswered need – simple as that. Which leads me, Mr Ott, back once again to my original question. Do you in fact find me physically attractive?”
I swallowed dryly. He was watching me from the corner of his eye. I suddenly realized that this was a very real part of the interview. What I said now mattered. How should I play it? Either possible answer was a gamble. With nothing else to tip the scales, I decided to opt for the truth. He’d figure it out anyway, if we worked together, because the truth was I found him curious, I found him interesting, and now I was discovering that I also found him . . . well, despite the pointy chin and mouse-like ears, not unattractive. All of which added up to – “Ye-es,” I said slowly. “I suppose I do.” He cocked his head back and looked at me through slitted eyes. He was not smiling. Slowly, one eyebrow lifted. “I mean, I’m telling you this because you’re right, at some point I’d probably notice that and it’s probably best to acknowledge that now and then, move on. That way, it won’t interfere with our . . . professional relationship.” I paused to guage his reaction to this; he was still watching me. “Really,” I said. “It won’t.”
“You mean it?” he murmured through hooded eyes. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could he’d started talking again: “Along those lines, I’d like to mention a little rule I have – it applies to all my employees – to make sure that that always remains the case. You see, due to the fact that I’m younger than pretty much everyone else here, and I’m certainly younger than you” (thanks bud I thought), I find it helps to remind everyone of our respective positions if, when they address me, they address me as sir.”
“Sir?” I said. “You mean as in, Sir M—?”
“No, I mean as in ‘How are you today, sir?’ or ‘Yes, sir, I’d be happy to do that.’ You should already be speaking to customers that way, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“No,” I said “I suppose . . . “
“Good. Because were you to work here, I’d need you to do that,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“I find it a useful tool,” he said.
“Right,” I said, “uhh sir. I mean, I guess I can’t see how that would be a problem. Sir.” And it wouldn’t be. If he wanted me to call him sir, I’d call him sir. Yes Sir, No Sir, whatever the hell you want, Sir. Fine with me. It’d almost be a relief in a way. Acknowledging all the time that the weight was on somebody else’s shoulders now. He was young. He could take it. I could even help him take it . . .
Huh. Did I suddenly want this job? Why? I didn’t know, but I found myself sitting up a little straighter in my chair.
“Good,” he said. “Excellent. Now, I have just a few final questions for you before completing the interview.” He lifted himself off the desk and stood before me, one hand knuckle deep in his pocket, the thumb of the other hand hitched into the front of his pants. “First, would you say that you’re good at following rules?”
“Uhh you mean store policies, rules regarding what sorts of behaviors are allowed or not allowed by employees? That sort of thing?” I shrugged. “Sure.”
“No,” said Mr M—. “I was taking that part for granted. I’m talking about your acceptance of any rules I might personally decide to lay down for you.”
“Oh,” I said. “Uhh . . . Rules regarding . . . Personally laid down by . . . Umm . . .” He looked down at me. I looked up at him. Again I saw one eyebrow slowly lifting. His shifting moods, I saw, were rather subtly expressed. “Sure,” I said suddenly. “Why not? I mean, I’m definitely sure that wouldn’t be any problem. I’m sure you wouldn’t ask me to do anything . . .” I fell back in my chair, searching for a phrase, “that I’d have a problem with. Sir.” I threw that in for good measure, not quite knowing when that ritual should start but figuring –
“Good,” said Mr M—, nodding. “Secondly, I’d like you to tell me what you think the primary goal of your job should be, and I’ll give you a hint: It should be the same whether you were given the job of sales clerk and remained there, or were moved up into the Assistant Manager’s position.”
“Well, I assume it’s simply to do the best job I can,” I said – and was so sure of my answer that I repeated it: “My goal should be to do the best job that I can.” My only uncertainty was whether or not to throw in another ‘sir’ here. But I refrained. Something told me that too much slavishness might not be appreciated. I did add, however, “Of course, that’s no more than I ever do.”
“Mmm,” he murmured.
“Well, my goal should be to perform my duties to the best of my ability then,” I offered, a bit peevishly. “And to follow whatever rules you wish to . . . apply to me . . . more specifically . . .” I was groping now. He came to my rescue.
“That’s close,” he said, “but not quite what I’m after. No, what your goal should be, first and foremost, is to please me.” He pointed both thumbs at his chest to emphasize the point. “You see, if you’re trying to please me, you are performing your duties correctly. If you succeed in pleasing me, you’ll know you’ve done the best job that you can. In short, if you endeavor to please me, both by following all the given rules, both official and unofficial, and by performing all the tasks I decide to give you, you’ll be doing exactly what I’ve hired you to do. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr Ott?”
“. . . Yes, I think so,” I said.
“Uh-huh. And do you think you could do that? Do you think you could endeavor to please me?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, the ‘sir’ slipping out almost automatically, “I do. At least, I’d like the opportunity to try.” He gazed down at me. I looked up at him and this time I met his eyes. One, two, three, four, five. Then my eyes slipped away from his. I couldn’t help it – it’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? – they slid down his face, down the front of his shirt, unbuttoning it in my mind as I went, down over his hard belly and down, down . . .
“Okay,” said Mr M—, and turned away from me. He walked around to the other side of his desk and sat, his bottom half now hidden from view, and placed my job application on top of a small stack of other papers. “That concludes the interview, Mr Ott,” he said, straightening the papers and then setting them aside. “If you’ve been selected for the position, you’ll be notified within the next forty-eight hours. If you haven’t heard anything by the end of business hours two days from now, you can assume that the position’s been filled by someone else. Unnecessary communications inquiring into your possible employment will play against you. Is all that clear?”
“Uhh yes, sir,” I said. My mouth opened to say more but Mr M— had already begun leafing through his stack of applications again. It took a moment or two before I realized how completely I’d been dismissed. I hoisted myself up from my chair, feeling awkward and a bit out of place. It felt like things were . . . incomplete. I decided to say one more thing before I left. It was a risk, it was a gamble, but I had a feeling gambling might sometimes pay off with him. “You don’t think,” I began, and waited till he’d lifted his head and focused on me again. “You don’t think I’m . . . too old?” I asked tentatively. “For the job I mean?” He was staring at me, a kind of weasily amusement flashing in his eyes. “Not the sales job I mean” I said. “The other – the other one.”
