This is not a true story. Duh!
After School Job
by BoyChiq and Lainie Lee
I got home from school and like every Friday night, I started for my room to change clothes right away.
My mother called from the kitchen. "That you, Jerry?"
"Yeah, Ma, it's me." I dumped my books on the bed and pulled the rubber band from around the ponytail that I wore tied close to my collar. My nearly black hair fell around my shoulders as I shook it out.
"You had a call, son," she said. Still yelling from the kitchen while she chopped things for the family dinner.
"I gotta get ready for work, Ma," I yelled back, a little irritated, she knew what a hurry things go in on Fridays. I dropped my baggy Levis on the floor and toed off my Nike trainers and left them inside the pants legs.
"It was about work," she yelled.
I sighed. Everytime someone left a message for me, it was like pulling teeth to find out what it was about. "Who? What? When?" I yelled. I pulled my shirt off over my head without unbuttoning it and threw it at the floor.
"Don't you take that tone with me, Jerry," she warned.
"Ma! I'm yelling cause I'm at the other end of the house and I'm in a hurry, I gotta shower before work, y'know." With a grimace I un-did the ace bandage around my chest and jerked the sticky tape off my ribs. "Ow!" My little boobies bounced perkily free of the restraint.
"I'm your mother and you're not to talk to me like that, young man," she went on. I took her advice and said nothing, rubbing my breasts just because it felt good and not because of the itching.
"Your father and I have been talking," she went on, still yelling. I wondered if the neighbors could hear. If I yelled like that sooner or later she would tell me to keep my voice down so the neighbors wouldn't "know our business."
I stripped off my boy briefs and dropped them in the hamper. I bent to check out my legs, still smooth, I wouldn't need to shave, good. I tucked mister back between my legs and stood up and looked at myself in the mirror, turning this way and that and holding my titties up a bit to show them off to the mirror. The hormones had made me lose an inch or so in the waist and my ass was getting rounder, too.
"We think you should quit this job." She was still yelling.
"Well, what was the phone call about," I yelled back, trying to derail her from that.
"Oh, Jerry, it was that awful Leon you work with," She finally admitted. Work with? Yeah, I guess you could say I worked with Leon since he's sort of my agent. I giggled a bit, thinking about how much Leon liked to goof on my folks.
I took my peach-colored robe off the hook in my closet, shrugged it on and traipsed down the short hall to the bathroom. "Wha'd he want?" I yelled, not as loud, the kitchen is at the end of the hall, she could hear me.
"Wants you to be ready early. Dear, I don't like what he calls you, especially when he's talking to me!"
I went into the bathroom, since my sisters went to college it is all mine. Nobody home but Mom and me so I left the door open a crack. "Shannen is my professional name, Ma." I said loudly. I sat down to pee and wiped myself afterwards.
"That's not what I meant!" She was a bit upset. I grinned. No telling what Leon had called me. My nipples crinkled a bit just thinking about it. I turned on the water to let it get hot and I probably missed whatever else she said for awhile.
Everything in the bathroom was mine, now. The shampoo, the bath oils, the blowdryer, the makeup on the sink, the hose hanging from the shower rail. I stepped into the tub and shampooed and rinsed my hair then soaped up all over. I liked the feel of my soft skin since Leon made me start taking hormones. I liked using the nice scented soaps he bought for me.
The shower wand was adjustable and I stopped the spray while I checked my pits and used the disposable to give me a bit of a touch up. I hated stubbly pits myself and couldn't believe it when someone said they were actually a turn on.
I shampooed my hair and rinsed again, rinsing off all the soap with the wand on a stinging spray this time. Then I put the creme rinse in my hair and used the Avon stuff Ma bought for me when she was feeling good about having another daughter. Another quick rinse, cold this time and get all the stuff out of your hair, Shannen.
I giggled as I turned off the water and took the big fluffy pink towel to pat myself dry. A towel wrapped around my head to soak up some of the water and I slipped the robe back on. The open bathroom door had kept the mirror from steaming up and I looked at myself in the mirror.
I had almost no beard, electrolysis plus the hormones, but what I did have was black so I looked carefully for any stray whiskers. Nothing, maybe this time evil Janet with the nasty little machine had got them all. I loosened the towel around my hair and rewrapped it the other way out.
I used some oil on my skin; since the hormones, it tended to get dry on the cheeks and forehead. When the bathroom door jerked open I almost jumped right out of my robe.
"Jeez! Ma!"
"Have you heard a word I've been saying?" She seemed angry.
"Ma, I was in the shower!"
"Don't leave that towel on your head, your hair won't dry."
"Huh! Like I don't know how to do this? Gimme a break, how long have I had this job?" I unwrapped the towel and began combing out with the big wide toothed comb that won't make wet hair get split ends.
She just glared, a dishcloth in one hand and the other on her hip. "Too long. Now I suppose you're going to use the blowdryer so you can't hear me again?"
"Not." I sighed. 'Ma, I have to get ready! When did Leon say he wanted me ready?"
She blew through her nose. "Four thirty," she admitted.
I glared at her then picked up the blowdryer and turned it on. She started yelling again but I pointed the dryer at my ears and I couldn't hear her at all. I didn't have time for this, if Leon wanted me ready at 4:30 then something was up.
She finally gave up and stormed back to the kitchen. My stomach growled a little, I had skipped lunch and I was hungry. But Leon had told me that every week I didn't lose weight, he'd take money out of my pay. He wanted me down to 110 and I still weighed 117 in my clothes. I'd told him I weighed 112 without clothes but he said, "Girl, you go round on the streets nekkid you'll just get arrested and put us out of bidness." I giggled to remember his amused expression. I really think he likes me better than the other girls.
I got my hair dry, bent over with it hanging down in front of me then I brushed it that way and did a quick rough styling with the hot comb and brush and just a little spray. More styling later after I was dressed.
I dashed back to my room and as soon as she heard me leave the bathroom, Ma started again.
"He doesn't pay you enough for doing this," she yelled.
Yeah, well. I shrugged, no use replying to that. I sat at my vanity and started applying foundation.
"You have to maintain two sets of clothes and buy jewelry and..."
"I could get by with one set if they'd let me wear my working clothes to school," I grinned at the thought. Wonder what Coach Trent would say if I showed up in fifth period wearing what I was going to have on tonight?
"Right! Like that'll happen!" Ma seemed disgusted more than amused but she laughed. "And doctor's bills!" she yelled, back to her theme.
"Ma, you know perfectly well Leon pays for me to go to the doctor every Wednesday and he paid the emergency room bill when I got hurt, too." I didn't want her to think I wasn't listening now. I might have been covered under my Dad's insurance but it sure saved some awkward questions.
I started on my eyes; I got nice eyes even if they are "green mud" color as Leon says.
She snorted, not willing to concede anything. Then she sighed and changed tack. "Jerry, we're just worried about you. This is no career you're planning, there's no future in it."
I did the eyeliner carefully, hardest thing as usual. I loved having a job where I got to wear this much makeup. I did my lipline next. Leon had almost made me cum in my panties last week when he told me that when school is out he'll have my eyeline and lipline tattooed on.
"I'd have to be Shannen all the time then." I said. No choice about it with my makeup tattoed on. I squirmed a little on the vanity stool.
"What dear?" Ma yelled.
"Nothing, Ma." I slipped on my bra and panties, purple tonight, really purple. I think it's tacky but Leon specifically asked for this outfit tonight. I put the Curves inside my bra and voila! Cleavage. A little dust of powder on my shoulders and bust and arms. Then I put my top on, lacy white, so the tacky purple shows through. I shivered thinking about how I'd look.
I tucked mister back again while Ma continued to complain about how Leon treated me. The little piece of meat that had caused me so much trouble for eighteen years was shrinking since the hormones and I hadn't had to deal with a real hard-on in months. Well, not one of my own.
Black net hose, and a hot red Lycra-and-lace skirt that was supposed to be a slip/smoother but I wore it on the outside. Platform red heels that made me look seven-inches taller.
Ma kept it up. "Leon called you white trash! Now I ask you! I think the man is a bigot!"
I grinned. "Ma, he's black, how can he be a bigot?" 'White Trash' was sort of one of Leon's pet names for me. I'm American Indian and Italian and mixed; I'm not exactly white. Most people around here think I'm Mexican.
"Black people can be bigoted!" Ma said loudly.
I did my lips with the little brushes, four different colors of red made them look bigger and softer. I did my mascara. "He's just teasing you, Ma. He knows it'll make you mad. He wants to see if he can get you to curse."
"He does it on purpose!" This really offended her. "He's not a very nice man."
I had to stifle giggles about that one. I did my hair again, with a little fall to add more length. I pinned it on and put the purple ribbon in my hair. I did my blush and removed the little studs to put big plastic purple hoops in my ears.
Necklace, bangles, bracelet, anklet. Now I needed Ma's help.
"Ma! Come do my nails?"
She came into the room and glared at me, sitting there at my vanity that had been one of my sisters'. "You look cheap!"
I grinned, glanced in the mirror and had to agree. "I'll look lots cheaper if you help me with these goddam nails." I held up the package of bright purple press-on nails.
"Don't curse in front of your mother," she warned. Then she sat next to me and used the temporary glue to fix the nails in place. You're not supposed to do that but I always do, once I lost damn near my whole nail when one of the press-ons got torn off. It hurt like a bitch for most of two weeks.
The long purple nails, an inch past the end of my fingers, made it impossible for me to do anything else. Leon says he's gonna get me into two-inch long acrylics this summer but how would I get ready for work? The permanent make-up would take care of the hardest parts but I'd sure have to practice. The thought excited me.
Ma fussed a bit over me, fiddled with my hair and griped about how much make-up I was wearing. "They gotta be able to see my face when they drive by in the dark." I told her, just to piss her off.
Four thirty. Leon knocked and came on into the house. "Bitch!" he yelled. "You'd better have yo' white trash face out here! We gots yo' a party to go to." He talks like that around Mom to try to really set her off. His real name isn't even Leon, that's just his working name like mine is Shannen.
I made a kissy face at Ma, grabbed my purse and ran. A working girl shouldn't keep her pimp waiting, should she?
Notes:
We got a lot of flak when this was first posted on FM six years ago. And yet, nothing really happens. Maybe it's all just a goof on the reader, maybe Shannen is really a singer or something. We've got a sequel planned, "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" but this kind of thing is difficult enough for one person to write, let alone two and I haven't even heard from Shannen in months. Oh, well. Hope you enjoyed it.
Love,
Lainie
Ronnie planned a peaceful summer watching TV--until he started gaining weight in some odd places.
A retro classic TV story...
Boob Tube
by Lainie Lee
"Are you going to just lay around the house watching television all summer?" Ronnie's mother demanded.
"Why not? Elrond O'Keefe answered. "I don't know anyone in town 'cause we just moved here. School's out and all the kids are hanging with their friends and all my friends are back in Missouri." He scowled, flipping through the channels looking for something worth watching.
Mrs. O'Keefe felt a bit guilty about taking Ronnie out of his comfortable school in Branson, Missouri only four weeks before the end of the eighth grade school year. He'd had a miserable month trying to adjust to the new school; Los Angeles, California was a very different environment than the Ozarks.
"Maybe you should take some summer school classes," she suggested.
"No, Mom," he said firmly. "I'm not going to see those kids again any sooner than I have to. Guess it's Oprah again," he added, settling in to watch the talk show.
Betty Lou O'Keefe sighed. She rather wished they hadn't moved to California, too. Everything, except food, seemed more expensive and the people weren't friendly like they were back home. Besides which all the white folks talked like Yankees -- except the ones who sounded like foreigners -- and even the black folks in California talked differently from the ones in Missouri. Well, why wouldn't they?
But Ormond, her husband, had a good job paying more than twice what he'd made back home, and she had found a job herself making very good money as a barrista. The only problem seemed to be Elrond, the boy. She didn't like leaving him alone most of the day, even if he was nearly fourteen. And she didn't like him watching so much television.
"I've got to go now, hon," she told him. "Your father will be home at six or half past and I'll be back at quarter past nine."
"Nine fifteen, Ma," he said.
"Pardon?"
"They don't say quarter past nine out here, they say nine fifteen," Elrond explained.
"Well, you know what I mean. I've put dinner in the oven for you and your father, it'll keep warm and there's ice tea in the pitcher. Can you load the dishwasher and clean up the table?"
"Sure, Mom," said Ronnie.
He really was a good boy, thought Mrs. O'Keefe. She paused at the door on her way out for one more motherly admonition, "You're going to get fat if all you do is watch TV."
"Okay," said Elrond, unconcerned.
She sighed and left.
* * *
At a quarter to six--or five forty-five, California-style--Ronnie got up to prepare dinner for himself and his father. It didn't take much work, his mother had almost everything ready, and when Ormond O'Keefe got home a good nutritious meal sat on the table in warm dishes. Two place settings and two tall glasses of ice tea were also ready.
"Good job, Ronnie," said Ormond.
"Wasn't hard," said Ronnie.
Ormond asked about Ronnie's day but there wasn't much to say about that. Ronnie asked about his Dad's day but Dad couldn't say much about it since mostly he looked at dials and entered numbers into computers.
"I'll clean up, Dad," said Ronnie after dessert. "You go watch some TV if you like."
"Is that all you did all day, watch the boob tube?"
"Pretty much," said Ronnie.
"You should get out more, that's gonna make you fat, just lying around the house all day."
"Fine by me," said Ronnie, unconcerned.
Ormond shrugged, uncertain how to deal with apathy. If Ronnie had been insolent or disrespectful, he could have dealt with it--as things were, he just felt baffled by his son's behavior.
Ronnie cleaned up the kitchen, preparing a plate for his Mom when she got home and putting it in the oven. He rinsed food off plates and serving dishes, filled the dishwasher but did not start it. Leftovers he neatly put away in the refrigerator. Doing something after lying around all day actually did feel kind of good.
His father had already fallen asleep in front of the TV so Ronnie switched to Lifeline to watch a movie he had seen advertised several times during the day. Mrs. O'Keefe got home, congratulated him on leaving the kitchen so tidy and ate her dinner in front of the TV while they watched another movie on Lifeline. Then she woke Ormond up so they could all go to bed.
* * *
Weeks passed and the O'Keefes fell into a routine. Ronnie watched a lot of TV, talk shows, soap operas, daytime movies. He developed a preference for watching cooking shows and gradually took over preparing the evening meal completely by himself.
Betty Lou suddenly got promoted to assistant manager at the coffee bar and worked even longer hours so this worked out well for them. "You're really a good cook, Ronnie," she told her son.
He nodded, quietly proud of his new skill. He'd also taken over doing a lot of other household chores like laundry, vacuuming and dusting. He had plenty of time, after all.
Ormond went to work in the morning, came home to a well-planned and excellently prepared meal in the evening, and felt himself very lucky indeed. After a couple of minor disasters where Ronnie forgot to include any meat in the evening meal, Ormond settled into the routine with pleasure.
Ronnie watched a lot of TV and did put on some weight but not that much.
Eight weeks into the summer, Ronnie had taken over making lunch for him and his mother before she left for work. Betty Lou liked this and her son had really discovered a talent for cooking. "This is excellent," she told him over a steaming plate of shell macaroni with white cheese sauce and sliced portobello mushrooms.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Dad wouldn't like it, though. No meat."
"Mmm," said Betty Lou.
"Uh, Mom, it's my birthday next week?"
"Why so it is?"
"And my pants are getting a little tight."
"Told you, you'd get fat watching all that TV," she teased. "I'm gonna get fat from eating what you cook."
Ronnie rolled his eyes and pushed his hair out of his face. He hadn't had a haircut since a month or so before they'd left Branson and his reddish mop had gotten a bit shaggy. He'd taken to tying it back with a rubber band when he cooked. "Well, I wondered if I could do some shopping, for some clothes?"
"Clothes?" his mother asked.
"Pants, shirts, some underwear, maybe some shoes?"
"Sure you don't want a bicycle or a model airplane or something a little more fun than some clothes?"
"Well," said Ronnie. "I could really use a new set of mixing bowls and a new chef's knife?"
Betty Lou laughed. "If I give you one of my credit cards can I trust you not to overspend?"
"Sure," he said easily. "I've been shopping for groceries with your debit card all summer."
"Debit card, that's the way to do it. I'll make sure there's money in that account and you can just use it, that way no one will have to ask you for I.D. How much do you think you'll need?"
"Two hundred, maybe," Ronnie guessed.
"With all the work you've done around the house this summer, you've earned it," she said. "I'll talk to your father and maybe we can include something extra for you to spend however you want?"
"Okay," said Ronnie, smiling. "Thanks, Mom." He felt relieved. He hadn't wanted to tell his mother but his pants had gotten more than just a little tight in the last week or so--he had trouble even getting them on lately. He needed to get some new ones before they burst at the seams. And the funny thing was, the scales in the bathroom said he'd only gained seven pounds. He'd gained a little weight elsewhere too, but he sure didn't want to talk about that.
Ormond agreed with the plans and felt grateful to Ronnie for all the fine meals. "After you got the eggplant out of your system," he teased. "It's your birthday, you've been working, you're a good kid, and you look like you really need some new clothes. You mother and I have decided you can have five hundred dollars. What's the point of working so hard if we can't be good to our only kid?"
"Wow," said Ronnie, a little stunned. "Thanks."
So the very next afternoon, after his mom ate a very light and tasty spinach quiche Ronnie had prepared, she dropped him off at the mall. Ronnie wore his loosest pair of jeans, still pretty tight, and a thick, white t-shirt that actually belonged to his father. He'd taken to wearing such shirts to conceal his other weight gain.
"Your father will pick you up at 6:30 and take you out to dinner for your birthday, okay? Now remember, you don't have to spend the whole five hundred today, you could save some of it for something you might need a bit later."
"Okay, Mom," Ronnie agreed. "I probably will. And thanks again."
The Los Angeles sun had decided to turn up the heat that day so Ronnie hurried across the parking lot to the air conditioned mall as quickly as he could without running. He didn't dare run in his tight pants, anyway. Besides, since he'd gotten fat in other places too, running wasn't very comfortable.
He pushed hair out of his face again just as he reached the doors and wished he'd remembered to bring a rubber band. Three boys, all bigger than him waited by the doors, apparently just watching people go in. They made Ronnie nervous since he thought he recognized them as part of the crowd of bullies that had made his first weeks in California and last weeks in eighth grade so miserable.
But to his surprise, just as he reached the door, one of the boys reached out and opened the door for him. Raised in Missouri and polite by reflex, Ronnie automatically said, "Thank you," in his soft accent.
"You're welcome," the boy replied, smiling.
"That was weird," thought Ronnie. "He actually seemed nice, as if he liked me or something. Huh? Well, first things first," he decided, "I'm going to get something done about this hair."
It didn't take him long to find a hair salon in the mall and it didn't even seem crowded. Sure enough, a kindly-looking hair stylist about his mom's age beckoned him right over to her -- oops, his -- chair. Ronnie almost changed his mind, sometimes California was just so weird.
"Now, what can I do for you, hon?" asked the hair stylist in a surprisingly soft Louisiana drawl. His name tag read 'Steve' which Ronnie thought rather unlikely. But imagine, another Southerner? He'd met so few in the Golden State.
"Um, I need my hair cut?" said Ronnie.
"Well, duh?" said Steve, rolling his eyes.
"Pardon?" said Ronnie.
"Oh, hey, you're from the South, too?" Steve said, smiling now.
"Well, yes, from Missouri?"
"The 'Show Me' State," said Steve. "Well, sit down, hon. Take a load off."
Ronnie sat.
"What did you want, sugar? A little trim, neaten things up?"
"And shorter," Ronnie added. "It keeps falling in my face."
"Okay, hon. So where in Missouri you from? Not St. Louis?"
"Uh, no. I'm from Branson."
"Sho' Nuff? I've been there, nice town. I have some friends used to live there but they moved to Vegas, too much act for Branson." All the while Steve worked, he kept up the chatter, asking Ronnie about his parents, his home, his school, his pets. "You've not been here long, you said, but I bet you've already got a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend?" Steve wagged his slender eyebrows.
"N-neither," said Ronnie.
Steve the hair dresser so unnerved Ronnie that he hardly looked at his haircut, instead leaving quickly after using his debit card to pay, not forgetting to include a tip. "At least, the hair is out of my eyes now," he told himself. He didn't want to think about it too hard; he thought he knew why and he definitely didn't want to think about it.
It had something to do with the weight he'd gained--from watching so much tv. "That's what did it," he told himself. Especially the weight on his chest, after all, they did call it the boob tube. He groaned at the pun that almost made him admit to himself what had been happening to him.
Wandering disconsolately through the mall, Ronnie couldn't decide just why he'd been so excited about going shopping for clothes. He hadn't bought any yet and already the day had gone sour. "But I really do need some pants," he thought.
So, with some misgivings, he walked into one of the jeans shops, The Denim Depot. He followed the signs to the boys' department, noticing as he did that girls' had a lot more choice in kinds of jeans to buy--the boys' section was just one little corner of the place. The men's section wasn't much bigger but the girls', misses' and women's section took up three quarters of the place.
Looking at the racks of pants he realized something else--he had no idea what size he should be buying. Even after looking at a handy size chart he still had no idea because he had no clue as to his measurements. He wouldn't have known what "inseam" meant if there hadn't been a picture.
"Buying something for yourself?" someone asked him.
He turned, startled. A tall, very pretty young woman had spoken to him. Her nametag said, "Delia," and she smiled at him.
He nodded.
Delia wore jeans probably fractionally less tight than the ones Ronnie had on but not by much. She had on a denim vest, too, over a bright red top of some silky fabric. She kept smiling. "Trying to figure out boy sizes?"
"Um," said Ronnie.
"There's a chart right here," she said showing him the placard above a table full of boys' jeans.
He peered at it, afraid to find out. Sure enough, it showed how to convert girl's sizes to boy's sizes.
"It's pretty simple, really," said Delia. "Take the even number girl's size you wear and add two. That way, they fit in the hips. That's for regular cut." she added. "For slim cut, add four. You'd never want to try on huskies, 'cause they'd never fit in the waist."
"Um," Ronnie repeated. He didn't even know what size jeans he wore at the moment, boy's or girl's, slim, regular or doggie-style.
"You look like about an 11/12," said Delia. "Maybe a 9/10." She picked two pair of jeans out of the pile and handed them to Ronnie who took them as if they had really been girl's clothes and he might catch cooties from them. "Try them on and see which fits best. Remember that good denim will shrink a bit from washing then stretch a bit from wearing."
Ronnie nodded but then blinked. "Try them on here?" he asked.
Delia laughed. "Well, there's no one in there, guys hardly ever use the dressing rooms. I'll keep watch and not let anyone walk in on you. Go ahead," she urged, motioning toward the Boys' Dressing Rooms sign.
Feeling bizarre, Ronnie ventured toward the dressing rooms carrying the selected jeans. In the little cubicle, he couldn't avoid seeing his haircut. "Oh, God," he whispered. "I do look like a girl." Steve had cut his hair in bangs in front, layered toward the back with delicate feathery curls around his ears. "I'm going to die," Ronnie whimpered quietly.
