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From: Mmtwassel@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel: The Sarabande and the Six Iron (teens golf) RP
Date: Sun, 16 Jun 2002 20:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Saraband.txt" begin>

In celebration of the final round of the U.S. Open Golf 
Championship, I am reposting a few of my "golf" stories. 
These are "The Open," which was written for the Dulcinea 
Romance Festival of 2001, "The Sarabande and Six Iron," 
and "The Orange Dress," which first appeared in Mark 
Aster's Journal of Desire.  I am also posting a new 
story, "Mashie, Niblick, Spoon, Cleek," which is soon to 
appear as one of the days in Mat Twassel's Calendar 
http://calendar.atEROS.com   Sex excepted, there is no 
activity I prefer to golf.  These stories feature golf 
and sex. Go, Tiger!

For more stories and photographs take a look at my web 
page  http://members.aol.com/mmtwassel/ and visit my 
calendar at http://calendar.atEROS.com


The Sarabande and the Six Iron 
by Mat Twassel
===============================

You can't practice piano forever. Sometimes you have to pee. 

Tammy sat on the toilet looking out the window. At the rear 
of the second-floor apartment, the window allowed a good 
view of the alley. Angled across the way, Mrs. Fletcher's 
black and white cat sprawled on its belly in a thin strip of 
sunlight. Afternoon was turning to late afternoon, but the 
mid-summer sun, still high, came down hard on Daddy's beans 
and squash and melons. 

Tammy finished her pee and sighed and wiped and looked down 
at her just-coming-in puff of pubic fleece, fine and blonde 
and barely there. Tentatively, she pushed her middle finger 
into the fold. Maybe this time I'll be brave enough, she 
thought. Her friend Marissa had told her that it was like 
standing up on fallen-asleep feet, only more concentrated 
and all-at-once... suddenly inside-out and everywhere. "You 
mean like a shock," Tammy had asked. "Yeah, only smoother," 
Marissa had answered. "But where do I ... touch?" Tammy 
wanted to know. "Wherever it feels good," Marissa said, 
"Inside, out, top, bottom.... The important thing is to keep 
doing it... until it happens." 

So far this summer Tammy had always stopped short. She'd 
found plenty of feel-good places. Sometimes she wished there 
were just one right spot. So she'd know she had it. The bump 
was getting hard. That was the best, right above, or below, 
or just to the side, with pressure and wiggling and... A 
word popped into her mind: wibble-wobble. It made her laugh, 
and she lost her concentration. 

The cat had its eye on a robin. Hop hop hop, went the robin. 
The cat waited. Tammy slipped her forefinger into the crease 
as she watched the cat. She wasn't sure if she wanted the 
cat to catch the bird. One bite and that bird' be dead. 
Tammy didn't know if she could watch. She moved her finger 
faster, firmer. I could cry out, she thought; I could warn 
the bird. But somehow Tammy knew she wouldn't be able to 
make a sound. Hop hop, went the robin. Two steps closer to 
the cat. 

Tammy put her other hand on her breast. Left hand on right 
breast feeling the flesh through the cotton shirt, the pad 
of her thumb on top, pressing down, the little finger curled 
up, touching the puffed nipple flesh from below. Tammy 
wasn't aware she was doing this. Her breasts were small, 
barely enough to bulge her red and white striped tee. 
Meanwhile the tip of her right forefinger tickled her tiny 
pee place. 

And then a little lower, into the slim damp hole, and then 
up, up to the tiny knot of clit. Tammy shivered and looked 
down, and started moving her girl-thin thighs apart, 
together, apart, together... 




The building shook. Oh God, Tammy thought. The sunny screech 
sheared airward, as if the hugest hawk had taken the lamb, 
the bunny, and the baby, leaving only a few short shivers, a 
long silver shadow, and the ground's thrumming murmur. 

But the ground wasn't there. Where am I? Tammy wondered. A 
gray, dirty as fog, but firmer, blocked the view, all but 
the uppermost. Pale blue there. A hot high sky. Tammy 
reached out the open window and touched the warm metal. She 
leaned out.  The side of a truck. A big one. Only inches 
from the building. "Ho," she said. 