“No Mr Ott,” he replied. “I don’t think you’re too old.”
“Good” I said.” Good. Because –”
“Remind me to tell you the story of my father sometime” he murmured, turning away from me and looking down at his papers once more.
Again I’d been dismissed. “Of course,” I said, and found myself more or less bowing my way out of the room. “I . . . I look forward to hearing it. I look forward to hearing from you soon . . . sir.” But Mr M—, head bent over his sheaf of applications, appeared not to hear me.
So that was it then. I left. I went home and I waited. I waited and I waited and I waited.
He took almost the full forty-eight hours before he called. I was on pins and needles the whole time. But – can I say it? Am I allowed to say it?
I got the job!
46
Muscles ache slowly as they grow. My fingernails chipped away to almost nonexistence. Its a way of storing energy, pitting weight against muscle. Fortunately mine still remember, at least a little.
She beats him once a week at least. At least once a week. If he hasnt done anything to ‘earn’ a beating, she takes the strap to him on Sunday anyways. For the sake of all the things she’s ‘sure’ he ‘mustve done’ without her knowing. He’s learned to perform as expected, knows when to cry out, what to say and how, which words to use, while simultaneously bearing his real suffering in silence. Or is he really only indifferent? I dont know and frankly I dont care. He needs to be reawakened, thats all. He needs to remember – and to be remembered.
I wonder if I could get him to give me a massage? Just to get the balls rolling lol. If I paid him I bet he would. Not too much tho – but enuf. I could fall in love with his hands. He has quite large hands. He’s quite a large boy. Big-boned. Slatternly shoulders, hefty in the back and rump. I wonder if I could get him to take a doc-it exam? I should have made that a prerequisite for getting the job. Maybe get him to have his mother give him a haircut at least? I could see that he got a bath myself.
Still, he’s not a bad boy. Tall, straight in the spine when he holds it up, husky for his age. Good arms. Good legs. Well shaped. Very firm.
The man told the boy to pull his longjohns back up and get dressed. He’d passed inspection. The boy flushed, grinning a little sheepishly with the humiliation of his forced exposure. The man noticed the grin. He noticed the flush too. It disturbed him pleasantly.
The man – Jedediah was his name – gave the boys mother a good price for him, $150. The boy, whose name was Jonas, though the man never called him anything but ‘kid,’ was healthy, well-mannered enough, and eager to get out from under his mothers wing. He was free of disease, probly he’d never even been with a woman. Jedediah hoped theyd get along better than he had with the last boy he’d bought. That one’d run off after just two days. And it’d taken Jedediah two long years to recover his courage and try again.
47
It goes on forever, a life. I sometimes think so. Complete cessation is impossible to imagine – which isn’t the same as saying it doesn’t happen: Death is a black-&-white surprise. Disease is a criminal, old age a curse. Better a sudden Happy Deathday! Quick as a pistol. Sometimes I think so.
Meanwhile I begin touching myself, daydreaming about Thomás. Immediately I begin to feel, along with the slow swelling of my organ (like a snail uncurling lets say) a certain joyous exhuberance, excitable, interested. Have I learned anything more about him? He showed me a snap of his mother, I told him to bring me one. Shes short, overweight, a thickly lipped woman, her face more unbeautiful than that of an ugly man. Oh and her eyes were tight and small with meannesses. Shes seen it all and shes still stupid, thats what her eyes say. Thomás has eyes that are dull, underneath the dullness its hard to know how much intelligence survives. I hope its at least some. His mamas a bully. But she knows how to pull the money in, enuf anyway, and Thomás couldnt make it on his own. Would he like to be on his own? I’m not sure he could survive.
Poor boy. He flinched – no, more than flinched, he jerked away from me when I lay my hand on his shoulder the other day. I was only trying to direct him to a chair. He sat. Yes, he would like to move out, to be on his own. It was the first time I’d ever heard any urgency in his voice. I crouched down next to him. When I placed a hand on his knee his leg twitched a little. But he soon gentled under my touch.
“You can, you know,” I told him, “if your willing to work hard. Are you?”
He looked at me dumbly, slack jawed. I couldnt tell if he was thinking at that moment or not. But finally he nodded.
I gripped his leg, gave it a little shake and said, “You can work . . . hard? Hmm?” I could see him wrestling with that, he knew I was getting at something, he just didnt know what. I hesitated, not sure how far to push the point. After a few moments he nodded again, and I could see that the words had at least penetrated his skull, theyd sunk into the mush underneath, and I knew that sooner or later he’d dredge them up and give them another chew, long and slow. Maybe he’d even get an idea out of them. Or at least a picture.
I convinced him to let me put some salve on his latest set of welts. They stretched from his back all the way over to his side this time, about a third of the way up. He bent over with his butt pointing towards me and lifted his shirt, gasping lightly as I rubbed the salve in. I’d forgotten how good slippery skin felt. And tho I felt sorry for his pain, the welts did add a certain textural interest.
“I’d never discipline you this way,” I said. He grunted. So I said it again.
48
Even now he avoided that area, in fact he avoided that entire section of the newly settled territory because thats where he’d bought the last boy. He hadnt gone within a hundred miles of the place in all this time. In case thered been talk. He didnt think there would be. But just in case.
