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Subject: {ASSM} ME AND MARTHA JANE '99 (m/F,teen) MJANE09.TXT
Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2000 23:10:05 -0500
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SJR
<1st attachment, "MJANE09.TXT" begin>
**** WARNING **** WARNING **** WARNING ****
THIS DOCUMENT IS A SEXUALLY GRAPHIC STORY ABOUT AN INTENSE SEXUAL,
EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A TEENAGE GIRL AND
A YOUNG BOY AND THE COURSE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP OVER A PERIOD OF
10 YEARS. IT IS A DRAMATIZATION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE AND THEIR CON-
FLICT WITH SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS. IF THIS SUBJECTS OFFENDS YOU OR IF
SEXUAL LANGUAGE UPSETS YOU, OR IF YOU DON'T WANT THIS MATERIAL SEEN
BY UNDER-18 OR OTHERWISE UNQUALIFIED PERSONS, DELETE THIS DOCUMENT.
THIS DOCUMENT IS COPYRIGHTED 1994, 1999 BY SJR. SO--HEY, YOU CAN
COPY IT BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE IT OR SELL IT UNLESS I SAY SO.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 9A:
Working at Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 was more challenging
than I'd expected. The store occupied the corner of Exchange and
Lauderdale, across the street from the same project and the same
corner where Martha and I grew up. Two stock boys worked in the
store, and three delivery boys worked outside on the clunky old
utility bikes.
On my first day at work in early July I was assigned to young, dark
haired Anthony, a distant cousin who lived with his widowed mother in
the project. He could shuck a bushel of corn and trim lettuce so
quickly that his hand movements seemed a mere blur. During the first
couple of days I almost managed to compete with him, as well as
learning how to stock canned and boxed goods in the aisles and shelves
as neatly as did George, the oldest stock boy.
But after I learned the basic layout and operation of the store by
the end of that week, I was assigned to a delivery bike. That job
confronted me with my physical limitations. Though I was not small
for my going-on-fourteen years, I was neither hefty nor strong. A
customer's grocery order contained from one to several stuffed bags in
addition to an occasional case of canned goods or beer. The bikes
themselves were ancient chain driven units with gigantic wire baskets
over the front and rear wheels. They had fat metal seats, no center
bar, a chest high bare metal handlebar, undersized wheels designed for
heavy loads and rough streets, and a low-ratio single gear for hauling
rather than speed. They were slow, rusty, noisy machines. But when
loaded with several heavy grocery bags that would be pedaled over a
pitted street or along a gravel driveway, they were stronger and more
manageable than a recreational bike.
One of the older boys, a chesty, tough looking but friendly blond,
crewcut kid named Charlie, took charge for the first few days and
showed me the ropes. He saw to it that I started out with one-bag or
two-bag loads for customers who lived no more than three blocks away.
I was slow at first; although I had once lived in the area, the build-
ing numbering system in the project and on some of the more obscure
side streets were unfamiliar. This brief training reduced the number
of daily deliveries I could make. The job paid ten cents per order.
In the beginner stage I averaged ten orders daily.
By the end of the second week I was getting the hang of things.
That Saturday was particularly busy. Under the additional pressure of
a blistering noon sun, Charlie and another kid and I were on the side-
walk in front of the store loading bags onto our bikes, along with a
fourth boy who had been drafted for the day from the part time pool.
Charlie helped load the first two bikes and sent them on their way.
He had already loaded three orders onto his own bike.
He pointed to the last group of several bags. "They been here
almost an hour. We better get caught up." He surveyed the bags. "We
got one for 236 Exchange, I can add that to my load. But all nine of
those other bags is Miz Gaston's order. You'll have to make two trips
outta that, maybe three. You up to it, Speedy?"
"Sure," I said. "Load me."
Charlie helped me load the first four large paper bags onto my
bike. "That looks steady enough," he told me, checking the bike for
sway and balance. Then he climbed on his fully loaded machine and
steadied himself with one foot on the ground. Pointing at the one-
bag order still sitting in the corner, he told me, "Gimme me that
order."
I gaped at him. "You gonna carry that with five bags already on
your bike?"
"Hell, give it to me. C'mon."
I handed him the bag, which was no lightweight, and he held it
pressed to his side with one hand grasping the bottom. Wobbling
slightly on the bike, he settled onto his seat, grabbed the handlebar
with his free hand, shoved off with one long push of his feet, and
started pedaling rough-and-ready down the street in the hot sun,
gritting his teeth and looking in all directions for the traffic.
I watched with admiration as he drifted slowly up Exchange Street,
steering one handed and hefting a full sack under his free arm.
Climbing onto my own bike, I was surprised as the stubborn weight
caught me off guard and almost felled me. Grunting, I forced the bike
upright and made sure of my balance. I proceeded slowly, knowing I'd
have to be careful with this monstrous load.
But before I could get moving, my stepdad rushed out of the front
door and pointed at the remaining bags on the ground. "Wait up!
Wait! Ain't all this part of the Gaston order?"
I told him it was all one order and that I'd make it in two trips.
He yelled impatiently about the order having been delayed too long
and demanded that I load it all at once and get moving. I was not
that good at loading up yet, so Tony grumbled and shoved me aside.
Hastily, he began stuffing the bags into the large carry baskets,
shifting and shoving until the bike was so heavily loaded it seemed to
sag. The tires were slightly but visibly pressed flat where they
touched the sidewalk.
I eyed the load fearfully and mumbled something about not being
sure I could handle that much weight.
"Hell you can't!" Tony retorted, "Get on that damn bike and move
this order outta here! Go on, get movin!" He chomped on his unlit
cigar and strode back into the store, glaring back at me hotly.
At first it was all I could do to disengage the kickstand and
simply hold up the bike. The cargo's weight was considerably more
than my own and the slightest tilt of the machine required serious
effort to keep the bike balanced. I carefully walked the bike to the
curb and slowly let the front wheel off the sidewalk and into the
street, then the rear wheel. At that point the shifting weight almost
pulled the bike groundward. Desperately, using both arms and heaving
my back and legs into it, I kept the bike upright while I haltingly
moved onto the seat, checked my balance, hopped up onto the big metal
pedals, and shoved my legs forward.
The bike seemed to move in slow motion. Before I made it across
narrow Exchange Street my ankles were sore with the effort. Checking
the traffic in both directions, I let the bike roll lethargically
toward the six lane breadth of Lauderdale Street. Then I tried
pedaling to gain the speed I needed to cross the boulevard. But the
weight I was pedaling seemed to mock my efforts. I could not gain
speed. Seeing traffic approach, I knew I had to head back toward the
curb to avoid being overrun.
Helplessly, as if in a bad dream, I felt the bike tilt sideways as
I turned; then I felt the overwhelming weight shift the undersized
wheels with a sharp scraping sound; the front wheel began slipping
underneath the bike, and the bike started tumbling. I jumped off the
seat and with my arms, back, legs, and any other leverage I could
muster, I vainly tried to keep the load from forcing the bike on its
side in the middle of the roadway. But the weight shoved the wheels
over the surface of the pavement and pulled both me and the bike
toward the curb. With a loud crash the bike fell on its side, half on
top of me, and several bags tumbled into the street. Groceries went
everywhere. The traffic caught up with me and one of the speeding
automobiles, swerving away from me, smashed a cabbage into shards.
Other cars crushed oranges and a canister of bug spray. A can of
creamed corn exploded sticky yellow grit into the air, and several
other items were smashed and smeared in the roadway.
Across the street, Tony ran out the door and screamed "God DAMN!"
Pitching his cigar aside he dashed across the roadway toward me, with
Anthony following. Anthony himself rushed to me in concern and alarm
and helped pull me from under the bike. But my stepdad Tony flew into
a rage. Kicking a couple of smashed cans out of the street and into
the gutter, he flared angrily at me and screamed, "How fuckin'
stupid!"
Anthony uprighted the bike. Just as he wheeled it onto the
sidewalk, Tony stomped over to me and yelled, "Cain't you hold up a
damn bike?" He slapped me across my face so hard that my head jerked
and I found my startled eyeballs suddenly staring down the street in
the opposite direction. I turned back to him, my neck aching from
the blow, and saw his reddened face glowering into mine.
"Get this shit outta the street and get that bike loaded again!
Now we're gonna have to rebuild this whole damn order! And whatever's
missin' comes outta your pay, goddamit!" He spit on the street and
pointed to the trash around us. "Anthony! Help this idiot clean up
and get 'im back on the road!" Tony turned and stomped off, toward
the store.
"Right, Tony," Anthony murmured after him, looking almost as
startled as I must have looked. Shaking his head and eyeing me
sympathetically, he said, "That Tony's a tough customer, Speedy."
Enraged and humiliated, I avoided his eyes and began fetching the
litter out of the street while Anthony walked the bike with its bent
baskets to the storefront. Five minutes later I trekked wordlessly
into and through the store, into the rear stock room. Storming into
the restroom, I slammed the door shut behind me and threw the bolt
lock into place, then untied and removed my garbage stained, shin
length cotton work apron and, wadding it up tightly, slammed it into
the wall and screamed into the little room, "Son of a bitch!"
Covered with sweat, I bent to the sink and splashed my head and
neck with cold water to cool me down physically and emotionally. I
held my dripping head over the sink and massaged my sore neck,
muttering "Son of a bitch" again, and then took several deep breaths.
"All right," I muttered aloud, hearing my voice sound grim and
wobbly with hate. "All right, dammit."