He sat on the little bench provided and tried to think but nothing happened. How would he get home, looking like a girl? How would his parents react if he came home, looking like a girl? How could he go through the rest of his life, looking like a girl?
He rubbed his chest without thinking, because it itched, then winced because it hurt. That was another thing, or two other things. Ronnie's brain locked up completely for several minutes through trying to reason his way out of his dilemma without thinking about what had happened to his chest. On his chest.
Delia's voice in the little hallway outside the dressing cubicle shocked him. "I picked out a few tops you might like to try on," said the salesgirl. "Where are you?"
"Here," said Ronnie, still not thinking.
Delia passed three tops over the top of the wall of the correct cubicle and Ronnie took them. "Come out and let me see you in the outfit you like best," she suggested.
"Um," said Ronnie.
He listened to Delia move back toward the desk outside the dressing rooms then, moving like a badly animated muppet, he pulled off his too-tight boy jeans. Sure enough, they were Size 10, Boys Regular. He picked out the Boys 12 Regular pair Delia had offered him and tried them on. They fit remarkably well, snug in the seat and a bit loose in the waist, or rather below the waist. Just the way boy's jeans ought to fit a girl.
"Aggh." muttered Ronnie. He'd watched lots of daytime talk shows and knew more about crossdressers than was probably healthy for a thirteen year-old boy. "Fourteen next Saturday," he corrected in his head.
Why did wearing a perfectly ordinary pair of boy's blue jeans make him feel as if he were doing something kinky and maybe disgusting?
He looked at the t-shirts Delia had provided. One aqua with a sailboat, one peach with a green palm tree, and one yellow with a surfboard and a wave. All sized a perfectly unisex Small. It couldn't hurt to try one on, could it?
He chose the yellow as being least threatening to his dwindling sense of masculine identity. He pulled his dad's thick white t-shirt off with his eyes closed but he had to open them again to find the right way round on the yellow shirt.
The mirror clearly showed what had happened to him during two months of watching the boob tube. His conical little titties crinkled up in the draft coming under the cubicle door and that felt so weird he pulled on the new t-shirt quickly, the hem just reaching his waist.
He stared at himself in the mirror for sometime, pushing his gingery blond hair around to very little effect. He looked like a girl who had managed to get out of the house without her mother seeing her and making her put on a bra.
"Wottamigonnadoooo?" Ronnie wailed without making a sound, actually wringing his hands as he had seen guests on various talk shows do.
Delia's voice came over the top of the cubicle. "You dressed?"
"Uh, yes?" Ronnie made it a question, as in, why are you asking?
Delia opened the door to the cublicle and looked at Ronnie who tried not to cringe or blush.
"Nice," said Delia.
Ronnie nodded, stunned that she had opened the door on him.
"You might want to wear a bra with that," Delia commented, completely unaware of the knife-like anxiety her remark inflicted. "A padded one to give you a little more shape," she added.
Ronnie closed his eyes.
"You want these other tops, too?"
"I dunno."
Delia gathered Ronnie's original clothes together and added the two extra tops. The one pair of jeans that were probably too big she left where Ronnie had laid them on the bench. "We can cut the tags off what you've got on and you can wear it out," she offered.
"I'm..." Ronnie tried to protest but what could he say. They fit, and they were boy's clothes. And he needed new clothes. "Okay," he gasped. His polite upbringing forced him to add, "Thank you."
"C'mon," said Delia. "I'll show you where the junior lingerie is."
Ronnie followed like a boy walking to his doom. How could he ever get out of this situation, stop turning into a girl and go back to being just a kid who watched too much TV?
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Ronnie's shopping trip and transformation continue -- all this just from watching too much TV?
Boob Tube - Episode 2
by Lainie Lee
Boob Tube - Episode 2
Ronnie followed Delia meekly toward the junior lingerie department. Why did a place called Denim Depot even have lingerie? Ronnie glanced down at his chest--and why did he have tits? He knew it must have been from a summer of watching the Boob Tube.
"Do you know your bra size, hon?" Delia asked.
Ronnie shook his head. Delia looked him over carefully. "Just as a guess, I'm going to say 30 A. So what you want is a 30 A/B."
"Huh?"
"That's a 30 A with padding to make it look like a 30 B."
Delia quickly picked out two bras, one sort of peachy pink with lace and one kind of lavender without much lace. She handed the bras to Ronnie who took them the way a sleepwalker might accidentally board a crosstown bus.
Delia lowered her voice to a whisper, "You can try those on if you put them on over your t-shit. See which fits better."
Ronnie glanced toward the Boys' Dressing Room and turned pinker than either bra.
"Oh, silly," said Delia. "We're on this side of the store now, you can go ahead and use the Girls' Dressing Room."
Like a sleepwalker, Ronnie moved toward the indicated door. The Girls' Dressing Room got a lot more use and contained a lot more mess, he noted. He took the large back booth and found it strewn with discarded blouses and wadded up skirts and jumpers. After tidying up, by reflex, he stood and stared at himself in the mirror.
I really do need a bra, he thought, seeing the pointy little nips making tents in his t-shirt. People might think I'm just some slutty little mall bunny. Besides, they sometimes hurt when they jiggled and chafed against his shirt.
Forgetting the instructions to try the bras on over his clothes, Ronnie stripped off the yellow t-shirt and examined his chest. His little boobies perked up a bit in the chillier air and a very peculiar feeling flowed from them to every fiber of Ronnie's being.
I wonder if there's something my parents never told me, he thought. Am I turning into a girl or am I just some sort of freak? This couldn't only be from watching too much television.
He slipped his arms through the loops of the first bra and struggled to fasten it behind his back. The soft padding in the cups felt nice against his skin
I'm not a girl, he told himself. But when he looked in the mirror, he certainly saw a young girl, her mouth slightly open as she contemplated the evidence of her growing femininity.
He blinked several times but he couldn't seem to make the image turn back into himself. He stared for a while longer. Maybe I'll be more popular in my new school, if I'm a girl. I certainly couldn't be less. I bet girls don't mistreat each other the way boys do.
"All right in there?" Delia's voice asked.
"Yeah," said Ronnie. "The first one I tried fit, I'm going to wear it."
"Okay, hon. Just pull the tag off it so we can charge you."
Ronnie did so, and put his shirt back on. Noting that the other bra was a smaller size, he handed it back to Delia when he left the booth.
"Want to buy another that size?" she asked him, meaning the one he now wore under his shirt.
"I guess?" said Ronnie. If I'm going to wear a bra, I guess I'll need two, he thought.
Delia collected the tags for the things he was wearing then directed him back toward the bras while she waited on someone else.
Still a bit nervous about shopping in the girls' department, Ronnie looked at the bras without touching any for a bit, but a pretty peach and yellow lace one caught his eye. That' so cute, he thought. But no one would ever see it. He looked at the size, 30A. Not a padded bra. Well, I might be able to wear it under my clothes and really no one would know. And it's so pretty.
He picked it up then realized he was standing in the middle of the girls' lingerie department holding a bra. He looked around for Delia but she still had another customer. Reluctant to put his pretty treasure down, he dithered a bit until a bin of lacy panties caught his eye. Two of the panties in particular, one matched the peachy pink of the bra and the other matched the soft pale yellow. They were lacy with a little ruffled panel. He suddenly felt he had to have them.
What size are they, he wondered. Then, what size panties do I wear? He blushed. He didn't wear panties--but he wanted to wear these like he'd never wanted anything quite the same way before. They certainly looked like they would fit. He picked them up and added them to the bra, t-shirts and the old boy clothes he'd worn into the store that he was carrying under his other arm.
I'm buying girls' clothes, he said to himself in wonder. I'm buying girls' clothes cause I'm turning into a girl. That's sick, I need to see a doctor. What kind of doctor he needed to see worried him a bit.
Delia had finished with her other customer and made her smiling way back toward him. "You ready to check out or looking for something else?"
"Uh?"
"We've got some really cute shoes?" she offered. "Or if you wanted something a little more dressy?"
"A dress?" squeaked Ronnie.
Delia took his current planned purchases, including the frilly underthings, and laid them on a back counter with the tags from what he was wearing. "Boy's jeans are okay for casual stuff," she remarked. Then she led him to the girls jeans. "But what really makes a girl feel special is something that's really made for her."
Ronnie giggled, perhaps not quite hysterically.
"How about this?" Delia asked, holding up a pale stone-washed denim mini-skirt.
"It's got hearts on the butt," said Ronnie. And it's a skirt! he added to himself.
"Cute, huh," said Delia.
Ronnie nodded.
A few more choices offered, another trip to the dressing room to try things on; and after looking at himself in the mirror wearing a ruffled pink blouse with the heart-adorned mini, Ronnie had to lie down on the little bench in the dressing booth to keep from fainting. I look so cute! he moaned.
Somewhat recovered, he finally escaped Delia's generosity and the wealth of the Denim Depot after purchasing the pair of boys jeans, the two unisex tees, the bras and panties, the mini, three silky flirty tops, a pair of gold embroidered capris and a long skirt that looked like denim but felt on his legs the way cold sweet strawberry milk felt on his tongue.
Quite a shopper, he paid less than $200 for all of it but Delia had to go on her break and so never got him to the shoes or jewelry department.
Giddy, Ronnie wandered the mall for a bit with his packages, including the one bag containing his old boy clothes. His brain buzzed with the effort of trying not too think too much. He smiled a lot and everyone smiled back at him. Everyone seems so happy today, he noticed.
The food court beckoned. He stood in line for a slice of pizza and a Coke, as much to have an excuse to sit at one of the tables as because he'd gotten hungry. He ate the pizza carefully so as not to get any grease on his new jeans or the yellow tee he'd worn out of the store. At last, he picked a few of the ground beef nuggets off to eat and left a lot of the crust on the paper plate before throwing the mess away and scrubbing his fingers with napkins.
The man at the pizza counter had smiled at him. Mothers pushing baby carriages smiled at him, so did the babies. Three boys a little older than him strolled past, twice, smiling at him both times. Everyone seems to like me better as a girl," he decided.
Two girls who would probably be in his grade next year walked by wearing shorts, tight short tees that left a strip of their middles bare and sandals. He didn't know if they actually went to the same school he did, he didn't recognize them but he'd not had time to really learn all his classmates' names and faces. I wonder where they got those cute shorts and sandals, Ronnie thought.
He became uncomfortably aware that he was still wearing boy's underpants, shoes and socks. He sipped the last of his Coke, rattled the ice in the cup and realized he would have to make a trip to the restroom. He shook his head, the girls' restroom of course.
Gathering his packages and disposing of the tired Coke into a trashcan, he made his way through the crowd to the door of the girls' room. Heart pounding, he pushed inside to discover a line of girls, women, babies and a few tiny boys being led by their mothers, snaking through a chamber containing couches and mirrors. He vaguely remembered this sort of thing from when he'd been small enough to need to go with his mom to the restroom.
"Sucks, don't it," commented the girl in front of him.
He nodded, afraid to say anything. He smiled and she smiled back. Her girlfriends, also in line, smiled at him. They're probably high school girls, he thought. I'll be in high school in another month or so. He staggered at the thought.
"You okay?" asked the girl who'd made the earlier comment.
"Yes," he said. "Thank you." He smiled.
She smiled back. He had no way of knowing what she was thinking but what she apparently saw was a girl a little younger than herself carrying several shopping bags and probably stressing about waiting in line to go to the restroom. If she'd seen a boy, she wouldn't be smiling at him because they were already in the girls' restroom, technically.
He kept smiling. "It's always like this, isn't it?" he said, not really asking.
Everyone in line nodded, agreeing, not answering.
"It's obvious men design public places 'cause they never put in enough women's rooms," said one older lady.
"And there's hardly anywhere to put your purse down, in the stalls or at the sink when you want to wash up," added another woman.
The girls giggled, including Ronnie. The grousing turned into a little good-natured, if slightly peevish, male-bashing but the line actually moved fairly quickly and Ronnie hurried into one of the stalls when it came his turn. Remembering where he was, he sat down to do his business.
He glared at his boy underpants braced across his knees, then shed his jeans, socks, and shoes briefly to dispose of the offending garment in a convenient miniature trashcan sitting almost behind the base of the toilet. He had a vague idea what that was actually for, but didn't want to think about it.
From one of his packages, he extracted the lacy pink underpants and slipped them on. He tucked his boy parts backward and admired his smooth girlish front, wondering if the new position for his anatomy might not get uncomfortable. Right at the moment, it felt wonderfully right.
Before putting the jeans back on, he reflected that he had seen very few girls, or even women, wearing long pants. It was the middle of summer after all. Most of the girls were wearing shorts or skirts with a few in capris or else whatever those baggier-type of long shorts were called.
He had a skirt and a pair of capris; would either of them look odd if worn with his boy sneakers? He'd seen other girls wearing sneaks with casual skirts and shorts but he didn't think he'd seen that combination of footwear with capris. Most of the girls wearing the pants cut-off below the knee had worn dressier footwear or sandals.
That meant he should wear the mini-skirt with his sneakers, until he could get some dressy shoes. It made sense, though his socks would look odd if he wore them with the skirt. The socks ended up going into the little trashcan, too and Ronnie left the stall wearing the peach-colored tee with the palms, his new mini-skirt with the hearts embroidered on butt and pockets, bare legs and his not-obviously-boy's sneakers. Of course, he had on his new padded bra, too.
He looked very cute and he stopped to be sure of that at the mirrors. Other girls were fixing their makeup or fussing with their hair. I need makeup and hair thingies, thought Ronnie. And a purse to carry stuff in, he mentally added.
He had lots more shopping to do, but his debit card still had plenty of money. Ronnie hurried his mini-skirted, heart-decorated little round butt toward a shoe store, first.
The shoe store clerk told Ronnie that he had cute feet. Ronnie giggled and bought three pairs of shoes, one pair of sandals, one pair of really sweet Mary Janes, and a pair of fuchsia-laced sneaks with glittery flower designs on the sides. He bought a purse, too and some cute socks with pink teddy bears, violet hearts, and rainbows on them.
In the big department store, a young woman offered to give him a free make-up lesson and Ronnie left there with his face carefully made up in the latest style--and $90 of cosmetics and scent in a small bag. Now when he sashayed through the mall, the boys didn't just smile at him once, they gave him second looks--and third ones too.
Jewlery, thought Ronnie, noticing the bangles and beads on the other mall bunnies. He stopped in front of an earring kiosk with a sign that said, "Free piercing with starter earrings and free extra pair." He felt of his ears. They were naked. Everything else he had done could be taken off or washed off, but getting his ears pierced would be some sort of high water mark of his femininity.
He went to one of the tall window embrasures and sat on the wooden bench to think about it. Outside, the Southern California sun shone in a way that was utterly unlike the less fervent, less hurried sun of the Missouri hills where he was born. It wasn't hot here, not like it could get in Branson on a sticky summer afternoon, but the SoCal heat had an urgency that insisted, be, do, have. Be happy. Do what you want to do. Have another cherry ice on the beach.
Ronnie sighed. He'd been in California for months and he hadn't been to the beach yet. Maybe he should buy a swimsuit. Would mom and dad let him wear a bikini, he wondered.
Okay, that thought brought his brain to a screeching halt with the caboose of his worry about his own sanity bouncing and spilling the conductor's coffee. I don't think I'm crazy, he thought. If I were really crazy, I'd be sure I wasn't, and I'm not. His head hurt.
Two boys walked slowly past, taking their time to look at the girl in the denim mini whose face was made up to look much older. Ronnie noticed their attention and felt pleased but puzzled about the enjoyment he took in their stares. Without looking at them, he crossed and recrossed his ankles. His legs were very pale for a California girl but he was pale everywhere and his gingery hair made his paleness look natural and right -- a very lovely, slightly exotic looking girl in his un-Californian way.
They think I'm a girl, thought Ronnie, watching the boys out of the corner of his eye. Heck, they know I'm a girl, he decided. Maybe I've always been a girl and I'm just weird that I look like a boy in the one place where it matters on a little kid. After all, Ronnie had been watching daytime talk shows all summer, he'd heard of weirder things.
Boys don't grow tits and round butts from watching TV, he told himself, at least, not girl-tits and girl-butts. He sat up straighter and checked to see if he had all of his shopping bags and his purse. The boys had finally moved on past without speaking to him, perhaps deciding that he was too old for them.
With everything gathered together, Ronnie headed back to the earring kiosk. The lady behind the counter there said, "The style these days is for young women to have two earrings in each ear, so if you want to pick out two sets of starters and two other pair from these trays, you can have all of it and the piercings for just the price of two pair of earrings."
"Okay," said Ronnie who knew that girls get double piercings but boys who get pierced ears get only one in each ear. He picked out a pair of pearl-topped studs and another pair of heart-shaped starters, then a pair of small hoops and a pair that looked like little green and amethyst flowers. The quick, thpt! of the air gun making tiny holes in his earlobes hardly hurt at all.
He also bought a charm bracelet with three starter charms--a unicorn, a heart locket that opened to show an amethyst jewel, and a strawberry. A chain with another heart locket completed his purchases and he left wearing his new jewelry with the extra two sets of earrings, ear cleaning fluid and instructions in yet another shopping bag.
A check of the big clock in the mall lobby showed that he still had almost two hours before his mom would come to pick him up. She had supposed he could spend any amount of extra time in the video arcade though in fact, he had never much liked video games. Ronnie had a better idea and made his way back to the beauty salon.
Steve the hair stylist waved at him. "Girl, you look fabulous," he gushed. "Much better than that tomboy look you had earlier."
"Thank you," said Ronnie, blushing, surprised that Steve recognized him with the change in clothes and makeup. "I want to get my nails done."
"Sugar," said Steve in a drawl as wide as a bayou, "we've got the best nail artist in the city here. Kim will do a wonderful job and she can paint little flowers on each nail, too, for just a little extra."
Ronnie nodded smiling.
Kim turned out to be a tiny Asian lady, not as big as Ronnie even. She spoke English with a bit of an accent, but then, from Ronnie's point of view, so did everyone in California.
"You nail," scolded Kim, "terrible shape, how you feet?'
"Let's do them too," Ronnie agreed. "Can you make my fingernails longer?"
"Sure," said Kim. "Cost more."
"I cook," said Ronnie proudly, "so it can't be something that would get in my way."
"Okay, we use acrylics, make just a bit longer," agreed Kim. "No problem."
Two hours later when Ronnie's mom cruised past the Mall entrance looking for her son, she didn't recognize him in his mini-skirt, hair-do and makeup.
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You can never pay back what you owe to all the people who care for you--you have to pay it foward.
A Soul Survivor Tale
Chapter One
My So-Called Life -- and Death
High school is a crock.
I'd done all the important stuff, played varsity football, ran for class president, made the dean's list, dated the popular girls. But when it was over, it was over. Six months after getting out of high school, I had no idea if I were going to flunk out of college or just drop out and live under a bridge.
I'd turned down athletic scholarships to second-tier colleges in order to go to the school I wanted to attend, UCLA. It had a good reputation, not too far from home,; and L.A., I figured, has a lot more to do than some small town in Arkansas.
Sure. My loans and grants and a small scholarship took care of tuition, books, housing and meals in the dorm cafeteria. Anything else I wanted, I had to work for -- no way could my parents pay for it with two other kids to put through college and my grandparents' health failing. I just wasn't going to ask.
So, that's why I had the night shift at Fabian's Deli that Thursday night. I had had the crazy idea that an all night deli would be lax, a quiet gig where I could study. But no-o-o! Graveyard shifts are for cleaning and stocking -- four nights a week while carrying a full load had worn me down to a pale shadow of my former self.
That's a joke, 'cause I was still pretty dark. Black hair, dark eyes, brown skin -- hey, with a name like Raul Cisneros, I come by it honest. And another gripe about the deli; my nametag had my first name on it and combined with my decidedly Latino appearance, a huge number of people thought it necessary to speak Spanish to me. My mom's maiden name was Domingues, her grandparents spoke Portuguese when they landed in New Hampshire, okay? And my dad, he speaks Spanish only when visiting Mexico, it's a rule with him.
My Spanish is pretty bad. Oh, I can understand it, usually, but I don't speak it worth a damn. Conjugations make me tense.
So, Thursday night. The last Thursday of my so-called life, I had already cleaned the sandwich board and the sink, the coffee maker and the popcorn machine. Next job, straighten shelves and restock the gondolas. When the traffic died completely after three a.m., I would restock the cooler and mop the floor.
Almost two in the morning, Friday really, I only had one customer, Raggedy Rumbo. We called him Rumbo 'cause he looked a little like Stallone, if Stallone ever played a black street bum, but we never saw him sober. Rumbo, I mean, I don't know about Stallone. Three or four nights a week, Rumbo came in just before I locked up the wine and beer, trying to buy a bottle of Night Train or some such, usually without enough money. He stank so I kept my distance.
This night, Rumbo came from the wine cool case, walking with drunken caution between the stands of adult magazines with titles like: Hot Bush and Boobtastic. ""Amush dis boll uh Nychain?" he asked. I didn't have to decipher that, he always asked the same thing and he had the bottle in his hand.
"Two ninety five, plus tax, three nineteen, Rumbo," I said, waving a hand in front of my face to get the fumes out of my nose.
"I got two sendy-ny," he said looking as if that were a tragedy worthy of a spot on the six o'clock news. His rummy eyes filled with tears. He had a grimy dollar bill wrapped around a loose collection of change which he dumped on the counter.
I didn't even check, Rumbo always knew how much money he had, he just couldn't remember the price of anything. "Not enough," I said, hardening my heart to a round of begging. I got behind the counter to put some distance between us and pushed the filthy lucre back toward him.
"Ain' I yo' fren?" he asked, staring at the money but not touching it.
"What's my name?" I countered.
He frowned and tried to squint at my name badge. "Paul," he announced. He waved the bottle in pride, just before it exploded and showered us both with broken glass and cheap, fortified wine. I didn't hear the gunshot until after the bottle broke.
A blocky white guy wearing a stocking on his head stood at the door. His body language gave away his fear, confusion and indecision. He looked at the gun in his hand as if he'd never seen it before.
I ducked behind the counter, going right down to the floor and hitting the silent alarm under the cash register as I went. "Get down!" I yelled at Rumbo. What a dumbass robber, I thought. The assistant manager had counted out the drawers at twelve-thirty and I'd dropped the only twenty I'd got since then in the safe. There couldn't be more than forty dollars in the register, counting small change.
I'd been robbed once before; company policy was very clear on the subject. Give the robbers anything they want and keep your head down. I lay on the floor and oozed blood from dozens of small cuts. One of them, on my left arm, looked serious enough to maybe need tending but I just wrapped my right hand around it and squeezed.
"Hey, doo, you gotta couple quarters?" I heard Rumbo ask. I hoped the old man didn't get hurt and wished he had enough sense to get down. but then if he had tha much sense, he probably wouldn't be a wino trying to buy a three dollar bottle of excuses.
"Shaddup, old man. Take whatever booze you want and get dafuck out of here."
A second robber I hadn't seen came around the end of the counter. Skinnier but dressed like the other one, jeans, black t-shirt, stocking over his face, this one had added a Lakers ball cap and carried a big knife instead of a gun. "Open the safe," he snarled. The knife looked like a very serious piece of hardware, slim and sharp.
