He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.
Part 3 — The Cool of Night
Chapter 6
On Saturday, the day of Patrick’s eighteenth birthday party Barbara came early to pick him up to give Greta and his aunt time to prepare for the party. The day had been long in preparation and short on the details given to Edith. All for a very good reason of course, because this was not to be just another day of sessions at her homeopathic clinic. Nope, she had more important things to do now that he was ready, or almost so. Today it was a trip to the beauty pallor. A quaint little place across the street from the Puss n’ Poodle, and afterward, it would be Patty’s introduction to the club, all the lovelies and soon to be playmates.
After a brief stop at Ms. Stanton’s for some pretty dress-up it was off to Las Oasis, “where the party never dies.” It wasn’t the first time Patrick had been there, though never had he driven down casino row. Even at this early hour the neon light façades and gigantic billboard signs glowed nearly as bright as the morning sun, overwhelming old and the young alike, and most of all young Patrick Whipple. Barbara could see it on his awestruck face as they drove past one club after another until coming to a stop in front of Rosie’s Gurl’s n’Curl’s Salon. Across the street was the flashing neon façade that fronted Puss n’ Poodle. One of the last of the old town lounges still standing as the giant casinos sprout up like wild flowers all around it.
Though a relatively small façade compared to the two behemoth casinos it was sandwiched between it lacked nothing in terms of glitz and glitter. Standing beneath a fluorescent, cotton candy pink canopy, stood a doorman dressed in a black tuxedo. About the canopy a 20’ tall neon sign that featured a trio of high kicking Can-Can girl’s, ruffling their skirts then bending over to show their knickers before looping round to begin the sequence again. “Come along Pretty Patty, you’ve an appointment and we wouldn’t want to keep Rosie waiting.”
If you were looking to see the same Patrick we all have come to know and love sashay his way out of that Mercedes then I’m afraid you’ve sadly underestimated the power of Homeopathy and the skills of Barbara Stanton — one clever Marketer. No matter what you might think of her, or her bastardization of an honorable profession, she can’t be accused of not affecting results.
Oh, I hear the “hissing” and the “boo’s.” You’re thinking I’ve giving credit where credit isn’t due, that Barbara Stanton was just a shyster, a charlatan or worse, a criminal. And of course, you’d be right! There’s no defense of the woman, but then there wasn’t a just defense for Rasputin either yet we still admired his evil genius. After all, she was just a free market opportunist, in hyper-drive perhaps, but just someone taking advantage of her position in a marketplace where scruples and a conscious will get you trampled by the herd in a minute. It takes genius, evil or otherwise, to stay ahead of that ruthless pack, and that one-of-a-kind quality product she escorted to the front door of Rosie’s salon was exactly the kind of innovative thinking that was going to keep her top of the class.
Well, you’d have to see him to understand why I am quick to give Barbara her due. She had done her job well. Perhaps not as she had promised him, but it wasn’t a meager boy suffering a “lingering malaise” she escorted inside Rosie’s sanctuary of girlie-dom. Wearing but a whiff of a skirt short enough to show a bit of white silk panty beneath, he looked very much like a saucily dressed teen aiming to tease the senses. You might even call him provocative when you take into account the clutch purse dangling from his wrist and the one pearl earring he now wore. Barbara’s trademark! The mark that focused all eyes on him was the oddity of his mismatched, slick, Vitalis laden hair.
Ah, but only if that was all there was to him. Because when you throw in gartered white lace stockings, 4” stiletto heels and a white silk blouse sheer enough to see the flower rosettes stitched into the fabric of his new bra, you have the picture of quite a healthy boy — or girl — or some androgynous creature in between. Or, if you prefer boy-girl, an apt name for a hybrid the likes of our dressed-to-kill blossom with jutting mounds and a flattop.
Suddenly the wiry, gooseneck boy didn’t look quite so awkward or misfit, especially those spidery limbs now attractively encased in that gartered lace hosiery. In truth, while he might not have looked like Sgt. Rock he was just as exceptional. “Special” if you like, just as Barbara had said, and given his sultry appeal, a head turning gift to mankind as he walked in the door. Not that he looked out of place. The room styled in a French boudoir motif with lush burgundy-red velour and brass throughout, the fluff and the pomp was the perfect setting to find an aspiring queen of the casino row. It was the perfect setting to find the elegant creature that greeted them at the front desk.