The man stood on the porch beside the boys mother. She had accepted his offer, tearfully, gladly, proudly and regretfully. This was not her idea of what was best for her son. It was his dream though, she knew, to seek adventure in the world of men, leaving mama and safety behind. She hoped the dream would see him through. She had reasonable hope that the man would do well by her son. She believed in his strength, both physical and, insofar as she could estimate it, spiritual. Its what she had been taught to believe – that, in a man, the one accompanied the other. His blue eyes were lucid and steady of sight, and the distant trace of sorrow she thought she saw (though she did not attempt to probe the matter of its source) made him seem in her eyes only more of a man, because he bore his suffering well. Indeed, she believed she would have accepted an offer from him herself, had he cared to make one. But he was not ready to settle, he’d made that clear enough to her when he was describing what his past had been, and where he hoped his future might lie. Prospector, ranch hand, body guard, guide, he was now ready to try propecting again. Silver and gold, there was silver and gold to be found in the western hills, the cold, clear streams sparkled with it and he claimed he had knowledge of just where to find a likely trove. Silver and gold – it was the world of men, and she knew it was her sons dream to take part in that world, to wrestle with that tribe and wrest from it something of his own. So she sold the man her son. In exchange she had managed to wrest something from him for herself – a promise, worth more (she believed because she must) than any amount of money. She believed the man knew that, and that he would honor their agreement as a sacred trust. He would keep her son with him, come what may, until the boy had worked off his purchase price in labor. Further, the man promised not to release him from servitude until enough money had been set aside for him to make his way alone. These things the man had sworn he would do. She would have no way of knowing whether or not he had kept his promise of course, and even if she discovered that he had not, she would have no way of avenging the betrayal. But she trusted him, enough at least to give it a chance. It was the best chance either she or the boy was likely to get. And so while shedding tears she had taken the money. She still had two daughters to raise. Her husband had disappeared, left for a trading post with his bundles of skins six long months ago, and had never returned. Dead, presumably. In any case, she could wait no longer. She must go back East. She had people there.
The boy came out and stood between the two grownups on the porch. He saw his mothers tears and turned to face the man, seeking an explanation. In response, the man held out his hand. “My name is Jedediah,” he said. The boy stared at him. A ripple of amusement passed through the mans large frame. He was careful not to let it show. “You will call me Jedediah,” he explained, speaking slowly.
The boy turned to his mother, something like astonishment dawning on his face. She nodded. The boy looked at the man again, searching his eyes. Dumbly he took hold of the mans hand. It was a broad, flat hand, the skin dry and hard, rough in some spots, smooth as an old coin in others. It felt more like a paw really than a hand. The boys own palm tingled where the coarsened skin touched it. Jedediah grinned, his white teeth flashing through his beard.
He wanted me to piss on him, but I wouldnt. Not on some drunken, annonymous you. I have my standards.
What a disappointment. Oh well. Kick’m out the door and . . . Is that a star I see sailing serenely in the deep-blue near the moon? A jetski perhaps? No. A cruiser? Or . . . Hard to tell. But somethings moving out there in space. Friend or foe? Maybe something blown up and left to wander, a human-made ball of crap slowly being consumed by fire as it scrapes against the atmosphere . . .
49
Bones jostle as you go. Both when you’re popping up, and when you’re wearing down.
Aw hell, who the fuck am I talking to?
And once when your going back in time. Muscles grow hard around the bone. My back still aches sometimes more. Remember can I. And my hair bristles with new strength. Everything quickens into reverse.
He offered to massage my neck today. Well I asked him to. He was good at it, after I’d explained to him what to do and how to do it. He passed his hands beneath the collar of my shirt, using his thumbs first, then the meaty part of his palms. I asked him if he’d ever done this before. I thought he might say yes, on my mother. But instead he thought a moment, or at least took his time in answering, breathing softly through his open mouth as he worked, then finally grunted “Nuh. Nuh.”
Well apparently he catches on fast. I guess you might say he has intelligent hands – a good feature on anyone. I told him this, and heard him snort out a smile. I’m sure that thats what that little huff was, that small expulsion of air – a signifier of surprised pleasure. In this way I learned that there was now a psychological component to Thomás. And it appeared to be susceptible to compliments.
I’m just not sure if the rest of his brain is sensible of it. I cant tell if the rest of his psyche is even now rippling with new sensations, or if the pebble I’ve thrown in has merely sunk to the bottom. Maybe it spurts up a little mud. Maybe that changes things.
Its summer now, and its hot. Not unbearably hot, just normal hot. Thomás smells slightly . . . tart. Not unpleasantly so, yet. Yet. Next time he comes over I tell him he’s free to take a bath while he’s in there cleaning. He does (with the door shut). When he comes out again he’s fully dressed – but fresher too. Inside as well as out it seems to me. His eyes are a little brighter maybe? Anyway tho his mouth still hangs open in a slack-jawed way now its something more like a slack-jawed grin. Its not his brain that registers his pleasure/its his body. Yes, he does have an intelligent body. And surprisingly strong, healthy looking teeth.
50
When Jedediah returned the following day he brought an extra horse with him as well as all necessary supplies. The kid owned little, he had nothing more to bring with him than a small satchel of clothing, much of which was in the process of being either outworn or outgrown, and a few personal items. He was standing anxiously beside his mother on the porch when the man arrived. Jedediah wondered how long he’d been waiting. He saw that the boys mother had been crying, she was still red around the eyes. A warm breeze lifted a loose strand of her hair, brown fading into gray. She looked at the man steadfastly. The same breeze tousled the unshorn locks of her sons dark hair grown long and wild, he’d wanted it that way, insisted. He looked at the man gladly, and when he saw the horse he smiled, the smile broadening into a grin when he learned it was to be his. Running up to it like one wild thing to another, he stopped short only when he heard the mans caustic words of warning. Proceeding more slowly, he spoke in gentle tones to the animal as he approached, letting it get used to his presence. He wished he had something sweet to offer. Cautiously he stroked its neck – then burst away, running back up onto the porch and leaning against his mother, looking into her face and speaking to her in the same gentle, reassuring way. She nodded, bobbing her head just as the young mare had, but the tears were watering her cheeks again. Jedediah, glancing about him, wondered where the two little girls were. Inside, probably. Just as well.
“C’mon,” he said gruffly. The woman held her son to her breast one last time. Her final act as his guardian and protector was to press a slip of paper into his hand. This he took but did not read, stuffing it hastily instead into his pocket. Then she stood back, dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes, and bade him farewell. The kid turned away from the sight, feeling sorrowful and anxious to be gone. He mounted his horse quickly and, falling in behind the man, trotted off. “Goodbye, mama,” he murmured, not looking back, his voice so low it could barely be heard.