Down and to her left was the cab roof, dull and red, and in 
the cab's window a boy was looking up at her. He had thin 
arms and a thin face and his skin was as shiny and black as 
she had ever seen, black and shiny as her patent leather 
pumps which she wore only for recitals. The boy had woolly 
black hair, not too long, with a curly tuft sticking up 
right in front. "Ho," she said. 

The boy was grinning foolishly. "I'm stuck," he said. 

"I can see that," Tammy said. "This alley's not made for 
trucks. Not of that size, anyway. What are you doing here?" 

"Trying to get to the 'spressway?" the boy said, a narrow 
crack to his voice. He shrugged, and from the top Tammy 
noticed his thin shoulders. 

"This isn't the way to the expressway," Tammy said. "Why'd 
you turn in here?" 

"Out there on the street, I saw this sign saying no trucks," 
the boy said. "So I turned quick onto the next street.  Only 
there the sign be saying one way... the other way. So I 
steered in here. Got stuck." 

"I see," Tammy said. "Why don't you just back out?" 

"I ain't too good with reverse," the boy said. "I tend to 
jerk." 

"Ah," Tammy said. "Did you steal that truck? You seem kind 
of little to be driving something that big." 

"Oh no," the boy said. "I ain't stealed it. It's my uncle's. 
He's supposed to make the trip to Omaha. But he got a bad 
fever. I've drove it before with him. Lots. We figured I 
could do it alone ok." 

"Well, first you'd better get unstuck," Tammy said. "Can't 
you just creep forward?" 

"It screeches god-awful," the boy said. "I'm afraid I'll rip 
down the building." 

"Actually you're clear on this side," Tammy told him.  
"You're touching the bricks, but it don't look like you're 
snagged. Can you see the other side in your mirror?" 

"No ma'am," the boy said. "The mirror's all bent. I can't 
open the door up on neither side." 

"Well, just a second," Tammy said, "I bet if I climbed up on 
the window sill I could get up on your roof and check things 
out." Tammy was about to hoist herself up when she 
remembered her shorts and panties were still around her 
ankles. "Oops," she said. 

"What?" said the boy. 

"Nothing," Tammy answered, pulling up her clothes. "I'm 
going to climb up. Don't go anywheres." The truck was less 
than a foot from the bathroom window, and Tammy wasn't 
worried about falling. From the window sill she eased 
herself up, gripped the roof of the truck, and then swung 
her leg over the top. In a moment she was on the roof. Hot. 

"God it's blistering up here," she said. "Ow ow ow." She 
pulled down her shorts and stood on them. There was nothing 
else to do. The truck top was a desert of dust. Bet no one's 
ever been up here before, Tammy thought. She surveyed the 
expanse of truck roof. "I see what the problem is," Tammy 
reported a moment later. "You've caught Mrs. Fletcher's 
cactus box." Tammy wasn't sure if the boy could hear her. 
Cautiously, using her shorts as a moveable mat, she shuffled 
her way across the roof. The cactus box was in bad shape. 
Tammy squatted over it to inspect the damage.  The plants 
themselves were jumbled about in their clay pots, upended, 
nearly rootless. The box was badly skewed, resting on the 
roof, pinned to Mrs. Fletcher's window ledge by a single 
nail through a flimsy strip of weathered canvas strapping. 
Tammy yanked. The fabric began to give. Suddenly the nail 
popped. Easy as pie, Tammy said to herself. She set the 
debris on the roof and peered over the far edge. Snug, but 
nothing touching. Tammy was about to begin working her way 
back across the truck when she noticed something. Lettering 
faint but legible. Fingered in the dust were the words: 

     Milton Cumbee
     is a pussyboy! 

Tammy mopped her way back to the driver's side. "I think 
you're free now," she called down. "Can you just pull ahead, 
slowly?" 

"If I jerk you'll go flying," the boy said. "Maybe you'd 
better..." 

"I'll be all right," Tammy said. "I've had gymnastics.  I'll 
just go to the middle and squat real low." 

The truck lurched forward. Even expecting it, Tammy couldn't 
withstand the jolt. She found herself sitting on the hot 
metal. "Eeeee," she squealed, feeling the shrill heat 
against her bottom. Quickly she stood, leaning into the 
truck's slow motion, pinching the fabric of her panties, and 
tugging it away from her bottom, as if that would ease the 
pain. For a moment Tammy considered jumping over the side, a 
fifteen foot drop, maybe twenty. "Stop," she yelled. "Stop 
the truck." 