Tall and sumptuous, he wore a red sequin, off the shoulder pencil dress that hugged his hips like honey on a spoon. On top of his head he wore a beehive bouffant which he seemed prone to want to balance upright as if fearing it might fall off should he happen to look down. “Barbara, darling, how nice it is to see you," Howard broadcasted with a deep, hoarse voice, “. . . and oh, my! You lucky girl! Who is this lovely thing you’ve escorting you?”
“Patty this is Howard, Howard, this is Pretty Patty,” she smiled down at him warmly, as if to say. “Relax he’s not going to bite.”
“It’s Patty’s birthday, eighteen and all grown up. Is Rosie ready to begin his make-over?”
“Yes, of course. If you’ll escort this lovely thing I’ll get you situated and Madam Magnifique can begin to work her miracles.”
Ten minutes later he sat back in the styling chair with his eyes closes, body taut and seemingly detached from himself while a cadre of specialty artisans working on every aspect of him. Curious amorphic creatures in fanciful dress and richly painted faces they scurried about like enchanted fairies in Geppetto’s workshop to bring Barbara’s puppet to life. The manicurist, pedicurist and cosmetologist giggled and fastidiously pampered and toyed with his nails and his face with practiced hands, while Ms. Rose was busy coloring the landing strip on top of his head a golden blond.
Barbara sat close by to watch the product of her innovative thinking take form, and the vamp that emerged three hours later was truly worth the wait. He was quite the beautiful boy, but all Barbara could see were the dollar signs in her eyes and the “cha-ching” of cash registers sounding off in her head. With his flattop and high arching brows now dyed a golden blond and his cheeks dusted with a tint of sweet scarlet, he made up a very contrary picture. Add in the extended lashes, the soft-violet mascara and lips painted the same luscious cherry-red that matched his extended ½ inch nails and you have everything Barbara had hoped for — and more! “My, my Rosie, that look is definitely him! Those glorious lashes, the brows, those lips, the hair . . . you’ve really outdone yourself this time. He’s a definitely a man killer!”
Her words proved to be as true as they were prophetic starting the moment they walked outside into the mid-day traffic. Eyes were riveted on him as he approached and swiveled round backward as he passed. Then when crossing the street, brakes screeched, horns tooted and cars collided in a cascading fall of rear-end collisions as they sauntered effortlessly across the unmarked street toward the entrance of the Puss n’ Poodle Club.
“Good afternoon Karl, busy?” She beamed her smile at the equally enthralled doorman. Dressed in a tuxedo with sunglasses, the dashing figure looked like a man who had seen it all, but a quick glance down at his protuberant trousers showed that he’d never seen anything quite like this.
Inside was a wonderland, a fairylike imaginary realm to excite the sense in a re-creation of the original Moulin Rouge. Centermost was the stage with its long vamp walk that also served as the counter of the bar. Fronting the stage and the long vamp walk was the lounge, its tables and chairs stretched across the parquet floor like plume feathers on a peacock. The crowd struggled to be heard over the pounding hard rock beat that reached dangerous decibels, while on stage the dancers were in the midst of the day’s first number before a hardy and somewhat inebriated crowd of admirers lined up at the bar.
Clearly this was the kind of setting that kindles imaginings of sin and seduction, and with the scantily clad entertainers and raucous, raunchy, out-of-control drunks, it hardly seemed appropriate place to find our hapless young hero. No doubt that’s how Patrick felt and if you looked closely you could see the tremor play across the bow of his candy-apple painted lips. Still, you must realize that eighteen was the age of consent in this fair state. The state certified brothels, the casinos, the strip clubs and yes, the wedding chapels were brim full of aspiring eighteen year olds looking to make there way in the world. All of them just as mortified as Patrick when they first walked in to a place like this; but then again, they were not seen as children anymore.
Barbara managed to squeeze her pet poppet and herself between some gentlemen sitting on bar stools nursing their cocktails and their torose slacks along the vamp walk. Darting between one outstretched claw or another, the dancing Puss’s and the dancing Poodle’s bumped and grind their way into the hearts of their admirers, then positioning themselves accordingly when proffered a tip. The Puss’s wore the familiar micro crop-top, skyscraper 6” heels and a g-string. The Poodles wore a leather collar; the heels and a g-string with an attached poodle’s tail that dangling behind.
Of course the spot she had selected to squeeze in had been anything but random. Patrick could see that the moment he looked up to see Nicky “the poodle” wagging his tail. Beside him a she-he, a Puss aptly named “Galore” shook and shimmed his scarcely concealed boobs in Nicky’s face. Nicky turned round and blew Patrick a kiss then thrust his hips out at the man sitting next to Barbara. Patrick was dumbfounded and petrified as Barbara leaned down to be heard over the riotous noise. Handing him a hundred dollar bill she nudged him to follow suit as the man stuffed a like amount into Nicky’s micro g-string. That’s micro, as in not even close to enough, and “Gee,” as in geepers! Where’s the rest of it?