When they had passed out of the woman’s sight, Jedediah asked to see the paper she had given him. On it was scrawled the address of the people she was going back to in the East. He nodded somberly and handed the paper back.
The weather was just right for traveling, warm but not hot, the sun bright, the clear sky pale blue. Jedediah took all this as a token of good luck. The kid, still so young, just took it for granted. They made fair pace, for the path was smooth and flat, and when they reached, some hours later, a good watering stream with cool shade trees listing along its banks, they stopped to rest and eat some of the bread and cheese the kids mother had sent along with them in a basket.
The kid hadnt said much, though it often seemed to Jedediah that he was on the verge of trickling over into speech. But he took his cue from the older man, and Jedediah was of the type who did not trust speech overly much. The kid listened attentively when he was shown the cooking utensils and given explanation of their use. He knew little about preparing food, but it was to be his job to do so, and Jedediah set about teaching him how.
By sundown they were in sight of a large boarding house that lay just outside of a town called Casper. Jedediah knew this place, having stayed here several times while searching the surrounding area for a boy to partner, and he had decided, after much anxious deliberation, that this was the safest place to bring the kid this last night before they set off for unsettled lands.
51
It was just past the supper hour when Jed and the kid arrived. Miss Lottie, the establishment’s proprietress, watched them coming from the veranda, having been informed a few minutes earlier of new arrivals by one of the regulars who had passed them on the road. She recognized Jedediah immediately, and flowed down the steps and across the yard towards them like a welcoming wave. This impression was partly the result of her costume, partly of how that costume shaped itself as she moved. Her dress was long and full, deepest blue in color but with a sheen that, when it caught the last flashing rays of the setting sun, turned deepest green. Stiff layers of lace decorated the hem of the skirt, a motif repeated at the wrists. At the bodice too there was lace in abundance, though of a softer variety. It needed greater suppleness here to perform its duties, for the bodice was cut low and, the soft flesh beneath being more than ample, this frothy embellishment was expected to both cover – and reveal. Miss Lottie curtsied coquettishly before Jedediah, tipping forward slightly so that both he and the kid were given the opportunity to view her wares. She’d always thought Jedediah wonderfully attractive, there being something disconsolate and out of reach about him, and she wondered too at the nice-looking boy beside him. But she said nothing. She waited, patiently looking up at them on their horses. They nodded politely, and after they had dismounted she moved forward to take their hats, receiving these with a smile meant to please. Passing the hats into the hands of a young female attendant who stood nearby, and having ordered the gentlemen’s horses to be looked after, she bade them enter her establishment and be seated at a table.
“Well, Jedediah,” she said in a throaty, lilting voice as the two new arrivals pulled in their chairs, “how have you been? I hope you’ll be staying with us a little longer this time – a few days perhaps? Long enough to relax your weary bones, poor man. Oh, here’s Melinda. She’ll be attending to your needs tonight. You remember Melinda, don’t you, Jedediah? Yes, I thought you did . . . But say, who is this handsome young man you’ve brought with you? You must introduce us.” Impetuously she reached over and brushed a lock of the handsome young man’s hair back from his face, which she studied appreciatively. “My! He is good looking, isn’t he,” she purred. “So tell me, dear Jedediah, will you be wanting Melinda to bring you some . . . dessert after your meal? One for each of you – or maybe something special just for yourself, if you’re feeling . . .” she flashed him an especially brilliant smile, “hard up.”
“A slice of your famous pie, you mean?” said Jedediah, baring his teeth at her in turn. “Satisfaction guaranteed, that right?” Miss Lottie flushed. “Whatever sir desires,” she murmured.
He gave a little cough. “Boy’s only fifteen,” he muttered.
Miss Lottie pursed her lips and shrugged. “I’ve had younger myself,” she said lightly, and was gratified to see Jedediah’s lips sharpen, a flinty spark lighting up his eyes.
“We thank you for your hospitality,” he told her. “A good meal and an early bed is all we’re after.”
She sighed. “Suit yourself. If you should change your mind, just tell one of the girls.”
“Thank you, Miss Lottie,” he said again. She dipped her head and gave him a courteous little smile. “I’ll speak to cook about your supper,” she called as she strolled away, her lilting voice drifting back to them over her shoulder like a silky perfume.
Much of this exchange had gone over the kid’s head; he was too busy taking in the room to bother much with the conversation going on around him. It was a large room, encompassing fully three quarters of the building’s first floor, warmly decorated with heavy curtains at the windows and tapestries draped on the wall, upon which were also hung brightly hued paintings of young couples in various states of repose. One section of the room was dominated by a long semi-circular bar surrounded by stools and, a little farther out, a number of small round tables such as the one at which Jed and the kid sat. Not far away a piano took pride of place on a small raised platform, and here and there against the walls there stood a number large, comfortable chairs, in some of which men – or men and women together – sprawled in a leisurely tangle. Indeed, the kid noticed that into several shadowed nooks were tucked small couches, useful to those who desired to reach a yet more complete state of relaxation. Several of the tables were occupied by men playing cards, others sat at the bar or in chairs set near the piano, and amongst them all there wandered a half-dozen young women, most of them slender, most of them buxom, some blonde, some brunette, some with auburn hair, and all of them exceedingly pretty. They glided from table to table, from bar to couch, fetching drinks and sometimes sitting with the men awhile. Their light voices and quick laughter ran like a frill about the room. When the kid asked Jedediah about these women, he was told that they were employed by Miss Lottie to keep the room lively and the men happy. “But why do they sit with the men,” asked the kid, “as well as serve them?” Jedediah told him that part of their job was to provide the customers with companionship, if they wanted it, so they could better enjoy their evening. Indeed, the kid noticed as they ate their meal (potato stew and beans, accompanied by a mug of some dark and rather bitter brew the boy had never tasted before, and which almost immediately set up a buzzing in his brain) that occasionally one of the young women would disappear up the stairs with a man, a boarder he assumed, whom she must accompany to his room as part of the service provided, apparently to ensure that all accommodations met with his satisfaction.