I fetched a new white apron and got back to work. I'd kept track
of Mrs. Gaston's sales receipt. I repacked the entire order, noted
what was missing, and retrieved new items from the shelves. When the
order was complete I got Mrs. Gaston's telephone number from the
delivery listing and gave her a call, explaining that her order had
been damaged but that it was fixed and ready to go. She was very
gracious and said she knew that Saturday was always a busy day and she
wasn't annoyed.
This time I packed the bags myself, making certain that the load
in each bag was evenly distributed and that each bag weighed nearly
the same. I managed to reduce the original nine bags to seven. As I
began carrying them outside and loading them on the bike, Anthony
paused in his work to speak to me briefly.
"Don't take it too hard," he said. "You're his son and he expects
you to do better work than the rest of us."
I replied angrily, "I have my own expectations about how good my
work'll be."
Anthony held up a patient hand, "All right, all right, just slow
down. It's too easy to fuck up when you let yourself get mad."
I knew he was right. I kept my mouth shut and finished up.
Outside, I loaded and unloaded the grocery order onto the bike
several times, until I was certain the cargo was perfectly balanced.
"What the hell 're you doin'?" said a burly young voice behind
me. I turned to see Charlie, his hands on his hips and a wry grin on
his face.
"I'm takin' this order," I said flatly, grabbing up the last bag.
"I heard about what happened, " Charlie said, his tough-kid's
voice slightly taunting. "I know he shouldn'a done that to you, and I
know it was too big a load for that bike, but you ain't gonna tell me
with a straight face that you intend to deliver all this in one trip."
"That's exactly what I intend to do!" I said, jamming the last bag
into the rear basket.
"Hell, man, I weigh twenty pounds over you and my legs are longer,
but I wouldn't carry that in one load. You trynna get yourself fucked
up again?"
"Not this time," I vowed. I held the bike straight and level,
disengaged the kickstand, and then let go of the bike altogether. For
a brief moment it stood still and upright until I grabbed the handle-
bar again.
"Not bad, tiger," Charlie said, nudging his lips in approval. He
grinned and threw me a salute. "But this time, if you fall, try t'
land on yer butt instead of yer head."
I turned the bike toward Mrs. Gaston's and walked it off the curb.
The bike landed on the street surface and remained level, with no
bounce. Mounting, I tested the sway range of the weight piled around
me. I found that managing the weight from the front was the key
tactic, rather than trying to manipulate everything at once. I
engaged the pedals and began pumping my legs with all my might. Soon
I was rolling fast enough to make a rapid shift to the right. I
glided almost gracefully across Lauderdale Street.
My initial optimism was short lived. As I slowly progressed down
the street the load seemed to get heavier by the yard. Mrs. Gaston's
address was three blocks into the project. The last leg of the trip
was a segment of rising driveway that led to her building; unable to
pedal uphill, I dismounted and walked the bike to her building. It
was touch and go all the way, with several close calls as the weight
persistently forced the bike toward or away from me. Finally, covered
with salty sweat and grime, I arrived at the front of her building.
For some reason the cargo was now too heavy for the kickstand, so I
leaned the bike against her building. There was no elevator, so one
by one I began hefting the bags up the steep, narrow stairwell to Mrs.
Gaston's third floor apartment.
She was a tiny, elderly woman in a dark flowery dress who
expressed alarm at the sight of my sweat-soaked face and clothes. She
gave me a glass of ice water, smiled and thanked me, and gave me a
ten cent tip.
Later, leaning in the shade at the side of her building, I cooled
off and caught my breath. I looked down at the shiny dime in my hand.
I told myself: you made it, dammit. And with a dime to spare. An
extra dime for New York. One step closer to the big city.
Mounting my bike I grabbed the handlebar, shoved off with both
feet, and went into a long glide down the driveway toward the street,
the cool wind now flapping my apron around my shins. I pumped the
pedals swiftly and pushed the bike through the breeze that mounted
with my speed. I spotted Charlie under the front awning of the store
two blocks ahead. He glanced in my direction and grinned and gave me
the "OK" sign with his raised hand.
For the rest of the afternoon the orders proliferated. Charlie
and I and the two other boys kept loading and shoving off with one
delivery after another. Charlie kept his eyes on me, sending me on
the lighter, nearer orders. Finally I told him I expected to be
treated the same way as the others that I should carry the same loads
they carried.
"Take yer time," Charlie told me as we loaded up yet another group
of bags. "You're smaller than the others, and your legs are shorter."
He paused to reach into his shirt pocket for his cigarette lighter.
He retrieved a cigarette from the pack he kept in the folds of his
rolled up shirt sleeve. He took a quick puff and extended the pack
toward me. "Smoke?"
"Thanks," I said, even though I didn't know how to smoke.
He gave the pack a quick, short jerk and the tips of several ciga-
rettes protruded from the pack. I grabbed one and put it in my mouth,
instantly feeling the mild burn of tobacco on my inner lips. I
resolved that whatever could be done by Charlie, who was robust and
taller and three years my senior, I could do as well.
He flipped open his Zippo lighter and lit my cigarette. I
puffed. I coughed several times.
"Shit," he said, grinning with his cigarette dangling from his
mouth. "C'mon, man, take it one thing at a time. That ain't no way to
smoke, you got tobacco all over your damn lip. Maybe you oughtta
start out with filters instead of straights."
"I'll start with straights," I said, embarrassed but grinning back
stubbornly. "There's a four-bagger over there. Come on and load me
up."
He took another puff and sighed. "Man, what a glutton for punish-
ment."
For the rest of the afternoon I watched Charlie closely, chiding
him when I saw him pass up a large order and assign me to a much
smaller one. He smirked and warned me, "Don't pass up all the small
orders," he cautioned. "They're short and quick. And they pay the
same ten cents as the big ones that take longer."
As dusk neared and the flow of business waned for the day, I
loaded one more four-bagger onto my bike and was just getting ready to
shove off when my stepdad came out of the front door and stood near my
bike. I averted my eyes from his and pretended to be engrossed in
straightening a bag in my front basket.
He spoke evenly and calmly. "All right, I have to apologize for
losin' my temper today. You cleaned it all up, and you got the order
to the customer all by yourself. The customer called up and said
nothin' was missin', and nothin' was damaged. So you did a good job.
And forget about anything comin' out of your pay this week. I'm sorry
I got so angry about it." Without another word, he walked away.
His apology changed nothing. At that moment I deeply resented him
-- not for his anger, but for the humiliation I felt at being struck.
Even before he disappeared into the store, I had turned my bike around
and was on my way with the next order.
Soon I was cruising in the cool late afternoon breeze with a four-
bag order, my sore thighs arduously pumping at the pedals that pushed
my squeaky, straining bike down Lauderdale Street. Earlier, when no
one in the store was watching, I made Anthony sell me a pack of
Chesterfield unfiltered cigarettes. As I turned into the project
driveway and slipped out of sight of those in the store, I reached
into my shirt pocket under my stained work apron, pulled out the pack
of cigarettes, jerked the pack in the manner I had learned from
Charlie, and pulled out a cigarette by holding the tip with only the
dry, outer portion of my lips. Using another technique I learned from
watching Charlie, I struck a match on my bluejean leg and lit up. The
smoke was bitter and hot. I vowed I'd learn to inhale the way older
kids did, and the thought that my stepdad would be incensed at my
smoking merely firmed my resolve to smoke as much as I wanted, to
carry my own load, to ignore him and be free of him. I told myself
that it was what my real father, Steven Senior, would have done.
In my pants pocket I had the tips I'd earned and that I didn't let
Tony know about: two quarters, four dimes, and some pennies. That day
I had already broken my previous record by carrying thirteen deliver-
ies, and the store would not be closing for almost three hours.
I knew I had considerable growing and building-up to do. Charlie
and the others outclassed me in every way. But I had a goal ahead of
me, a goal far beyond the grocery store, beyond Memphis.
By mid-September I was running thirty orders a day, and over fifty
on Saturdays. The savings account that Tony managed for me slowly
grew. Slowly. But as soon as it looked as if I might be getting
somewhere financially, I had to register for my last year of grammar
school. This meant that I could earn money only on Saturday deliv-
eries and on Sundays when I typed menus at the Tremont.
I began looking for more work and more money.
PART 9B:
One morning in early October, soon after starting my 8th-grade
school year, I approached Tony at breakfast and told him I needed to
draw from my savings. At first he didn't want to hear about it; the
account had only recently begun to show real progress.
I told him I needed to buy a new bike and a front basket for it.
When he discovered that I needed the bike because I had signed up to
be a morning news carrier for the Commercial Appeal, his eyes lit up.
It was the first time I'd seen him express enthusiasm for anything I'd
said or done.
"What about your Saturday job at the store?" he asked.
"I'm keepin' that one, too," I said firmly.
He smiled broadly at my Mom. "Damn, this kid's gettin' to be a
real worker!"
Under those circumstances, he agreed that I could get an
inexpensive three speed bike that wouldn't consume my savings but
would be good enough to haul a load of morning newspapers.
Of course I didn't tell him that the money from the paper route
would be used to get me to New York. He was so pleased about my
willingness to work myself to death, I didn't want to spoil the only
basis for the slim rapport that had been established between us.
At my first morning on the carrier job, it soon became apparent
that I'd again taken on a bigger chunk that I'd bargained for. My Mom
woke me at four o'clock in the morning and had hot oatmeal waiting for
me when I was dressed. As I wolfed breakfast she stumbled back into
bed, grumbling that she'd be glad when I would be able to wake myself
up and get an early breakfast without disturbing her.