I stayed down but scooched to the side so he could get at the register. "I don't have a key to the safe, no one does except the company truck guy," I said. "You can have what's in the register." It wasn't locked, just so a clerk wouldn't have to open it for a robber. I tasted blood in my mouth from oozing cuts on my face.
On the other side of the counter, Rumbo argued with the gunman. "Dat ain' right, man. Ol' Paul's a fren' o'mine. Just gimme fifty cents and I'll have enough for my bottle." I couldn't see from my position, almost under the counter, but I imagined the old wino looking around in confusion to see what had happened to the bottle he'd had.
"Open the fucken safe or I'll cut you," threatened the knife man, moving a step closer to me.
"Take a bottle, take two," the gunman told Rumbo. "I'll pay for it."
"Oh, yes suh!" Rumbo crowed. I heard him move off toward the wine bottles and the sound of what must be the gunman leaning against the counter over my head.
"I don't have a key for the safe," I repeated. The big black box of the safe lay just behind my head, under the counter to the right of the register.
The knife man sidled along the sandwich board, behind the deli counter. "Open the safe or I'll fucken stick you, fucker," he said. He stood nearly on my feet, right behind the display of pickled eggs.
I wanted to say something dangerous, like, "Are you deaf or just stupid?" But I didn't, I just repeated again, "I don't have a key." Actually, it took two keys, one carried by a manager and one by the man on the company truck. I tried to judge the robber without looking directly at him; the company book said that might be considered a threat. He didn't seem as big as the other one; if he tried to cut me I determined that I would do my best to kick him into the middle of next summer's reruns. I didn't have many options for fighting back, lying on the floor like that.
"Thank you, thank you," I heard Rumbo babbling.
"Yeah, yeah," said the gunman. "Just get the fuck out of here." He shifted his weight where he leaned on the counter, I heard the wood groan -- then a sound like a coconut being dropped on a sidewalk, a grunt and a sigh.
"I tode you, Paul's a fren' of mine," said Rumbo.
"What the fuck?" said the man with the knife. "You damn rummy!" I heard the metallic clatter as a gun hit the concrete floor. At least it didn't go off. Another ka-chud and another grunt and sigh then a body followed the gun. Maybe Rumbo was Sylvester Stallone; those muscles that had earned him his nickname were evidently still potent. The dumbass gunman had probably turned his back on the old man.
The knife wielder dithered about going back around the counter to help his partner. When he turned partly away from me, I scrambled to my feet, staying well back. I don't know why I got up, maybe to distract him from going after Rumbo.
"Run!" I shouted at the knife man. "Rumbo's going to get the gun, he'll shoot your ass!" I grabbed up the only weapon to hand, the hot pot of coffee I'd brewed when I finished cleaning the machine.
I never expected him to throw the knife. I batted at it with the coffee pot, spilling hot liquid on myself to go with the broken glass, wine and blood. The knife stood out from my stomach, just below my breastbone. I stared down at it, as stupid as a hamster in a mousetrap. The narrow blade had gone deep, only about an inch of steel showing between the hilt and my skin.
I couldn't breathe. It hurt like catching a line drive in that same spot, which had happened to me back when I pitched in Babe Ruth league. It hurt worse than that, almost worse than anything. It felt like someone had cut my strings. If you stick a knife into a Beanie Baby, all the plastic beans leak out -- it felt like that.
I looked up at the robber, at the man who had killed me. His face under the gauzy mask looked shocked, his lips moved. I thought I heard him say, "I'm sorry, Cissy," just before the lights went out that very early Friday morning.
* * *
Cissy -- Cisneros. It's the logic of schoolyard nicknames, the more embarrassing, the better. Funny, my dad had told me that he had the same nickname in the Navy. But no one called me that in L.A.; I'd left the nickname behind me when I left Oildale. I used to hate the nickname but by the time I ran for student council president my senior year, I even used it on my campaign posters. "Raul 'Cissy' Cisneros for ASBC President!" It made me stand out among the other candidates, people remember a nickname like that.
Not that I had a lot of time to think about it while I was busy dying. But I heard a voice again, saying, "I'm sorry, Cissy."
My mouth tasted like vomit, my head hurt and my stomach felt like seven days and nights on an ocean liner in the middle of a hurricane. Someone said, "Turn her on her side, she's going to throw up again."
And the first voice said again, "I'm sorry, Cissy."
Hands grabbed and lifted me, turning my head. I tried to fight back but I felt weak and confused. I finally got my eyes open but the light hurt so I closed them again. "What happened?" someone asked.
"Drug overdose."
Drugs? I don't do drugs, I thought. Not even pot. Heck, I hardly drank enough to be considered a respectable college student.
"Shouldn't we take her to a hospital?"
More manhandling while I retched into a trashcan or something, my brain was not in good shape either.
"If she doesn't start snapping out of it, I guess we'll have to," said a voice. "Cissy, baby, honey. Open your eyes. It's Jennifer, honey. Wake up and look at me."
I turned my head toward the voice and opened my eyes a crack. A worried looking girl looked back at me. "Jennifer?" I asked. I knew lots of Jennifers but I didn't recognize this one.
"Oh, yes, baby," she cooed. "Wake up, honey. I'm so sorry, Cissy."
"What are you sorry about?" asked the male voice.
Jennifer tried to explain. "We were at a party. We're supposed to look out for each other. You learn to watch for people who might be trouble in our line of work. But someone must have put something in her drink. It was just Dr. Pepper!"
Party? What party? Was she even talking about me? Who works at a party? I shook my head. The pieces didn't fit. I peered into the bright light, looking through thick blonde hair that had fallen into my face.
Thick blonde hair?
I lifted a hand to push the hair away and stopped, staring at the slender, pale fingers adorned with too many rings and the longest hot pink nails I ever saw. I tried to glance down at the rest of my body but an enormous valley of cleavage between titanic white titties kept me from seeing much.
Okay, I screamed like a girl and fainted like a heroine in a bad romance novel.
* * *
In the darkness behind my eyelids, I walked a long and narrow corridor toward a beacon of light. I held a coffeepot in my right hand and my left hand rested on the knife sticking out of my chest. I felt calm and unafraid.
I'm dead, I told myself. I'm dead and I'm going into the light. I wondered if my momma's brother Edouardo --who I had never met because he died in Viet Nam twelve years before I was born-- I wondered if Uncle Eddie would be waiting for me.
Darkened windows in the walls showed me glimpses of my life as I walked. In one, I rode a red tricycle into the street but my babysitter, Nadine Cross, snatched me up and carried me back to my house. In another, Nolan Frye, who we all called Noogie, pulled me back from jumping into the river when we were eight. "Don't do it, man. It's flooding in the mountains, the current's too swift," I heard him say again. In a third window, a doctor I didn't recognize gave me a shot -- that must have been when I was ten and sick with no one knew what.
Other windows showed my parents and brothers and sisters and friends and relatives and even strangers doing nice things for me. I wept to know that all that effort to save me, to help me grow up to be a good person had been wasted.
Near the end of the corridor, with the light so bright at the end I couldn't look at it, a window showed Raggedy Rumbo, his dirty black hands trembling as he took a bottle of cheap wine and slugged a gunman in the head -- for me. His face and arms glinted with blood from cuts and his voice shook with terror as I heard him mumble, "Paul's a friend of mine."
It hadn't worked out right, but Rumbo had been trying. I tried to turn in the corridor, tried to go back and thank everyone who had been good to me, tried to let them know that I knew they cared.
One last window, the man who had thrown the knife that killed me kneeling beside my body. He had the mask off and I almost recognized him. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he whisprered, "Don't die, Cissy, please don't die." Coffee and blood ran together on the floor of the deli and I stood there by my killer as the cops came and took him away. One cop knelt down to take my pulse then shook his head.
Somewhere I had lost the coffeepot and the knife and even my clothes. I stood there naked in the darkness knowing that Raul Cisneros, the person I had been for eighteen years was dead. The pictures in the walls faded and the light at the end pulsed. I tried to turn toward it but some voice called me back. "Don't die, Cissy, don't die."
And I knew, somehow, I didn't have to die. Another way had opened up, a dark, narrow, twisty one, and down at the end of it, I saw a plump little red-headed woman holding the head of a blonde in her lap. "Don't die, Cissy, don't die," she pleaded. And I knew I had the power to save Cissy, to keep her from dying, to keep another life from being wasted.
My dad always said, "You can't pay people back for good deeds, you have to pay them forward." I had a chance to pay all those people back who had tried to help me -- by saving someone else's life.
I made my choice, struggling down the narrow cleft in the darkness. The scene faded as soon as I moved but I could still hear voices. "If she doesn't wake up soon, we're going to have to take her to the hospital," a man said.
"I'm awake," I struggled to say. "I'm awake," I said again, more clearly. My voice sounded high and light. Of course, I thought. I'm Cissy, I'm the blonde I saw. I'm a woman now. "I'm alive," I said aloud. It was a shock but considering the alternatives, maybe less of one than I'd already had. I'd made a choice and gotten a new chance to live. Could I adjust to being female? Well, half the human race seemed to manage it.
I opened my eyes and saw the plump redhead I had seen before. She smiled and laughed a little. "Of course, you're alive."
A dark-haired man stood behind her looking very serious. "How do you feel?" he asked.
"I'm okay," I said. "I think. But I'm very confused." Definitely an understatement.
"Someone slipped you something in your drink," said the redhead who might be named Jennifer. She smiled at me.
"Uh huh," I agreed, trying to sound intelligent.
"I'm not a doctor, but I still think we should take you to the hospital, Miss DiVinyl," said the serious young man.
"Carlos is a med student, fourth year at UCLA," said the probable Jennifer. "Remember him?"
"Uh, no," I said, trying to be honest. Cissy DiVinyl? Was that anyone's real name? Somehow, I knew exactly what he had said when it would have been much more sensible to misunderstand something so unlikely. I even knew how it was spelled like it was written in my brain. My new brain.
"Good God!" I said before anyone could say anything else. I stopped myself before I completed my thought aloud.
"What is it?" asked the redhead.
I stared at her, her cute face wrinkled with concern. I glanced at the still serious med student named Carlos and wondered briefly, irrelevantly, if he spoke Spanish. I looked down again at my enormous chest. But mostly I thought, Good God, I'm a stripper!
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Almost Halloween, on a rainy day near Buttonwillow she stole a ride...
The stowaway hitchhiker called herself Kelly, or maybe Esperanza. She seemed to be haunted by the ghost of an old man…but was the true story even stranger?
Intrigued by her mystery, Walter takes the teenage waif home, against his better judgement. Slowly the story comes out. And something else begins to happen, too.
Is Kelly really who she says she is? A teenage runaway? A ghost? Her story keeps changing.
And Walt discovers he cares what happens to Kelly…and Esperanza means Hope
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Esperanza: Ŝi Ŝtelis Veturadon
Ĉi tiu rakonto neniam povus okazi. Sed kio se ĝi okazus al vi?
Fantomrakonto
de
BoyChiq kaj Lainie Lee
Arto de Erin Halfelven
Ĉapitro I
Pluvo
La pluvo malleviĝis forte, pli forte, plej forte proksime de Buttonwillow. La trafiko, eksteren meze de nenie malrapidiĝis preskaŭ ĝis rampo. Mi estis blokita malantaŭ paro da malrapidaj grandaj platformoj suprenirantaj monteton, flank-al-flanke. La malseka mallumo transformis la posttagmezon en preskaŭ nokton.
Ĝuste kiam mi malrapidiĝis al ne pli ol paŝado, la dekstra pordo de mia aŭto malfermiĝis kaj knabino engrimpis. Ŝi gutis akvon sur miajn sidkusenojn kaj turnis sin por ŝlosi la pordon post kiam ŝi estis ene.
“Nun estas tro malfrue,” mi diris.
Ŝi rerigardis al mi per enormaj grizverdaj okuloj, kaj buŝo malfermiĝis por malkaŝi iometan tromordon, kaj iom da tremanta lipo.
“Por malhelpi iun ajn eniri dum mi veturas tiel malrapide .”
“Ho.” Ŝi provis rideti. Ŝi ne portis ŝminkon sed ŝia haŭto havis tiun klarecon nur la junaj atingas. Ŝia taŭzita kaj implikita hararo, malhela en kia lumo filtris tra la ŝtormo, kaj plimallumigita pro malseka, kuŝis firme fiksita al ŝiaj vangoj, kolo kaj dorso; en la sama maniero kiel maldika kotona ĉemizo alkroĉiĝis al ŝia formo. Mi reviziis mian supozon pri ŝia aĝo malsupren, tiuj mamoj ŝajnis pozitive adoleskaj.
Mi ridetis reen, scivolante, ĉu mi devus provi aspekti avunkla. Ŝi eble estos bongusta, sed ŝi ankaŭ eble estas malpli aĝa .
“Mi esperas, ke vi ne tro ĝenos, mi estas malseka kaj malvarma kaj...” Ŝi forturnis la vizaĝon sed daŭre rigardis min flanken. “Kaj mi vere bezonas veturon al LA” Ŝi certe ne estis vestita por aŭtuna ŝtormo en la Kaliforniaj montoj, sed Los-Anĝeleso verŝajne ankoraŭ estus varma kaj seka ĉi-jare preskaŭ fine de oktobro.
Mi ŝaltis iom da varmego por helpi ŝin sekiĝi kaj nur veturis dum iom da tempo. La trafiko malbariĝis dum la grandaj platformoj ordigis aferojn antaŭen. Ŝi studis ilin tra la dekstra fenestro dum ni preterpasis pli malrapide moviĝantajn veturilojn kaj antaŭeniris en pli klaran veteron. Mi studis ŝin per etaj flankaj rigardoj. La vizaĝo diris dek ok, eble fruaj dudekaj kaj la longeco de la kruro en ŝia tro malloza ĉino ankaŭ faris tion bona diveno. Sed ŝi havis ankoraŭ nur malgrandajn brustburĝonojn, ĵus komencantaj maturiĝi, kiel dekdujara. Eble ŝi estis malfrue florinta.
"Se mi veturigas vin, mi volas ion rekompence."
Ŝi rigidiĝis en la sidloko. “Mi... mi...” Ŝia kapo vipis tien kaj reen, penante ne rigardi min.
“Kiel via nomo,” mi finis. Nu, mi estis eksciinta ion; ŝi ne intencis sin proponi al mi. Mi demandis min, knabino sufiĉe aŭdaca por ŝteli veturon de fremdulo, sed ne ŝi estis nur malespera. Aŭ eble mia aspekto forpuŝis ŝin la ideo.
Ŝi pripensis la demandon pri sia nomo. Ŝia vizaĝo ŝajnis sensenca sed mi sciis, ke iel ŝia respondo estus mensogo. "Kelly." ŝi fine diris, kaj ŝia stomako faris malsinjorinan interpunkcian grumblon. "Pardonu min."
"Malsata?"
Ŝi kapjesis.
La riskoj preni junan knabinon en kafejon ŝajnis indaj. Mi prenis la sekvan elirejon kaj parkis ĉe la kafejo meze de la granda kamionhaltejo. Mi elprenis mian ombrelon kaj rapidis ĉirkaŭ la aŭto. Ŝi eble ekzamenis la grandajn platformojn parkumitajn en la tereno pli ol atendis, ke mi malfermos la pordon por ŝi.
Ŝi eliris mallerte, preskaŭ stumblante. Ŝiaj ŝuoj estis tiuj mallertaj aĵoj kiuj aspektis kiel kruco inter maryjanes kaj altkalkanumaj batalbotoj. Mi irigis ŝin al la pordo de la kafejo, tenante miajn manojn for de ŝi sed blokante la lastan el la vento-pelita pluveto per mia korpo kaj mia ombrelo.
Ŝi bublis ĉe la pordo, etendinte la manon al la tenilo, tiam ŝancelis sian manon malantaŭen, dum mi malfermis la pezan vitron kaj ŝtalframon. La vento preskaŭ deŝiris ĝin de mi kaj ŝi ŝprucis enen kun krio, ĉar malvarma plaŭdo kaptis ŝin trans la bovidojn.
Mi eniris malantaŭ ŝi, ridetante. Ŝi ŝajnis mallerte, ĉarme juna, kaj eĉ pli juna, kiam ŝi kaptis unu el siaj grandaj kvadrataj kalkanumoj en la defluejo tuj interne de la aerkluzo. "Malbenitaj kalkanoj," mi aŭdis ŝian murmuri kaj ŝi ruĝiĝis kiam mi larĝigis la ridon por aŭdi ŝian malbenon.
Interne, ŝi denove ŝanceliĝis kaj mi etendis manon por kapti ŝin. "La manĝo! La odoro!" ŝi murmuris. Ni tuj prenis budon , la loko estis okupata sed ne plenplena kaj mi volis sidigi ŝin. Ŝi aspektis pala kaj malsana dum momento kaj mi aŭdis ŝian ventron brui denove.
"Mi tre malsatas! Mi pensas, ke mi ne tiom malsatis dum jaroj!”
"Malstreĉiĝi!" Mi ridis pri ŝia mieno, lupo kaj waifish samtempe.
Ŝi maltrankviliĝis tiam kaptis paketon da biskvitoj lasitaj de antaŭa loĝanto de la budo kaj ŝiris en la celofanon, disŝutante paneron kiel infano. Ronĉante la salatojn, ŝi ekzamenis siajn fingrojn kvazaŭ ŝi neniam antaŭe vidis ilin. "Mi ne havas monon."
“Se mi aĉetos al vi tagmanĝon...” mi komencis. Ŝia koloro altiĝis. "Vespermanĝo," mi korektis, milde ridetante.
Ŝi sulkigis la brovojn, penante decidi ĉu ŝi estas mokita.
"Do vi povas rakonti al mi la historion pri kiel vi hazarde staris ĉe la flanko de la aŭtovojo en la pluvo," mi finis, ankoraŭ ridetante.
Kelly, se tio estis ŝia nomo, komencis balanci la kapon.
La kelnerino metis du menuojn antaŭ ni. "Kafo?" ŝi demandis min. Mi kapjesis kaj ŝi verŝis al mi unu el la karafo, kiun ŝi portis. Ŝi apenaŭ donis al ni duan rigardon; Mi supozas, ke ni ne estis tiom strangaj paro ĉi tie, kiel mi povus pensi.
" Volas kokao?" ŝi demandis mian kunulon. Laŭ ŝia etikedo, ŝia nomo estis Francine.
“Uh, jes. Mi supozas,” diris Kelly.
"Dieto aŭ regula?"
"D-dieto?" Kelly diris, sonante necerta pri tio.
Francine forkuris vokante super sia ŝultro, "Decidu kion vi volas, mi tuj revenos."
Kelly, rigardis la menuon sen tuŝi ĝin. Mi ne vere volis ion manĝi ĝuste tiam, mi decidis, ke mi prefere rigardu ŝin manĝi.
"Prefere mi nur manĝu supon," ŝi diris. "Mi tute ne manĝis hodiaŭ."
"Supo." Mi diris.
Ŝi kapjesis.
"Vi kutime bezonas okulvitrojn por legi?" Mi demandis.
Ŝi denove turnis tiun ruĝan nuancon.
"Kie estas viaj okulvitroj?" Mi demandis.
Ŝi levis la ŝultrojn. "Mi ne scias."
“Ĉu vi perdis ilin? Lasis ilin en via lasta veturo?”
Ŝi faris vizaĝon kvazaŭ tio neniam venis en la kapon al ŝi ĝis tiu momento. "La kamiono."
"Iu kamionisto veturis vin kaj elpelis vin sur la aŭtovojon sen viaj aĵoj?" mi divenis sovaĝe.
Ŝi kapjesis malrapide kaj balancis la kapon. “Ne, li, li, ne volis halti. Mi kriegis....” Ŝi ekpremis.
"Vi igis lin ĉesi?"
“Kaj tiam mi forkuris.... Mi tiom timis. Li daŭre sekvis min, li nomis min 'Esperanza' kaj.....” Ŝi sulkigis la brovojn. "Tio signifas Espero en la hispana." Ŝi balancis la kapon kaj denove svingis, eble pro la memoro.
“Sed li finfine lasis vin sola? En la pluvo?” Mi sentis iom da kolero kontraŭ la kamionisto. Kion li faris por tiel timigi ŝin? Mi povus diveni, sed mi ne farus ĝin laŭte.
“Ne. Ĉi tio estis hieraŭ nokte; ne pluvis. Mi kaŝis min en fosaĵo ĝis li rezignis kaj foriris. Tiam mi vekiĝis. Mi estis malseka kaj malvarma kaj mi provis kapti veturon, neniu haltus sur la aŭtovojo. Mi grimpis la monteton multe , mi falis multe, sed la pluvo forlavis la plej grandan parton de la koto. Mi pensis, ke la aŭtoj eble pli volonte haltos, se ili jam malrapidiĝos. Tiam vi pasis, kaj mi vidis, ke viaj pordoj ne estas ŝlositaj.” Ŝi ridetis kun iom da peno. Ĉi tio estis ŝia plej longa parolado ĝis nun kaj ŝajnis enhavi neniujn mensogojn.
Mi ridetis kaj Francine, la kelnerino, revenis ĝuste tiam. "Kion vi havos?" ŝi demandis kun sia bloko kaj plumo eksteren, metante kolaon antaŭ la knabino.
"Hamburgeroj." Mi diris.
"Fritoj kun la mia, supo kun ŝia." Mi decidis, ke mi mendos manĝaĵon ankaŭ, por kompanio pli ol malsato.
"Kulĉo aŭ legomo?" Estis vendredo; Kompreneble ili havis konkĉadron.
Mi rigardis ŝin. "Ĉufo?"
“Ĝi estas la blanka speco. Bone.” Francine pligrandigis tute senkonscie. Mi ŝatis ŝin.
Kelly kapjesis kaj la kelnero denove forkuris.
"Vi mendis por mi," ŝi observis.
"Ankaŭ mi pagas por ĝi."
“Mi repagos al vi. Kiam mi povas."
Mi balancis la kapon. “Mi pasis kvardek jarojn. Mi ne havas multajn ŝancojn aĉeti vespermanĝon por bela juna knabino.”
Francine revenanta kun la supo helpis ŝin kovri sian konfuzon kaj embarason. “Mi aŭdis vian stomakon grumbli. Dekkelkjaruloj."
Mi atendis ĝis Kelly murmuris dankon kaj Francine denove foriris. "Kiom aĝa vi havas?" mi demandis malakre.
Ŝi singarde rigardis min dum ŝi malfermis alian envolvitan pakaĵon da biskvitoj, ĉi-foje pli singarde. "Kiom aĝa mi aspektas?"
Mi ridis laŭte. "Vi volas diri kiom da aĝo mi volas kredi?"
Ŝi mordis sian lipon, flaris la supon kaj poste faris vizaĝon. “Uh. Mi estas... mi havas 21 jarojn.”
Mi balancis la kapon, pli mensoge. Ŝi estis precipe malbona pri ĝi. Mi ŝanĝis la temon. "Ĉu la supo estas en ordo?"
“Mi pensas ke jes. Mi estas tiel malsata, ke mi sentas min ĝena flari ĝin.” Ŝi provis kuleron.