Jolted a second time, Tammy quickly recovered into a crouch. 
"Ok, I'm coming down," she said. But now the truck, well 
away from the walls, idled where the alley had opened up. 
"What am I going to do?" she called to the driver. He seemed 
puzzled by the problem. Leaving her dirtied shorts on the 
trailer roof, Tammy hopped onto the cab roof, her bare feet 
thumping the dull metal. Not a degree cooler. Without 
consciously deciding it, Tammy tromped across the roof, 
rolled onto her belly, and slipped her feet over the side. 
"Catch me," she yelled, and she felt the boy's hands on her 
legs, and then her hips, and then her back, as she slithered 
through the cab window and onto his lap. 

"Yow," she said, "It's so hot up there. Don't you ever dust? 
I swear I'm near branded." 

She got out of the boy's arms and sat on the seat beside 
him. 

"Well," she said, "What are we waiting for? Put her in gear 
and let's go." She blew on her palms. 

"Go?" he said. 

"You'll never get to Omaha if I don't show you where the 
spressway is. Out the alley and turn right." 




They were thundering down the Interstate. Tammy had never 
ridden up so high. She was just beginning to get used to the 
rolling rhythms, the steady bounce, the crazy consistent hum 
of the hot leather seat. It was relaxing. More than 
relaxing, actually. Tammy felt a pleasant tingle. The slow 
seep of excitement. Every now and then the boy would look 
over at her. How could he help but notice the tight points 
of her nipples? 

"You sure you're old enough to drive this thing?" 

"I'm old enough. Been sixteen for more 'n a month." 

"Sixteen," Tammy said. "Why I'm almost sixteen. You can't 
get a truck license at sixteen." 

"Truck license?" the boy said. 

"What if you get pulled over?" 

"Pulled over?" 

"You know, by the cops." 

"Why'd they want to pull me over for?" 

"Ho!" Tammy exclaimed. "And what about the weigh stations?" 

"What about 'em?" 

"Ok, have it your way. Just drive." 

"What you think I'm doing?" 

"It worries me when you take your eyes off the road." 




Tammy watched the scenery for awhile. It was flat. 

"In case you're wondering," Tammy said, "I don't always go 
around without any pants." 

"How come?" the boy said. 

"How come what?" Tammy said. 

"How come you're not wearing any pants?" 

"I left them on the top of your silly truck," Tammy said. 
"With Mrs. Fletcher's wrecked cactus. They're probably baked 
to death right now." 

"Why'd you leave them up there?" 

"I'd've burnt my feet," Tammy said. "Anyway the pants are 
ruined. Caked with dirt and grime." 

"Huh?" said the boy. 

"Nothing," said Tammy. 

"I'm sorry about your pants," the boy said. 

"That's ok," Tammy said.  

"If I had any extra I'd give 'em to you." 

"It's cooler this way," Tammy said. "You don't mind, do 
you?" 

"I don't mind," the boy said, "Cept what happens when you 
have to go out?" 

"Good point," Tammy said. She stretched, letting the truck's 
rattle roll through her body. The sun was low now, hot and 
hard, and when she squinted, frazzles of red fire winked and 
sizzled against her eyes. 




In Iowa she reached for the radio. 

"It's broke," the boy said. 

"Broke," Tammy exclaimed. "How can you go driving in the 
country without tunes?" 

"Well, I can," the boy said. "I don't like music." 

"How can you not like music?" 

"I don't know... I just don't. It's just a waste of time.  
It gets in the way of your thoughts." 

"It doesn't get in the way of MY thoughts." 

"I meant my thoughts." 

"I know. What kind of thoughts?" 

The boy was silent for awhile. "I don't know," he said. "I 
mean I can't tell you. I have them, but I can't tell you 
about them." 

"Why, are they secret?" Tammy asked. "Are they sex 
thoughts?" 

"More 'n that," the boy said. 

"More than sex thoughts. Ho, what could be more than sex 
thoughts?" 

"I don't know," the boy said. "Truth, beauty, the way the 
world should be." 

"Ho," Tammy said. "Sounds like sex thoughts to me.  
Actually, you know what it sounds like?" 

"What?" the boy asked. 

"Music!" 

The boy laughed. 