That first October morning was chilly and dark. I rode my new red
three speed Schwinn to the loading station several blocks away. The
route manager, a short and muscular middle-aged man with a harried
look and baggy eyes, delivered my initial instructions and showed me
how to check and sign for my newspapers. I learned that my route
consisted of 136 customers on seven short suburban streets. I then
discovered that there was no way my three speed Schwinn could
transport 136 newspapers in a single trip without another backbreaking
effort on my part.
The solution was to pile as many papers as I could into the bike's
front basket. This amounted to a little less than one third of the
papers required. I was given three large canvas shoulder bags with
the official Commercial Appeal logo imprinted on them in dull red. I
stuffed the remaining papers into the three canvas bags. Then I
strapped the bags around my shoulders by their long canvas straps.
Thus weighted, I slowly waddled like a two-ton duck out of the dimly
lighted loading station and toward my bicycle. Outside, the crowd of
other news carriers hustled to load their motorcycles and automobiles.
I knew none of them and spoke to no one -- I was too busy trying to
figure out how to keep the weight of the packed bags from pulling me
down and flattening me like a pancake.
Lurching fitfully, I struggled to mount my Schwinn. The next step
was to see if I could possibly move my legs up and down to work the
pedals. I couldn't. The huge canvas bags hanging from my shoulders
were in the way.
The route manager in his leather bomber jacket passed me on his
way to his station wagon. "Hey," he shouted, "you gonna make it
anywhere like that?"
"Sure," I said, forcing a smile. I was far from sure of it
myself.
After twisting and shuffling the load on my shoulders so that one
bag hung over my back and the other two were suspended slightly behind
my hips, I was able to move my legs. I started pumping arduously at
the pedals of my Schwinn, which I locked in its lowest gear.
By the time I devised this clumsy method, almost all the other
kids had left the loading station. I lumbered into the roadway and
headed toward Given Avenue, one long block away. Looking ahead, I was
horrified to find that, despite all the level streets and flat
stretches of land in my neighborhood, I had been given a route that
had to be accessed from the loading station by climbing the only hill
in sight. And it was a steep climb, rising quickly to a least a two-
story height in the course of that one long block of roadway.
As I grunted and puffed my way up the hill at a slug's pace, the
last two newsboys passed me, one on his motorcycle with its sidecar
loaded with newspapers, and the other in a baby blue 1952 Mercury
whose broken muffler roared and spewed a thin gray cloud of oily smoke
as he passed me and disappeared over the hill.
The sun was just rising. The jet black sky had lightened vaguely
with the first gray intimations of daybreak. There was no traffic on
the streets, no sound in the predawn stillness -- just myself,
groaning and huffing under the onus of the fully loaded front basket
and the three bulging canvas bags whose combined size was almost three
times my own.
Halfway up the hill, the burning in my thighs told me I had no
choice but to dismount and walk the load to the crest of the upgrade.
Cursing under my hot breath, I stopped my bike. Now I had to find a
way to dismount without hurting myself. I could not get both my feet
to touch the ground in order to balance the Schwinn. Before I knew
it, I felt the bag around my back begin to shift to my side as I
leaned to get off the bike and onto one foot. Suddenly the strap of
the bag was choking me. I reached back to stop the bag's movement,
but its weight and that of the one next to it dragged themselves and
me toward the ground. I was yanked to my left; then the bag at my
right hip followed suit with the others, swinging behind and then
beyond me, and all three bags hauled me down.
I fell, face up, my Schwinn toppling away from me. Two of the
bags landed beneath me, their wide straps yanking roughly and
garotting me from behind as they pulled me down. Flat on my back,
choking and gagging, I panicked and struggled to raise my head. This
only dug the rough straps into my neck. Finally, I had the good sense
to roll onto my side and off the bags. The straps fell away from my
neck. I could breathe again.
Coughing and gasping, I pulled the other straps away and stood to
survey the damage. The handlebar of my Schwinn had somehow been
twisted starboard, out of line with the center bar. I raised the bike
and held it between my knees while I strained to center the handlebar.
Rasping loudly and still choking a little, I looked around. Not a
car or a person in sight. At least I'd been spared the embarrassment
of having my stupidity and clumsiness witnessed by others. Checking
my wrist watch, I saw that it was nearly six A.M.
Breathlessly I muttered aloud to myself, "You'll have to do better
than this, stupid." My body was still reacting to the sensation of
being strangled by the straps of my own news bags. Rubbing my neck, I
found that the flesh around my Adam's apple had been burned and
scraped; it stung painfully when I touched it.
Enraged, I hurriedly began strapping up again. Arranging the bags
more methodically, I reloaded the papers that had fallen out of my
Schwinn's basket and began laboriously walking the bike uphill.
Finally at the top, I took a right turn and surveyed the street
that lay before me and that led to the beginning of my route five
blocks away. Whereas the steep grade that led from the paper station
to the top of the hill was sudden and sharp, the street before me was
a long sweeping downgrade as far as I could see.
"Good!" I said aloud, knowing that I could simply coast downhill
all the way to my route. Carefully I mounted my Schwinn. After
ensuring that all was balanced and under control, I shoved off with my
feet and sat with the hard nose of the bicycle seat nudging painfully
into my coccyx under the weight of the carrier bags. But soon I was
rolling swiftly, the bicycle tires hissing loudly along the asphalt
street. In the quiet air I heard the wind whistle faintly past my
ears as I picked up speed. Thus loaded, strapped, upright, and
rolling almost merrily along, I imagined myself as looking absurdly
like a giant papier-mache cauliflower on wheels. About halfway down
the hill it suddenly occurred to me that I had no way whatever of
braking quickly under the momentum of the weight that both surrounded
and propelled me. Stoically, I concluded that in a collision the
formless paper hulk would at least cushion the blow.
Fortunately, sudden stops weren't needed. But as I approached the
far end of Given Avenue, where the first house on my route nestled
upon its own little mound of grassy lot, I noticed for the first time
that this part of Given sloped toward another upgrade. Thankfully it
was not the virtual mountain that lay behind me; but my rolling began
to slow, and soon I was straining and pedaling again in low gear.
Out of breath and grunting fiercely under the three canvas bags, I
finally rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the first house. Too
tired to resist, I allowed myself and my bike to lean, and then to
slide into a slow fall, toward my right. All of me and my load
settled with a soft lurch into the grass that lined the curb.
I lay there for several minutes on my back, gazing at the slowly
brightening, dull overcast above. Gradually I gained my breath,
though for a minute or so I seemed to have fallen into a shallow
doze. Opening my eyes, I extracted myself from the long shoulder
straps and sat up, feeling the chilly October air on my face and
hands. I craned my aching neck to my left and looked at the sweep of
roadway that I had just traveled. There stood the hill at the top of
Given Avenue, where I'd fallen and nearly choked. I knew there was no
way to get from the paper station to my route without fighting that
hill. I'd have to battle that hill every morning, seven days a week,
for as long as I kept the paper route. And this was only a Monday --
the Sunday edition would be three times the size and weight of the
dailies. Well, I thought, I'd worry about that when Sunday arrived.
Standing creakily, I stretched and found that my shoulders ached
and had also been burned by the iron grip of one of the straps. My
neck ached, my back ached, my thighs and shins burned and throbbed.
I looked again toward the hill, which stood silent and mocking
five or six blocks away. "I'll beat you," I said aloud. "I'll beat
you yet, dammit." I straightened my jacket and my twisted shirt, and
then dragged my load of papers onto the customer's lawn. Sitting in
the dew-damp grass, I spent several minutes resting while folding and
tucking each newspaper into a hard, flat, four cornered package that
would be easy to pitch onto the 136 front porches that lay ahead.
A few minutes later the route manager, Mr. Williams, cruised by in
his brown station wagon and rolled to a stop near me. "Hey," he
scolded from the car window, "you better get movin'. It's almost
six thirty."
"I'm folding all the papers first," I called back, without getting
up. "It'll go faster that way."
"It's your route, you handle it the way you like. But if you
don't finish by seven o'clock when people wake up, I start getting
calls from folks who climb the walls because they don't have their
mornin' paper."
"Don't worry," I said wearily. "Just running a little slow on my
first day."
Mr. Williams frowned and lit a cigarette. "Don't let this get to
be a habit," he cautioned sternly. He stepped on the gas and drove
off in a hurry.
As he roared away I muttered, "Up yours."
It was impractical to walk my entire route carrying all three bags
loaded with folded newspapers. I decided that I could leave two bags
in the shrubs of the first house, and use the third bag to service the
first part of my route, which circled back to where I started. The
second bag could handle the next two streets, and I could circle back
again to pick up the last bag and finish the route.
By the end of the week I was showing up at a quarter to five in
the morning, walking my papers up that first hill, and completing the
route just after six. Then I'd cruise home on my Schwinn and catch
an hour's nap before showering and boarding the bus to St. Michael's
School. When school let out that afternoon, I was so tired that I
fell asleep on the school bus; the driver knew my stop and woke me up
every day. But I knew I couldn't depend on his wakeup forever. I had
to shape up.
Managing my first Sunday edition was a nightmare. The Sunday sub-
scriber list was larger than the daily, totaling 165 papers instead of
136. The bulk was not my estimated three times that of the dailies,
but four or five times the weekday load. Although I'd learned a lot
about handling the carrier bags and my Schwinn, I was discouraged to
find that I had to make three trips back and forth before I could
transport the entire load to my route. By the time I finally slipped
thick rubber bands around each paper, a heavy and sloppy rainfall
began. Many papers got soaked before I could move them into shelter
on a nearby front porch.
That morning, I didn't complete the route until after seven-
thirty. When I finally stumbled into my parents' home I found that
five customers had already called in their complaints.