"Trankviliĝu. Neniu hasto. Estas post la 4:00 p.m. La trafiko malsupren en LA ĉiukaze estos murdo sub ĉi tiu pluvo.” Ŝi ektimis videble pro la vorto 'murdo'. Ho, mi pensis.
Ŝi manĝis iom pli da supo kaj mordetis la biskviton.
"Do." Mi revenis al antaŭa mensogo. "Ĉu Hope anstataŭ Kelly?" Mi demandis. “Aŭ Hope Kelly, Kelly Hope? Vi ne tre similas al Esperanza.” Malgraŭ ŝia malhela hararo, parte striita kun blondaj kulminaĵoj, ŝia vizaĝo ne estis tipe hispanida, nek ŝia vizaĝkoloro. Tro helhaŭta, kun danco de lentugoj, kaj ŝiaj okuloj tiu stranga grizverda anstataŭ bruna. Ne ke tiuj aferoj signifis multon, hispanidoj multe variis.
Ŝi balancis la kapon. "La ŝoforo estis hispana, ne mi." hispana? Neniu en Kalifornio sub la aĝo de kvindek nomis homojn de latina deveno kiel hispanoj plu. Eble ŝi estis devena el Novjorko, aŭ la Oriento, ĉiuokaze?
Subite, ŝia vizaĝo ŝanĝiĝis kaj ŝi metis la manon al la buŝo. Bruo, poste ŝi staris kaj kuris al la banĉambroj. En sia hasto, ŝi elektis la malĝustan pordon kaj malaperis interne. "Vi devus esti turninta maldekstren," mi vokis.
Ŝi aperis, mano ankoraŭ super la buŝo, krio de “Hej! Fraŭlino, vi ricevis malĝustan pordon!" sekvis ŝin dum ŝi transiris la koridoron kaj iris tra la pordo markita Virinoj.
Francine venis. "Ĉu mi iru kontroli ŝin?" ŝi demandis.
"Ĉu vi?" Mi diris. "Ŝi estas ĉagrenita kaj tiel malsata la manĝaĵo malsanigis ŝin."
Francine iris en la banĉambron post Kelly aŭ Hope aŭ Esperanza aŭ kiel ajn ŝia nomo estis.
Mi sidis tie zorgante pri ŝi kaj pri tio, kion mi eble devos fari pri la situacio. Ĉu forkurinto? Verŝajne. Estis kaptite de kamionisto, kiu diris aŭ faris ion, kio timigis ŝin, do ŝi kuris. Ĉio multe dependis de kiom aĝa ŝi estis sed mi ne scius tion certe krom se ŝi montrus al mi ian ID Valida ID, tio estas. La falsaĵo estis tro ofta en la LA-areo. Logike, prudente, mi devus telefoni al la junularaj aŭtoritatoj nun kaj simple transdoni ŝin al ili.
La riskoj por mi estis altaj en ĉi tiu situacio. Sed se mi farus tion, finpelus ŝin, la venontan fojon kiam ŝi kuros, ŝi ne fidus al iu ajn. Kaj infanoj, kiuj forkuris, ofte faris tion ree kaj ree. Mi devis igi ŝin konsenti lasi min voki iun. Krome, se mi nun elirus ŝin, mi neniam scius, kio vere estas ŝia rakonto.
Francine eliris. “Ŝi estos en ordo. Lavante ŝian vizaĝon.” Ŝi ridetis preter mi. "Via filino?" La demando signifis ion por Francine tiel sensenca, kiel ĝi ŝajnis al mi.
Mi balancis la kapon. “Nur malsata infano. Grimpis en mia aŭto. Mi estis haltigita sur la aŭtovojo." La trifraza resumo.
Francine staris tie kaj ni rigardis unu la alian por momento. "Viaj hamburgeroj estas pretaj," ŝi diris fine kaj iris preni ilin.
La hamburgeroj alvenis kaj mi komencis la miajn kiam Kelly, kiel ŝi nomis sin, eliris el la banĉambro. Ŝi paŭzis tie, aspektante ŝokita, pala kaj maltrankviligita, kvazaŭ io estis klarigita al ŝi, kion ŝi trovis netolerebla.
La vido de la telefono apud la pordo de la banĉambro ŝajnis inspiri ion. Ŝi telefonis kaj parolis en la telefonon por iom. Mi ne vidis, ke ŝi uzis monerojn, do ŝi verŝajne faris vokon kun kolektado.
Neniu konversacio sekvis ĉi tiun malgrandan ludleton kaj ŝi pendigis la telefonon, aspektante iom larmoplena. Mi mansvingis al ŝi kaj ŝi malrapide moviĝis reen al nia budo. "Ne hejme?" Mi demandis.
Ŝi balancis la kapon.
"Kiun vi vokis?" Senĝene demandita, negrava demando, se mi denove alarmus ŝin , ŝi denove mensogus.
"Familio." Larmoj fluis laŭ ŝiaj vangoj.
Ŭaŭ. Mi silentis.
Ŝi manĝis pli da supo kaj trinketis sodon, ĉi-foje tre malrapide.
Mi pensis pri tio. Mi estis en pikaĵo. Mi devis fari ion por ŝi eĉ se tio signifis transdoni ŝin al la polico. Kaj tio povus montriĝi la plej bona elekto por mi, se ne por ŝi. Eĉ transdoni ŝin al la polico prezentis problemon se ŝi elektis fari iujn ajn akuzojn.
Mi flankenlasas la zorgojn por la momento. Ŝi estis malsata infano kaj ŝi bezonis iun por esti amika. "Vi vokis iun en LA?" Mi demandis. "Via familio?"
Ŝi kapjesis. "Mi estas tiel malsata kaj kiam mi manĝas mi sentas min malsana," ŝi plendis.
"Unu mordo samtempe," mi konsilis. "Prenu gluton da Kolao, manĝu iom el la pano sur via sandviĉo." Mi rigardis ŝin manĝi dum iom da tempo. Ŝi malakceptis la oferton de iuj fritaĵoj sed la manĝaĵo, kiun ŝi manĝis, ŝajnis voli resti malalte. Mi manĝis mian tutan hamburgeron kaj pripensis la talion de ĉio.
Francine aperis. "Deserto?"
Mi balancis la kapon. “Ĉu vi povas skatoli la hamburgeron? Eble ŝi povos manĝi ĝin poste.”
“Certe. Mi ankaŭ faros al vi kunportan sodon.” Ŝi rikanis al la knabino
Kelly aspektis dankema ĝis Francine produktis broson kaj kombilon el iu poŝo. “Uzu ĉi tiujn, karulo. Via hararo estas malordo.”
Ni ambaŭ rigardis ŝin ĝis ŝi prenis la aĵojn kaj iris al la banĉambroj. Ŝi hezitis momenton, poste denove elektis la virinan ĉambron. mi ridetis. "Ne havas ŝiajn okulvitrojn."
“Ho.” Francine faligis la ĉekon kaj suspiris. "Frenezaj infanoj. Ĉu vi volas, ke mi voku la policanojn por vi antaŭ ol ŝi foriros de tie?"
"Ne." Mi balancis la kapon.
“Ŝi havas homojn en LA, mi kondukos ŝin tien. Rigardu, ŝi provos voki ilin kiam ŝi eliros el la banĉambro, ili ne respondis la lastan fojon.” Mi elprenis vizitkarton el mia monujo kaj transdonis ĝin al ŝi.
Ŝi legis ĝin. Mia nomo, Walter S. Dalton, mia kompanio nomo, adreso, telefonnumero, ktp. Ŝi rigardis min kaj mi povis diri en la momento, kiam ŝi decidis fidi, ke mi faru la ĝustan aferon de la knabino. Post ĉio, mi povintus mensogi kaj diri, ke ŝi estas mia filino.
Kelly eliris el la banĉambro dum mi sidis tie pripensante, kiel povus esti esti patro de filino de ŝia aĝo. Ŝi aspektis eĉ pli bela kun la hararo brosita kaj kombita el la vizaĝo, mola malhela nubo kun pli helaj strioj enkadrantaj la klasikan ovalon de ŝiaj trajtoj. Ŝi denove iris al la telefono. Ŝi provis silenti sed mi kaptis multon kion ŝi diris. Ŝi petis postulvokon al "Margaret Kelly" tiam ŝi diris, "Mi scias ion pri Georgo", kiam la persono venis sur la linion. Mi ne aŭdis la reston de la voko.
Ŝi denove ploris, kiam ŝi aliĝis al mi. “Mi fartas bone,” ŝi murmuris dum ŝi glitis reen en la budon.
Ŝi denove okupiĝis pri la supo dum kelka tempo. Fine, ŝi rigardis supren kaj rigardis min atente. "Ĉu vi estas edziĝinta?" ŝi demandis.
Mi balancis la kapon. "Provis ĝin, ne sukcesis." Ne necesas klarigi plu.
Ŝi kapjesis. "Kie vi loĝas?"
"Burbank." Mi diris.
Alia kapjeso. Ŝi ŝajnis altigi sin por la granda. “Ĉu mi povas resti ĉe vi kelkajn tagojn? Mi volas diri....” Ŝi forte englutis, la okulojn larĝaj, la lipoj tremantaj.
Mi certe palpebrumis sed sentis, ke mi nur rigardis ŝin. Fine mi demandis. "Homoj rifuzas vin reveni?"
"Io tia," ŝi konfesis.
Malĝoja respondeto, mi hezitis diri al ŝi ne; ŝi ŝajnis sufiĉe fragila por rompi en milionon da pecoj, se mi farus tion. Ploru almenaŭ. Sed kiel mi povus diri jes?
Mi decidis ŝanĝi taktikon.
"Kiu estas Georgo?"
Ŝi ŝanceliĝis kvazaŭ la mondo moviĝus sub ŝi; poste ŝi profunde enspiris por diri alian mensogon. "Iun mi antaŭe konis." Ŝi ne demandis min kiel mi sciis pri Georgo.
"Kio okazis al li?" Ŝi diris al iu telefone, supozeble la Margaret Kelly kiun ŝi petis, ke ŝi scias ion pri kio okazis al Georgo.
Li mortis. Mi pensas." Ne mensogante, la respondo estis tro rapida. Ĉi tiu knabino ne tiom rapide mensogis, krom se eble ŝi estis preta por la demando.
Vi pensas? Vi ne scias?” Mi sondis iom pli.
Ŝi balancis la kapon. “Li devas esti morta. Kapo sur kolizio hieraŭ nokte. I-5 sude de Fresno."
Atendu minuton. Mi fakte aŭdis pri tiu akcidento en la radio kiam mi ricevis trafikraporton ekster Fresno. Estis tri mortoj kaj unu el ili nomo, kiu nun sonoris. "Georgo Kelly?" Mi diris.
Jes?” ŝi respondis.
"La viro kiu mortis estis George Kelly, mi aŭdis ĝin en la radio. Sporta verkisto por la Ĉiutaga Novaĵo en LA"
"Vi ne konis lin." Ŝi rakontis ne demandas.
"Mi legis lian kolumnon."
Ŝi ridetis.
"Ĉu vi vidis la akcidenton?" Mi demandis.
"Ho jes." La fantomo de ĝi trapasis ŝian vizaĝon forviŝante la rideton.
"De la kamiono?"
"Uh, jes." Ŝi ŝajnis havi neniun koncepton pri tio, kiel ŝi aspektis aŭ sonis kiam ŝi kuŝis.
"Pro tio vi volis, ke la kamionisto haltu?" Mi demandis senĝene, nur sondante denove.
Ŝi kapjesis malgaje. Ne mensogo sed la vero estis tute nodita ĉi tie kaj implikita en la okazaĵoj de la pasinta vespero. "Mi vekiĝis kriante," ŝi subite proponis. “Mi estis en stranga loko, kampulo-simila afero, kiun mi subite rimarkis, ke mi moviĝas, ĉar mi estis ĵetita ĉirkaŭe. Estis la dormanto sur la kamiono...”
"Do...?" mi instigis.
“Tiam li haltigis la kamionon, kriante al mi en la angla kaj la hispana, ke mi ĉesu krii. Li pensis, ke ĝi estas nur koŝmaro." Ŝi ektremis.
“ Ĉu ne? Vi vidis ion teruran, tiam vi sonĝis pri tio?”
“Ne. Mi estis tie. Mi vidis la ulon veni al mi en la malĝusta vojo. Ĝi ĉirkaŭiris la kamionon, maltrafis ĝin, sed ĝi plenigis la antaŭan glacon, helaj lumturoj. Mi deflankiĝis sed neniu tempo, neniu tempo por foriri de la vojo. Ĝi finiĝis tiel rapide, ke preskaŭ ne doloris sed, sed...” ŝi kuris malsupren.
"Tio estis via sonĝo?"
Ŝi balancis la kapon. "Tiel mortis Georgo."
“Kaj vi sonĝis, ke vi estas Georgo,” mi demandis mire. Ŝia rakonto kaptis min en la imago. Preskaŭ ŝajnis, ke mi povas aŭdi la turmentitan kaŭĉukon, la ŝiran metalon, la frakasantan vitron, detalojn nemenciitajn en ŝia mallonga priskribo de la okazaĵo. Sufiĉa rakonto por vespero tiel proksima al Haloveno, mi preskaŭ povis senti la fantomon de la mortinto en la ĉambro kun ni.
“Jes. Mi estis Georgo.”
Io pri la maniero kiel ŝi diris ĝin. Malgaje, senespere.
Ĉapitro II
Fantomo
Mi rigardis ŝin lukti por manĝi la supon. Ŝi preskaŭ tute ne tuŝis la hamburgeron. “Ĉu pro tio vi saltis, kiam mi antaŭe diris 'murdo'? Vi sentis, ke George Kelly estis murdita de la malĝusta vojo ŝoforo?" Mi finfine demandis, kiam mi sentis, ke ŝi verŝajne ne havos ripetan vojaĝon por liberigi sin de la manĝaĵo.
Ŝi grimacis tiam komencis liki larmojn malrapide. Ŝi forviŝis la du unuajn per fingropintoj; tiam lasu la aliajn vojaĝi laŭ la spuroj faritaj sur ŝiaj vangoj por guti de ŝia svelta makzelo kaj en ŝian teleron. Ŝi balancis la kapon sed ne parolis.
Mi sentis min kiel la krimulo. Sed io pri la rakonto ankoraŭ ĝenis min. “Ĉu vi aŭdis lian nomon en la radio? Ne, atendu, ke vi ne povis havi, ili ne sciis kiu li estas ĝis hodiaŭ matene kaj tiam vi kaŝis vin en fosaĵo...” Ĉi tio ne havis sencon.
"Nenio havas multe da senco por mi pri hieraŭ nokte," ŝi diris kvazaŭ ŝi aŭdis mian neesprimitan komenton. Ankoraŭ malrapide plorante, ŝi ridetis tra la larmoj. “Sed, hej! Mi estas juna nun! Mi havas problemojn, sed Georgo mortis!” Tiam ŝi vere malfiksiĝis pro la plorado, ŝanceliĝis sur la piedoj kaj provis denove direktiĝi al la banĉambro.
Mi moviĝis senefike por helpi ŝin sed trovis min staranta ekster la banĉambro de la knabino sentanta min malsaĝa kaj kruela. "Kion diable vi diris al ŝi?" Francine demandis ĉe mia kubuto.
"Ŝi vidis vrakon sur la ŝoseo," mi diris.
Francine malŝparis sensignifan rigardon al mi kaj ree iris en la banĉambron por provi konsoli la forkuriĝintan knabinon, ĉar tio certe estis kio ŝi estis.
Eble ŝi forlasis ion el sia rakonto aŭ simple elpensis la plej grandan parton. Eble ŝi estis kun la kamionisto sufiĉe longe por aŭdi la detalojn pri kiel George Kelly mortis aŭ eble mi ne estis la unua veturo por preni ŝin hodiaŭ. Sed unu aferon mi sentis certa, nun. Ŝi estis neplenaĝa kaj ŝi estis forkurinta de hejme.
Mi scivolis kial, infanoj forkuris pro multaj kialoj. Mi ĵetis rigardon al la telefono. Mi demandis min ankaŭ, kial ŝi vokis la vidvinon de George Kelly, ĉu tio vere estis kiun ŝi vokis.
Francine eksplodis el la banĉambro, rapide moviĝante. "Vi lasu ŝin sola!" ŝi klakis al mi preterpasante, direktante malantaŭ la vendotablo.
"Francie!" Unu el la aliaj servistinoj lamentis, “Vi havas tablojn! Manĝaĵo supre!”
Nu, mi certe ne iris en la virinan banĉambron post ŝi. Sed kion mi devis fari? Turni ŝin al la polico ŝajnis logika, neplenaĝa forkurinta knabino, mi povus esti en serioza problemo pro eĉ veturigi ŝin tiel idiota kiel tio estis. Neniu plu fidis plenkreskulojn ĉirkaŭ infanoj.
Francine traktis siajn devojn, malaperis en la malantaŭo momente kaj reaperis portante malmultekostan plastan mansakon. "Knabino perdis ĉiujn siajn aĵojn," ŝi diris al mi dum ŝi malaperis reen en la banĉambron.
Mi decidis atendi ĉi tion ĉe la tablo, kie mi povus almenaŭ trinki kolaon. Mi ne volis transdoni ŝin al la policanoj. Mi aŭdis multajn terurajn rakontojn pri tio, kio okazis al infanoj kaptitaj en la ilaroj. Kion mi volis fari estis paroli kun ŝiaj gepatroj, ekscii, kiaj ili estas, kial ŝi forkuris? Ĉu ili reprenos ŝin, ĉu ili meritus rehavi ŝin, ĉu ŝi revenus? Se ili eĉ parolus kun mi....
Ŝi eliris el la banĉambro, portante la malgrandan nigran mansaketon, kondukante de ridetanta Francine. Ŝia vizaĝo estis lavita, certe kaj ŝiaj haroj denove kombitaj. Sed ŝi ja aspektis alie kaj mi bezonis momenton por kompreni, ke ŝi nun ŝminkis. Lipruĝo en iu roza frosta nuanco, okulkoloro en verda kaj eble io alia. Ŝi aspektis pli plenkreska kaj pli simila al knabineto samtempe.
Mi ridetis al ŝi kaj ŝi mallevis la okulojn, furioze ruĝiĝante. Francine intermetis sin sed turnis sin por paroli kun -- Espero? Kelly? Mi supozas, ke mi daŭre nomus ŝin Kelly -- la knabino. “Nun vi nur konservu tiun sakon kaj tiujn kosmetikaĵojn, karulo. Vi ne zorgu pri tio, Julie ne plu laboras ĉi tie kaj ne revenis de monatoj kaj ĝi estas nur ordinara aĵo. Sed ĉu ne plibonigas vin aspekti bela, havi proprajn aĵojn?”
Kelly eble kapjesis, la movado estis iom tro spasma por tiu priskribo sed Francine ŝajnis kontenta. Ŝi turniĝis ridetante al mi. "Vi prefere konduku ŝin hejmen, se vi povas igi ŝin diri al vi kie."
Mi kapjesis.
Francine boksis la preskaŭ netuŝitan hamburgeron kaj provizis al ni ankaŭ tasojn da sodo. Mi pagis la fakturon, lasis grandan trinkmonon kaj persone dankis Francine. "Vi estis granda helpo," mi diris al ŝi sincere. Ŝi ridetis al mi, kiel unu bona persono ridetas al alia. Ŝi bonigis min pri mi mem; devus esti pli da Francine en la mondo.
Kelly staris ĉirkaŭe, foje tuŝante ŝian vizaĝon pro miro. Iam mi rimarkis, ke ŝi tuŝas ŝiajn lipojn kaj ekzamenas la koloron sur ŝiaj fingropintoj. Ŝi kaj Francine interŝanĝis mallertan brakumon ĝuste antaŭ ol ni foriris. La pluvo estis ĝis kraĉoj kaj kraĉoj sed mi tenis la ombrelon super ni sur la vojo reen al la aŭto.
Ŝi prenis la pakaĵon de la hamburgero kaj sodaĵoj kaj sekvis min eksteren. Mi tenis la pordon por ŝi kaj ŝi atendis, ke mi malfermos la pluvombrelon antaŭ ol eliri en la pluvon kaj fruan nokton.
Kelly ŝajnis eĉ pli necerta pri si mem kiam ŝi glitis en la sidlokon kaj akceptis la hamburgeron kaj sodojn ankoraŭ unu fojon. Mi fermis la pordon kaj rapidis al mia flanko ĝuste kiam la vento leviĝis kaj preskaŭ turnis la kompatindan ombrelon interne eksteren.
Mi ekloĝis, bukloŝkiĝis, ekfunkciigis la motoron kaj alĝustigis la varmegon. "Malvarme por oktobro ĉu ne?" Mi diris. Norma komento en Suda Kalifornio iam ajn la temperaturo falas sub sesdek kvin gradoj; estus Haloveno post du pliaj tagoj sed neniu ĉi tie atendis, ke ĝi estos malvarma.
Ŝi kapjesis distrite ĉe la konversacia nulo. La hamburgerskatolo estis sur la sidloko, la sodo en la tasujoj sed ŝi tenis la malgrandan plastan monujon en sia sino. Ŝi malfermis ĝin kaj ekzamenis la enhavon, forĵetante strangajn paperpecojn kaj senutilajn objektojn en la sakon, kiun mi pendigis de la radiobunilo.
Mi tiris al la fino de la tereno kaj paŭzis tie rigardante la trafikon kunfandiĝi en la aŭtovojon. Neniu en la restoracio povis vidi nin ĉi tie, la grandaj kamionoj estis en la vojo. Ŝi donis al ili unu nervozan rigardon kaj poste rigardis min, larĝajn verdajn okulojn pli kaj pli verdigitaj de ŝia nova ŝminko.
"Vi aspektas bela," mi diris.
Ŝi ruĝiĝis. "Francine insistis."
"Ŝi verŝajne pravis, ŝminkita preskaŭ ĉiam plibonigas knabinon pri si mem," mi diris. Mi provis aranĝi aferojn por peti ŝin diri al mi kie ŝi loĝas, ŝian realan nomon, nomojn kaj adresojn de ŝiaj gepatroj. Eble ŝi kuris de unu gepatro al la alia, kiu ne vere volis ke ŝi aperu. La vivo povus fariĝi tre komplika por infanoj en la naŭdekaj jaroj. Ŝi balancis la kapon kaj murmuris ion, kion mi ne tute komprenis.
Mi finfine decidis ke ĝi estas sekura kaj tiris en la trafikvojon por fini la veturadon al Burbank.
Ŝi restis kvieta dum ni revenis sur la aŭtovojon. Mi rigardis ŝin per rigardoj sed ŝi tenis sian vizaĝon parte forturnita. Mi povis vidi ŝian vizaĝon pli kiel reflekto en la fenestro ol rekte kaj ŝi ŝajnis esti ellaboranta sian vojon tra nodeca problemo.
Mi bedaŭris, ke mi ne demandis pli pri la telefonvokoj en la restoracio. "Ĉu vi volas rakonti al mi pli pri via rakonto?" mi instigis.
"Kion alia estas por rakonti?" Ŝi ĝemis. "Vi kredos nenion el la resto de ĝi."
mi ridetis. “Mi ne kredas duonon de tio, kion vi diris al mi, kia ĝi estas. Eble mi vere volas helpi. Kaj eble vi nur rakontas bonan fantomrakonton.”