"You sure this radio's broke? You sure you just don't want 
me to turn it on because I might hear about you on the news.  
'Authorities are still on the lookout for Milton Cumbee.  
The 16 year old black youth is wanted for murder, rape, and 
driving a truck without a license. The boy was last seen 
kidnapping the beautiful and talented young Tammy Jondelle 
from her southside apartment where she's lived all of her 
fifteen years in sweet and perfect peace, tranquillity, and 
innocence. If you spot Milton Cumbee, watch out, he's 
dangerous, he has thoughts, and he don't like music." 

"Hey," Milton said, "How come you know my name?" 

"It was on the radio." 

"It was?" 

"Yeah, just now." 

Milton was quiet for a time. 

"Are you having your thoughts?" Tammy asked. 

"I didn't ask you to come along, you know." 

"I know," Tammy said. "Thank you for the ride." 

A couple of miles down the road Milton said, "I'd tell you 
my thoughts. I'd tell you, but I'm just not a very good 
talker. About stuff like that." 

"Stuff like what?" Tammy said. 

"Personal stuff," Milton said. 

"Then what are you good at?" Tammy asked. 

Milton didn't say anything. 

"I'm good at just about everything," Tammy said. "It true, 
I'm not just bragging. I'm good at getting good grades. I'm 
good at tennis and ping pong and swimming and gymnastics.  
I'm good at music. And I have good parents and a good home, 
and good friends. Let's face it, plain and simple I'm a damn 
good girl. What are you good at?" 

Milton didn't say anything. 

"Ok, let's do this the other way around. What are you bad 
at? You're bad at backing up, we know that. What else?" 

"If you're so good at everything and all, what are you doing 
here with me?" 

Tammy thought for a moment. "That's a good question," she 
said. "Hey, Milton, we've found something you're good at: 
asking questions! Ask me another one." 

"Aren't you going to answer the first one?" 

"Another good question. And a fair one. Let's see... I was 
locked out of my house with hardly any clothing on. I've 
always wanted to go to Omaha. I've always wanted to ride in 
a big truck. I've always wanted to talk to a black person.  
I've... I don't know. The real answer is I don't know." 

"You never talked to a black person before?" 

"Not really talked." 

"There aren't none in your school?" 

"Nope, not a one. No boys, either, for what that's worth.  
Course, I've seen black people before. All over the place.  
But never anyone as black as you." 

The setting sun roared through the window. Milton adjusted 
the visor. 

"Don't you have any shades?" Tammy asked. 

"Shades?" Milton said. 

"You know, sunglasses. I thought all black dudes had 
sunglasses?" 

"Nope," Milton said. "They don't. And anyways I can see just 
fine." 

"With your eyes squinted like that?" 

"Yup, just fine. I've got the feel of the road." 

"Just so you don't run into anything." 

"Don't worry, I won't." 

"You do drive good, you know." 

"Thanks," Milton said. He was smiling. Smiling and 
squinting. 




"That was a nice sunset," Tammy said later, when there was 
only the slimmest lick of pink left in the horizon. 

"I guess," Milton said. "I didn't really notice." 

"How could you not notice? You, who like truth and beauty so 
much?" 

"Well, I had to watch the road," Milton said. "You done told 
me not to run into anything. You said watch the road." 

"Oh, right," Tammy said. "But if I were you I would have 
peeked. You don't get a sunset like that every day. For all 
we know, that was the last one." 

"The road's beautiful, too," Milton said. 

"Where do you suppose it is right now? Over Omaha? Over 
California? Over the ocean? The rainbow?" 

"The road?" Milton said. 

"The sunset, silly," Tammy said. "Somewhere people are still 
mopping their brow and saying 'Whew, sure is a hot one 
today.'" 

"I don't know," Milton said. "Isn't it enough to be where 
you are?" 

"You're right," Tammy said. "I shouldn't be so greedy. So 
tell me, what's beautiful besides the road?" 

"I don't know," Milton said. "Lot's of things. What's 
beautiful to you... beside sunsets." 