My step-dad was awake and sipping his coffee as he dressed for
Mass. "Why are you so late?" he grumbled. "Didn't you go to your
route this morning? Your manager called and said he had five
complaints."
I collapsed onto our sofa and wearily explained that the Sunday
papers were so heavy that it took over an hour to get them to my
route, and then the rain made me even later.
"Hmp. Cain't be THAT many papers on Sunday," he grumbled.
"It's not the number," I said, "it's the size."
"The other boys get their papers up there, don't they? Why can't
you?"
Holding back a fit of anger, I answered patiently, "The other boys
have cars or motorcycles."
"You have to be sixteen to drive a car," he retorted.
I retorted back, "They have cars. That's all I know."
He thought about it for a minute. "Well, we have to wake up early
to get to Sunday Mass anyway, so...I'll get up with you on Sundays,
and we can load your papers in the car."
I was relieved by the idea. Relieved, surprised, and disappointed
all at once. Surprised that he would offer help, much less that he'd
even considered that my situation might require it. Relieved, that
the worst of the Sunday nightmare would be alleviated, although that
big hill on Given Avenue would still be there the other six days of
the week. And disappointed: not only did I feel old enough and
intelligent enough to drive our Ford each morning, but I also could
complete my work long before it was time for my stepdad to drive to
work. I was envious of many of the other boys, most of whom were not
yet sixteen but who nevertheless appeared to have dads who let them
use a car for work.
But I was not willing to tempt fate by complaining about the
offer. I thanked him, though I did so in such a subdued manner that I
wondered if he believed I was truly grateful. I did not trust Tony
enough to communicate with him frankly. I seldom shared words with
him, much less my thoughts and feelings. Anyway, this little package
of help did not satisfy my need for someone whom I felt could be the
father I wanted or needed.
The other barb was that I wanted to be able to do everything on my
own. I did not trust people or like them enough to be able to ask for
help, which I accepted only when I saw no other choice.
So I accepted his ride. Each Sunday, the two of us traded brief,
dull, impersonal shreds of conversation during the predawn half hour
or so as we rode to the paper station, loaded the papers, and then
unloaded them onto a front porch where I could keep out of the
weather. Tony would drive off, leaving me to rubber-band the big
Sunday editions or slide them into plastic covers when it rained or
snowed.
It's possible that this Sunday routine might have aided in
bringing me closer to Mr. Tony Lobianco, and through him perhaps to my
Mom. After the first few weeks I had faint hopes that this might
happen.
Those hopes were dashed a few days before Thanksgiving when my
mother came into my bedroom one night and caught me masturbating.
Apparently she had been on her way to the bathroom in our dark house
and must have seen my hand movements under the bed covers. She rushed
into the room and pulled back the blankets to reveal my erection, as I
tried in vain to pull my pajamas back up.
"Speedy!" she shrieked. "How disgusting!" She threw the covers
back over me and I saw her flinch and grimace with revulsion. "You
should be ashamed of yourself!" She left the room, muttering, "I hope
you tell the priest about this in confession! That's just...awful!"
For a while I lay silent and shaky with the suddenness of it all,
humiliated at being caught, mortified by her reaction. After many
minutes of darkness and quiet, I was simply angry. I waited almost an
hour before renewing my vision of a girl my age, a girl very much like
Martha Jane, arching her hips to receive me, and I finished as
stealthily as I could.
The next morning at breakfast, Tony waited until my Mom left the
breakfast table for a moment before saying in a subdued but reproving
voice, "You'll be goin' to confession when you're in school today...
Right?"
"Yessir," I replied, appearing suitably ashamed and penitent.
Of course, I didn't confess. The incident succeeded in making me
feel ashamed, but it also resulted in my being angrily rebellious
rather than penitent. I adopted a strict policy of never revealing my
sexual self to anyone, not even to other boys.
That night and that morning had been the most personal and
intimate moment I had ever experienced with either of them. Any hopes
I had about bridging gaps between myself and my parents bit the dust.
I never again trusted them with any aspect of my inner life.
PART 9C:
Easter Sunday, 1956.
I knew the paper that day would be no larger than a regular daily.
I told my stepdad I could handle the load with my Schwinn.
The Easter edition was so slim that the entire load fit into my
front basket, and I pedaled up the big hill on Given Avenue at a brisk
pace with nominal effort.
As I rounded the hill and turned to roll into the long downgrade
that led to my route, a thin snow flurry began. Spare, tiny flakes
floated lazily down to white-frosted lawns and rooftops. I felt
rather heroic. I had become attached to the hill I'd conquered over
the past six months and to the bloated carrier bags that I now slung
around my back and shoulders with routine nonchalance. I had not
grown taller, but from the way I was climbing that hill every day and
the way I handled multiple deliveries on the big hill at the top of
Exchange Street on Saturdays, I had grown in strength and endurance.
I felt I had learned the message behind Pogo's little joke, which I
had seen not long ago in the Sunday comics: "We have met the enemy,
and he is us!" My physical limitations were my major enemy. I felt
that if I could not overcome them, then I must develop effective
workarounds.
Adults were, if not inimical, untrustworthy at best. My peers and
those who were slightly older had gone Brando, all in upturned collars
or black motorcycle jackets and t-shirts. Boys my own age, nearly
fourteen, began outpacing me physically; I watched them grow taller,
while I stayed where I was. I had been tall at twelve or thirteen;
but I could see that at fourteen I would be below average in size.
Even in the winter cold I would sweat bullets when delivering the
heavy orders on Saturdays in the project, while bullnecked Charlie
performed the same feat without even breathing hard.
As the Easter flurry advanced slowly into light snowfall, I sat on
a customer's front porch away from the chilly wind and rubber-banded
my goods. After a long winter, mornings were breaking earlier. In
the early hush, the sky slowly brightened into a warm greyish glow.
The Easter edition would be an easy throw; people would be waking
later than usual. I could afford, for once, to relax. Unrushed, I
lapsed into one of my most dangerous habits: thinking. I recalled the
day a few weeks earlier when Tony mentioned that I'd saved up enough
to buy a small motorcycle, for which I could legally obtain a license
on my fourteenth birthday. But I preferred to stay with my Schwinn.
Besides, the money saved by not buying a motorbike would be more
useful when I could finally visit New York.
Keeping busy, making my own breakfast seven days a week, spending
Sundays at the Tremont and several evenings each month making door-to-
door subscription collections on my route -- all of it left me more
isolated from my parents and sister, and from acquaintances. I was
only dimly aware of Mom's next pregnancy, which produced a baby
half brother they called Tony Number 2 a few weeks before Easter.
Naturally, everyone's attention shifted to him.
Keeping two jobs had cost my participation in plays at school. It
was physically impossible for me to do it all, considering how much
harder my relatively small frame had to work to accomplish the same
thing that others seemed to manage with less effort. But if I kept
working and building myself up, I thought, then a later day might find
me doing plays again as well as everything else.
The fact that I was now wearing eyeglasses had been a major
setback, leading me to believe I was somehow defective. An eye test
at St. Michael's in February revealed that my vision was far from
perfect. A few weeks later, Mom took me to an optometrist.
The following week, we returned from his office with my new eye-
glasses.
"How long will I have to wear these things?" I asked Mom petulant-
ly as we were riding home with the plastic framed monstrosity on my
face.
"If you're like most men on your side of the family," my Mom
replied, unaffected, "you'll probably have to wear them the rest of
your life. At least when you read, anyway."
This depressing thought sent a chill up my spine. For days I
would stop at every reflective surface I passed and readjust the
frames, to no avail. They hurt my nose. They burned behind my ears.
They never seemed to sit neatly on my face. My mother's lack of
concern didn't help. Nor did the kids at school, who started calling
me "four-eyes" and "spec". Kids who wore glasses on tv and in movies
were always portrayed as anemic, brainy misfits. The glasses made me
feel ugly and deformed. I hated them.
That Easter morning I carried, safely hidden in a zippered pocket
inside my quilted carcoat, the latest of three letters from Martha. I
kept her mail in a folder with my schoolbooks, not because they
contained intimate material, but because I never wanted them to be
considered part of the garbage my parents would force me to discard.
Sitting on a customer's front porch after preparing my papers, I
leaned back against the stuffed bag and gently opened the white
envelope from New York. She used plain unlined paper. I marveled at
the way she wrote in almost perfectly straight lines.
Martha. She had an address in Manhattan on East 87th Street.
"It's the East Side," she wrote, "but definitely not a ritzy block.
The building is a hundred years old. It's a walkup, which to you
tourists means no elevator. It's an old building with very small
apartments. Over the years the newer buildings just grew up around
this block. It's so old, the shower is a stall in the kitchen,
because the building was here before indoor plumbing was common. Has
hot water, though--at least it's not a cold water flat, like the
building next door to mine. The apartment even has nicks in the walls
that hold the old fashioned oil burning lamps that were in here before
electricity was installed. It has a small living room, and a really
tiny fireplace that actually works.
"I have been teaching kids your age who are just about the most
brilliant boys and girls I ever met. Of course, you're just as smart
as most of them. What many of them lack, though, is your sensitivity,
and your creativity. Some of them are not bright at all, but just
problem children whom it seems I can't help much. I hope I can learn
to work with them, they've led such hard, often cruel lives. Some
conditions in the neighborhoods where these children live can be
described only as real life nightmares.
"Which reminds me: I hope you are not having that same old dream.
I wish I knew what it meant. If it happens again, please try to
describe exactly what it is that happens in your dream, how you feel
and what you're thinking. But I hope the dream hasn't come back. I
hope you are well, and happy, and growing, and learning. Please don't
wear yourself out with all that work; your school is the most
important thing, and your well being."