Moving in to face Patrick, he again placed his hands behind to grab hold of his bottom cheeks and then to each of the thunderous cords: “. . . gimme, gimme, gimme . . .” he pumped his hips, and on “. . . the honky tonk blues” — O-o-o-ooph! He thrust out in such an upfront way as to leave no doubt exactly where he expected Patty to tuck in the hundred.
Chapter 7
Until recently this had been a day young Patrick Whipple had long been waiting for. Since a small boy he had always seen this as the day he would smartly walk into the recruiter’s office, proud of what he had become. Buffed and rugged as Sgt. Rock, he’d look eye to eye and shaking the hand of the man who’d have jumped through rings of fire to get him to sign on the dotted line. He had played upon the fabric of that dream until the threads wore bare, even now bringing it again to mind when he remembered it was his birthday. Something he had mercifully forgotten during the turbulent day. Only now did he shutter from the thought as they pulled into the driveway behind Edith’s rickety old Renault.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been expecting the party. He knew it was being planned. What he hadn’t expected was for Greta Buller to be there to complete the cast of characters. The prospects of having to face his aunt looking like Barbie incarnate was a gut retching thought in itself, but when you add in a dash of the bitter, caustic Greta and you’ve a toxic brew that had his stomach in knots and wanting to vomit. It was all a bit much to deal with, and expectedly, his wobbly knees and faltering spirit sounded his retreat into himself to protect what remained of his manhood.
The kitchen was decked out with streamers, balloons and party hats suited for a five year old. It seemed almost as bizarre as his Barbie impersonation, all going to prepare him for the worse. Outnumbered and definitely out gunned by Greta’s lethal hands, he lacked only the blindfold as he slumped and waited for his assassins to pull the trigger. Instead what he got was a warm embrace from his aunt. But what pleased him most was what put him at ease. Greta “The Bull” had an uncharacteristic smile on her face, and she uttered not a word.
Greta wasn’t prone to such niceties. Built like an M-1 tank with a fearsome scowl affixed to her turret she wasn’t one to do a lot of smiling, unless she was really pleased with herself - which was seldom. She always pushed the envelope and its method of delivery to the limit, which it in itself never seemed good enough. Even after pummeling him to complete, unconditional surrender.
There was something different about his aunt too. Something about her smile that would slowly fade from her lips whenever Greta spoke to her. Speaking to her in that cold, calculating way he thought had been reserved for him alone. In a voice that would cause her to bow her head and take on a flush, not unlike what would happen to him. He had noticed it while sitting in the living room too, when Greta spoke as if to order, not ask his aunt to prepare a spot of tea. Something she scurried off and did without question in the same manner he did when she told him to play some songs on his piano.
All the while he played, Greta sat in his aunt’s chair sipping her tea and chatting with Barbara about his musical talent. His aunt stood beside, eyes cast down and not saying a word. All out of character for her, but all that came to a stop when Nicky “the poodle” sauntered in.
Nicky, given the rare Saturday night off came dressed in a pair of white bell-bottom hip-huggers and a pink blouse. He had with him a single red rose to give to his “Peach’esth,” and to the delight of the ladies, a pair of hungry red lips that left a snail’s trail of lipstick smug that stretched from the tip of Patty’s nose to the base of his neck. A moment later, the birthday boy was blowing out the eighteen candles on the three layer cake and smothered beneath a mound of gifts.
As beautifully wrapped as they were he couldn’t bring himself to open them. With the pink ribbon and bows, and the fancy script “M’Lady” moniker printed on the boxes, it would have been tantamount to asking a man to pull the trigger himself! In his stead, Nicky took up the first box to open for him. Patrick slumped and fidgeted with his extended, ½” pink nails while Nicky hurriedly sought to see what was inside. He hadn’t want to know, so his eyes just wandered about the room, his mind a blank until he fixed upon the framed picture hanging beside his piano.
It was his freshman year class picture. He always had mixed feeling about the picture of him standing front and center, the 12 members of his platoon standing in file alongside. All smartly dressed in their parade regalia, their bearing was proud and dignified, save for one. That would be him. As it certainly wasn’t the proudest or most dignified moment of his life he wondered why she left it to hang there after all these years. There were others after all, better ones, one for each of the following years of school. But for some reason she chose that one to hang even as offensive as it was. Then again, maybe that’s why she did it. To remind him, so he wouldn’t forget his place.