Tammy thought for a minute. "The most beautiful thing I ever 
seen," she started. "My daddy's face. The expression of it. 
We were at the shopping mall, my daddy and me. I was about 
five years old and we were buying a present for Mommy's 
birthday. That's why she wasn't along. It was a big mall, 
crowded with shops and people. I'd been there before, and 
the excitement of it always thrilled me. What I liked best 
was the penny pond. It had real goldfish swimming in clear 
water, and a little fountain gurgling in the center, and 
those goldfish darting and gliding and just setting there 
over the soft glint of all those shiny coins.  That's what I 
wanted to see, so I set off, and I found the fountain, I 
found the penny pool, and I watched those fish gliding and 
darting and drifting and just staying still. I watched them 
for a good long time. And suddenly I wondered where my daddy 
was. I wanted him to see the fish, too. I looked up, and 
there he was, coming towards me, but I didn't think he saw 
me. I waved. I saw him smile as he caught sight of me. His 
face was so happy and loving. I could tell he loved me so 
much, maybe more than anything. 'The fish,' I started to 
say. But before I could blurt it out, he'd set me over his 
knee and slung my little dress up and yanked my underwear 
down and walloped me, once, so very hard, right smack on my 
bare butt. Ho! He'd never spanked me before.  The hurt 
was... I don't know... paralyzing. Unbelievable.  Other kids 
got spanked, I knew that, but never me. I'd always been a 
good girl. Perfect. And now this. And in public. 'Don't you 
ever ever run away again,' my daddy said. Then he stood me 
up. I could barely stand. It was like I had been put to 
sleep with shock and shame." 

"Did you cry?" 

"Probably. I don't remember." 

"Did your daddy ever hit you after that?" 

"Nope. He never did. And he won't ever again. Last winter he 
ran away. With one of his students. I saw her once, and 
she's not even as pretty as Mom." 

"Oh," Milton said. "Well, I never even knew my daddy." 

"Did he run off?" Tammy asked. 

"Maybe," Milton said. "Or maybe he was just killed 
somewhere. I've lived with my uncle and aunt since before I 
can remember. They're... say, didn't you say you had a good 
family? Good parents, or something like that?" 

"Maybe I'm just a good liar," Tammy said. 

"Well, I don't believe in lies," Milton said. 

"You're so funny," Tammy said. 

"At least you remember something about your daddy, even if 
it's him hitting you." 

"It wasn't just that," Tammy said. 

"And maybe he'll come back," Milton said. 

"Why should he?" 

"Well, there's you." 

"Yeah, right. Me." 

"What else do you think was beautiful?" Milton asked. 

"The heron," Tammy said. "We went to Florida last summer, a 
vacation, and we stayed at this place near a marsh. There 
was this kid at the unit next door, Chris. He was about my 
age. Sometimes we'd go for walks along the road through the 
marsh. One time we were standing on this little bridge, and 
nearly below us was this incredibly white bird. A heron, I 
think. It just stood there in the sun, so still and tall, 
the brightest whitest white you can imagine, a pure gleaming 
white. Alive! But like a painting or a story or something 
you just imagine, something which couldn't be true. And it 
didn't move, this heron, not the tiniest tremor. Then I saw 
a black water snake, not a very big one, maybe a foot long, 
rippling through the water, coming towards the heron. The 
heron just stood there. For a moment I thought the snake was 
going to get the bird, bite it or something. But it was the 
other way around. Quicker than a blink the bird snatched the 
snake. For a moment the snake was wiggling, curling and 
twisting and struggling in the bird's mouth, and then the 
bird flipped the snake up, and got him head first, and 
simply swallowed him down in three or four jerking gulps." 

"You thought that was beautiful?" 

"Ho, it was. In a strange way. I thought about it a lot-- 
the bird swallowing the snake. A few days later Chris and I 
were walking in the evening. We came to that little bridge.  
We stood there for awhile. Chris tried to kiss me. I 
wouldn't let him. Now you." 

"Now me?" 

"Now you tell me something beautiful." 

"I already told you I'm not much good at this." 

"OK. If you don't want to. OK." 

"This ride, this ride is beautiful," Milton said. He slapped 
his hand on the top of the big wheel. "With you being here, 
talking, telling me stuff, or just sitting there, just 
sitting there so calm in that bitty little shirt that don't 
barely cover your belly button, not even caring, not even 
caring that those little underwears are so thin I can see 
your dent." 

"My dent?" Tammy said softly. "My dent? Have you been 
peeking at my dent? Ho! And all this time I thought I could 
trust you to watch the road. Truckdrivers! Is that what you 
call it? Dent? You think I should take myself to a body 
shop, get my dent pounded out?" 