Although I had read the letter a thousand times, I could read no
further that morning. I wiped my eyes dry, replaced and aligned my
specs, and hid the letter inside my coat. Standing, I slung the heavy
bag over my shoulder and started on my way.
I had written her several times. I had not told her much about
myself, except for the jobs. I hadn't told her that the reason I was
working so hard was because I wanted to come to New York and see her,
and I wanted to do so more than once. I didn't tell her about my
dream, my parents, my loneliness, or anything else about my inner
life. I didn't want her to worry. Above all, I didn't want her to
see my failings. Therefore, I didn't tell her about the glasses. I
didn't tell her that I had not grown taller.
Someday, soon, I knew I'd have to ask her if I could see her in
New York. I wondered if she would refuse. She was in a truly
different world now. Had she fallen in love with someone? Surely,
with her looks and her charm, she must have met someone in a big place
like New York City. Each time I read her letters, I wondered how much
she didn't reveal. I wondered, as I walked through the waxing
snowfall that Easter, if, when I asked her about going to see her, she
would then be forced to tell me that she had someone and that it
wouldn't be a good idea for me to show up. Or if she had met someone
and I did visit, what would I do when she introduced her boyfriend?
And if she indeed had a boyfriend, why was I breaking my back for the
money to visit her? What would be the point?
Martha, I thought as I walked along with my carrier bag slapping
my hip. Snowflakes smashed silently into my new lenses. Martha Jane.
Just after Easter I woke up one morning with a burning pain in my
side and tummy, and a heavy twinge of nausea. Luckily the paper load
was light that day and the weather mild, but as I finished and was on
my way home I still sensed a creepy nausea. Except for a bout with
the 'flu, I had never been so sick.
When Mom saw that I was still in bed at breakfast time she asked
what was wrong. I told her I didn't feel I could handle the ride on
the school bus without throwing up. She shoved a thermometer in my
mouth and read my temperature.
Tony stopped in my doorway and asked, "What's goin' on?"
Mom sighed. "Well, he doesn't have much of a temperature. It's
just under one hundred."
Tony grunted, "C'mon, Speedy, you're not that sick. Get up and
get ready for school. You'll feel better when you start movin'
around."
Mom, in her bathrobe and slippers, followed him into the living
room as he donned his carcoat and got ready for work. "Well," she
said, "he does have a little fever, not much. Do you think it might
get worse?"
"Damn. People go to work and school all the time when they're a
little sick. I go to work when I feel like shit, myself. Hell, he
ain't sick. Get him dressed and get him to school."
My brief nap did leave me feeling improved, and I supposed Tony
was right. Besides, I didn't want to admit that anything could floor
me that easily, and I did have to keep up with my work. So I dressed
and boarded the bus as usual. But during the long ride to school the
pain and nausea increased. I began perspiring. Repressing the desire
to throw up was becoming an effort.
As usual, I arrived at school and got into the line of 8th
graders. Sister Immaculata led us into the church for our daily eight
o'clock Mass. Halfway through the service, I feared I could no longer
hold back my urges. At one point some bitter stomach fluid jumped
into the back of my throat; trembling, I knew an eruption was looming.
Climbing over the other students in my pew, I crept softly to
Sister Immaculata, who sat in the aisle seat in the back pew looking
prim and fresh in her starched white Dominican collar and pristine
black robes.
"What's wrong, child?" she asked, a little irritably.
"Sister...I feel sick. I think I should go to the restroom."
"Now, just be patient. Mass will be over soon, and you can go."
"But, Sister, I don't need to...'go'. I feel sick. And my
stomach hurts."
"Oh. Well...patience, child. The service will end soon and we
can take a look at you."
Sister Immaculata did not have more time to protest or to talk me
into thinking I felt better. A split second later, to my own surprise
as well as hers, I noisily and violently threw up a huge serving of
redolent vomit directly into the lap of her long brown robes. She
rose instantly as the pale yellow stuff spilled down her clothing and
onto the floor. Grabbing my arm, she rushed me through the nearby rear
door and into the vestibule. Despite my best efforts, I deposited
another raging load that drenched her entire right side and clung to
every shiny bead of the heavy rosary and the large silver crucifix
that hung from her hips.
When we were safely in the boy's restroom at the rear of the
church I began to cry. "I'm sorry, Sister," I sobbed, almost
hysterical with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry, I tried to hold it
back!"
"It's all right, dear. You couldn't help it. I didn't realize
you were so ill. Poor child, I should have listened to you. It's all
right."
I was kept in seclusion in a small office in the rear of the
church, with Sister Immaculata sitting beside me and holding my hand
until another nun and the assistant pastor showed up to relieve her.
Thankfully, the other students couldn't see me there. I feared I
could never face them again; so many of them had both heard and seen
me throw up on Sister Immaculata.
For my entire stay in the office, which lasted almost an hour
until yet another priest showed up to drive me to St. Joseph's
hospital in the official black pastoral Chevrolet, I apologized again
and again for drenching Sister Immaculata. Secretly, in my impish
self that I never let anyone know about, I was telling myself that
this was what stupid adults had coming to them for not listening to
me. There was, indeed, an almost satanic satisfaction in being able
to say secretly, "There! Now they'll believe me."
At St. Joseph's I was examined quickly by a tall doctor who smiled
indulgently when he was finished and had me lie down on a hard-
cushioned cot until my stepdad arrived. Both of them stood in the
doorway of the antiseptic room and joked and chatted. I had appendi-
citis. They would have to operate. I would be in surgery that
afternoon.
"Operate?" I repeated fearfully from the cot.
They both laughed. "Mr. Lobianco," the doctor chuckled, "I think
the word 'operate' made your son turn white as a ghost."
They were amused at my stunned reaction, but I wasn't. How could
I have allowed myself to get so sick? It was a sign of weakness and
powerlessness that I found totally unacceptable.
But there wasn't much I could do about it: within the hour I was
dressed in a thin cotton hospital gown and wheeled into surgery.
Lying face up on the surgical wagon in the middle of a small operating
room, I looked up to find myself surrounded by white masked faces.
Firm hands placed a cool damp white cloth over my eyes, and then I
felt the ether mask covering my mouth and noise.
"Just relax," a nurse crooned. "Relax, now, and breathe slowly
through your nose. Don't open your mouth, dear. Breathe only through
your nose. Understand? Breathe deeply, now. Thaaaat's right."
I could not relax and trust them. I felt overcome by all those
faces and then I saw only the unfocussed white of the cloth over my
eyes. Suddenly the acrid odor of ether burned the lining of my nose.
Then my throat burned. I felt as if I were being suffocated. I
became aware of the low buzz of the bright neon operating lamp that I
knew was suspended just over my face. I made a brief moaning sound to
let the others know that the gas was burning my nose and that I
couldn't breathe. Sensing no reaction from them, I groaned louder.
But they ignored me. Then I panicked: I couldn't breathe, I was
choking. The lining of my nose burned so painfully that I felt my
sinuses would burst. Someone held me down with a ruthless pressure on
my chest. I was afraid to open my mouth and scream, fearing that to
do so would cause the ether to burn my mouth and throat. I began
thrashing about and moaning, then moaned louder and louder. Unable to
scream through my mouth, I screamed through my moan and felt my throat
scalded by the force of the sounds I was making. I heard someone
shout, "Grab his arms!" I struggled violently, grasping and clawing
at empty space. But I couldn't move! The buzz of the operating lamp
grew into the deafening, terrifying buzz that I'd heard in my dreams.
The white cloth over my eyes began to swim and circle in my sight,
even though I knew my eyes were closed. I could feel myself drifting,
then sinking back into nothing. I was shrinking, dying, and the white
universe expanded swiftly. My moans and the wild buzz merged into a
single strange sound that rose to a blaring hum and then slowly,
slowly, slowly decreased in frequency and then in volume, until it
became a low helpless drone in the drowning murk. I surrendered to
the white death, and to the blackening veil and the silence that fell
quickly and softly over everything...
I was unconscious into the evening. When I awoke I lay partly on
my right side in a huge, soft hospital bed. I blinked. I was
actually alive. I had a pounding headache.
"There you are," said the sugar-sweet voice of a very pretty
nurse. Her gorgeous face was the first thing I saw when I opened my
eyes. "Feel all right now?"
"It stings," I moaned, referring to my stitched and tightly
bandaged tummy.
"Well, don't you worry, that'll go away. Say, mister, what
happened to you in there? It took four people to hold you down.
You're really strong, you know that? You're just about the strongest
young man we've ever seen around here. You feel better now?"
I never had the chance to answer the lovely nurse's question. She
was so beautiful, all I really wanted to say was that she had made me
instantly horny and that I wanted to screw her brains out. But the
pain of the stitches in my side became my overriding concern. That,
and the pesky injections three times a day that left my right arm
cramped for several hours; and the unfilling diet of jello and Cream
of Wheat; and, during the next three days, the parade of relatives
that passed through my room.
As with my first hospital stay, years ago following the fight in
the project, everyone in the Ricci clan showed up or called or sent a
card. But now the Lobianco family and a vast array of their kin
cruised in and out of view. My stepdad had fifteen brothers and
sisters, and it seems most of them showed up. Almost all of them
lived in the Little Flower parish, in the same part of town as the
hospital. I met for the first time the enchanting, smoky eyed Aunt
Theresa Lobianco who would be a major figure in my sexual fantasies
for many years. And Josephine Louise, who worked nearby, stopped in
on her lunch hour each day to grin and joke around and then exit,
leaving me with a horrendous erection.
And then there was the phone call from Martha.