The picture was taken the first week of school about a month after he came to live with his aunt. At the time he was still pretty much a regular boy, you know, free to be himself. His aunt was still scratching her head wondering what to make of him and his little problem of wetting the bed. That was also the time of year when class pictures were taken. He was new to his aunt and new to the academy, but not new enough to have already become the most bullied kid in school.
That’s Martin Philips standing behind him. You remember him I’m sure, the boy in the coatroom next in line to fag him. He had it in for him pretty much since the git-go, and just moments before the shot was taken he had promised to pull down his pants right on 3-2-1-smile! Of course he believed him. He had already become the favorite target of his reticule and abuse, so why wouldn’t he? Fact is, he was scared to death it was going to happen just as he said, and when the photographer counted 3-2-1 he peed himself. Soaking the entire front of his pants down to his socks before the man could say “Smile!”
Of course his aunt had to come to school to take him home, although she wasn’t as angry as he would have expected. Still it seemed to have become a consummate moment for her and things were never the same afterward. From then on it was short pants instead of blue jeans and never again allowed to wander further away then the length of her apron string. Then along came Barbara Stanton, the frame to add to the picture. The enclosure that would forever bind and seal him in - subdued and caged like a rabbit awaiting the evening stew.
So there he was, left hanging on the wall seemingly forever. Front and center with tears in his eyes and sopping wet across the front of his pants and down the length of his leg. It was the most humiliating day of his life. A day that changed his life forever and still stained his memory as Nicky now held up a pair of expensive white lace stockings. “Oh look, new stockings and garters and a panty that match’esth too.”
He hadn’t even to look away from the picture. From his perspective, the picture could be seen in the background next to Nicky standing in front of him. The new pair of stockings he held out was juxtaposed, with the snapshot of life’s worse moment on one side and Nicky’s smiling face on the other. A four year stretch in time separated by millimeters underscored just how far he had come. And as Nicky continued to show the intimate feminine apparel that would change the look of his outside, he could see from the picture he was the same feeble, sickly boy suffering a lingering malaise on the inside.
The silk nightie Mrs. Bottomly had bought couldn’t have made it any clearer. Nor the pair of baby pink, point-toe patent pumps Ms. Stanton got for him. With their six inch stiletto heels and a jeweled star affixed on top, they were the very same heels he had seen worn by the “Puss” girls that afternoon. “Aren’t they beautiful Patty?” Barbara spat out. “Size eight and perfect for your new job at the “Puss and Poodle.”
“Oh, isn’t that wonderful, Patty,” Edith added, pointing out the obvious. “Barbara wants to hire you. Your own car, lots of new friends and a chance to become a man’s man . . . oh, I’m so proud of you.”
His aunt’s words were like a punch in the gut, and a sobering blow at that. Enough to draw him out of his stupor and merge again into the world around him. Looking around he saw Mrs. Bottomly sitting beside his aunt holding up the nightie between them. Nicky now sat on Greta’s lap playing some silly game with his pants gather around his knees and a pair of the new pink panties in his hand.
Barbara came around in front, lifted up his chin and stared into his eyes while she spoke in a tone as harsh as a shot of Kentucky rye. “Yes, you have all the makings of a great one. That is once you’re learned to handle the tricks of the trade. And with Nicky’s help you’re going to learn to perform those tricks ably for your admiring clientele, making you one of the most sought after commodities in the trade.”
“Oh my, look at the time,” interjected Mrs. Bottomly. “Time does fly when you’re having fun, but young boys do need their beauty rest and . . .”
“. . . and Nicky still has to give his gift.” Greta abruptly cut in, “By the look of things, I’d say the poor boy can hardly wait.”
“Well . . .” Barbara smiled and winked in an “I gotcha” sort of way. “How does this sound. Patty can put on his new nightie and Nicky, you lucky duck, you can run along to bed, get everything nice and warm and comfy for Patty.”
Nicky jumped off Greta’s lap and dashed to Patrick’s room flapping his arms and quacking with a lisp. As for poor Patrick . . . well, he retreated back into the solitude, his mind again blank, his gaze fixed upon that picture as the three self-serving, self-seeking parasitic harpies’ did their worst.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Self-serving and parasitic,” there, I said it! About time I did, right? All I can say is shame on me, and I apologize for not having done so before now. My silence was paramount to making myself an accomplice to the crime, or worse, excusing it in not coming to the defense of young Patrick. But that wasn’t my intent. As the story teller I simply wanted to air out the issues so you the reader could come to your own determination as to the right and the wrong, not give short-shrift to an injustice. That’s what it was after all, plain and simple. For their own gain these criminals, these self-serving parasites sucked the lifeblood of this hapless boy, his welfare nowhere to be seen.