Ŝi sulkigis la brovojn. "La plej multe da helpo, kiun vi povus esti, estus lasi min dormi sur via kanapo dum kelkaj tagoj, dum mi eltrovas aferojn."
Tion denove, ĉu ŝi ne vidis, kiajn malfacilaĵojn ĝi produktos? “Ĉu komprenis? Kiel kio? Kien vi iros, kun kiu vi loĝos?”
Ŝi provis kapjesi kaj balanci la kapon samtempe. "Kiu mi vere estas," ŝi murmuris.
"Kiu vi estas -- vere?" Mi prenis la logilon.
Ŝi rigardis min. "Mi iom dezirus havi tiujn aĵojn, kiujn mi lasis en la kamiono, se mi lasus aĵojn en la kamiono."
"Kio?"
“Nu,” ŝi daŭrigis. "Mi certe havis ion alian kun mi, eĉ se ĝi estis nur jako." Ŝi rigardis la poŝlibron. “Aŭ monujo. Mi scivolas, ĉu mi havis monujon." Ŝi ridis freneze. "Mi verŝajne faris."
Senkonscie, unuafoje de kiam mi renkontis ŝin, tute senkonscie, ŝi ekzamenis siajn mamojn. “Mi havas ĉi tion,” ŝi diris, ŝovinte unu el la etaĵoj tra sia ĉemizo. "Monujo preskaŭ certe akompanus ilin, ĉu ne?"
Mi ridis, ne certas ĝuste pri kio ŝi veturis sed ŝi faris la demandon kvazaŭ ŝi vere atendus respondon. Subite ruĝiĝante, ŝi deturnis sin de mi.
“Pardonu,” mi diris.
Ŝi levis la ŝultrojn. "Prefere mi kutimiĝu al ĝi, mi supozas." Ŝi returnis sin kun malklara rideto, mi ĝojis, ke ŝi ne ŝajnis esti pli ĉagrenita. "Vi ridos kiam mi rakontos al vi la sekvan parton."
"Bone, diru al mi."
"Mi estas knabo," ŝi diris.
Mi ridis.
Ŝi ridetis. “Vidu? Mi diris al vi, ke vi ridus." Ŝi furioze ruĝiĝis sed ridis kiel infano kun sekreto.
" Certe vi estas," mi diris.
Ŝi ruĝiĝis eĉ pli hele kaj la rido certe vundis ŝian vizaĝon. "Nun, tion mi povas pruvi!"
Mi denove ridis kaj ŝi mem plene ekridis kun iom da danĝera histerio.
Mi balancis la kapon. "Ne, vi pravas, ke mi ne kredas." Aŭ ĉu mi? Subite venis al mi en la kapon, ke ĉi tiu estis infano, kiu ĝis ĉi tiu punkto tute ne povis diri konvinkan mensogon. Mi ĉiam sciis, kiam ŝi mensogis; sed ĉi-foje, mi sentis nenian mensogon, mi nur ne kredis ŝin. Kiel mi povus? Tiu vizaĝo, korpo, hararo, pozo eĉ. Ĉi tiu estis juna virino, knabino ĉirkaŭ dek kvin aŭ dek ses, pli aŭ malpli du jaroj eble. Sed certe ne knabo.
La larmoj denove fluis sur ŝia vizaĝo kaj mi subite komprenis, ke la ridado ŝanĝis polusecon kaj metamorfozis en larmojn. Mi malrapidiĝis kaj komencis serĉi elirejon aŭ almenaŭ sekuran lokon por halti.
Ŝi balancis la kapon. "Ne, daŭrigu," ŝi diris, kun singulto en la mezo.
"Ĉu vi bonfartas?" Mi demandis.
Ŝi kapjesis malĝoje. "Mi fartos bone, ĝi ĵus foriris de mi denove." Ŝi viŝis sian vizaĝon per histo el mia disdonilo inter la sidlokoj, kaj poste trinkis sian sodon. "Mi... mi supozas, ke mia ŝminko devas esti malorda, ĉu?" Ĉi tio preskaŭ eksigis ŝin denove sed ŝi nuligis la ridadojn kun videbla peno.
“Francine donis al vi kelkajn, nu, aĵojn? Vi volas iom da lumo, estas ŝminka spegulo en la sunŝirmilo."
Ŝi balancis la kapon. "Mi ne scius kiel."
Mi pripensis tiun respondon. Neniel ĝi havis sencon, nek supozante ke ŝi estas knabino kiel mi faris la tutan tempon, nek prenante ŝian aserton pri knabeco serioze. Ĉiu knabo, kiu aspektis kiel ŝi, certe scius ŝminki. Ŝi havis trapikitajn orelojn per etaj plastaj rozaj orelringoj kaj ŝiaj brovoj estis plukitaj en delikatan arkon.
Ŝi renversis la spegulon kaj rigardis sin, memorigante min pri la tuta mondo pri iu ulo kontrolanta ĉu li bezonas razadon. Mi ne antaŭe rimarkis tian konduton ĉe ŝi. Aŭ ĉu mi? La mallerteco, kiun mi plurfoje ekvidis, nun elstaris en mia memoro dum tempoj kiam ŝi moviĝis kiel viro kaj ne kiel juna knabino.
"Lavursokuloj," ŝi diris. "Kiel vi deprenas ĉi tiun aĵon?"
Mi balancis la kapon, ĉu ŝi vere atendis, ke mi sciu? Uzante histon malseketigitan per akvo el la ekstero de la sodaj tasoj ŝi forigis tiom da ŝminko kiel ŝi povis. "Pli bone?" ŝi demandis.
Mi ridetis kaj diris nenion. La peno ruĝigis ŝian vizaĝon kaj igis ŝin aspekti kvazaŭ ŝi plorus dum tagoj.
"Ĝi estas terure, ĉu ne?"
"Kial vi provas konvinki min, ke vi estas knabo?" Mi demandis. "Ne iom gravas ĉu mi lasos vin dormi sur mia kanapo."
"Eĉ ne pensis pri tio." Ŝi malfaris la seĝbukon kaj moviĝis por turni sin en la sidlokon kaj malligi sian ĝinzon. "Sed mi povas pruvi ĝin."
“Ne!” Mi konservis kontrolon de la aŭto dum mi volis senespere etendi la manon kaj pagadi ŝin.
Ŝi ridetis, ruĝigante sian vizaĝon eĉ pli ruĝe. "Kredu min nun?"
Mi balancis la kapon sed ŝi trankviliĝis sur la sidloko kaj refiksis la zonon. “Prefere mi atendu ĝis ni estos haltigitaj, via veturado timigas min.”
Mi koncentriĝis pri veturado. " Do vi estas knabo?" Mi diris.
“Jes. Surprizis min ankaŭ. Mi volas diri, ke mi fakte ne serĉis ĝis la restoracio, donis al mi sufiĉe ŝokon." Ŝi ridetis pro sia propra sensencaĵo. Eble tio estis, stulteco tute ne ŝajnis sama al mensogo. "Venras, ke mi iris al la ĝusta necesejo la unuan fojon."
“Mi supozas, ke mi vere ne kredas vin. Kion vi volas diri, ke vi fakte ne rigardis? Iam?”
“Nu, la unua fojo, kiam mi vidis ĉi tiun vizaĝon, estis en la kamiono. Kaj mi pensis, ke mi havas koŝmaron, kaj....” Ŝi haltis.
Mi ĵetis rigardon al ŝi.
"La kompatinda infano."
"Kia kompatinda infano?" Nun ŝi vere konfuzigis min.
Ŝi gestis al si. "Tiu kiu finiĝis en la korpo de George Kelly." Ŝi aspektis malgaja, "Ĝuste antaŭ ol la kontraŭdirekta ŝoforo trafis."
Mi sentis, ke la haŭto sur mia kolo ŝteliris en mian harlimon.
"Vi pensas, ke vi estas George Kelly?" mi demandis fine.
Ŝi kapjesis. Nun ŝi aspektis pli timigita ol mi sentis.
"Kio diable estis la "Pino Gudro Homerun"?" mi demandis subite, malespere.
"George Brett, la tria bazulo de la Reĝfamiliano, ricevis hejmkuron revokita pro havi tro da pingudro sur la batilo. La decido..."
Mi interrompis: “Flosas kiel papilio....” Mi haltis.
"Pikas kiel abelo." Ŝi diris aŭtomate, kiel preskaŭ ĉiu mia aĝo aŭ pli aĝa kaj preskaŭ neniu pli juna ol mi. Sed ŝi rigardis min strange, dum momento kaj detenis sin aldoni ion alian.
"Fek," mi diris.
"Tio ne estas sporto," ŝi diris. "Vi volas OpEd ." Ŝi ridetis.
Mi veturis silente iom da tempo.
"George Kelly skribis plurajn artikolojn pri tiu malbenita pingudro vesperto."
"Jes," ŝi diris. "Mi melkis tiun bonan."
"Vi estas lia filino?"
"Mi estis 67-jara!"
"Nepino? Vi legis ĉiujn liajn artikolojn?”
Ŝi ĝemis. "Do nun vi kredas min?"
Mi faris kelkajn pliajn demandojn, ŝi povus citi Leo Durocher, Jackie Robinson, Yogi Berra, Casey Stengel, Satchel Paige, Dizzy Dean, kaj ĉiujn precize. Mi memoris la citaĵojn de artikolo kiun George Kelly faris en la Ĉiutaga Novaĵo pri famaj basbalaj miscitaĵoj. Mi ne memoris ĝin tiel bone kiel ŝi.
Mi demandis pri piedpilko. Ĉevalvetkuro. olimpikaj medaloj. Mi faris demandojn, pri kiuj mi ne sciis la respondojn, ŝi faris.
Mi eliris la aŭtovojon ĉe Colusa. Mi ne volis ĉi-foje kafejon , mi volis trinki.
Mi parkis sur flankstrato, antaŭ la trinkaĵo, sed mi dankeme deprenis la manojn de la rado kaj turnis min por rigardi Kelly, ŝajne George Kelly.
Ŝi mordis sian lipon iomete time, simile al iu ajn alia adoleskulino dum parkumado en malklare lumigita tereno kun viro pli ol duoble ŝia aĝo, des malpli iuj aliaj konsideroj. "Do," mi diris sen ideo pri kiel mi povus aldoni penson al la vorto.
Ŝi kapjesis. "Ĝuste tiel."
Neniu el ni diris ion por momento kaj la nokto kreskis ĉirkaŭ ni, malheliĝante pro mistero kaj strangeco. Malproksime mi povis vidi la brilon de Magia Monto, la amuzparko. Aliflanke kuŝis la Urbo de Anĝeloj.
"Kaj vi vere estas knabo?" mi fine demandis. Mi eble ŝanceliĝis pli pri tiu ideo ol ke ŝi vere estis George Kelly. Kion ajn "vere" povus signifi en ĉi tiu kunteksto de superreala revelacio.
“Uh. Jes. Ĉu mi devas pruvi ĝin?" Ŝi ŝajnis nun iom malvolonta senvestigi kaj montri al mi.
Mi balancis la kapon. “Kiel vi povus ne scii ĝis la restoracio? Mi volas diri, kiam vi vidis, ĉu -- ĉu vi ne kontrolis antaŭe?"
“Mi ne scias , mi supozas, ke mi nur panikiĝis kiam mi vidis la vizaĝon kaj la,” ŝi rigardis malsupren, “ĉikojn, ĉi tiujn. Mi nur supozis, ke mi estas knabino kaj mi ne volis rigardi. Mi volas diri, ke ĝi jam estis sufiĉe strange, mi vere pensis dum iom da tempo , ke mi estis en komato ie halucinante." Ŝi ektremis kaj poste ridis embarasite. La ridadoj velkis en tremantajn kaj nervozajn rigardojn tra la flankaj fenestroj.
Mi trovis neeble pensi pri ŝi kiel knabo, ŝi aspektis tiel virineca eĉ en ĝinzo kaj kiel ŝiaj kuketaj mamoj montriĝis tra la ĉemizo, kiel ŝiaj esprimoj ŝajnis mildaj kaj dolĉaj, kiel ŝiaj okuloj malkaŝis la animon de virino. . Distrate ŝi maĉis ungon kaj mi devis malhelpi min diri: "Ĉesigu tion", kiel gepatro.
"Kelly!" mi suspiris. "Ĉi tio estas nekredebla, ĝi ne povas esti reala."
Ŝi tremis unufoje, tiam io ŝajnis rompiĝi interne. "Diru al mi! Mi devas esti morta! Kaj, kaj mi ne estas!” La larmoj denove elfluis, "Mi ne estas, kaj se mi ne estas morta, ĉu vi vidas, tio signifas, tio signifas, ke ĉi tiu malriĉa infano estas mortinta anstataŭe." Ŝi komencis vere plori. “Mi ne volis morti kaj iel, iel mi faris ĉi tion, mi mortigis ŝin! Li, kiu ajn! Kaj, kaj nun,” ŝi gestis al la korpo de la adoleska androgino, kiun ŝi fariĝis, “ĉi tio estas Dio punanta min pro tio, ke mi ne foriris, kiam estis mia vico!”
Mi kunvenis ŝin al mi kaj ŝi liberigis la sekurzonon por puŝi sin kontraŭ mia brusto, “Ho Dio! Mi tiom bedaŭras! Do pardonu! Mi ne intencis , mi ne intencis.” Mi karesis kaj konsolis ŝin kiel mi havus ajnan infanon kaj mi provis ne pensi pri George Kelly, aŭ pri knaboj, kiuj vestis sin kiel knabinoj sed nur pri Kelly, kaj la koraflikto kiun ŝi sentis ĉi-momente.
Ĉapitro III
Kamiono
"Ĉu vi kredas je Dio?" Mi demandis kviete al ŝia mola, dutona, preskaŭ rekta hararo.
“Ĝis hieraŭ nokte, ne, vere ne. Mi ne scias ,” ŝi suspiris kaj moliĝis kontraŭ mi, streĉo forfluis. “Mi supozas, ke mi kredis je io, eble Celo anstataŭ Dio. Ne kion la plej multaj homoj volas diri kiam ili diras Dion."
Mi kapjesis. “Jes. Nu, se vi kredas, ke Dio faris ĉi tion al vi, tiam vi devus kredi, ke tio estas ia celo. Ĉu ne?”
"Uh," ŝi diris. Nedega, sed ŝi aŭskultis.
Mi silentis momenton, pripensante tion per mi mem.
Fine ŝi demandis: “Kia celo? Kia celo povus esti por tia freneza afero?”
" Mi ne certas, mi supozas, ke estas kliŝo, ke ni eble ne komprenas la kialojn de Dio por fari ion."
Subite ŝi ŝajnis kompreni, kion ŝi faras, kie ŝi estas, kiu karesas ŝin kaj ŝi forpuŝis sin, rapide, se ne tute perforte. "Hum, mi fartas bone nun."
"Certe." Mi malfaris mian propran sekurzonon kie la buko estis fosinta en min.
Ŝi rigardis la kafejon. "Mi ne malsatas." Ŝi trinkis unu el la sodaĵoj. "Vi volas eniri?"
"Tie estas telefono." Mi ne volis plu trinki.
“Kiun mi vokus? Mi ne scias kiun voki?” Ŝi aspektis kvazaŭ ŝi povus denove disŝiri. "Mi jam vokis mian edzinon."
Ŝia edzino, ho la menso babiladis ĉe tiu.
“Mi ne volas travivi al ŝi ion tian, ŝi ne povis elporti ĝin. Ŝi estis malsana. Kaj nun ŝi pensas, ke mi mortis kaj kiel la vero estus pli bona?”
Mi ne povis elpensi iun respondon al tio.
"Mi telefonis dufoje, la unuan fojon, ŝi ne akceptus, mi diris, ke la voko estis de Georgo." Ŝi ridetis.
Voko de pretere, la infano denove timigis min.
"La duan fojon mi diris, ke ĝi estas de iu, kiu sciis ion pri Georgo," ŝi ĉesis.
"Vi devas doni nomon," mi diris. "La telefonistoj ne faros vokon sen nomo."
Ŝi kapjesis, “Mi diris 'Espero'. Mi diris, ke mia nomo estas Espero. Eble povus esti eĉ vero, tiu kamionisto nomis min Esperanza.” Ŝi denove paŭzis kaj ekbrilo de io venis en la kapon al mi. Ŝi daŭrigis, “Mi diris, 'Margaret, vi ne konas min kaj mi neniam renkontis vian edzon, sed li donis al mi mesaĝon por doni al vi. Georgo tre amis vin. Tre, tre multe.” Eble ŝi ne havis larmojn, ĉar ŝiaj okuloj estis sekaj, sed ŝia voĉo krakis kaj rompiĝis pro la vortoj. Ŝi ridetis. “Margaret diris dankon kaj pendigis. Mi aldonis la pecon pri neniam renkonti min , ĉar mi ne volis, ke ŝi pensu, ke mi eble estas mia propra mastrino voko." Ŝi larĝigis la rideton en ridon kaj singultis ridon.
"Ĉu vi vokis ŝin?"
"Monda Organizaĵo pri Sano?" Ŝi viŝis siajn okulojn per la malseka Kleenex, kiun ŝi antaŭe uzis.
" Via mastrino," mi diris.
Ŝi rompiĝis en vera ridado tiam kaj mi ridetis kaj ridetis kaj ridadis.
"Kia diable estas via nomo?" ŝi demandis post kiam ŝi ĉesis ridi.
Mi diris al ŝi kaj aldonis: "Ne ĵuru, knabinetoj, eĉ tiuj, kiuj eble estas knabetoj, ne devus ĵuri, donu al homoj la malĝustan ideon."
Ŝi pensis pri tio kaj kapjesis.
“Jes, mi memoras, kiam mi aŭdis knabinon ĵuri , mi ĉiam pensis, 'Nu, ŝi estas facila.' Eĉ se mi scius, ke ĝi estas malĝusta. Pardonu. Ĉu ĝi estas Walt aŭ Wally?"
“Efektive, mi preferas Walter sed al vi estas sinjoro Dalton. Vi ne estas sufiĉe aĝa por nomi min Walt kaj neniu estas sufiĉe aĝa por nomi min Wally.”
Ŝi faris vizaĝon al mi, komprenis, kion ŝi faris kaj ridetis. "Konjektas, ke mi prefere kutimiĝu al esti infano denove, ĉu?"
“Vi ne fartas tro malbone pri tio. Hu, ĉu vi scias ion pri kiel memoro funkcias?”
“Ha. Mi havis mian parton de altrangaj momentoj. Ho, la memoro estas en la cerbo , ĉu ne?”
"Aŭ ĉu?" Mi demandis. Komputiluloj, kiel mi , scias surprizan kvanton pri kiel memoro funkcias, homa same kiel komputila. La diferencoj estas surprizaj kaj ankaŭ la manko de reala scio pri homa memoro.
“Um? Sh - pafu! Mi ne scias ? Eble la cerbo nur kablas por aliri la memoron, personecon kia ajn?" Ŝi levis la ŝultrojn.
"Eble. Kaj eble memoro estas du aferoj, fizika kaj, nomu ĝin metafizika, psika, io. Vi pensas, ke vi estas George Kelly, sed evidente tio ne estas la korpo de George Kelly." mi ridetis.
"Diru al mi! Bone, do mi ne estas vere George Kelly, mi nur pensas, ke mi estas? Sed mi havas la memorojn de George Kelly."
"Ĉu vi? Aŭ ĉu vi havas nur kelkajn el ili, ne provu pensi pri ili, kiel vi povus scii, ĉu vi havas ĉiujn?”
Ŝi balancis la kapon. "Eble ankaŭ mi ne estas tiel lerta kiel mi estis, mi ne vidas, kion vi celas?"
“ Voku ŝin Espero. Vi havas la korpon de Hope, vi devas havi la cerbon de Hope, vi eble ankaŭ havos kelkajn el la memoroj de Hope tie.”
Ŝi pensis pri tio.
Mi pensis pri tio.
"Eble pensi pri tio estas la malĝusta afero?" ŝi diris fine.
"Eble."
"Eble kiam mi pensas pri tio , mi anstataŭigas la memorojn de Hope per tiuj de Georgo."
"Hum, povus esti."
"Sed eble se mi ne faros, mi forgesos esti Georgo, kaj tiam mi ne scios kiu mi estas." Ŝi snufis, reflekse. "Mi ne volas forgesi pri Georgo, sed se restas io da Espero, nu, ĉu mi ne ŝuldas al ŝi provi konservi ŝin viva?"
“Hum, tio sonas, nu....” Mi haltis. Nun ŝi diris ŝin pri si. Mi estas komputila konsultisto ne unu el ĉi tiuj vendejfilozofoj. Krome, esti proksime de ŝi kaj scii, kion mi sciis pri ŝi, efikis al mi, kiun mi ne povis tute kompreni.
Mi distris nin ambaŭ. "Mi pensis alian pri la kamiono."
“Hm? La kamiono en kiu mi estis?”
“Ĝuste. Georgo estis raportisto, li eltrovis aferojn, kaj se li ne sciis kiel li konas homojn, kiuj ja sciis kiel....”
Ŝi palpebrumis.
"Ni povus trovi la kamionon, rehavi viajn aĵojn kaj eble ekscii, kiu vi estas."
Nun ŝi vere aspektis timigita.
Ni decidis uzi la telefonon post kiam ni alvenis al mia loko en Burbank. La veturado estis kvieta; eble ŝi pripensis strategiojn. Mi scias, ke mi estis. Strategioj por trakti kiajn ajn verojn ni malkovris.
Ŝi ŝajnis amuzita pro mia mallerta provo ŝteliri ŝin en mian loĝejon sed neniu vidis nin. “Trankviliĝu, Walter. Mi ne akuzos." Ŝi ridis.
" Ne ŝercu," mi avertis. "Vi estas neplenaĝulo, verŝajne malpli ol 18-jara kaj mi povus havi gravajn problemojn farante ĉi tion. Kaj mi ne ŝercis nomi min sinjoro Dalton, almenaŭ, kie iu ajn povas aŭdi nin.”
"Kaj se mi nomas vin onklo Walt?" ŝi sugestis ruze.
Mi ridetis reen, “En Burbank? Tiam vi estos fantomo parolanta al fantomo.” Walt Disney, mortinta dum kvaronjarcento, estas ankoraŭ legendo en la urbo kaj loke konata kiel Onklo Walt. Mi malŝlosis mian pordon kaj enpaŝis, signante al ŝi rapide sekvi.
Ŝi ne faris. Ŝi paŭzis kiel ĉiu adoleskanto rezistanta la aŭtoritaton de plenkreskulo. “Mi estas fantomo, ĉu ne? Ia fantomo ĉiuokaze.”
“Jes, kaj ni provos eltrovi kiun vi hantas. Nun eniru ĉi tien!”
Surprizite pro la tono de mia voĉo, ŝi enkuris kaj subpremis rideton. “Walter, mi ne tute povas kompreni ĝin. Ĝuste kiel vi traktas min? Mi estas preskaŭ sufiĉe maljuna por esti via patro, sciu .”