She spoke first with my Mom, who filled her in on all the medical
details and then handed the phone to me.
"What are you doing in the hospital again, cowboy? Can't you stay
out of trouble?"
With my heart pounding, my mind swirling, and everyone in the room
listening, I had to carefully consider every word I spoke and every
expression on my face. After beating around the bush for a few
sentences I asked, "So, are you married yet?"
"Married!?" Martha laughed hysterically. "God, I don't have
*time* to get married!"
Mightily relieved, I didn't even hear the rest of our conversa-
tion. Martha couldn't say when or if she would be back for a visit.
She wanted me to hurry and get well.
I wanted to hurry and get well, too. I was already growing bored
and giddy with impatience, knowing that I was under strict orders not
to work at delivery or on the paper route for at least three weeks.
That would be three weeks without money for New York. I still didn't
tell Martha about my plans. The conversation got sidetracked onto my
upcoming fourteenth birthday and, due a few weeks later, my graduation
from grammar school.
When the phone call ended I spent the rest of that day in a nearly
morbid silence. I pretended to be irresistibly sleepy. Most of the
visitors left the room as the nurse tucked me in for my final evening
at St. Joseph's. I closed my eyes and allowed the others to think I
was sound asleep. Meanwhile, I kept listening to the sound of
Martha's telephone voice, which clung to my brain like syrup. She was
not married. I wondered how long she would remain so, and how I could
make up for three lost weeks.
I would go home the next day and spend my birthday on the living
room sofa, doing makeup homework to keep up with my classes. And all
day long for three weeks I would simply think: Martha. Martha.
PART 9D:
Near the end of the summer of 1956, just before I started classes
at Christian Brothers High School, I wrote Martha Jane and told her
that the main reason I worked all summer was to earn money for a
one-week visit to New York. I had saved enough for train fare, and if
she didn't have room for me in her apartment I had money for a hotel.
Three weeks passed. I'd hoped for a quick reply. I wanted to get
to New York before the summer ended. But as the days passed I started
losing hope. August ended. I made new plans: perhaps I'd hear from
her soon and could at least spend the Labor Day holiday with her.
Then Labor Day passed. And I thought: all right, then, Thanks-
giving. And if not Thanksgiving, Christmas....
A letter arrived the week after Labor Day. Mom handed it to me
when I came home from Christian Brothers. I pretended it was
unimportant and told Mom I would read it when I got to it. I disap-
peared in my room for a while, then hid the letter under my shirt and
rode my bike to Gaisman Park. I sat under one of the skinny, almost
leafless saplings and hastily opened the envelope.
"Dear Steven: Please, please please don't spend so much money so
soon on a trip up here. I don't want you to go broke and spend every-
thing on me. Wait a little longer."
Disheartened, I read on. She had taken in a roommate, a
struggling fabric designer named Veronica, whom she called Ronnie, to
make ends meet. Martha's deal with Columbia didn't include summers,
so she tutored privately and had other jobs on the side. And the
apartment was far too small for two people, much less for three; and
she and Ronnie had to lay low anyway because her lease included only
one tenant; if Ronnie were found out the rent would go up.
She wrote, "You really haven't saved enough money for a week in a
decent hotel in New York. There is no way I'd have you stay in a
dump. You'd get mugged or even killed in that kind of neighborhood.
New York isn't like Memphis. It's dangerous here."
I read on. She wanted me to bury myself in work at Christian Bro-
thers. She wanted me to give up the paper route and return to drama
and to writing. I had sent her some short poems I'd written; she was
so impressed that she wanted me to contact someone at school who would
look at more of my work. She thought my stepdad's decision to send me
to Christian Brothers was wise and that the Brothers were singular
teachers. And if I were going to spend my money, I should wait until
I had more on hand so that I wouldn't be totally broke, because I
would need decent clothes of my own. And I should buy a new type-
writer for school and for developing my writing instead of struggling
with the Black Beauty (I had not yet told her the story of the Black
Beauty's sorry fate). And I didn't belong on a paper route anyway; I
belonged in the theater and on the student newspaper.
So that was it. I could not refute her. In every way, she was
correct. But I was not content with it.
Two days later, on a Saturday when I knew long distance rates were
low, I asked Mom if I could make a call to New York and pay for it
with my own money. Mom said yes. I dialed Martha's number. No
answer. Two hours later I dialed again, late in the afternoon.
It was Ronnie who answered, with a youngish voice and a noticeable
New York City accent. "Who's this?" she asked. When I told her she
replied excitedly, "Oh, Steeeeven! Oh, I've heard so much about you
from Martha! So you're really a person? The way she talks about you,
I didn't think you were real! Hold on, I'll get her."
Martha was surprised and happy at my call.
I asked, "What happened to your Memphis accent?"
"Oh, hon, that's gone months ago. I call Mother and she can't
understand a word I say."
We had a long talk. It took a while for me to get accustomed to
the changes in her voice. She talked faster, and she sounded older,
worldlier and more businesslike. She apologized for not letting me
visit her right away. She said I really and truly needed more money,
and she refused to let me stay in a hotel. "I want you to come up
here on an airplane, not a crummy train. I want you to be patient so
you can be comfortable and treat yourself like a mensch. You know
what a mensch is?"
"No."
"A mensch is a PERSON, hon! I don't want you coming up here with
your stuff in a paper bag and looking like a street urchin. And I
want to make plans for it, and have time to spend together. Don't you
think that's better than being so rushed and desperate? Life in New
York is desperate enough without all that."
I didn't want to agree; but she was right, all the way down the
line. She pleaded with me to buy a good typewriter, a nice one that
I'd be happy with and that I would use to write and study instead of
wasting my time and energy with notebook paper.
I refused. I did so nicely, but I refused to spend money on a
typewriter, which in those days was a fairly expensive and exotic item
for a high school kid in Memphis. And I insisted that I'd rather save
the money for New York. Martha yielded on that point but insisted
that I travel to New York when the timing was better.
She said, "I'm glad you called, Steven. Really. But talking
about saving money, do you know we've been on the phone for over half
an hour?"
Apparently she heard reluctance and disappointment in my voice.
"Steven. Sweetheart. I miss you, and I know you'd love New York.
Will you understand? For me? And treat yourself better, and be
patient?"
"Well...okay."
"Don't say okay if you don't mean okay."
I laughed. "Okay."
"And buy yourself a typewriter?"
"No."
"Oh...stubborn! Hon, please write me. And please take it easy."
Halloween passed. Thanksgiving. Three more letters and then
Christmas cards passed between us. Then Christmas. 1957 began.
Then Ronnie found a better job and moved into a vacancy in the same
building. Then Martha found another teaching job on the side to
supplement her scholarship. Easter passed. She sent an oversized
Easter card that she said was designed by Ronnie. But no other word.
April passed, and still no letter.
One hot Friday afternoon in late spring, Charlie and I spent a
harried day working one huge delivery after another. I was sullen and
was taking my anger out on the orders, asking for the biggest ones and
for the most distant customers. Finally, by late afternoon, the two
of us cleared the backlog and the flow of customers thinned for a
while. Soaked with sweat, I took a break in the restroom and soaked
my head with cold water.
As I returned to the front of the store, Charlie called to me from
the front door. "Hey, Speedy!" He motioned toward the outside with
his head. "C'mon out here, let's take a break. C'mon."
"I just had one," I said crankily.
"What the hell, c'mon."
I met him out front and he mounted his bike. "Get on your bike,"
he said. "Let's take a ride." He lit a cigarette and handed me one.
I took it and lit up.
I asked, "Where to?"
"Let's take a little ride up on High Street while it cools down.
Get the hell away from this store for a spell."
Wordlessly, I followed him on my squeaky bike and we rode up a
short rise for several blocks. We took a right onto High Street, a
narrow avenue of dilapidated tenements that had changed little since
the turn of the century. A few of the buildings were abandoned; one
of them had a condemnation notice on the front door. Abruptly,
Charlie turned into a narrow driveway overgrown with weeds beside a
four story building of old, oily, dull red brick.
"What's up?" I asked, crushing out my cigarette.
"C'mon and meet a coupla girls I know," he said laconically. He
shoved down the kickstand and flipped his cigarette toward the street.
"Girls," I said apprehensively. Quickly, I removed my glasses.
Charlie smirked. "Hell, Chrissie and Karen don't care 'bout
that."
"I do," I said.
The wooden front stairs and porch creaked loudly under our feet.
Charlie pounded on the screen door and hummed and waited. Presently
two teenaged girls opened the heavy front door. Charlie introduced
them with a few lines of friendly banter. Chrissie, the busty one
with curly blonde hair and a mischievous smile, said hi. Karen was
the slim, quiet one with long black hair and an expressionless face.
"What's up?" Charlie asked.
"C'mon," Chrissie said to him playfully, "I'll show ya. Karen,
you and Steven...talk." She giggled.
Charlie and Chrissie disappeared into the massive dark hallway
beyond the door. Karen leaned in the doorway and looked me over
shyly, still with no expression on her face, her hands folded behind
her. She was attractive in a lazy, slutty way, with a pale narrow
face and a thin, wide mouth, black hair that draped around her small
shoulders, and dark, ambiguous eyes.
"Charlie says yer a real hard worker," she said, her voice soft
and hesitant and dripping with a heavy drawl that I recognized as
belonging to northern Mississippi sharecroppers.
"I do my share," I said. Unaccustomed to talking with girls my
age, I said lamely, "So you're Karen."
"Yeah. I'm Karen. Uh, Chrissie and me been friends for a long
time."