"No, I just... I just think you're beautiful, is all." 

"Even though I got a dent?" 

"Even though," Milton said. 

"I'm glad," Tammy said. "I'm glad you like my dent." 

"Well, it's too dark to see it now," Milton said, and then, 
shyly, "I'm sorry." 

"That's ok," Tammy said. They drove on through the dark, 
looking at each other from time to time, but not saying 
anything. 




"You can't drive forever," Milton said. "Sometimes you got 
to pee." 

"Right," Tammy said, "But how come we're parked way back 
here?" 

"I don't know," Milton said. "Privacy? Room to ... what'cha 
call it... man...?" 

"Maneuver?" 

"Right! Room to maneuver." 

"Well there sure is that," Tammy said. "It looks like a 
country mile to the potty house." 

"I thought maybe we could go in the weeds." 

"It's awfully dark," Tammy said. 

"I could turn on the lights," Milton said. 

"Dark is fine," Tammy allowed. "Look, there's a little moon.  
That should be enough." 

One at a time they made their trips. 

"Were you listening," Tammy asked. 

"I just heard the crickets," Milton said. 

"That's what you sounded like, too," Tammy said. 

They looked up at the shy moon. 

"Now what?" Tammy said. 

"I guess I should check out the load," Milton said. 

They walked to the back of the truck. 

"It rolls up," Milton said. 

"Well, then roll it up," Tammy said. 

"I've never actually rolled it up by myself before." 

"Is it hard?" 

Suddenly the door was rolling up. 

"Ooh," Tammy said. "Sounds like the subway." 

"Yeah, now there's a lift--if I pull this lever the gate 
will come down. Watch out." Milton worked the lift. Tammy 
watched. The gate came down. Milton stopped it a foot or so 
off the ground. 

"Want to ride up?" he asked. 

"Sure," she said. 

They hopped on and rode up. 

"This is neat," Tammy said. 

"It's not very fast," Milton said. 

"Not everything has to be fast," Tammy said. "To be good." 

"I guess not," Milton said. 

"You like fast things, huh?" Tammy said. 

"Sometimes," Milton said. 

The gate clanked into place at the top. 

Tammy and Milton looked out across the dark fields. Clouds 
whispered to the slim moon. Tammy and Milton could hear the 
thrum of a few dozen idling diesels a hundred yards behind 
them. The crickets had a higher pitch, and seemed nearer. 

Tammy stepped into the back of the truck. "It sure is dark 
in here," she said. "Is there a light?" 

"I don't think so," Milton said. 

"How're you going to check the load then?" 

"There ain't much load," Milton said. "Just a piano and some 
golf stuff. My uncle tied up the piano pretty good. I just 
wanted to make sure it hadn't broken loose." 

Tammy took a few more steps into the truck. She tripped.  
"Ho," she said. 

"What?" Milton said. 

"A dead body, I think," Tammy said. 

Milton helped Tammy to her feet. He laughed. "That's just 
the golf bag," he told her. 

"Seems strange to put a golf bag alone in the back of a 
truck with a piano," Tammy said. "How come your uncle didn't 
tie up the golf bag?" 

"Huh?" Milton said. 

Tammy laughed. Her laughter bounced around in the back of 
the dark truck. 

"It's creepier than I thought it'd be back here," Tammy 
said. "Like a cave." 

"Yeah," Milton said. 

Tammy heard the sound of a zipper. 

"What's that?" she whispered, shivering a little. 

"I'm just checking if there're any balls," Milton said. 

"Oh," Tammy said. "Are there?" 

"A couple." 

"Is that enough?" 

Milton laughed. "I suppose," he said. "It ain't like I'm 
gonna play eighteen holes." 

"Do you play golf?" Tammy asked. 

"Not really," Milton said. "Could you hold this a minute?"  
He put something in Tammy's hand. A golf ball. It was hard 
and round and not as smooth or heavy as Tammy had supposed 
it would be. 

"I've never held a golf ball before," she told Milton. 

"They say there's a first time for everything," Milton said.  
Tammy watched Milton's silhouette kneeling at the golf bag. 
"Ah, the six iron," Milton said. "This should do it." 

"Do what?" Tammy dared ask.  