When they had finished eating, Jedediah asked that a whiskey be brought to the table. He downed that quickly and ordered another, along with more alestone for the kid. The kid lapped at his drink happily, he was feeling dazed and proud and excited to be with Jedediah in this noisy but interesting new world, a world he’d barely been able to imagine and never thought he’d experience. But the day had been long and he was growing drowsy now, his head filling more and more with that dizzying buzzing sound until at last, as he and Jedediah finally got up from the table and began climbing the stairs to their room, he felt there was nothing more he wanted than to fall into bed and sleep.
52
. . . The kid felt someone shaking his shoulder. “Wake up!” a deep voice hissed. Opening his eyelids a crack he saw Jedediah’s hand; turning his head he saw Miss Lottie rippling towards them, flowing down the hall like a current of water under the sea, her skirt and bodice a hazy blue-green blur. Jedediah was by his side. In front of them was a door. The kid swayed on his feet. Jedediah threw a hasty grin Miss Lottie’s way.
“Naughty, naughty, gentlemen,” said she, a little prick of tartness creeping into her usual honeyed tone. “You slipped away before I even had the chance to give you this.” She reached into a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress and produced a small brass key.
“Thank you, Miss Lottie,” said Jedediah, bowing slightly in response to the little curtsey she offered as she handed the key over. “And my apologies for not wishing you a good night. The kid, as you can see, is dead on his feet.”
Miss Lottie scoffed. “Looks to me like he’s dead drunk,” she observed, having taken stock of the kid’s swaying body and grinning face. “Well, you’d better get him out of the hall. Sleep well, sirs,” she said to them both. Then, to Jedediah, “I’ll be alone in my room tonight . . . in case you should be feeling restless.”
“Thank you kindly ma’am,” he said courteously. “It’s been a long and tiring day.”
“All right,” she sighed. “Well, you know what time breakfast is. Perhaps I’ll see you sometime later tomorrow?”
“Perhaps,” he replied, baring his teeth. He turned away then, fitting the key into the lock. The kid slumped against the wall, head sunk low. Jedediah had to keep a hand pressed against his chest to hold him up. Miss Lottie eyed them both, scowled, gave a little shrug and then, finally, left them alone.
The room they now entered was small and bare except for two narrow beds, these being placed along opposite walls, whilst against the third wall there stood a hardback chair and a small stand upon which sat a lantern, a washbasin, a pitcher of water, and several glasses. Underneath the stand was a tin bucket with a cloth draped over top – for emergency purposes, Jedediah supposed. He lit the lantern and slowly began to remove his clothes, the kid watching from where he stood by the door. “Get undressed,” Jedediah told him. Slowly the kid bent over, reached for a boot, lost his balance, tried again, and fell sideways onto one of the beds with a giggle and a sigh. “Here,” Jedediah grunted, coming round and kneeling before him. He pulled off the kid’s boots one by one, then rolled down his socks and removed those too. Next, half-rising, he pulled the kid’s gray horsehair suspenders down over his shoulders and reached for the front of his shirt. “I can do it,” the kid mumbled, fumbling for the buttons himself. Jed stood a moment watching him, then crossed to the other side of the room and finished his own undressing. When he had stripped down to his underjohns he hesitated, pausing a minute as one lost in thought. Then, moving quickly, he searched amongst his things until he’d discovered a small dark bottle. This he took to the kid, who had by now also stripped down to his underjohns and was lying flopped back on the bed, and bade him drink. Before accepting the bottle the kid mumbled “whatsit,” and was told it was a tonic that would strengthen his blood while he slept. The fluid burned in the kid’s throat, sat a bit uneasily in his stomach a moment, then began flickering like little flames of fire outwards from his belly up to his head, from his head all the way down to his toes. He dropped into that warmth as gratefully as he dropped back into his bed again, tired as a child. Jedediah lifted his legs onto the mattress and covered them with a sheet. Muttering something incoherent – a brief prayer it might have been, repeated by rote – the kid turned his face towards the wall and fell into a deep sleep.
For the next hour or so Jedediah lay motionless in his bed, listening to the kid’s slow, rhythmic breathing and the continued and indeed ever increasing sounds of drunken revelry rising through the floorboards below. The rooms nearest to him, however, appeared to be unoccupied, or were unoccuped for the moment at any rate. Their silence acted as a muffler to the other sounds, and after a bit Jedediah decided that the time had come to consider what to do. After a few moments of this he gave a small grunt, threw the covers off him, and rose from his bed. Crossing the room, he stood for some time looking down at the kid. His mouth was slack, his breathing heavy. Long strands of thick dark hair half-covered his face. Jedediah bent over and pushed them back. The kid barely stirred. The mere touch of his skin had brought the older man’s desire surging to life and he pulled away quickly, almost with alarm. Standing upright again he stared down at the kid, and now it was his own mouth that hung slackly, his own breathing that had grown heavy and thick. He was aware of little else at that point beyond the certainty of his need. Bending over he drew the sheet down from the kid’s body and then stopped, eyes lost in the tangle of limbs sprawled before him on the bed, arms and legs, belly and chest, all covered by nothing more than the thin cotton cloth of summer underjohns. Jedediah gave another small grunt. The kid gathered himself together and rolled onto his side. Jedediah climbed onto the bed and lay down beside him. And again he considered, weighing possibilities . . .