Of course Patrick deserves our sympathy and our outrage, but you have to ask yourself why he didn’t fight back. I mean any boy worth his weight in the genetic code would have fought like hell to save himself from having to wear that nightie, those panties and those outrageous heels. So why didn’t he summon up the testosterone and fight back when outfitted like some ersatz bride on his wedding night? Why didn’t he go kicking and screaming when they led him down the hall and to the bedroom where Nicky waited at the door?
Well, you might ask the same of a boy who unfortunately finds himself a victim of bullying time and time again, for no reason other than his manner and the clothes he wears. He cries out, but nobody listens. He tries to fight back, but can not win. Soon his anger toward the bullies turns inward, blaming himself for his failings. Correcting his clothes and his mannerisms to please them he soon becomes a bully himself. A class “A” bully, to prove his worth and garnish respect, to measure up as somebody special in the eyes of those he is tied — the bullies - his support mechanism, the only ear who would listen and without them he is isolated and alone.
Oh I can hear the complaints already. You’re thinking, what kind of stretch is it to equate young Patrick’s needless suffering to the plight of an ignorant bully. Okay, I’ve heard your point. Maybe it was a stretch. After all, we all have heartache, hardships and some of us carry around enough guilt to topple a mountain. But few of us go through life suffering the blame for our weaknesses, our fears, our failed state the way Patrick did. For him it was a form of disparagement that bred self-loathing. And let me assure you, one and all, self-loathing is a powerful motivator that could convince him to do most anything.
Simply put, the only war that need be fought was within himself, not in fisticuffs with Barbara Stanton. He needed to fight his way from beneath the guilt and the blame before he could see himself in some way other than the way Barbara Stanton defined him. Obviously nothing has as yet awakened him to that fact. So you’d have to wonder what, if anything would get him to see through the bars of his self-imposed prison. Was he to become the prima donna drag queen of casino row just because he hated himself for his failed state and not measuring up?
Well, I’m writing this story and I can’t even say with certainty what the future has in store for our young, hapless hero. What I can say is that it’s never too late to find redemption.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Patty my darling,” Barbara whispered in his ear, “tonight is your night. Nicky has a special gift to give to a special boy. Call it a welcoming gift, a christening of our new Puss girl, Puss-E-Willow!”
With the three harpy’s lined up behind him, Barbara placed her hands on his shoulders and gently nudging him closer to Nicky standing at the bedroom door. Nicky stood smiling, at attention like a good soldier, and our hapless hero, lost in his reverie. His solitude spoke volumes as Barbara stepped back, Edith sighed, Jane smiled and Greta looked on with a wicked glint in her eyes. It was a bleak and sordid scene in which all hope finally seemed lost - though fortunately, not all.
When Nicky reached out to take hold of his person a thought occurred to him. He thought about what was at stake in that life or death struggle between Sgt. Rock and that crocodile. Even in the face of impossible odds he didn’t give up. With no less than his life in the balance he fought like the warrior he was, and would have done so to his dying breath. Or so it read in the caption beneath and no doubt absolutely true. Was his circumstance any less dire? Wasn’t it for him to fight to his dying breath, to fight for himself like the warrior he always wanted to be?
Perhaps he should have taken to heart what Sgt. Rock had told him. In his written response to his fan letter, he wrote; “It isn’t how big your muscles are that that make you a beautiful person. It’s standing up for what is right regardless of the outcome that makes a person worth remembering.”
That’s the way Sgt. Rock defined himself. It wasn’t his muscles, or his gun. It was having the grit to do the right thing regardless of the outcome that made him a superman. Odd that he had not been able to see it in that light before. It was one thing to want big muscles, but without the grit to do what’s right all the muscles in the world were meaningless. And grit was one thing young Patrick Whipple had a ton of — thank you, Barbara Stanton!!!
The revelation shot through him like a bolt of lightening that broke him out of his reverie and spurred him to action. Refusing to go quietly like a lamb to slaughter, he turned quickly and ran in the only direction he could, toward the bathroom. Before anyone could react he ran in, slammed the door closed and locked it all in one lighting quick move. Behind the security of the door he listened to the pounding and the angry, vile threats, demanding he come out this instant.