Milton was swinging the golf club like it was a baseball 
bat, back and forth, back and forth. Gradually he brought 
the clubhead closer to the floor of the truck. He swung with 
more force. His swing whistled. 

"I need my ball back now," Milton said. 

"Where're you going to hit it?" Tammy asked. She stepped 
back. Milton carefully placed the ball on the truck's wooden 
floor about a foot in front of the steel gate. 

"I don't know," Milton said. "Out there... somewhere.  
Watch." Fresh moonlight gleamed upon the silver shaft of 
Milton's swing. A simple click, sharp and snug. The ball 
shot, swerved upwards, then disappeared altogether. 

They stood there for awhile. "That was wonderful," Tammy 
said. 

"It was good, wasn't it?" Milton said. 

"It made me shiver," Tammy said. 

The crickets had stopped, and the night seemed wide and slim 
at once, closer than before. Moonlight traveled Milton's 
long arm. Tammy watched. 

"How come you picked the six iron?" she whispered. 

"I have a six iron at home," he replied softly. "My uncle 
used to caddie sometimes. The guy whose clubs these are got 
mad at something once and bent his six iron near to 
breaking, then he give it to my uncle and my uncle 
straightened it out and give it to me. I've swung that six 
iron at least a million times. Never hit a real golf ball 
before though." 

"Do you want to hit another one?" 

"Someday," Milton said. "But not right now." 

Milton eased the six iron back in the golf bag. "You want to 
see if the piano's ok?" Tammy asked him. 

"The ropes ain't broke," Milton said. 

Tammy was already inching her way deeper into the back of 
the truck. Soon she came to the piano, a full-sized grand, 
angled across the truck's width, wedged in, sides bumpered 
by thick pads, legs wrapped with more padding, bound by 
thick rough rope which was heavily knotted to smooth newel 
posts. It took some feeling for Tammy to figure this all 
out. 

"Whatcha doing?" Milton called. 

"I can't get by... I have to go under," Tammy said. But the 
way was blocked by rolls of padding. "More dead bodies," she 
giggled to Milton. She crawled over them. "Some are soft and 
some are scratchy, how come?" 

"I dunno," Milton said, "I dunno if you should fool with 
that stuff..." 

"Good news," Tammy called. "The cover's not locked. But bad 
news: no bench, at least none that I can see. I can't play 
standing up. I'm no Tori Amos." 

"What's that?" Milton said. "You need help?" 

"No, I'll sit on some of these dead bodies." With a couple 
of grunts, Tammy dragged out a pair of the padding rolls, 
wrestled a third one on top of the other two, and now she 
had a perch. It was a little low, but not impossible. She 
peered over the top of the piano. Milton stood in the 
opening at the back of the truck swinging an invisible six 
iron at the sickle of moon. 

"You want to hit another one, don't you," Tammy said. "Go 
ahead, I'll wait." 

"Naw, really," Milton said. "I don't. I want to hear you 
play. Play, if you want to, ok? Play, and then we can get 
going." He sat down on the end of the gate and stared out at 
the night. 

Tammy played. 

When she was done, Milton hadn't moved. She watched him for 
awhile. Then she scooted back under the piano, walked up 
behind him. "Are you ok?" 

He turned his head to look at her. For awhile he didn't say 
anything.  

"Was I shitty?" Tammy said. 

"You were beautiful," Milton said. His tears gleamed with 
moonlight. "That was... I don't know... I've never felt like 
I was inside the music before. What was that slow part in 
the middle?" 

"The Sarabande," Tammy said, taking Milton's hand. 

"The Sarabande," Milton repeated. "I liked the fast stuff at 
the beginning and the end, but the Sarabande... it made me 
cry. I'm still crying. Ho, I'm still hearing it." 

"Dance?" Tammy said. 

"I'm not a good dancer," Milton said. 

"Sure you are," Tammy said. 

Milton and Tammy held each other in the back of the truck. 
"You are good," Tammy breathed. "Oh so good." They danced 
the Sarabande, they danced slow and sweet and swollen, and 
as they danced, the thrum of diesels died away, the 
crickets' chirp resumed, only to disappear again, and the 
clouds, wispy as nylons, wrapped themselves around the 
curved moon's palest skin. 

==============================
The Sarabande and the Six Iron
by Mat Twassel



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