The kid’s eyelids fluttered as Jedediah pushed against him. He mumbled something briefly and the older man paused, waiting for him to settle into sleep again. Then he curled himself up against the kid’s back, pressing hips to buttocks. This in itself was so gratifying he could not help but let out a gentle moan. He began moving, rocking himself against the sleeping form, covering it with first his arm, then his leg, as he did so. The kid mumbled again but Jedediah could not stop now, he pulled the front of the kid’s underjohns open far enough to insert a hand and ran his palm up over the smooth chest, down to the slender waist and flat belly now rising and falling in small spasmodic jerks, these suddenly increasing as the kid was roused into a state of partial consciousness. His head flopped over and for some moments he lay blinking up at Jedediah with confused eyes. The older man’s look pierced the dark. He began pulling at the buttons of the kid’s backflap, slowly working it open with trembling hands. The kid’s eyes closed and opened, closed and opened. He began mumbling again, more urgently now. Jedediah clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sleep!” he whispered urgently. He did not mean to be cruel to the kid if he could help it, but it had been many months since his last twist and his need was intense. He reached down to unbutton his fly, pulled himself out and pushed himself up firmly against the kid’s buttocks so that he would understand what was to happen. The kid tried to pull away, but without much strength; Jedediah clapped a hand back over his mouth and wrapped a leg around him firmly. Then he tried to explain. He tried to tell him how it must be. “Have to do this,” he grunted. “Have to . . . One of the things I bought you for. Just . . . lie still . . . Easier that way . . .” He pressed the thickness of his erect manhood into the groove of the kid’s backside, the soft down lining its inner cheeks tickling him, enticing him to a state of excitement so great it was almost an agony . . . Surely the kid would understand, would know that this was meant to be, must be, must be . . . Greedily he felt for the entryway he sought – those muscular lips, that silken passage . . .
Jedediah spit into his hand and, the other hand still covering the kid’s mouth, lubricated himself. The kid’s back arched and he gave a muffled cry of pain as Jedediah began to enter him. He pulled out again quickly. “Must do this,” he hissed into the kid’s ear. “Just . . . lie still . . . You’ll learn. You’ll learn.” Then he pushed himself back in, going slower this time, slowly, slowly in, as slowly as he could. Whenever he felt he might be hurting the kid too much he pulled out for a second and they rested. He entered the kid three, four, five times this way, each time penetrating a little deeper. The sensation was almost unbearable for Jedediah, but he knew he must not lose control. If he was going to break the kid in it was important he do so completely, thoroughly. Finally the kid began to relax. Gave up or gave in, at this point Jedediah neither knew nor cared, for he was able at last to push himself in almost to the root, and the warm embrace his manhood found caused sudden shudders of pleasure to shake his frame. When these had subsided somewhat the two lay quietly a few moments, panting with their struggle. Then the kid began to move again, twitching his hips as if the shake Jedediah’s manhood out, and this motion so excited the other that he must lean in and push hard, shoving the last inch of his muscular organ in, squashing the kid’s buttocks against his thighs until they found bone. It was as much as he could take. Thrusting with his hips, once, twice, three times and then suddenly his whole body tensed and for many long moments all that could be heard were the suppressed cries of pleasure emanating from the older man’s grimacing lips. The kid moved under him limply, weakly. Jedediah grunted, growled one last time deep in his throat, then collapsed.
When he came to, he rolled off the kid and checked to see how he was doing. His eyes were glazed, his mouth hung open, and slightly raised eyebrows gave his face the expression of fatigued surprise. Jedediah bade him lie still. Getting up he fetched the rag from the bucket, doused it with water, then came back to the kid and cleaned him. He buttoned his backflap in place again, pulled up the covers, tucked him in. It was all he could do. He stood gazing down at the figure on the bed a long time. The eyebrows relaxed, the eyelids fluttered. With a whispered sigh the kid fell back into sleep. Jedediah hoped that with sleep would come forgetfulness – or, perhaps he hoped even more that he’d almost remember . . . and wouldn’t mind . . . would perhaps even understand . . . Accept. Thoughtfully Jedediah returned to his own bed and lay down. For a long time he did not sleep, he only stared up into the darkness. The house had grown quieter, though occasional bursts of laughter and snatches of music still floated up from the room below. He closed his eyes and hoped fervently that no one had heard anything, followed by a second hope, this one to the effect that the kid would not hate him, though he knew he probably would. Already he’d begun to have a craving for the kid, the way he smelled, and looked, the nape of his neck, the shape of his lips. Hopefully he wouldn’t run off as the last one had. That had left him nearly sick with loneliness, worry and fear . . .
After thinking about these things a quarter hour or so, Jedediah found there was nothing left to consider, or do, or even hope for. He would just have to wait and see. His future was in the kid’s hands. Heaving a sigh, he rolled over and slept.
53
When he awoke the early morning light was just beginning to turn the darkness of the room to gray. Lying still for some minutes, worriedly listening to the kid’s slow and steady breathing, he kept wondering what state the boy’s mind would be in when he awoke. He had not run off (yet), this possibility being muted of course, maybe even entirely extinguished by the mixture of fluids he’d been given the night before. It was perhaps unlikely that he would remember nothing, but what he did remember would, Jedediah hoped, be vague, a dreamlike thing, shadowy, drained of color. And who knew but that maybe he would think it all a dream? Jedediah knew he must be prepared for anything. He lay still for some minutes more, trying to ready himself.
The kid stirred in his sleep. At the sound Jedediah rose from his bed, went to the washstand and sucked in then spit out a mouthful of water into one of the glasses. Dousing a hankerchief in the pitcher he next wiped his face and then, casting a quick glance to check on the kid, reached into his underjohns and cleaned his private parts. Another quick rub, this time at his armpits, and he was finished with his morning ablutions. Next he walked over to the bed where the kid lay sprawled out under the covers, a light snore emanating from his open mouth. He bent over and nudged him, trying to make him wake.
The kid grunted. Jedediah nudged him again and the kid’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked up at Jed uncomprehendingly. Slowly he propped himself up on his elbows and stared mutely into space. His mouth was still hanging open. “C’mon,” the man said to him gruffly. “Time yu’up.” The kid’s head swiveled about as he scanned the room; gradually he seemed to remember where he was. “C’mon!” Jed urged. “G’up, kid.”