It had been so long since I'd stood face to face with a girl, I
had no idea what to do next. I looked around to see if Charlie and
Chrissie were doing anything that might give me a clue as to what was
going on, but they had disappeared inside the building.
Karen eyed me with an inscrutable stare. A clumsy silence passed.
Then she motioned with her eyes to her right, toward the hallway. I
wondered if she meant what I thought she meant.
She hesitated, and moved lazily into the hallway, where she
stopped with one foot on the stairway and a hand on the dusty wooden
banister. She turned toward me momentarily, her face still dull and
unchanged, her dark eyes questioning. I stepped inside the screen
door and let it close softly behind me. She headed slowly up the
stairs, quickly glancing at me about halfway up. I waited at the
door. Then at the top step her gaze again met mine, directly but
fleetingly, as she turned and started up the second level.
I told myself: hey, idiot, she wants you to follow her. I moved
to the stairway. It was all too unexpected and unfamiliar. There had
been girls who told me they thought I was cute, but none who made or
accepted my advances. What the hell -- it had been almost two years
for me. Martha was in no hurry to see me. Probably New York would
never happen. But was Karen serious?
Halfway up the first flight I paused and listened. The floor
above creaked softly. I continued. When I reached the second floor
all I saw were dusty shafts of sunlight, warped and faded walls, and
several half open doorways. Then, behind the second door on my
right, I heard what sounded like the squeak of an old metal bed. I
moved forward and stood in the doorway; the odor of grease and rotted
plaster bled from the room.
Karen sat on a half made metal bed, holding a single deflated pil-
low to her chest, her long legs folded under her dark blue dress. Her
eyes looked at me from her dull face. "What took y' so long?" she
joked. A slight smile creased her thin lips; the smile disappeared
instantly as I moved into the room and looked around. The space
consisted of four walls, a cracked ceiling, a closed closet, an un-
draped open window, the bed, and her.
I stood in the middle of the room, hands on my aproned hips.
"What's up?" I wondered if, at any moment, an axe murderer might dash
from the closet, empty my pockets of the tips I'd earned that day, and
kill me.
She seemed confused. Then hesitantly she raised a slender, long-
fingered hand to her dress and touched the top button. "Wont me t'
take this off?"
I don't know how many seconds she waited for me as her words
slowly sank into my brain. Soon she began undoing her buttons.
She said, "It's okay to do it in here. Ain't nobody else home
t'day, they all went downtown." As she spoke she allowed her dress to
fall open and reveal one breast and its flat, cocoa brown nipple.
"Won't nobody come in." She motioned toward the window. "Cain't see
nothin' through the winder, either, they tore down all the buildin's
back there."
I started undressing. As I got down to my underwear and prepared
to strip them off, I heard a noise from the hallway.
She said gently, "Never mind them. They're too busy doin' it to
worry 'bout us." In one motion she slid under the sheet, pulled her
dress over her head and off, and held a corner of the bedsheet aside
for me, carefully keeping herself covered below the waist.
"C'mon," she said. "Git in."
Nude, I slipped under the sheet. She covered us and turned to
me. I turned to her, but hastily she pulled herself to me as if she
didn't want me to see all of her, and curled her legs around one of
mine. Against my right knee I felt her crotch and was amazed that
she had become sopping wet so quickly. Like a sudden wind from under
the sheet her girl's scent rose, stringent and sharp. It was discon-
certing; heady because of its sheer lusty power, uninviting because
it seemed so alien to her otherwise alluring, slim, white body.
Her face was uncommunicative, but her eyes were intent, waiting,
deeply focussed into mine. Her arms went around me and she tried
pulling herself closer to me, and me to her. I reached under the
sheet and down, touching her dripping mound. Instantly, her hand shot
down to hold mine away from her.
"No, don't. I don't usually like bein' touched there. It's
embarrassin' sometimes."
Surprised and disappointed, I looked at her confusedly. Her eyes
softened and gently she placed my hand on one of her pliant little
breasts.
"I don't need much touchin' anyway," she said apologetically.
"I'm ready. Cain't yew tell? How 'bout yew? Yew ready?" Her eyes
on mine, her hand found my cock as if by radar, without searching.
She gave me a quick, fleeting, sensuous grin -- another of her rare
facial expressions that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.
"Yeah...it's gettin' there." Without removing her eyes from mine she
reached under the edge of the mattress on her side and retrieved a
rubber, quickly stripped open the wrapper, and reached under the
sheet. Chewing her lip, she pulled my cock gently a few times, and
when my eyes caught hers she averted hers and closed them, tugging
again once or twice, then she held my cock with one hand and with the
other unrolled the cold rubber. I watched her closed eyes and heard
her breathing while her soft hand capably worked the thing over my
length.
"There," she whispered, lying back, eyes still closed. "C'mon.
'S been a long time. I need it in me."
Well, I thought, if that's the way she likes it...I covered her
and then settled on her, and with one whispering slide of her trim
torso she raised her knees and spread her thighs. Before I knew it
she grabbed me again, her light touch and long fingers warm and
tickly, stimulating me briefly until I realized she was maneuvering me
into her while I was only mildly excited and barely at half mast.
Nevertheless, she was so wet and slippery that I slid inside; she had
only to nudge her hips slightly upward, and I was fully sheathed.
Through the confining rubber I felt she was warm, almost steamy,
but so soft and lubricous that I felt I were copulating into a small
glass of warm water. I tried to raise on my arms and look down at
her, but immediately she pulled me close and pulled herself up so that
we were tightly joined with my face in her neck. I started fucking.
Her breath quickened immediately.
She wasted little time. Gasping, "Yeah. Feels good," she began
squirming her sex against me with a nimble precision that belied her
sluggish manner. I humped slowly but steadily, stretching a bit so
that my nearly flaccid shaft could gain some feeling of her inner
shape and texture. Her young body was soft, so trim that she felt
slight, like pliant, weightless flesh writhing under me. But to my
disappointment I felt little, save for the pleasant tickle of her
pubic hair bristling near the unrubbered part of my root. The sensa-
tion was meager, and a great deal more of what I had been accustomed
to was altogether absent, but it did generate a mild erotic twinge
that helped stiffen me a little.
She panted, "Yeah...Gettin' harder...Hmm, yew move good."
Soon I knew I could not maintain this semi-erection. It wasn't
just the lack of sensation or the sense of being rushed: we were
clumsy and unsynchronized. There was nothing about us physically or
emotionally or mentally that spoke in the same terms, much less in the
same language. Not being able to touch her, not being stroked or
primed myself, I became merely a cooperative observer. Staring ahead
at a sight no more scintillating than a patch of pillow, her earlobes,
and part of her tensing neck, I grew more and more distant.
The only thing keeping me involved was the surprisingly rapid ap-
proach of her orgasm. She panted, "Don't cum yet! Keep dickin' me!"
I pumped her steadily, keeping my shaft near what I thought was her
clit and flexing my cock to make it seem stiffer. I wanted at least
the pleasure of getting her there. The old bed jiggled. Finally I
was able to move slightly in and out, but staying deep the way I did
with Martha. She tensed, her groin pressing against mine, and she
whispered happily, "Yeah. Mmm. Yeah." I pumped patiently and soon
she was gasping and then she groaned, "Uhhh..." and her head fell
back. Her ankles slid around mine. Seconds later, she trembled and
hissed "Yeah!" and her head snapped stiffly forward. She whimpered a
few times and her nails dug into my back while she rapidly ground her
pubis against me for several seconds. Her writhing belly felt oddly
strong and demanding compared with the delicate softness of the rest
of her. I felt her navel circling roughly under mine. Somewhere
beyond the rubber I dimly felt her inner spasms. Then with a shudder
and a sigh she sank back like a limp string.
I stopped. Propping on my elbows, I watched her: she lay open-
mouthed, eyes shut, breathing deeply and exhaling in long tired sighs.
Her arms relaxed and fell from me, one flopping to her side and the
other draping itself around her head.
"Hey," she panted, "yer good...Y' know just how to do it."
"Glad you liked it."
"Yeah. Liked it a lot...I'm glad yew waited. I ain't cum good 'n
hard like that in a long time." She opened her yes. "Yew cum?"
"Sure," I lied.
"I couldn't tell. Yew must a cum when I did."
"Mm-hm." For a moment I held her and stroked her cheek, neck and
dark nipples, planting little kisses on her throat and her slim,
touchable shoulders. Her flesh was so soft it felt as if it would
dissolve under my lips. It wasn't that I liked her so much; it was
sympathy for a soft girl whose life was so barren that she could think
of what we had just done as being great sex. And more: I needed
someone to please, hold, and kiss.
Soon she squirmed nervously, her eyes filled with surprise and
mild reproach. "Hey, yew could make somebody fall in luv, doin' stuff
like that. Holdin' an' kissin'...'n stuff."
I moved off her. Swinging my legs out of the bed, I sat up with
my feet on the floor and my back to her. "Just felt like doin' it," I
muttered, defeated, looking down and seeing the empty rubber on me.
Out of her sight, I pulled it off and pitched it out the open window.
I started dressing. I didn't want to be there anymore.
She rolled onto her stomach, still clasping the sheet about her.
"Hey. Yew live 'round here?"
"No."
"Oh. Thought maybe I'd...see yew around sometime."
"It's...possible."
She started to speak again, but stopped. Her small face had
changed; it had a look of quiet contentment and a girlish almost-
smile. I was stooping to tie my shoes when she spoke again.
She said, "Maybe I wouldn't be so shy, next time. 'Specially with
yew. I always been kinda shy."
"Why? There's nothing wrong with you. You're pretty."