“Preskaŭ? Mi estas 44. Kaj vi tion miskomprenis, mi estas sufiĉe aĝa por esti via patro.”
Ŝi ridetis. “Neniu ajn kredus ĝin. Ni nenion similas.” Tio estis la unua fojo, ke ŝi aludis la evidentajn diferencojn en nia aspekto krom tio, ke ŝi aspektis ina, tio estas.
" Do se mi ne estas via patro, kaj homoj vidas nin kune, tiam..."
Ŝi mordis sian lipon. "Ho jes. Mi ne pensis pri tio. Sed, Walter, ĉi tio estas Kalifornio, Burbank por Chr-kriante-laŭte. Ne iu urbeto en la Sudo.”
Mi balancis la kapon; ŝi ne vere komprenis ĝin sed kial ŝi devus? Mi ellasis ĝin kaj mi povis vidi, ke ŝi decidis ne puŝi ĝin. Mi ne volis klarigi al ŝi, ke vidante nin kune homoj preskaŭ aŭtomate supozus ion pri unu el ni aŭ la alia aŭ ambaŭ. Mi deziris, ke neniu el ni iam alportu ĝin denove.
"Nun, ŝaltu raportistoreĝimon," mi diris. “Kiel ni trovos tiun kamionon? Aŭ malsukcese, eksciu, kiu vi estas?"
Ŝi balancis la kapon kaj falis sur la kanapon kiel ĉiu adoleskanto pensanta pri iu malfacila interhoma problemo. “Estos malfacile uzi iun ajn el miaj kontaktoj. Unu, mi mortis, kaj du neniu parolos kun infano.”
“Ĉu vi memoras ion pri la kamiono? Nomon, markon, ĉu vi povas priskribi ĝin?”
Ŝi provis. “Ĝi estis bierkamiono, mi memoras tion. Pabst, Pabst Beer estis la emblemo sur la flanko de la antaŭfilmo. Sed la pordo de la fiakro havis alian nomon sur ĝi....”
“Verŝajne la traktoro apartenis al la kamionisto. Sed Pabst estas bona, tio estas importita biero, nu el Milvokio, ne farita loke, kaj ne povas esti tiom da lokoj kiuj distribuas ĝin.”
Ŝi havis strangan mienon sur sia vizaĝo.
Kio estas tio?" Mi demandis.
La ŝoforo, lia nomo, lia nomo estis --Ernesto?
Kiel vi scias tion?"
Mi ne scias . Mi ĵus memoris ĝin.”
Mi studis ŝian vizaĝon. Ŝi ne inventis ĉi tion kaj la deveno de la memoro klare ĝenis ŝin. Mi rimarkis ion alian pri ŝi de kiam ni havis la longan babiladon en la parkejo sed mi ne volis priparoli ĝin ĝuste nun. Ŝia parolmaniero ŝanĝiĝis, malpli preciza, pli adoleska . Mi ne volis scii ĉu ŝi intence faras ĝin, ankoraŭ ne.
"Nu," mi diris. "Tio povas helpi."
"Kie estas via telefonlibro?" ŝi demandis.
Mi trovis la Flavajn Paĝojn, sub ia detrito kaj preterpasis ĝin.
“Ni devas serĉi la distribuistojn de Pabst en la areo. Mi ne scias ĉu ni povas voki ilin ĉi-vespere. Sh -shoot, eble estos lundo antaŭ ol iu respondos la telefonon." Ŝi tenis la libron tre proksime al sia vizaĝo kaj eĉ tiel strabigis dum ŝi provis trovi la ĝustan parton de la listo. "Ĉu ni povas ricevi pli da lumo ĉi tie, ĉu?"
Mi ekŝaltis pli da lumoj sed prenis la libron el ŝiaj manoj, kiam mi vidis, ke ŝi daŭre strabis. "Viaj okuloj tiel malbonaj?" Mi demandis.
Ŝi ridetis, tremante. “Kiel mi scius? Eble ĝi estas nur efiko de esti nova en la korpo kaj de esti hipermetropa dum tridek jaroj. Mi povas vidi vin sufiĉe bone, sed etaj aferoj, kiel presado, vi scias , nur iom malklariĝas aŭ disiĝas aŭ io." Ŝi ne tute diris la veron kaj io nova ĝenis ŝin. Ŝi mordis najlon kaj rigardis ĝin dum mi decidis ne premi ĉi tiun aferon ĉi-momente.
Mi trovis la liston de la distribuisto Pabst kaj rimarkis, ke ilia adreso estas en Los-Anĝeleso, ne tro malproksime de la urbocentro. Mi provis la numeron sed ricevis registradon pri komercaj horoj. Je ĉi tiu horo de la vespero, ĝi ne estus tiom longa de veturado.
“ Kia pensas ?” ŝi demandis ĉirkaŭ alia detranĉita ungo.
"Ne faru tion," mi diris.
"Fari kion?"
“Mordu viajn ungojn. Ĝi estas vere malkonvena."
Ŝi ruĝiĝis sed kunmetis siajn manojn sur sian sinon por momento antaŭ ol ŝanĝi pozicion kaj tiri la krurojn sub ŝi.
“Deturnu viajn piedojn de mia kanapo, vi havas koton sur viaj ŝuoj,” mi diris sen vere pensi pri tio.
"Jes sinjoro." Ŝi rektiĝis, remetis la piedojn sur la plankon kaj malklare svingis la manojn.
"Kion -- kion ni faris?" Tiam ŝi ridis. "Mi nomis vin 'sinjoro'."
Mi kapjesis. "Eble vi prefere praktiku ĝin." Mi rigardis ŝin dum momento dum ŝi ŝajnis decidi ne denove ridi. “Kelly, ĉu vi konscias pri tio, kion vi faris dum la lastaj minutoj? Eble pli longe?”
“Mi estas,” ŝi komencis poste rekomencis, “mi provis memori aferojn, ne aferojn de George Kelly, aferojn de Esperanza. Ĉu vi scias ?”
Mi denove kapjesis.
“' Estas amuza . Mi preskaŭ povas scii ion kaj tiam ĝi kvazaŭ forglitas? Ĉu? Mi pensas, ke Hope povas esti mia familia nomo, ŝia familia nomo, lia familia nomo....” Ŝi haltis kaj rigardis la piedfingrojn de siaj ŝtelaĵoj. “Kial infano farus ĉi tion? Forkuri...."
"Ĉu vi certas, ke ĝi estis kamiono Pabst?" Mi demandis.
“Uh-hu. Mi vidis la emblemon, la bluan rubandon. Mi laboris en Milvokio, por la -- la pilka teamo. Diskonigo.” Ŝi ne nomis la teamon; ĝi estis verŝajne la Bravuloj kiam ili estis tie. "Mi supozas, ke estas evidente, ĉu?"
"Ĉu evidenta?"
" Kialo por forkuri."
"Ĉu vi vidis la nomon Pabst sur la kamiono?"
“Uh, ne? Mi ne scias ?”
"Kelly?"
"Um?"
mi demandis ŝin malakre. “Ĉu vi ne povas legi nun? Ĉu tio estas ĝi? Mi vidis la problemon, kiun vi havis kun la telefonlibro. Sed vi ne agas tiel blinde alie.”
Ŝi balancis la kapon. "Mi scipovas legi, mi -- nur eble ne tiom bone?" Ŝi snufis. “Bonege, mi estas stranga kaj malfruulo. Mi ne povis uzi la telefonlibron , ĉar la leteroj daŭre rompiĝis en pecetojn. Eble mi estas disleksia.”
Mi suspiris kaj frotis mian frunton. “Ĉu la problemo kun legado komenciĝis kiam vi komencis provi memori? Ĉu vi memoras aferojn pri la vivo de Hope?”
Ŝi levis la ŝultrojn. “Mi ne scias . Eble."
Mi ekstaris kaj alportis al ŝi unu el miaj malpezaj jakoj. "Ni iru, ni veturos al la distribuistoj de Pabst kaj vidos ĉu ni povas trovi tiun kamioniston."
Malsupre en la aŭto, Kelly demandis. "Ĉu mi povas ŝalti la radion?"
Mi kapjesis, la pluvo ne falis ĉi tie sed ni eble ricevos kelkajn aspergojn, mi supozis, ke ŝi metos ĝin en novaĵstacion. Iel ŝi trovis Shania Twain kantantan "Viro, Mi Sentas kiel Virino!". Ŝi ridetis al mi kaj mi ridetis. Post tiu kanto ŝi trovis alian stacion kiu ne ludis tro multe da repo. "Bone, Backstreet Boys!"
ŝi diris.
Mi ne sentis certa, kies gustoj paralelis, mia kaj tiu de George Kelly aŭ mia kaj tiu de Kelly/Hope. Sed ni aŭskultis la groove kaj sentis sufiĉe bone pri kundividado de ĝi. Mi ne konis la grupon sed ili havis belan sonon.
La distribuisto Pabst estis malfermita, kamionoj ŝarĝis kaj ni haltis por paroli kun la korta kontrolisto. “Ĉu vi certas, ke ĝi estis kamiono Pabst? Ni ne kuras tiom norden de ĉi tiu korto, kaj niaj longdistancaj aĵoj venas per trajno.”
Mi povis vidi ĝin en la vizaĝo de Kelly, ŝi ne plu estis certa pri la identeco de la kamiono. Ni pene reiris al la aŭto kaj sidis aŭskultante TLC. Mi denove demandis min, ĉu mi estas iel havita. Eble nur havis por vespera kompanio kaj lokon por dormi. Ne ĉiuj malavantaĝoj estas por granda poentaro kaj la malgranda trompo estas fakto de urba vivo.
Sed kiel ŝi povus falsigi ĉiujn sciojn pri sportoj kaj aferoj, kiuj okazis antaŭ ol ŝi naskiĝis, antaŭ ol mi naskiĝis en iuj kazoj. Precipe se ŝi ne scipovis legi. Kaj nun tiu ideo denove komencis suspektigi min. Mi ne volis malkredi ŝian rakonton sed la peceto kun la bierkamiono ĉagrenis mian volan suspendon de malfido.
"Mi ne scias kiom longe mi aŭskultis Top Kvardek," ŝi diris.
Mi suspiris kaj decidis kunludi iom pli. "Ankaŭ mi. Mi havis la impreson, ke muziko iris en la necesejon en la fruaj naŭdekaj."
Ŝi ridetis. "Ne ŝatas repon aŭ repon?"
Mi balancis la kapon. "Ne diru ion," mi avertis.
“ Bone . Ankaŭ mi ne multe zorgas pri kelkaj el la novaj aferoj. Kion mi diras?” Ŝi ridis.
Mi ne komentis.
"Ĉu vi memoras Alan Freed?" ŝi demandis post iom.
"Uh, ne?" Efektive, mi faris, iom. Mi faris kelkajn esplorojn pri la radikoj de moderna muziko por kolegia papero.
Ŝi ĝemis. “Nek mi, ne tiom kiom mi pensas, ke mi devus ĉiuokaze. Frua rock-n-roll deejay, iuj diras ke li elpensis la nomon rok-n-roll kaj tio estas ĉio, kion mi memoras pri li. Ŝajnas domaĝe, kvazaŭ ĝi eble estis grava por mi iam." Ŝi mordis sian lipon.
Ŝi denove strangigis min.
"Mi certas, ke tiu kamiono havis bluan rubandon sur ĝi," ŝi diris flanken rigardante min. “Honesta! Vi scias , ke ĝi estas tiel klara en mia, vidu , en la okuloj de mia menso.”
Dum ŝi aŭskultis Ricky Martin kaj Alanis Morrisette mi reiris al la barako de la sendisto kaj parolis kun la viro tie. "Blua Rubando Ŝarĝo," li diris post iom da pripensado kaj trovis la adreson por mi en sia telefonlibro.
"Vi fekas min!" ŝi diris, kiam mi revenis al la aŭto por diri al ŝi.
"Kelly!" Mi diris.
" Pardonu, mi volis diri, ne ŝercas!" Ŝi ridetis poste eksplodis en feliĉaj ridadoj. Ŝiaj ŝultroj kaj manoj moviĝis al la muziko en senkonscia provo danci sidiĝante.
“ Jes pensas ?”
"Eble." Kaj eble vi komencas perdi ĝin, George Kelly. Aŭ, eble vi havis min dum ĉi tiu tempo, knabino. Ne utilas scivoli kion ni trovus ĉe Blue Ribbon Freight, ni estus tie sufiĉe baldaŭ. La radio faris nenecesa paroli dum ni veturis la mallongajn mejlojn al la alia flanko de la urbocentro.
Kelly saltis de la aŭto preskaŭ antaŭ ol ĝi ĉesis ruliĝi. Ŝi ŝprucis trans la nigrapinto al kie sidis griza-viola traktoro, lumo brilanta en eta fenestro indikante ke iu estas ene de la dormfiakro. Ŝi haltis duonvoje por turni sin kaj mansigni reen al mi, kriante: “Estas li! Ernesto! Li prenis min ekster Martinez!"
Kiam mi alvenis tien, ŝi batis la pordon kaj altiris la atenton de la persono aŭ personoj ene. Dormema okulo en griza pantalono kaj unu el tiuj ŝnurtipaj t-ĉemizoj rigardis ŝin de la pordo de la fiakro. "Esperanto?" Mi aŭdis lin demandi.
Ŝi ridis. “Vi nomis min tiel! Jes, estas mi.”
Li ridetis, “Vi forlasis viajn aĵojn. Vi eble havis malbonan vojaĝon.” Li balancis la kapon. "Mi diris al vi neniujn drogojn en mia kamiono." Li skuis sian fingron al ŝi sed li ankoraŭ ridetis. Kiam li vidis min, lia vizaĝo ŝanĝiĝis.
“Hum, ĉi tiu estas mia amiko, Walter. Ernest, Walter, Walter, Ernesto.” Kelly diris.
Mi provis aspekti senkulpa kaj ridetis al li.
"Mi atendas vin tiel longe, ke mi estas albordigita pro malfrua," li riproĉis ŝin post decidi ke li ne volas scii ion plu pri nia rilato.
“Kiu ĝi estas, Ernie? Vi devas trablovi venon en tiu fiakro,” plendis virina voĉo el la interno de la traktoro.
"Mi ricevas al vi aĵojn," diris Ernesto kaj malaperis en la fiakron, fermante la pordon.
"Multa lacerto," diris Kelly.
"Kio?"
“La malĉastulino de Kamionisto,” ŝi klarigis koncize, “kvankam mi supozas ke mi devus esti singarda, kiel mi nomas iu ajn alia, kiu scias kion mi faras de kiam mi forkuris.”
Mi pripensis, kiel ŝi uzis pronomojn en tiu deklaro. Ĝi fakte ne kapturnis min sed la efiko estis simila.
Ernesto reaperis kun burgonja dorsosako kaj denim jako. "Vi mem prizorgas , Hopey ," li diris. Poste li aldonis en la hispana, kvazaŭ tio faris la singardon duoble forta, " Cuidado , Esperanza." Li ridetis al ŝi.
"Miaj aĵoj,"
Kelly/Hope/Esperanza flaris. "Dankon, Ernesto." Ŝi tenis la sakon al si kun larmoj en la okuloj.
“Adio,” li diris kaj fermis la pordon de la fiakro, ĝuste kiam lia kunulo por la vespero komencis plendi denove pri la trablovo.
Ni reiris al mia aŭto silente. Ŝi surŝovis la mantelon kaj palpis en la poŝoj antaŭ ol produkti kelkajn nigrajn randajn okulvitrojn. Ŝi surmetis ilin kaj ridetis, “Hej! Mi povas vidi! Dang, ĉi tiuj okuloj estas pli malbonaj ol mi pensis!"
La okulvitroj konsiderinde ŝanĝis ŝian vizaĝon, unuflanke ili estis evidente knabaj okulvitroj kaj por aliaj du ili estis kaj malmultekostaj kaj dikaj lensaj. La speco de okulvitroj kiujn iu buĝeta aŭ depende de bonfarado finas.
Ŝi rigardis malantaŭen al la traktora fiakro kaj ridetis. "Mi preskaŭ kisis lin."
Ĉapitro IV
Hejmo
Mi ridis, vere snuko; tiam ni ambaŭ ridis dum ni eniris mian aŭton kaj sidis rigardante unu la alian. La okulvitroj ne sukcesis igi ŝin aspekti kiel knabo, almenaŭ laŭ mia menso. Ŝi ruĝiĝis kaj mi komprenis, ke mi eble fiksrigardis ŝin.
"Vi estas pli bona ol mi pensis," ŝi incitetis.
Mi denove snufis. "Iu identigilo tie, io por diri al ni, kia vere estas via nomo?"
Ŝi metis la manon en la dorsosakon, produktis malgrandan nigran monujon, kiu ŝajnis embarasi ŝin plu. En la monujo ŝi trovis poŝlibron kaj en tio studentan identigilon por "Terrence Harper Hope". Ŝi laŭtlegis la nomon. Tiam ŝi diris, "Miaj homoj nomis min Terry."
" Ĉu vi memoras tion nun?" Mi demandis. Mi rigardis la bildon; seriozaspekta , iomete pli juna versio de la vizaĝo kiun Kelly portis nun . En aĝo, kiam longa, taŭzita hararo estas ĉio, kio necesas por atingi androginion. La skatoleto por sekso havis "M" en ĝi.
Ŝi kapjesis. "Mi memoras iomete." Ŝi legis pli el la ID "Ĉi tio estas por Tustin Unified High School, tio estas en Orange County." La lasta diris iom mirinde. Ŝi eble same bone venis el Kanado aŭ Novjorko. “Ĝi diras ke mi estas 10-a lernanto sed ĝi estas dujara. Kaj mia naskiĝtago estis... Sonovagun , mi ricevis la saman naskiĝtagon, mi nur, nur kvardek naŭ jarojn pli juna! Ĝuste!" Larmoj denove elfluis kaj ŝiaj okulvitroj ŝajnis nebuliĝi, ŝi deprenis ilin kaj viŝis sian vizaĝon.
"Terry?" mi diris trankvile. Ĉiufoje kiam reala ŝanco por konfirmo de ŝia rakonto aperis, tiu parto kontrolis. La bildo sur la identigilo ja aspektis kiel ŝi, sed ... ĉu ĝi ne povus esti de frato?
Ŝi mordis sian lipon kaj ridetis al mi. “Daŭre nomu min Kelly, Willya ? Verŝajne neniu alia en ĉi tiu vivo iam denove faros.”
Mi ne povis elteni pensi vundi ŝin dirante ion pri miaj duboj , do mi nur kapjesis. Ankoraŭ kunludante, ankoraŭ sentante malklare kulpa pri tio, mi diris: “Kelly, kion vi volas fari? Mi havas komputilojn hejme, se viaj homoj ankoraŭ loĝas en Tustin aŭ Orange County, mi eble povos trovi ilian adreson kaj telefonnumeron en la interreto.”
Mi povus same sablosakigi ŝin. Ŝi falis sur la sidlokon kaj tremis. La okulvitroj falis el ŝia mano kaj alteriĝis en la planktabulojn. Neniu el ni faris movon por tuj retrovi ilin.
“Mi supozas, ke ĝi ne estas justa al ili, ili ne scias kie mi estas, kie Terry estas. Ĉu?”
"Ne, sed tio estas por vi decidas, laŭ la identigilo ŝajnas, ke vi vere havas dek ok jarojn, je ĉirkaŭ tri monatoj." Mi ridetis. " Do vi estas plenkreskulo, kaj mi vere ne povas supozi diri al vi, kion vi devas fari." Ĉu ŝi estis? Mi volis kredi tion almenaŭ, pro kialoj, kiujn mi ne volis tro detale ekzameni.
"Ni reiru al via loko, ĉu?" ŝi diris. Repreninte la knabecajn okulvitrojn de la planko, ŝi remetis ilin en la poŝon de sia mantelo. Eble ne porti ilin fariĝis kutimo de la korpo. Eble ili ne estis vere ŝiaj kaj nur paro, kiun ŝi trovis, kiu sufiĉe bone fiksis ŝiajn okulojn.
Reveturante, mi surprizis min malkovrante, ke mi estas feliĉa. Kaj ke mi ja kredis ŝin, la tutan aferon, mi kredis ĉion denove, kiel mi faris en la pluva parkejo, kiam ŝi eldiris la rakonton. Mi provis eltrovi kial kredi ŝin feliĉigis min.
Mi sciis, ke mi sentas min feliĉa por ŝi, ŝi sciis nun kiel ŝia nomo estas, ŝi havis identecon kaj tio estis bona. Sed daŭris la plej grandan parton de la reveturo antaŭ ol mi komprenis, ke parto de mia feliĉo baziĝas sur la fakto, ke ŝi estis dek ok, de laŭleĝa aĝo. Laŭleĝa aĝo por kio, mi ne volis pensi tro multe.
Ŝi laŭvice ludis per la radio kaj rigardis tra la fenestroj kaj pikis senlabore en la tornistro. Iam ŝi produktis blankan plastan pilolbotelon, la etikedojn ambaŭ en la angla kaj la hispana. Ŝi rigardis la botelon, palpis senlabore pri unu el siaj mamoj kaj remetis ĝin en la dorsosakon sen malfermi ĝin aŭ eltiri la okulvitrojn por legi la etikedon.
"Vi ne estas disleksia, almenaŭ," mi diris iam.
Ŝi balancis la kapon, "Ne, nur duone blinda." Ŝi ridetis. “Kaj tiuj estas la plej teruraj okulvitroj, kiujn mi iam vidis! Ĉu mi estis en iu malliberejo, kie mi akiris ilin?" Neniu el ni provis respondi tion, ia junula enfermo aŭ vartado ja ŝajnis verŝajna se ŝi estus, se Terry estus, nekorektebla forkurinto.
Reen ĉe la loĝejo, Kelly demandis ĉu ŝi povas baniĝi kaj eble lavodi. “Certe, mi havas mian propran lavilon kaj sekigilon sur la korto ekster la kuirejo. Mi nudelos en la reto kaj vidos, kion mi povas trovi.”
“Trovi? Pri Terry Hope?” Surprizinte min tute, Kelly tiris la t-ĉemizon, kiun ŝi portis super la kapo. Ŝiaj adoleskaj mamoj aspektis tiel konsternitaj kiel mi sentis, la malgrandaj cicoj elŝpruciĝantaj. "Pardonu," ŝi murmuris dum ŝi kaptis min fiksrigardanta kaj turnante la dorson ŝi rapidis en la banĉambron, kunportante sian dorsosakon. "Pardonu, ho diable, pardonu, pardonu!"
Sed mi aŭdis ŝin ridi, kiam la pordo de la banĉambro fermiĝis. Mi balancis la kapon kaj rememorigis mian libidon: "Ŝi estas knabo." Parto de mi estis nekonvinkita, aŭ eble nezorga. Momento de pripensado de la impostaj programoj, pri kiuj mi iam laboris, ŝajnis funkcii ĉe dereligi mian cirklan penson.
Mi iris en mian komputilan oficejon, la duan dormoĉambron de la apartamento, kaj nur por doni al ŝi iom da privateco, se ŝi volus nuda trapasi la domon dum ŝia lavejo estis farita, mi fermis la pordon. Mi devis movi kelkajn aĵojn; Mi ne pensas, ke la pordo estis fermita de kiam mi enmetis la komputilojn tien.