The kid mumbled something, Jed couldn’t make out what. But eventually he got himself raised up to a sitting position, shifting around so that his legs was hanging over one side of the bed. “Hur’up!” Jed ordered, and set about finding his own clothes. Behind him he heard the kid getting unsteadily to his feet. He glanced over. The kid noticed, it was as if his eyes had been wary even if they was still puffy and red, and he turned away quickly, but not before Jed had caught a flash, just a flash, but . . . He was frankly amazed, both amused and excited by what he saw. In a few brief strides he was standing behind the kid, he was pressing one hand down on his shoulder. The kid stiffened at the touch.
“Turn ’round,” said Jedediah quietly. But he had to place both hands on the kid’s shoulders and physically compel him to comply. He looked down into the kid’s face. Gray-green eyes, swollen with sleep and too much drink. A mouth that trembled slightly. Cheeks flushed with red. Throat quivering, Adam’s apple bobbing. Casting his eyes farther southward Jedediah took him in – all of him. The kid was standing with his hands cupped in front of himself, as if to cover an embarrassment. Jedediah reached down and pulled at the wrists until his hands fell apart. There. A long protuberance, surprisingly meaty for one so young, strained against the thin cloth of his underjohns. Jedediah leaned in, reaching forward with his hand as he did so, and took hold.
The kid’s face jerked towards him. “What’re you gonna do?” His voice was high and constrained, his breath ragged, almost more like a . . . a gasping. Jedediah understood that the kid must remember something from the night before, and pressed a finger against his lips. “Sh-h-h,” he whispered. He slid his palm down over the shaft of the kid’s manhood, not stopping until it was entirely covered, entirely embraced. The kid’s face had paled. His eyes rolled about in his head uncertainly, helplessly.
“Pleeease,” he whispered.
There came a murmuring from the hall, then a light, polite rapping of feminine knuckles against the wooden door. “Breakfast is on, gentlemen!” a woman called. “You have an hour.”
Jed gave the kid a warning look. “Thank you, ma’am,” he called back in a low, gruff voice. “We’ll be down shortly.” The footsteps faded away.
Grasping the kid by the shoulders again he pushed him down until he was seated on the bed. “Stay,” he ordered. Quickly he crossed the room, picking up the small wooden chair beside the washstand as he went, and propped it up under the doorknob to create a makeshift lock. Then he crossed back over to the kid, whose eyes darted wildly at him.
“What –” he began, his voice now little more than whimper, but Jedediah hissed even that into silence. Yet more whimpers escaped him as the older man pulled his underjohns roughly over his shoulders and down his arms. He felt the rough flat of a palm against his chest, and though he tried to resist, the pressure of it there was irresistible, implacable in its insistence. “Lay back,” Jedediah told him. The kid did so, tensely, his chest rising, falling, rapidly, rapidly – Jedediah wished he would calm down. Then it flashed through him that maybe what he was about to do would turn out to be the best way to accomplish just that, and he knew he’d better do it well. He pulled the kid’s thin underjohns off his hips and down his legs to the ankles. His manhood flopped out and lay, fully erect, on top of his ridged belly, his beans hanging heavily in the dark sac below. Jedediah knelt like a man kneeling to prayer, then with a sort of a grunt or snort pushed the kid’s legs open wide. The kid started whimpering again: “What’re you gonna do?” he said. “Be still!” Jedediah hissed, then greedily dove in. The kid writhed beneath his mouth, each breath edged with panic, as he strove to raise himself up enough to see what the older man was doing to him. Fascinated, he watched as his manhood began disappearing into Jedediah’s mouth. His lips were moving, and his tongue . . . Jedediah’s tongue . . . The kid fell back on the bed again. He felt his thighs relaxing, the small of his back growing supple, his whimpers subsiding, turning into little moans. Jedediah reached one hand up and covered his mouth, then buried himself between the kid’s legs again, exploring all he found there, smelling, tasting, licking, sucking. The kid felt himself begin to move under the older man’s ministrations, felt Jedediah lifting his hips until he began to rock them on his own, up and down, up and down with the motion of the lips and tongue that were running so deliciously up and down his shaft. Jedediah pulled back, took a breath then dove in again, lapping at the kid’s amply filled sac a few moments before returning his attention to the thick, dark-skinned knob. This he took into his mouth until he had engulfed it completely, opening himself to receive the kid so deeply his nose felt the brush of long, coarse, curly hairs. The kid’s body arched, he bit into the palm of Jedediah’s hand, he cried a muffled cry, his body twisting, his long, smooth torso shaking, his belly pulsating, sucking in, then out, as the spasms took him. Jets of hot liquid flooded into Jedediah’s throat as the kid let out a series of long, stifled moans. Another spasm took him, then another, and another . . . Finally he lay back, or rather collapsed, his body still jerking with the last of his eruption, his head rolling from side to side more and more slowly until gradually it lay still, the eyelids fluttering to a close . . .
After Jed had squeezed out the last of the kid’s thick juice he stood, feeling a bit lightheaded now but very calm. He looked down at the kid. The kid roused himself and stared back at him dazedly.
“C’mon,” Jedediah said. “G’up now. We best be movin.”
An hour later the two men, one ginger-haired, bearded, muscular, his skin seeming to be permanently sunburnt, the other younger, paler, with gray-green eyes and long strands of wavy dark hair that fell ribbon-like about his face, were saddled up and ready to go. Miss Lottie, smiling gayly, her dusky blonde hair swept up off her neck, her dress a daytime frock of bright blue edged with gold, a fine lace shawl the color of fresh butter wrapped around her shoulders, swept out onto the veranda to see them off.
“If you ever happen back this way, Jedediah,” she called, leaning lightly over the rail and good-naturedly showing them her breasts as she did so, “I hope you’ll remember to stop back at Lottie’s place. You’ll always find a warm bed here. Maybe when the boy’s a bit older, hmm?”
“We’ll do that,” he said politely. “In any case, we thank you for your hospitality, Miss Lottie. Best food around, I always say.”
“We aim to please every appetite,” Lottie replied with a tinkling laugh. Jedediah bared his teeth at her and with that, he and the kid turned their horses and trotted away. Miss Lottie sighed, watching them go. Then she too turned away, shaking her head. Something was troubling her, but – “Men!” is all she could think of to say.