"Yeah, well...shy anyway...Yew look better'n I thought. Chrissie
said she seen yew around and yew wuz comin' with Charlie. Tole me
what y' look like. Sorta. Guess she hadn't seen y' close up."
I walked to the door and looked out. There was no one in the
hallway.
"How old 're yew?' she taunted, rocking shyly on her hips. "Sev-
enteen? Eighteen? I'm sixteen. Seventeen, come December. Early."
I looked back at her. Should I tell her I'd barely reached fif-
teen? I lied: "Seventeen." I noticed I was lying more often lately.
She said, her eyes teasing, "Yew don't talk much."
I smiled weakly. "I'm shy too. Don't usually talk that much."
"Yeah. Yew fuck real good, though." She blushed. "Yew ever hear
that song, 'Sweet 'n' Gentle'?" She smiled devilishly. Her teeth
were yellow, a lower one slightly chipped.
From downstairs I heard a door slam and then Charlie's heavy foot-
steps heading for the door. "Hey, Speedy! You up there? C'mon, we
gotta go!"
I told Karen, "I have to get back to work." I headed for the
stairs.
Behind me I heard her call out, "Yew know where t' find me.
Right?"
Charlie and I mounted our bikes. He lit a cigarette and started
forward. "Damn," he said, "that was a LOAD off my MIND!"
We rolled down the street.
Charlie said, "You ain't said nothin'. How was Karen?"
I shrugged. "It was okay."
"Okay? Damn. Just a little quickie, wha'd you expect?"
"It was okay. Nice."
"Never done her myself. Chrissie always tells me Karen's real
hot."
"Yeah," I said, trying to forget the whole thing, "she is."
Charlie wagged his head. "Damn, Speedy. I cain't figure you
out."
That night I arrived home around ten o'clock, as usual for a
Friday. Mom was asleep. I showered. Then I remembered Karen and
showered again. It might have been possible for me to like her. She
struck me as pretty, an oddly delicate but kinky combination. I
wondered if she had any diseases.
I dreamed of her. In a small speck of a longer dream, I was
lying on top of Martha and she was naked and she smiled at me, a calm,
sweet smile, and she was saying yes yes, but beside me, unseen, was
another woman whispering unintelligibly in my ear, and though I didn't
comprehend the words, the whispering voice was like Karen's. The
scene changed, and the dream went on, but I woke in the middle of the
night feeling creepy, giddy. The fragment of dream stuck in my head
for weeks, long after the rest of the dream had been forgotten. What
struck me as so odd about the whole thing was that I rarely thought of
Karen, and as far as I was aware, sex in my dreams was even rarer.
A few weeks later I saw Karen again on High Street as I was
rolling the empty bike through a cool breeze after a delivery. We
talked at curbside for a while. She wasn't much of a creative talker.
When I told her I was involved in the theater, she appeared blank, as
if she had no idea what I was talking about. But she shyly flirted
constantly with her eyes. We started walking toward the store and
when we were in front of the big old house where I'd met her a few
weeks earlier, she told me coyly, "Ain't nobody home in there."
I looked at her, and she gave me her rather obvious, heavy-lidded
look and after a minute of aimless talking she said, "Ain't nobody
there today. Chrissie's at work." She glanced toward the house, her
arms folded behind her, and then she looked down at the handlebars of
the bike I was sitting on and she touched a finger to the steel bar.
"Wanna go in? Ain't too busy at the store, are ya?"
We went upstairs, into the same bare room and the same stale bed.
It was the same as before. She stayed hidden under the sheet. But
this time she did undress, quickly, under the sheet, and I caught a
glimpse of her slim, long-legged, long-waisted body and her thick,
black patch that almost completely hid her pussy. And this time we
kissed first, and she did have a soft, pliant mouth and she said, "Mm.
Yew kiss nice." And she kept us covered by the sheet but she allowed
my hand to sneak downward, and I found she smelled cleaner this time,
and faintly I sensed bath powder on her. Her clit was easy to find, a
thick, slick lump of pliant flesh in her small slit. I started giving
her clit easy, two-fingered circles. Her scent rose, more fragrant
now, delicate. She grew breathless quickly, allowing herself a
pleasurable smile as she murmured, "Ew. Yew sure know what yer
doin', don'tcha? Mm. 'Zactly what yer doin'. Ssss! Lord!" Her
clit firmed quickly, and she was soon squinting, gasping, her fingers
tight on my shoulder. She rolled me onto her hurriedly, raising her
knees, and she slipped the rubber on me. The enclosing sheath felt
good, especially since I hadn't given myself an orgasm in a while,
and my eyes closed with the pleasure of her long fingers on me.
She watched my face, frowning, aiming me into her, "Hope yew ain't
in no real big hurry, are ya?" I shook my head no and she fixed her
eyes on mine anxiously, wiping her slit with tip of the rubber to wet
it, and said, almost apologetically, "Good. I kinda need to cum.
Don't get to that often..." I started into her and she closed her
eyes and drew her knees back at her sides. I slid all the way in and
she let out a long breath, and in the rubber I felt her grip me. She
let her head rest into her pillow, and I started fucking.
It was the same as before. She went through her usual, nervous
struggle, wordless but making lots of small noises, leaving me behind
while she stiffened with a long, tense orgasm. As before, the rubber
stopped me; I felt that I might, just might, cum that way. But I
didn't want to. I wanted flesh around mine when I came. When she
finished I kissed her shoulders and neck, tentatively, expecting her
to protest as before. But she lay limp, unresisting, gasping for air.
I pulled out of her, trying to hide the empty rubber from her, but
when she saw it she asked, "I do somethin' wrong? Yew didn't like
me?"
I told her, "Sure I do. You're pretty. You're very pretty." And
it was true; she had an unusual face, her nose a little too small, but
she was a nice looking, willowy, dark eyed girl. She reminded me of a
small, frightened, wild animal. But she was pretty, in a sleazy kind
of way.
I told her it was okay in bed, but that I had hurt my back on the
delivery bike and got tired too soon.
She said, "I c'n get on top, if y' want."
I didn't want to use a rubber. I said, "No, it takes me a while
to cum that way, I have to get back soon." I considered her mouth,
but I remembered her dingy teeth. I looked down at her hands. "You
have nice hands, though."
"Yeah?" She raised a hand to my cock. "Mean, this way? I'm
purty good at it." I nodded. She pulled off the empty rubber.
She had me lie on the bed face up while she sat beside me, her
lower body still covered with the sheet. She jacked me off, clumsy
but efficient, her little dark-nippled breasts jiggling. It took a
moment for me to get fully erect again, and along the way she said
casually as her hand moved up and down, "Yer dick looks nice." When
I looked at her she smiled bashfully and said, "It does." She gave an
embarrassed laugh and said, "Guess I sound stupid, sayin' that."
I said, "No. You're making it feel good."
"Yeah?" She glanced at me with that nearly inexpressive but
somehow engaging face. "Feels all right?"
I nodded yes. Her fingers were long, warm, and gentle. It wasn't
Martha, but at least I felt I'd climax soon.
She gazed dully at my cock as she worked and said with a shrug, "I
like doin' it. Do it when there ain't no rubber around. M' brother
taught me. I didn't never do it with 'im, he showed me and I watched.
But he don't have a nice one like yers." At least she knew how to let
her hand glide loosely and to skim the glans with the upstroke. She
watched my cock, pumping steadily, speeding up as I got closer and
saying with no excitement at all, "Yep. Gittin' there." With the
first thick slurp she slowed and breathed, "Yep." I grunted,
squirting hard and high, and she whispered, "Yeah. Cummin' good."
We dressed together, and I caught her staring at me while I sat on
the bed lacing my shoes. She grinned -- a small, weak grin that
occurred more in her eyes than across her mouth, and said, "Yer good."
I said, "I didn't do much."
"Well...yew got me there. Agin" Her twang made "again" sound
like "agin". "'At's the second time yew done that." Her eyes
twinkled. "Made me shaky in the legs."
As I moved to leave the room she sat on the bed fully dressed and
took a comb out of her purse and combed her long hair. We mentioned
something about meeting her later, maybe next Saturday. But I avoided
her, saying I wasn't sure I'd be able to get the time off. She said
it was okay, she'd be around. She said, timidly, her eyes looking
away, "Maybe we could go somewheres. Sometime. Talk a little bit.
If yew like to."
I stood by the door. I said ambiguously, "Sure. All right."
She drew the comb through her hair, her eyes glancing fleetingly
at mine, and she looked toward the undraped window. She said, "I
mean, not just talk. Yew know. Not just that."
I said again, politely, clumsily making my way out the door, "All
right."
I left and walked downstairs, climbed on the bike, and rolled
downhill. My balls felt empty, but the rest of me felt a nervous
longing and a sense of waste. There had been a few flirtations over
those many months since Martha had left; none of them went as far as
Karen. The interlude with her was oddly fulfilling, but in an incom-
plete way that had me feeling as though sex with her was in some way
perverse and demeaning. Other than the odd, discomfiting pity I felt
for her, it was entirely, exclusively sexual, and I somehow felt that
I'd just had sex with a prostitute. And I wondered: If she wanted to
talk, what the hell would we talk about?
I began avoiding High Street, finding other paths to and from
the store.
Just after my fifteenth birthday, I arrived home from school and
found a large, brown-paper Parcel Post package on my bed. The return
address was East 87th Street in New York. Quickly, I unwrapped and
opened the heavy box.
It was a brand new Underwood portable typewriter.
Taped to the instruction manual was a birthday card. Martha had
signed it. Under her name were three or four x's and a message:
"Call me 'Collect' on your birthday."
Continued. . .
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