He didn’t come out of course, not even when Greta threatened to break down the door. Something she was quite prepared to do until Edith begged her not to do so. In time cooler heads prevailed and shortly after they drifted away. Then as the house grew quiet Patrick was left alone to think about what he had done. He could only hope that the point he had made would bring a halt to all this. At least he knew he did the right thing and was proud of himself as he kicked off those dreadful heels. But did he win the war or just a battle with worse yet to come?
Patrick didn’t know, but he sure wasn’t going to step out of the bathroom to find out. Not even after hearing Barbara slam the front door then drive off, followed shorted by Nicky and Jane. Instead, he put on his pink velour jump suit that was left hanging on the back of the door. Slipping it on over his nightie for warmth, he took out some towels from the cabinet and curled up on the floor to sleep.
The house was dead silent and the new morning sun had yet to cut through the cold when he woke up with a shiver. Patrick sat up and waited long enough until he was sure the coast was clear than cautiously opened the door. He peeked into his room and found his room dark and quiet. Then not finding his aunt in her room he went down the hall and into the family room where, stopped in his tracks, reality slammed into him with tidal wave force.
Greta sat at his aunt’s chair waiting on him. Beside the chair stood his aunt, unstirred, her head slumped down. “Good morning pretty boy. Come in and sit down . . . Come now, do as I say or I may renege on my promise not to bite.”
No match for Greta and not wanting a confrontation he sat across from her and waited quietly while his aunt went off to prepare breakfast. During the entire time she didn’t take her eyes off him, although she said nothing. Even in the kitchen while she heartily ate her ham and eggs and finished off his uneaten plate as well. Then when finished, she asked Edith for the keys to her car, telling her she was going home to change clothes and would be taking Patrick with her.
Patrick found it odd she would hand over the keys without question. She just lowered her eyes as Greta snatched the keys out of her hands. Then stood idly by as she grabbed him by the hand and hauled him away like so much chattel. Or, perhaps, like a lamb to slaughter. Edith didn’t know, but then she wasn’t asking either. It was as though she had given up, given in or joined the conspiracy, submissively surrendering in a manner no different than he had as Greta led him out the door.
Five minutes later it became obvious that she wasn’t headed home. She was taking the route to Ms. Stanton’s, pushing the rickety old Renault to its shaking, huffing, and puffing limit as it raced down the road leaving a cloud of dust. When they came to a stop in front of the clinic a vapor cloud of boiling steam was gushing out from under the hood as the engine continued to sputter and grind as if in its death throws. The dying car looked as Patrick felt as Greta hurried around to drag him from the car to meet his fate.
Like a fly ensnared in a Widow’s web, no amount of struggle could free him now. And waiting to devour their prey was Greta, Jane, Nicky and Barbara, conspirators to a one, at the ready to consume what little reminded of the boy in him. All in it together, an evil plot from the start. As for why, you needn’t ask. Because you already know there is only one thing that could compel someone to be so ruthless and cold-hearted without principle or conscious. Not love, not even hate is more compelling in this world of ours than greed for the almighty dollar.
Only profit could bring together under one roof such an odd assemblage of conspiratorial assassins, smiling and eagerly licking their chops over the prospects of capitalizing on his demise. Just as had been Nicky’s fate before him, and hanging on the walls of Barbara’s office the portraits of others before that. All no doubt to be found center stage at the Puss n’ Poodle, or perhaps in some dark corner entertaining one of Barbara’s well paying clients. Shameless in their surrender as they sit on some gentleman’s lap just to earn himself a car and some pretty clothes while the claque of jackals raked in their lucrative profit.
A dastardly deed to be sure, and a vice they were about to thrust upon him with no one to save him but himself. The very same skin and bone, sissified self now in utter fright as Barbara approached grinning like a cat prepared to swallow his mousy self whole. In her hand the largest syringe in the case. The end of the line model, the one she had promised would come at the end of his recovery. She was using it like a pink, rubber baton, grasping it one hand and slapping her other, open palm with a menace. “Well . . . my pretty little puss, after Nicky has finished feeding the guppy, you can ask me politely to finish the job . . .” she paused, then held up the monstrous nozzle, “. . . and I’ll see what I can do.”
Patrick was beyond grief. Beyond response of any kind, save the tears that streamed down his terror stricken face. Quickly they striped him of his jumpsuit but chose to leave on the nightie, garter belt and stockings he wore beneath. Then as Greta held his hands in her iron tight grip, Barbara prettified his tear stained face while Jane retrieved yet another pair of high-heeled pumps from the closet. “Okay Greta, he’s pretty as a picture. Come, Patty, your belated birthday gift awaits you in the bathroom.”