Mi ne volis pensi pri ŝi eble vaganta tra la domo nuda sed kompreneble mi faris. Mi demandis min, ĉu ŝi razis siajn krurojn? Verŝajne, mi ne vidis ajnan akselan hararon en mia mallonga ekvido. Kompreneble, mi ne serĉis.
Mi ne povis vidi min ruĝiĝi, sed mi povis senti la varmon sur mia vizaĝo. Nur kion mi pensis pri ŝi, pri Terrence "Kelly Esperanza" Hope? Mi sciis ke mi estis intense trankviligita malkovri ke ŝi estis dek ok. Kial tio faru tian diferencon?
“ Ŝi estas knabo,” mi rememorigis min. Sed tio lasis min kun ŝi sama demando, kial tio devus fari tian diferencon? Mi neniam havis pli ol la devigan unu adoleskan samsekseman renkonton sed ĝi okazis la tutan tempon. Ĉu ne?
mi snufis. Krom esti knabo, Kelly estis la fantomo de viro, kiu laboris por la Milvokiaj Bravuloj en la tempo, kiam mi estis okupata de naskiĝo. Tio devis fari ian diferencon.
Kaj denove ĝi trafis min, se mi kredis ŝin. Mi estis raciisto dum mia tuta vivo, iu kiu rifuzis engaĝiĝi al kredo je nepruvebla... Sed nun, nu, kiam oni konfrontas la neklarigeblan, kion oni faras? Mi decidis navigi per interreto.
Mi havis sufiĉe da torturita nedecidemo ĉi-vespere, trovis teknikan problemon kaj ensaltis per ambaŭ piedoj. Mi traktis multajn neklarajn demandojn de la vivo tiel, etaj kaj grandaj. Kun komputiloj, ĝi venas al ŝalti kaj malŝalti, jes kaj ne, la plej simpla formo de nigra kaj blanka.
Miaj distraj teknikoj ne funkciis tre bone kaj mi apenaŭ komencis, kiam ŝi frapis mallaŭte sur la pordon. Mi aŭdis ŝiajn nudajn piedojn vangofrapi en la koridoro ekster mia oficejo nur momenton antaŭ la frapo. “Vi havis kelkajn aĵojn en la korbo, mi ankaŭ lavos tiujn. — Kaj? Mi vere ne havas sufiĉe por fari plenan ŝarĝon, nur miajn aĵojn.”
"Ne lavu la blankulojn per la..."
"Bonvolu!" ŝi interrompis min.
Mi imagis ŝin ridetanta kaj rulanta la okulojn ĉe la alia flanko de la pordo. "Lavotaĵaĵoj en la ŝranko super la maŝinoj." Mi diris.
“Kie alie ĝi estus? Ho!” Ŝi ridis kaj baldaŭ mi aŭdis, ke la kuireja glitvitra pordo malfermiĝas kaj fermiĝas.
Mi rikanis al la komputila ekrano. Se ŝi volis praktiki hejman, bone de mi, mi malamas lavadi. Kaj hejmaj taskoj ĝenerale, por tio. Se mi ne pli amus vivi en bonorda loko, mia loĝejo aspektus kiel tipa dormĉambro de viroj en serialkomedio.
Mi aŭdis ŝiajn kurantajn piedojn reen tra la koridoro kaj en la banĉambron. Mi demandis min, ĉu ŝi portis ion sur la malantaŭa korto. Mi esperis tion, sed kun la superpendantaj balkonoj de la 2-a etaĝaj apartamentoj kaj la sesfutaj sekvojaj bariloj, ŝi eble riskus ĝin. Ŝi ŝajnis tia, kiu riskas tiajn riskojn.
Mi scivolis ĉu George Kelly veturis tro rapide la nokton, kiam li estis mortigita. Mi kontrolis la Daily News dosierojn en la reto kaj legis la nekrologon de Georgo. La papero faris al Georgo agrabla, kaj la diservoj estos dimanĉo, mi notis. Ĉu Kelly volus iri? Dimanĉo estus Haloveno, tro stranga por eĉ pensi.
Mi sentis min kulpa denove kiam mi ekkomprenis ke mi skanis la obit por faktoj kiujn mi povus uzi por kontroli la rakonton de Kelly. La naskiĝtago listigita estis la sama kiel tiu sur la studenta ID La nomo de la edzino estis Margareta same kiel Kelly Hope diris. Mi notis ankaŭ, ke Georgo postvivis du filinoj, Konstanca kaj Grace, sen familiaj nomoj aŭ aĝoj donitaj.
Ĉu unu el ili povus esti la patrino de Terrence Hope, aŭ de mia domgastino, se ŝi estus vere ŝi kaj ne la knabo sur la bildo?
Mi rigardis la bildon de George Kelly, kiu estis super lia kolono dum la lastaj kelkaj jaroj. Mi provis ekvidi se mia Kelly en la vizaĝo, nuanco de simileco. Ĉu estis io ĉirkaŭ la okuloj?
Mi finfine konservis la obit al dosiero kaj iris al la blankpaĝaj listoj , necerta pri iuj konkludoj ĝis nun. Kion diable mi faris, pensante pri ŝi "mia Kelly?"
Mi aŭdis la duŝon kuri. Unu bela afero pri loĝado en granda etaĝkonstruaĵo estas preskaŭ ĉiam sufiĉe varma akvo por ambaŭ duŝejoj kaj lavotaĵoj se vi ne provas fari ambaŭ je la 7-a matene.
Mi provis ne imagi ŝian sapan junan korpon en la duŝo. Mi estis en la interreto, mi vidis fotojn de tiuj homoj nomataj virseksuloj. Sed la mens-okula bildo, kiun mi havis pri Kelly, ne inkluzivis tian ŝancelan detalon kiel superflua koko kaj pilkoj.
En mia menso ŝi estis tute virino, juna kaj virga, ĵus monfarita knabino.
Mi trovis ses familiojn nomitajn Hope loĝantajn en Tustin, ses kun listigitaj telefonnumeroj ĉiukaze. Kaj kelkdek pliajn en la urboj ĉirkaŭ Tustin; homoj eble translokiĝis en pli ol du jaroj.
Mi pripensis la problemon trovi la gepatrojn de Terry kiel rimedon por distri min de la ĉeesto de Kelly en mia duŝo. Forkurantoj estas kutime raportitaj al la polico; eble la polico havus noton pri kiuj la gepatroj de Terry estis. Mi ne povis vidi ilin nur disdoni ĝin al iu kiu vokis tamen, ne sen pli okupiĝi pri ekscii kiu mi estas kaj kion mi sciis pri Terry/Kelly.
Ŝi pasigis longan tempon en la banĉambro kaj mi pasigis longan tempon pripensante ŝiajn problemojn. Mi eĉ serĉis tion, kion mi povis trovi pri leĝoj pri forkurantoj. Iuj el ĝi estis bona novaĵo, iuj malbonaj. Se ŝi iam estus en junula kortumo , ŝi povus esti teknike ankoraŭ sub kortuma kontrolo ĝis ŝi estis dudek kvin. Fiŝa leĝo, tiu.
Sed ŝi estis dek ok, nun, kaj plenkreska por plej multaj celoj laŭ la leĝo. Ne tro forte pensu pri tio. Ŝi certe estis sufiĉe maljuna por decidi ĉu ŝi volis ion ajn rilati al gepatroj, kiuj evidente ne povis trakti ŝin kiel ŝi estis. Des malpli, kiu ŝi fariĝis nun, kiam ŝi estis plagita de la fantomo de George Kelly.
Mi pensis pri entombigoj okazigitaj en Halloween. Mi revenus al tio denove kaj la anseroŝtofo de la timo de la nekonataĵo havis etan militon kun la frisonoj de zorgo, kiun mi sentis pro la knabino, kiu ŝtelis veturon.
Mi aŭdis ŝin moviĝi en la kuirejo, kaj tiam la vitra pordo estis malfermita kaj mi decidis, ke ŝi devas ŝarĝi la sekigilon. Mi scivolis, kion ŝi trovis porti, ion propran aŭ ion mian. Mi provis ne imagi, kiel ŝi aspektus kun unu el miaj grand-17-longaj manikaj blankaj ĉemizoj drapitaj sur ŝia svelta korpo falanta preskaŭ sufiĉe longe por esti robo.
Se transvestulo portas virajn vestaĵojn, ĉu ĝi estas trakruciĝa ? Mi snufis, la absurdeco de la penso kvietigis la eksplodemon, kiun mi sentis, kuŝi antaŭen.
Nur pro tio mi serĉis juĝajn kazojn pri fantomoj kaj asertoj pri vivo-post-morto, reenkarniĝo kaj similaĵoj. Estis tro damne da ĝi por kredi, se tiel diri. Mi decidis eltrovi ian winnowing strategio por redukti la datumoj inundo al io kiu povus esti ekzamenita por graveco.
Ŝi denove mallaŭte frapis, “Mi faris kafon. Ĉu vi volas ĝin tie interne aŭ ĉi tie?"
Mi malamas trinki kafon ĉe la komputilo; Mi ĉiam trinkas tro multe, ne ĝuas ĝin kaj finiĝas kun acida stomako. Kaj tiam ĉiam estas verŝoj. Sed verŝajne mi trinkas almenaŭ poton ĉiutage sidante ĝuste kie mi sidis ĝuste tiam. "Enportu ĝin."
Mi provis ne antaŭvidi kiel ŝi povus esti vestita.
La pordo malfermiĝis kaj ŝi eniris, plasta kafservisto pendanta de unu mano kaj du dikaj ceramikaj tasoj de la alia. Ŝi portis unu el miaj roboj, tiun oranĝan tiun, kiun mia fratino Beth aĉetis al mi por Kristnasko antaŭ preskaŭ du jaroj. Beth loĝas en Florido kaj ne vidis min de jaroj kaj pensas pri mi ankoraŭ kiel ŝia adoleska frato, mi supozas. Ŝi ankaŭ pensas pri mi kiel iu kiu portus oranĝan, ŝajne.
Sur Kelly ĝi aspektis bone. La robo, multe tro streĉa por mi en la ŝultroj kaj tendenca brue malfermita ĉe la talio, pendis loze de la pli mallarĝa kadro de Kelly kaj preskaŭ ĉirkaŭiris dufoje ŝian sveltan mezon. La koloro kontrastis kun la verda mantuko, kiun ŝi ĉirkaŭvolvis turbane ĉirkaŭ siaj haroj kaj iel tio igis ŝiajn okulojn aperi pli verdaj kaj ŝia haŭto brilis per pura rozkolora sano. Ŝiaj kruroj ekbrilis sub la, sur ŝia, mezbova orlo. Longa kaj glata kaj bezonanta iom da sunbruno.
Ŝi ridetis, kiam ŝi rimarkis, ke mi enprenas ĉion. "Ĉu la pakaĵo?" ŝi demandis dum ŝi sidigis la tasojn kaj malfermis la ĉefserviston.
Mi verŝajne ruĝiĝis kaj sentis grandegan bezonon purigi mian gorĝon kaj soni vere plenkreska kaj vira.
"Kion vi prenas en vian kafon?" ŝi demandis senkulpe.
“Nenio, nur nigra. Sukero kaj kremo grasigas vin kaj dolĉigiloj nur malbone gustas."
"Mi trovis ĝin tiel." Ŝi verŝis du tasojn kaj mi kaptis min rigardante la robon kie ĝi plaŭdis sur ŝian bruston. Neniu deklivo tie, ne vere sed la juna haŭto de ŝia kolo laboranta super la anguloj de la klaviklo estis ... ĉarma.
"Vi havas bonan guston pri kafo, Chock-Full-O-Nuts." Ŝi prenis sian tason, flaris la aromon kaj ridetis.
Mi rikanis al ŝi. "Ĉu vi surmetis viajn okulvitrojn por esti certa?"
Ŝi etendis al mi la langpinton. Ĉu ŝi faris ĉi tiujn aferojn intence? Damne.
"Venu, nenio alia venas en tiu nigra kaj flava ladskatolo."
Mi trinkis. Ĝi estis bona. Amuza kiel iuj homoj povas fari malbonan kafon eĉ per aŭtomata poto. “ Mmm . Blua Rubando Kafo,” mi murmuris.
Ŝi ridis ĉe mia ĉagreno, trinketis, faris vizaĝon kaj poste provis ne tusi. “ Eww ! Maldolĉa! Kiom longe vi havas tiun ladskatolon?”
"Ekde mardo, eble vi ne trinkas kafon."
"Mi trinkas kafon dum kvindek jaroj!"
“Eble vi ne trinkas ĝin nigra. Nun.”
Ŝi provis ŝteliri alian gluton de la aĵo. Kiam ĝi trafis la malantaŭon de ŝia lango ŝi preskaŭ buŝoŝtopis denove. " Guh -ross!" Ŝi sulkigis la brovojn ĉe la taso kvazaŭ ĝi estus kulpo, ke ŝi ne ŝatis la guston.
Mi ridis.
"Sed mi ŝatas kafon!" Ŝi sulkigis min ĉi-foje. “Mi scias, ke mi faras! Kaj mi volas kelkajn." Ŝia buŝo funkciis, penante ne paŭzi.
“Iru preni iom da lakto kaj sukero, se vi vere volas trinki tason. Kiam mi estis via aĝo, mi trinkis tion, kion mia avino nomis kafon 'supra'. Duono lakto kaj tri sukeroj.”
" Mia aĝo?" Tio rompis la komencantan paŭdon per alia sulkiĝo, ĉi tiu konfuzita. “Sonas terure, mia avinjo nomis ĝin 'Boston-Kafo'. Kaj ĉu vi ne diris, ke lakto kaj sukero grasigos vin?” Ŝia humoro denove ŝanĝiĝis, reen al mokado.
"Vi povus elteni iom pli da remburado tie kaj tie."
Ŝi rikanis, zorge metis la tason kaj ekstaris. "Vi nur volas grasigi min!" ŝi akuzis lude. "Kaj mi nur volis uzi la linion pri ŝati miajn virojn tiel, kiel mi ŝatas mian kafon." Ŝia mano flugis al ŝia buŝo kaj ŝia vizaĝo fariĝis tre ruĝa.
mi snufis. "Tiaokaze vi prefere enmetu iom da kafo en vian lakton anstataŭ inverse."
Ŝia saĝa rido larĝiĝis, dum ŝi movis la manon supren por forpuŝi la tukon de sia frunto. “Kial? Ĉu vi pensas, ke vi estas la homo, pri kiu mi parolas ŝati?"
"Ĉu vi provas flirti kun mi aŭ nur akiri mian kapron?"
Ŝi ludis per la mantuko, aŭ malliginte aŭ streĉante ĝin, kaj aspektis pensema. "Mi ne scias , nur amuziĝu, mi supozas."
“Prefere estu singarda, knabino. Tia amuzo povus kaŭzi al vi problemojn."
"Ne mi. Mi estas knabo, memoru.”
“Pli malbone. La speco de problemo kun kiu vi povus fini estas morta problemo."
Ŝi kapjesis, kiam la mantuko parte malfiksiĝis kaj falis trans unu okulon.
Alia temoŝanĝo ŝajne okazis al ŝi. “Vi ne agas nigra,” ŝi komentis dum ŝi zorge malfaris la tukon, forpuŝante la malseketajn, malhelajn fadenojn kiuj provis fali ĉirkaŭ ŝia vizaĝo.
Mi ne demandis: "Kion tio supozeble signifas?" Mi pripensis la demandon laŭ la lumo de kio povus esti ŝiaj sintenoj, pro ŝia bizara persona historio. Ŝi ne volis diri, ke vi ne estas super mi nur ĉar mi estas blanka knabino. Ŝi ne volis diri, ke vi ne parolas surstrate. Mi decidis, ke ŝi volas diri, ke mi ne agis kvazaŭ mi konsiderus mian nigrecon integra al mia persono.
"Mi supozas, ke mi ne opinias min nigra, plejparte," mi diris. “Mi estas nur inĝeniero kun kelkaj afrikaj prapatroj. Mi estas angla, franca, nederlanda, hispana, ĉoktaa kaj kiu scias kio alia, la nigra estas plejparte por gusto." Ŝi intencis neniun ofendon kaj mi prenis neniun.
Ŝi rikanis tiam aspektis serioza. Mi sciis, ke ni iam devos ĉirkaŭiri ĉi tion. "Ĉu vi iam nomiĝis Onklo Tom?" Justa demando kaj incisiva, ŝi ja havis komprenon pri sintenoj "tie ekstere" al homoj kiel mi. Kelkaj homoj ne ŝatas la fakton, ke mi konsideras mian devenon kiel unu el la malplej gravaj aferoj pri mi krom kie ĝi influas la agojn de aliaj homoj al mi.
Sed mi ne ektiris. “Unu aŭ dufoje. Ne ĝenas min tiom kiom iuj aferoj, kiujn mi estis vokita.”
Ŝi balancis la kapon. "Tro por mi, mi supozas."
Tro multe ankaŭ por mi. Mi ne pensas pri miaj prapraavoj kaj la malfacileco de iliaj vivoj multe pli ol la plimulto de usonanoj. Mi volis ŝanĝi la temon, do mi diris: "Vi ne agas kiel knabo."
“Mi ne, ĉu? Mi scivolas, kiel do?” Ŝi turnis la kapon flanken en tre knabineca, flirtema maniero.
Mi devis ridi. "Vi ne opinias vin kiel knabo, eble?"
Ŝi levis la ŝultrojn, turnante la tukon en siaj manoj dum ŝi komencis revolvi ĝin. Nun kun seka flanko enen, por trempi pli malsekan, mi supozis. Ŝi diris, “Estas amuza, la korpo scias kiel moviĝi, iom . Se mi ne pensas pri tio, mi trovas min faranta la plej damndan plej ŝvecan merdon."
"Ĉu mi devos remi vin por rompi al vi tiun potbuŝaĵon?" Mi diris. Mi provis ridi por montri, ke mi incitetis sed vere, tia afero ĝenis min. En pli ol unu manieroj.
Ŝi rigardis min el sub malhelaj brovoj, deŝiritaj, kiel mi antaŭe notis al maldika kaj virineca arko. La rido plilarĝiĝis dum ŝi provis remordi ĝin. Tiam ŝi ĵetis al mi la tukon subite kaj kuris el la ĉambro, ridante. La robo klavis ĉirkaŭ ŝi kaj la kruroj fulmis sian longecon kaj kreman koloron ĉe mi.
Mi ekstaris de mia seĝo.
Mi haltis antaŭ ol mi faris eĉ unu paŝon; Mi povus persekuti ŝin, ŝi ŝajnis deziri min. Sed kion diable mi devis fari, kiam mi kaptis ŝin?
Ĉapitro V
Mi trovis ŝin sur la malantaŭa korto, eltiri lavaton el la sekigilo kaj pendigante kelkajn aĵojn sur la eta ŝnuro por fini sekiĝi. "Ĉu bezonas helpon?" mi proponis. Neniu pluvo ĉi tie en Burbank kaj neniu verŝajne , la vestaĵoj sekiĝos sufiĉe rapide kvankam mi preskaŭ neniam faris tion tiel.
“ Certe. Tiuj ĉemizoj estas viaj. Se vi volas pendigi ilin nun, ili estos malpli verŝajne sulkiĝi ol se mi elveturigos ilin la reston en ĉi tiu sekigilo.” Ŝi zorge faris butonojn sur satena bluzo post pendigi ĝin sur plasta pendulo.
Mi eltiris kelkajn el la ĉemizoj el mia antikva sekigilo kaj metis ilin sur pendigilojn. Mi rimarkis, ke la sekigilo ankoraŭ estis plena de lacaj subvestoj kaj frizaĵoj, kiuj ne havis normalan komercon tie. Rigardante ilin sentis min stranga, mi ne miksis mian vestaĵon kun tiu de virino ekde mia geedziĝo malsukcesis antaŭ preskaŭ dek jaroj. "Mi ne pensis, ke vi devus miksi ĉiujn ĉi tiajn aĵojn en unu sekaĵŝarĝo."
Ŝi delikate snufis. “Kvazaŭ ĝi gravos en sekigilo kun nur du agordoj. Vi havas varmon aŭ neniun varmon, jen ĉio. Mi havis sekigilon kiel ĉi tiu jam en 1964, fer -- sake's .” Ŝi ridetis. "Tial mi elprenas multajn aĵojn ankoraŭ humidajn kaj pendigas ĝin."
Ŝi etendis la manon en la ankoraŭ varman cilindron kaj eltiris kelkajn el siaj nemencieblaj. "Nun ĉi tiuj estas sekaj." Ŝi kaptis ion alian kaj poste rekomencis la sekigilon en la agordo 'Aer Only'. "Mi tuj revenos, mi iros surmeti ĉi tion." Ŝi ridis kaj iomete saltis dum ŝi eniris.
Mi laboris por pendigi la ĉemizojn, kiujn mi elprenis. Kiu estus pensinta, ke ŝi povus esti tiel hejma? Mi rimarkis dum mi trapasis, ke ŝi ŝajne iom purigis ankaŭ la kuirejon, ĉar ne estis teleroj en la lavujo kaj la vendotabloj iel aspektis pli bonorde. Mi suspektas, ke ŝi forigis kelkajn aferojn, kiujn mi ĉiam forlasis nian post uzi ilin. Mi ne estis certa, kion mi pensis, ke ŝi fartas bone fari ion tiel -- intima?
Tio certe ne estis la ĝusta vorto, sed ĝi ja ridigis min.
Ankaŭ mi ne estis certa, kion mi pensas, ke ŝi surmetos ion pli inan. Mi ne volis pensi, ke ŝi glitas sur la rozkoloran kalsonon kun la voloj, kiujn mi ekvidis. Kaj la mamzono, koloro inter malvo kaj rozo, stilo kiu ŝajnus postuli pli da evoluo ol mi vidis, ke ŝi havis, ĉu ĝi estis remburita?
Mi maltrafis butonon sur ĉemizo kaj devis malfari ĉion kaj rekomenci.
Ĉu Terry Hope, la knabo sur la lerneja identigilo, ĉu li estus preninta hormonojn, inajn hormonojn. La botelojn da piloloj kun etikedoj en la hispana mi ekvidis kiam Kelly trairis la dorsosakon. Ĉu fari ion tian estis sekura?
Ŝi revenis, portante profundbrunan robon kun smeraldaj poŝoj kaj manumoj sur mallongaj manikoj. Ŝi havis plastan banton en siaj haroj, tenante ĝin for de sia vizaĝo unuflanke. La etaj orelringoj kiujn ŝi portis estis anstataŭigitaj per smeraldverdaj ringoj, kiel la plasta banto kaj la kradoj sur ŝia robo. La robo loze konvenis kaj kirliĝis ĉirkaŭ ŝiaj kruroj. Ŝiaj ŝuoj estis mokasintipoj, kiujn mi antaŭe ne vidis, brunaj kiel la natura koloro de ŝiaj haroj. Ŝi ankaŭ portis or-tonan braceleton kun multaj etaj oraj steloj sur sia maldekstra pojno, kaj similan ĉenon ĉirkaŭ sia kolo. Kaj...ĉu ŝiaj lipoj estis pli ruĝaj, ĉu ŝi remetis iom da ŝminko? Certe ŝi ne estis sufiĉe longe interne.