Neither Jed nor the kid heard her. Their faces were already turned towards the distant hills, and the even more distant western skies. Jed remarked that the weather was holding – a gentle wind eddied about them and the morning air was cool. He turned his head and glanced to his side. The kid’s mouth was open slightly, his lips moved but he made no response. Jedediah glanced away, then pushed his hat back on his head so as to get a clearer view of the path that lay ahead. From the corner of his eye he saw the kid do the same. Hoisting themselves up so they were sitting tall in their saddles, the morning sun beating down on their backs like the clap of a warm hand, they turned their eyes westward and took the first steps of their long voyage into an unknown future together.
54
Nowhere wait. I’m not wait nowhere. Still these two rooms. Sometimes solid, there very real, sometimes there maps. There is where ease from this disease? Time fuses. Now to now. Corners all. Wherein lies sometimes. Emerges the two-headed fool. “Hello.”
“Hullo,” Thomás replies, dully.
A skin eruption, a small volcano. Red ridge, a white line. Two long dimples in the small of his back. A filigree of tinyly delicate hairs.
Love. It should not be so powerful. I could kill him and eat him in endless rich stews. Only the concept of course. And when I vomited . . .
We. Are all. Alone. Theres any pleasure in attempting to bridge the gap. OVer the chasm, OVer the gorge. We fall, we fail, we die, thats love. Pointless but for the funnn it is to try. The torture.
Face to face. Then as now.
But from the gorge something rises, some dark shape of bitter taste. Square-shouldered, heavy browed. It lumbers towards me across a rocky landscape. Its out and out. A penjulum rocking weighted by balls. When time. It means/to be free.
Well I told him I’d gone to see his mother, had spoken to her about him. I said that I told her I thought she had a well-mannered boy, that her method of disciplining him seemed to have worked well. I said I not only approved of her methods I appreciated them. Some of the wariness she’d shown after first opening the door to find me standing there began to leave. I was what was left, and she sized me up deciding quickly that I looked like I had money, enuf to be worth the time. I told her I needed her son to do many jobs many more than I had originally expected, as I myself had been growing younger of late and wanted to do many little renovations to my living quarters, which I had not changed in something like approaching twenty years. But the boy, I said, her son Thomás – he could be a bit lazy at times as well she knew, even a bit willful wouldnt she say? And so I wondered if, when I felt the need, would she understand if I must discipline him myself – to facilitate you understand but she frowned at that word dear Thomás just as you are frowning now – to help I said instead, him to be more sociable, more motivated, more cooperative? She was quick enuf to get me. And then she told me I could do whatever I liked. And named her price.
55
There was a gelly sky at noon today. I didnt see the actual explosion it took place past the edge of the sky does the sky have a horizon? It must I guess. Theres where it happened. They were aiming for the city probly and missed it exploded. This started the sirens up I fuckin hate those things even the cats hide when they go off there so fuckin loud. Fears a terrible thing. A woman ran down the street a small child or baby jiggling up and down in her arms. Or a dog I bet it was/it was a dog! Thats why its yelps sounded like that. Anyway her face was all fucked up. With emotion I mean. I couldnt hear if she was crying because of the sirens but it looked like she was. Cryin hard/
Tonites alright tho. Everythings normal so far as it goes. Usual traffic, equal stars. I should get on my CompuSurv and find out what happened. But I’d rather think about licking Thomáss balls. Lol
But first I punish him. For whatever reason I spank him. I do it kinda rough. He cries when I spank him because well sure because it hurts but also because I make him feel like he really has done something wrong and deserves to be punished this way, like a child. I let him know I feel bad about it too he feels guilty then he really lets me hit him. He has a big ass, its capable of absorbing alot of shocks not hairy really but also not quite smooth. A little sandpapery to the touch. I slap him til he’s a good healthy red, beautifully tenderized, the red streaks left by my hand I always use my hand never a belt I told him I’d never discipline him that way set off by the surprised whiteness of the surrounding skin. Beautifully rouged thats how I like to put it his buttcheeks when I’ve finished with them. The little hairs growing longer and thicker on his upper thighs. His upper thighs all ablush too, in sympathy with his ass. Yum.
He does not get hard when I spank him. His pain is as real as my irritation becomes with whatever it is he’s done, even if it was a lie, his penance is measured to mate my growing intent. These bindings are good this is our love. I get very hard indeed what with the heat of him his body sprawled across my lap, the feel of his skin the muscled plumpness of his ass when I massage it with my palms dig in deep with my fingers open him spread his hole stick a knuckle in which I do sometimes inbetween slaps. After Im done spanking him I speak to him gently,,or at least slowly in a low voice explaining again why it was I had to do this,,how we was the both of us better off for it. I touch him frequently while I’m telling him this, lightly,,inducingly. I give him a rag to wipe his face with. I pull his pants the rest of the way off. I order him to sit down. His emotions are as primitive as his mind only his body is intelligent. I continue to talk to him. I tell him again how bad he’s made me feel doing what he made me have to do and the only way he can make me feel better is to let me give him pleasure now that I have punished him. I place my hand on his inner thigh. I run my hand along his belly then return again to his thighs, running my palms up and down the length of them, squeezing up big handfuls of them, thick and meaty. He doesnt really understand my verbal explanations. The oral ones catch his attention.
He likes cumming in my mouth very much. I bring him close to orgasm several times then pull back, making him wait each time. Soon I will make an exquisite torture of this. But not yet. It will both matter and not matter. When.
I go back down on him.
He stands now, slumped beside the chair ready to leave. Already his head turns his eyes gaze vacantly in the direction of the door. He is not in love. He sticks a pinky in his ear and digs then flicks a flake of what was in there into the air it falls it crashes it settles itself into the more general dirt of the carpet. The carpet is green. The undulations of his throat are beautiful, the way they catch the light. I feel a squeezing round my heart. The cats stare at me. The carpet is green. Things grow there. Thomás leaves. The door clicks shut. Thomás is gone. I’m still hard . . .
PART FIVE
END