Nicky was already there, quite eager and quite ready. Greta sat down on the rim of the bathtub filled with perfumed bubbles then pulled Patrick’s shoulders down until his head came to rest on her lap. With his high heeled rear jetting up obscenely behind and his head pinned down like a butterfly to a mat, Barbara took up beside him. Everyone and everything at the ready she motioned to Nicky to step up behind our hapless hero. Which he hurriedly did wearing a most wicked grin as his stepmother Jane shouted her smutty encouragement from the doorway. Only then did Barbara Stanton lean in to whisper in his ear, “No more hiding in the cloak room closet for you. It’s time the little fairy queen step out and find his rightful place in the world.”
Patrick sobbed a mournful cry as he felt Nicky’s thumbs spread his cheeks. But when he felt the heat of his advance something inside him broke. His aunt might have given up, given in or joined the conspiracy, but he had not. His heart was broke, but as yet, not his will. So he dug down deep for some of that hard earned grit and, “S-n-a-p!” . . . went his self-loathing. “Cr-r-a-a-ck!” . . . went his hobbled spirit.
“Scr-r-e-e-ch” went the sound of bending bars, the bars that held him imprisoned!
I don’t know. Call it a reflexive survival thing of some sort. Kind of like what one would do if a bomb when off in the room you were in. The concussion and the blast blow everything to smithereens, but somehow you find yourself alive amidst the rubble. Dazed and confused, you’re not even thinking, probably not even conscious. You’re just in shock. Ears ringing, the dimmest of light illuminates your awareness, and you reach out to see what remains of you. And that’s what he did.
He reached out with his fist clenched. With a force coming from a source he had never felt before, he broke free of her grasp and swung. It was as if in slow motion and the involuntary reflex seemed to click by frame by frame as the fist landed square on Greta’s jaw . . . “Ka-Pow!” The follow through pushed the twisted, shattered jaw off its moorings and sent her flying back into the tub of water with a splash.
The momentum carried him whirling in a smooth pivot around on the point of his 6” stiletto heel, the sweep of his right leg aimed waist high toward Barbara’s midsection. The high heeled kick that followed plunged into her gut . . . “Thwack” . . . doubling her over then flying back, her head slamming against the wall. “Splat!” With Greta moaning and stewing in the hot water, and Barbara sitting on the floor still trying to figure out what day of the week it was, young Patrick Whipple rushed past the squealing Nicky, pushed aside the cursing Jane and ran out of the bathroom — free of his prison! Yahoooooo!
Spotting his jump suit pants he grabbed them on the way out the front door, slowing down only for a moment to step into the velour pants with a hop, skip and jump as he continued to run down the sidewalk. His pants up, he turned on the after-jets and ran, his pink stiletto heels clutched in his hand. He didn’t know where he was going, or wait to see if anyone followed. He just ran, his face laden with tears, all logic, all reason lost to him. Rounding a corner, he ran down a street before rounding another, running on and rounding corners until out of breath. Forced to stop running as much from bewilderment as exhaustion, he sat on a curb and sobbed uncontrollably.
He had no idea how long he had been running, where he was or what he was going to do. All he knew was he couldn’t go back to face all that again. He was lost to himself, so deep in despair that he hadn’t noticed a car pull up.
“Hell-l-l-o-o-o-there,” rang out a girl’s singsong voice, followed by a gleeful, throaty cackle that brought him back in touch with the world around him.
Looking up he saw what looked like a mobile billboard. Well, not exactly a billboard. More like a mosaic of chimerical, rainbow-colored flowers with pedals that looked like liquid teardrop that stretched out to transform themselves into the most exotic imagery. The whole of it conforming to the shape of the Volkswagen bus, and hanging out the passenger window a girl, wearing a flower in her fiery red hair, small purple sunglasses and smile as big as a quarter moon. “Need a ride?”
The side door slid open and a young barefoot man wearing red silk balloon pants, a tall, Persian style rabbit fur hat and Indian beads stepped out. “Far-out man, like it looks as if could use a friend!” Though it didn’t seem possible, the young man with the tall hat beamed a big, toothy smile even bigger than the girl’s as he reached out to offer him a hand.
Patrick could scarcely believe any of this. He had never seen anything like this before. Not the car not the people, not even his own eyes. It was as if he had either gone mad or mistakenly fallen into some otherworldly realm where everything was curiously unreal. His first impulse was to believe the whole thing some sort of joke and the pranksters looking for yet another way to humiliate him. He felt certain none of this could possibly be real. All the same, when he looked again at the girl’s big, earthy smile, then again into the eyes of the strange young man, he saw something that said it was quite real indeed. “Why don’t yah come along, we’re going to a parade.”
“A parade . . .” braved Patrick as he blotting the moisture off his long, fluttering lashes, “where?”
“San Francisco,” the girl again cackled in a gravelly, good-natured way. “It’s a people’s parade man, and the whole world is there waiting for us.”
“I can’t . . . ahm-aaah, ahmmm, not dressed . . .”
“Everything’s cool man, like it’s come as you are. Everybody is welcome. You can be whatever you want, or just be,” he happily said as his bare feet danced to the sound of his own words. “Come on man, come join the parade!”
These people were different, that he knew with certainty. Crazy, perhaps, but then he looked down upon himself wondering what he must look like to them. With his face painted like a Las Oasis showgirl and wearing a nightie, he knew he looked no less the Madhatter - A boy with perky tits and a flattop running to or from something in a world turned upside down on its head. In every sense, they were just like him, only happy - And if this was crazy, then this is where he belonged. Knowing he couldn’t go back there was only one way to go - forward, to join a parade!
So he planted a smile on his showgirl painted face and accepted the young man’s hand. Stepping through the sliding side door Patrick sat in the back beside another young man playing a guitar. He wore tattered blue jeans, a Mexican serape and like the driver, a head of electrified hair and big bushy mustache. “I’m Nick,” the young man said as he continued to strum the cords.
The young man in the rabbit fur hat stepped in, sliding the door closed behind. Then with a smile as bright as the rainbow of colors inside the mini-bus the boy sat down beside him, leaving Patrick sandwiched between an excess of hair. “I’m David,” he beamed. “That’s Nicky pick’in the guitar. That bushy mongrel upfront is Captain James, and the beautiful Texas rose is Janis.”
Patrick lit up when he heard the word “captain.” Looking forward, he spotted the army fatigue jacket he was wearing with sergeant stripes on the sleeve. Then as if the big bushy outcrop of hair was somehow masked from his sight, blindly blurted out, “Are you a captain . . . an army captain?”
Captain James had just taken a bite of an apple and, turning round, reached back to hand Patrick the half-eaten apple before answering. “Ah, yah, like in the peoples army, and I play a mean bass too.”
Nick ran his fingers through a frenzied sequence of loud, mismatched cords on his unplugged electric guitar, and above the ruckus, Janis’s coarse, throaty cackle sang out in wondrous laughter. A moment later Captain James put the bus into gear and they started out. As the guitar played and the little engines hummed, Janis pulled a flower from her hair to hand to him. “If you’re going to San Francisco, my man, yah gotta wear a flower in your hair . . .”
Then as the bus drove off, Nick played his guitar, Dave beat a rhythm on his knees with his hands and Janis sang. Patrick looked out the window as they headed back the way from which he came. Rounding one corner than another until they came to an intersection where he saw Barbara’s Mercedes across the way waiting for the light to turn. He saw Greta, Jane and Nicky sitting alongside looking up one street and down another, obviously looking for him.
Then when the light turned green and the Mercedes sped past, he followed it as it faded down the way then turned round to look again at his travel companions, soldiers in a people’s army. Longhaired, flower wearing hero’s to a one, sincere and genuine and caring enough to want to share his company. They went about their way without apology, guilt or blame, placing no demands on him or even each other. They just gave expecting nothing in return. There was no hate, just love; no “I” or “me,” just “we” and “us” together, sharing an apple and a song he didn’t even know the words to, but it didn’t matter. He was free to sing, to be himself and nobody ridiculed, cajoled or laughed at him. Nick just laughed with him, Dave just pat him on the back and Janis just sang, “. . . freedoms just another word for nothing left to lose . . .”
What a birthday present! Eighteen, free and Patrick Whipple finally came to be.
Lyrics: “Brown Sugar,” The Rolling Stones, RMG Music LLD, copyright, 1968.
“Lola,” The Kinks, Birmingham Music, LLD, copyright, 1966.
Acknowledgment: I would like to gratefully acknowledge Robyn Smith for her editorial support, guidance and infinite wisdom, all dispensed with a heart as large as her talent. Bless you, Robyn. You truly are a clear voice in a deafening world.
© 2007 by Josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.