La dekoltaĵo de la robo estis sufiĉe malalta, ke mi ekvidis la ŝveliĝon de ŝiaj mamoj, promeson de virineco, kiu en mensogo eble diris veron . Mi profunde enspiris kaj diris: "Tio estas robo."
"Brila, Holmso, mi ne scias kiel vi faras tion." Ŝi klakis. "Dorko."
"Dorko?" Mi diris, "Tio ne tre similas al George Kelly."
“Mi ne tre similas al George Kelly, ĉu nun ? Mi ekzercas por esti adoleskanto, nun eliru mian vizaĝon!”
Sed ŝi ridetis.
"Um, nu, uh, ne, sed se vi estas knabo kial vi iras... do... tute... uh," ŝajnis, ke mi ne povis fini la demandon. Ŝi ne provis helpi. Eble ŝi ne volis paroli pri tio.
"Kion vi pensas? Ĉu mi provu telefoni al la gepatroj de Terry?”
"Mi pensis, ke vi decidis fari tion." Mi prenis la pantalonon, kiun mi faligis, kaj rependigis ilin.
"Kion mi diru?" Ŝi ludis per orelringo kaj mordis sian lipon.
"Ke vi portas robon kaj vi aspektas bele en ĝi?"
Ŝi sulkigis la brovojn. "Mi pensas, ke ili ne volas aŭdi tion." Beat. Ruĝiĝi. "Ĉu tio estis komplimento?"
“Mi donis al vi aliajn komplimentojn,” mi diris.
"Jes, kaj ili ĉiam embarasas min."
“Mi bedaŭras ke vi estas embarasita. Se vi ne provokus komplimentojn, tio ne okazus.”
Ŝi ridetis. "Mi ne scias kial mi surmetis ĉi tion."
"Por ricevi komplimenton, por ke vi povu bele ruĝiĝi?"
Bele ruĝiĝante, ŝi balancis la kapon. "Ne, mi ne pensas?" Ŝi estis akiranta la kutimon de la juna kaj ino igi deklarojn en demandojn.
Ni finis kun la lavejo kaj mi portis la plej multajn el la aĵoj enen, ŝi prenis nur korbon de siaj intimaj aĵoj. Ŝajnis nature, ke mi portas la pli pezan pli mallertan ŝarĝon, kvankam ŝi portis ĉion al la maŝinoj.
“Kiel mi vokos ilin kiam mi ne vere scias ilian numeron? Mi volas diri, mi provis memori ĝin sed... nenio? Kaj rigardu, kio okazas al mi pro tio, ke mi klopodas komfortiĝi kun la interno de la kapo de Terry?”
Tri ne-demandoj en vico, tiu ruzo efektive povus iĝi ĝena, mi decidis. “Venu en la komputilejon kiam vi formetas aĵojn, mi havas liston de homoj, kiuj eble estas viaj gepatroj. La gepatroj de Terry. Vi pensas, ke provi uzi la memorojn de Terry igas vin agi pli kiel Terry agintus?”
" Kiel ," ŝi konfesis.
"Uh, mi vere ne havas ie ajn por miaj aĵoj krom la tornistro?"
Ni staris ĉe la pordo de mia dormoĉambro kaj rigardis unu la alian momenton.
“Estas kvazaŭ mi scias, kion Terry farus aŭ volus fari? Kaj nu, mi scias, ke kiel Georgo mi malamus ĝin sed ... kiel Kelly ŝajnas, ke ĝi estus amuze?" Ŝi iom tordiĝis, ruĝiĝis kaj forrigardis.
Mi rapide prenis la korbon de ŝi, “Ni nur lasos viajn aĵojn en la korbo por nun, ĉu bone? Mi metos ĝin sur la liton.”
Ŝi retiriĝis al la kuirejo kaj mi staris fiksrigardante la korbon da knabinaĵoj antaŭ ol fari kiel mi sugestis.
Ni renkontis reen en la komputilejo, ŝi vekis tason da 'supra' kafo. "Ĉi tio estas sufiĉe bona?" ŝi diris/demandis ridetante.
"Mi ĵuras, se vi komencos fari valspeak , ferŝur kaj vi scias , mi devos pagadi vin." Mi mokis minacon.
“Jen la duan fojon vi minacis tion. Kiel vi scias, ke mi ne ŝatus ĝin? Ferŝur , ĉu vi scias ?"
Mi snufis kaj transdonis al ŝi la printaĵon kun la nomoj kaj telefonnumeroj de familioj nomitaj Espero en la regiono de Tustin.
Ŝi rigardis ĝin kaj paliĝis. "Jen ili, la kvara de la supro." Ŝi demetis la liston kaj la kafon rapide kaj sidiĝis sur la kroma seĝo apud mia skribotablo.
" Ĉu vi certas?"
Ŝi kapjesis. Fingro eniris ŝian buŝon kaj ŝi mordetis kutiklon.
"Ĉu vi vokos ilin?"
Ŝi balancis la kapon.
"Ĉu vi ne jam decidis fari tion?"
“Kion mi povus diri? Mi ne scias kion diri? Kion mi diru?” Ŝi eble ekploros iam ajn, mi komprenis.
Mi ne volis tion. Tamen, “Mi ne povas diri al vi kion diri, sed vi povus diri al ili, ke vi volas resti en kontakto, ke vi fartas bone, vi vivas. Ili devas voli scii.”
"Mi estas viva?" ŝi ridis, preskaŭ amare. “Ĉu vi vidis, kio estas unu el tiuj pilolboteloj? Mi, Terry aĉetis pli ol hormonojn en Meksiko. Sed, mi ne vivas, mi estas George Kelly kaj mi mortis! Ebria ŝoforo mortigis min kaj...”
Mi zorge rigardis ŝin, de mokasenaj platoj ĝis malgranda verda banto en ŝiaj haroj. Tiam mi malrapide ridetis.
Ŝi provis subpremi rideton. “Diablo, Walter. Mi ellaboris bonan dramon tie!” Ŝi ridis. “Bone, do mi tute ne similas al George Kelly kaj mi estas vestita kiel la najbara knabino, kio estas ĉagreno, kara Walter, se tiu esprimo ne estas tro antikva por vi. Mi ĝuas ĉi tiun malgrandan maskeradon, kiel strange tio sonus al mi antaŭ semajno la pasintan mardon, sed mi estas!”
Ŝi paŭzis kaj diris per pli eta voĉo. "Sed paroli kun la gepatroj de Terry per telefono fortimigas min kaj tio estas la vero?"
Ŝi prenis la kafon en tremanta mano kaj anstataŭigis ĝin sen trinki. Ŝi rigardis la liston de nomoj sen preni ĝin. Mi rigardis ŝin kaj neniu el ni parolis dum longa momento.
Io, kion ŝi diris pli frue, enprofundiĝis. Mi demandis, "Kion alian krom hormonoj Terry aĉetis en Meksiko?"
“ Tranks . Mi rekonis la ĝeneralan nomon. Ses aŭ dek el tiuj kaj glaso da alkoholaĵo kaj estas la tempo de kontrolo. Aŭ prenu la tutan botelon, se vi volas certigi, ke vi kaptos la noktan trajnon.” Ŝia vizaĝo ne povis trankviliĝi je esprimo. “Eble ili estis komercvaroj por vivo survoje, mi ne scias ? Sed voki siajn ulojn timigus Terry kiel trovi tiun botelon timigis min."
Mi pensas, ke ni eble sidis pensante pri tio dum kelka tempo, neniu el ni dirante ion ajn. Fine, ŝi diris, “Tiu botelo estis preskaŭ malplena. Eble Terry provis... kaj iu forto decidis doni al mi duan ŝancon... ” Ŝi rigardis mirinde siajn manojn, siajn brakojn kaj malsupren al sia brusto, “Kion mi faris por meriti ĉi tion? Ĉu ĝi supozeble estas rekompenco aŭ...."
"Neniu el ni iam scias kial ni estas ĉi tie, kial vi devus esti malsama?" Mi volis preni ŝin kaj teni ŝin kaj malhelpi ŝin denove plori, sed ŝi surprizis min. Unu eta snufo, eta rideto, kaj poste ŝi etendis manon al la telefono.
Vokante ŝajne de memoro, ŝi mordis la lipon plurfoje. Mi aŭdis la etan bruon de iu parolanta post momento kaj Kelly diris: “Panjo? panjo?”
Mi aŭskultis mire dum ŝi daŭrigis. “Estas mi, um, Terry. Mi volis, ke vi sciu, ke mi fartas bone. ... Jes, mi estas varma kaj seka kaj ne malsata kaj mi provos resti en kontakto. ... Pardonu, mi ne povas doni al vi numeron por voki nun.”
Ŝi paŭzis por longa momento, aŭskultante aŭ pensante aŭ nur dolorante eble. Tiam ŝi rigardis supren al mi kaj komencis paroli denove. "Panjo, mi loĝas kun ĉi tiu ulo, nun, li ne volas, ke mi donu sian numeron." Ŝi ridetis al mi. "Uh-hu, mi estas kiel lia amatino."
Mi rigardis ŝin.
“Mi prenis hormonojn, kaj li diras, se mi edziĝos kun li, li pagos por la operacio. Panjo....” Ŝi rigardis min komenci malrapidan konfuzitan brulvundon. "Mi devas pendigi, panjo, adiaŭ."
La saĝa puga rido fordonis ŝin. "Respondilo?" La evidenteco de la ŝerco eskapis al mi momente nur pro la subita elfluo de fantazio al la libido.
"Jes, ĝi haltigis post kiam mi diris, ke mi ne povas doni numeron." Ŝi ridis, ridis, vere. “Ĉu vi iris, ĉu? Kaj plejparto de ĝi estis vera."
“Plejmulto! Preskaŭ io ajn el ĝi!” Mi balancis la kapon. “Kion mi faros kun vi? Mi ne povas kredi, ke vi faris tion.”
“Kiel vi ne kredas, ke mi vere estas knabo? Vi vidis mian identigilon Terrence Hope, sekson, 'M'. “
"Tio eble estis bildo de via frato."
Ŝi faris kvazaŭ tiri la robon kaj montri al mi.
“Ne faru,” mi diris.
“Kial? Ĉu vi ne volas scii certe? Antaŭ ol vi decidos, kion fari kun mi?” Unu larmo brilis en verda okulo. “Ĉar mi certe ŝatus scii, kion vi faros kun mi! Ĉu mi revenis sur la straton? Ĉu vi vokos la policanojn? Diru al mi, ke mi devas iri hejmen al gepatroj, kiujn mi ne konas kaj kiuj certe ne konas min. ”La larmo faris mallarĝan spuron tra la ruĝiĝo sur la vango.
“Mi....” Mi ne sciis kiel fini tion.
"Ĉu vi kredas al mi, ke mi vere estas George Kelly?"
"Mi kredas ke jes," mi diris.
"Mi kredas ke mi ankaŭ faras," ŝi konfesis, viŝante la larmon.
Mi pensis pri tio. "Vi volas diri, ke vi ankaŭ ne estas certa?"
“Ne. Mi volas diri, jes, uh,” ŝi diris tiam haltis. “Mi supozas, ke mi sentas min pli Terry ol Georgo. Mi volas diri, mi scias, ke mi certe ne sentas pri iuj aferoj tiel, kiel Georgo sentus. Sed mi memoras esti Georgo, pli bone ol mi memoras esti Terry.” Ŝi kuris malsupren kaj komencis tordi siajn fingrojn en la genuoj.
"Kiu vi pensas, ke vi volas esti?" Mi demandis.
“Mi ŝanĝos mian nomon al Kelly Esperanza,” ŝi diris sen suprenrigardi.
"Ĉu irlanda hispano?" Mi provis inciteti ŝin.
Ŝi unuigis min. “Eble mi devus ŝanĝi ĝin al Kelly Dalton? Sinjorino Walter Dalton.”
Eĉ momenton mi nenion diris. "Neniu plu faras tion, sinjorino tiam la uloj nomas."
"Mi farus ĝin." Ŝi ridetis. "Mi estas malnovmoda knabino."
"Vi farus tion?"
"Eble. Mi pensas, ke vi savis mian vivon."
"Kies vivo?" Ni ne plu mokis. Subite, mi sciis, ke mi devas scii, kiu estas tiu ĉi verd-okula, knabeca juna virino kun la strioj en siaj malhelaj haroj.
"Mi ankoraŭ ne scias?" ŝi diris fine, ĝemante.
"Ĉu vi ankoraŭ volas resti ĉi tie kelkajn tagojn?"
“Jes. Mi devas resti ie kaj la mono, kiun mi havis en tiu tornistro, malaperis.”
"Ernesto prenis ĝin?"
"Aŭ tiu virino."
"Kiom ĝi estis?"
"Ne multe, sed mi estas oficiale rompita, nun."
"Mi povus konduki vin al viaj gepatroj," mi diris. "La gepatroj de Terry."
“Ne. Ili ne volas Terry reen tia, kia mi nun estas.” Tiu strange tordis. "Kaj mi ne volas iri kaj esti ies problema infano."
Ni denove estis trankvilaj por iom.
"Restu do."
Ŝi rigardis supren, iom da trankviliĝo en sia voĉo dum ŝi parolis. “Mi faros hejmajn taskojn. Mi povas kuiri kaj kion mi ne scias, nu, Georgo sciis multon pri kuirado.”
Mi ne petis ŝin fari ion ĉirkaŭ la domo sed mi sciis, ke ŝi proponos. Mi devis rideti pro ŝia fervoro. Ĝi ĝojigis min, ke mi petis ŝin resti. "Georgo sciis kuiri?"
“Jes. Li devis grupigi ĝin post kiam Margareta malsaniĝis. Kaj li fojfoje multe vojaĝis kaj...” Ŝi haltis.
"Li faris?"
“Jes, multe kaj foje li estis for dum semajnoj, kiel printempa trejnado. Anstataŭ akiri motelĉambron, li prenus loĝejon kaj kuirus siajn proprajn manĝojn. Kial vi demandas tion ĉi tiel?”
"Ĉar vi subite parolas pri Georgo anstataŭ vi mem." La ŝanĝo estis rapida, de unu frazo al alia.
Ni havis alian longan silenton dum ŝi verŝis al mi alian tason da kafo kaj varmigis sian tason da 'supra urbo'.
“Mi ne estas Georgo,” ŝi diris fine. "Li mortis." Ŝi ekploris. Ĉi-foje plorante malrapide, milde funebrante pro amikoj, kiujn ŝi eble neniam revidos. Aĵoj kiujn ŝi neniam plu farus kaj aferoj lasitaj nefaritaj, kiuj nun estis tro malfrue por iam esti faritaj en sia ĝusta sezono.
Mi moviĝis al la kanapo kaj mallerte etendis miajn brakojn. Ŝi venis kaj sidiĝis apud mi kaj mi ĉirkaŭmetis unu brakon kaj tenis unu el ŝiaj manoj en la miaj.
" Kiu diable mi estas, ĉiuokaze?" ŝi flustris. La fantomo de la Halovena sezono ŝajnis preskaŭ tro taŭga.
"Kiu ajn vi estas, vi bezonas amikon," mi diris. Mi provis ne pensi pri miaj duboj, kaj la ĉagrena sento, ke oni iel subtile trompas min. Mi provis ne pensi pri ŝia varma juna korpo apud la mia, femuro apud femuro, mano en mano.
"Mi bezonas ion," ŝi diris. Kaj levis mian manon por meti ĝin sur unu el ŝiaj mamoj.
"Kelly," mi sukcesis diri, mia voĉo subite dika, "mi ne estas samseksema."
"Nek mi," diris Kelly. “Mi vere estas knabino. Estis la tuta tempo....” Ŝi uzis mian manon por karesi sian bruston leĝere, tenante mian pojnon en sia dekstra mano kaj premante miajn fingrojn al siaj molaj adoleskaj citoj per sia maldekstra.
Mi povintus foriri facile. " Do vi mensogis pri tio, ke vi estas knabo?"
Ŝi rigardis supren al mi. Alta por knabino, ŝia iomete angula vizaĝo iom mildiĝis pro ŝminko kaj hararanĝo. “Jes. Mi estas knabino. Ĉu mi aspektas kiel knabo?”
Mi ja retiriĝis tiam, milde malimplikante min, forpuŝante ŝin sed ridetante al ŝi. Parto de mi ne iomete zorgis ĉu ŝi diras la veron kaj parto de mi tre timis ekscii la veron. Pri ŝi, pri mi.
Ŝi staris, surprizante min. Rapide ŝi deprenis la robon super la kapo kaj staris tie en nenio krom mamzono kaj kalsoneto. "Ĉu mi aspektas kiel knabo?" ŝi demandis denove.
"Ĉu vi razis viajn krurojn?" mi demandis freneze.
Ŝi rigardis malsupren "Kiam mi duŝis, jes, ili estis malpuraj."
“Mi esperas, ke vi ne uzis mian razilon. Kaj ne, vi tute ne aspektas kiel knabo.” Neniu tattletale bulge sed mi vidis transvestitajn prezentistojn en Las Vegas kun malpli ol ŝi portis nun.
Ŝi paŝis pli proksimen al mi kaj ridetis. "Mi estas iom malvarma." Ŝi ĉirkaŭvolvis la brakojn kaj tremigis ŝian malsupran lipon.
"Vi estas iom nuda kaj mi estas iom malkomforta pri tio."
“Tenu min. Kiel vi tenis min en la aŭto kaj en la restoracio."
“Mi diris al vi, ke mi ne estas samseksema. Mi pensis, ke vi estas knabino tiam.” Sed mi tenis ŝin, tenere, milde tenante ŝin kontraŭ mi. Miaj manoj serĉis ŝian dorson kaj trovis la liberigon por ŝia mamzono. Mi ne intencis ke ili faru tion sed ili faris.
"Mi diris al vi, ke mi ne estas knabo." Ŝi insistis, iom paŭdante.
Mi faligis manon malantaŭ ŝia dorso kaj kovris ŝian molan rondan azenon por momento antaŭ ol sondi milde inter ŝiaj femuroj. Tiam mi kisis lin por ĉesigi la larmojn denove.
Kelly suspiris. "Do, mi mensogis."
"Kiam? Kiam vi diris, ke vi estas knabo? Aŭ kiam vi diris, ke vi estas knabino? Aŭ kiam vi diris, ke vi volas, ke mi tenu vin?" Mi ridetis. “Mi ĉiam povis diri, kiam vi mensogas. Knabino.”
Ŝi pensis momenton. "Mi ne scias , ĉu mi ŝatas tiun ideon!" Poste ŝi enŝlosis kaj turnis sian vizaĝon supren por alia kiso.
Mi donis al ŝi unu. Mi ne povis pensi pri ŝi kiel knabo, eĉ post kiam mi konfirmis tion, kion ŝi diris al mi la tutan tempon. “Sed ĉi tio ne igas min gaja,” mi diris malforte dum mi denove kisis ŝin.
"Mi vere estas knabo," ŝi diris.
"Mi scias." Ni kisis, buŝoj malfermitaj kaj mi sciis ke mi sentis ke ŝi estas virino kaj mi estas viro kaj mi ŝatis senti tiel pri ĝi. Tiam mi demandis ion stultan, “Ĉu Georgo estis geja? Mi volas diri, eble kelkaj eksperimentoj aŭ....” Mi lasis tiun spuron, kiel diable ĝi vere povus esti grava nun?
Ŝi balancis la kapon. “Ne. Ne vere, li pensis provi ĝin unufoje, sed neniam faris. Mi ne scias ĉu ĝi funkcias tiel,” ŝi diris. "Sed mi ankaŭ ne sentas min gaja."
“Eble,” mi diris, “eble vi ne estas samseksema. Sed ĉu vi estas feliĉa?”
Ŝi ridis, poste eltiris miajn brakojn kaj kuris el la komputilejo, paŭzante momenton en la pordo de la dormoĉambro trans la antaŭĉambro .
Ni rigardis unu la alian de la sekura distanco de ĉirkaŭ dek du futoj. Antaŭ ol ŝi forkuris, ŝia mano tuŝis min tiel same kiel mi tuŝis ŝin. Kaj same kiel mi konfirmis ŝian veran sekson, tiel ŝi konfirmis miajn sentojn.
Atinginte malantaŭ ŝi, ŝi finis malfari la mamzonon kaj faligis ĝin sur la antaŭan plankon. Ŝultro frapante min, ŝi igis siajn malgrandajn teenybopper-citojn resalti, neniam deprenante siajn okulojn de mia vizaĝo. Poste ŝi turnis sin kaj iris en la dormoĉambron. “Mi estos ĉi tie,” ŝi diris. "Se vi volas min."
Se mi volus ŝin? Mi volis pugnobati ŝin denove pro tio sed mi ridetis. La etulo vere povus ĝui ĝin. Mi malŝparis unu momenton por rigardi la ŝvelaĵon en mia pantalono antaŭ ol verŝi al mi alian tason da kafo. Tiam mi prenis multe pli longe por pensi pri transiri la halon en la dormoĉambron.
Ĉi tio povus rezulti esti stranga rilato, viro kiu ne estis geja kaj virino kiu ne estis knabo. Sed mi esperis, ke ni povos ellabori aferojn.
Fine
Esperanza: She Stole a Ride de BoyChiq kaj Lainie Lee
kun arto de Erin Halfelven
E-Libro BigCloset - Produktita, Dezajnite kaj Redaktita de Joyce Melton
Did you ever sneak off somewhere to look at lingerie catalogs?
Fit-4-U: Guaranteed 2 Fit
by Lainie Lee
I stole the little booklets from my sister's room and looked at the pictures in the bathroom with the door locked. In some of them the girls were practically naked, just wearing bra and panties. The images sent hot little barbs into my brain and made me feel sweaty in odd places.
My sister, Dina, is really built. She's 18, about 5'6", five years older and two inches taller and in her bikini last summer she had every bit as many curves as the girls in the catalog. Don't get me wrong, I'm not kinked for my sister, but seeing her figure made me look at other girls differently.
Like the ones in the catalog. All the lacy underwear covering up large, juicy-looking globes and hips. It made me ache just to look at them.
Dina hadn't always looked like the pictures in the catalog; only a few years ago, she'd been flat as a board with no more shape than I had. Then it was like practically overnight she blossomed into a Pam Anderson-type. Or maybe I just started noticing when things started happening to me like growing hair and having weird sweaty dreams.
The change in her looks sure helped make her popular. Right now, she was out with her college boyfriend on a boat somewhere in the bay. She doesn't start college herself until the fall, if she even decides to go. Her grades aren't that good and Kurt, her current guy, is a senior majoring in business with a father who owns a big auto parts company. They've been talking about getting married so why would she go to college?
But if she moved out, I wouldn't have access to her catalogs and magazines anymore. I mean, I can't just have them sent to me, directly. I think she knows I look at them 'cause she always leaves the older ones out where they're easy to find. And if I'm in the room when she's looking at the newest one, she smirks at me in a certain way that makes me feel guilty.
Mom and Dad don't seem to notice, though, so I guess I'm not really in trouble. I look at the pictures some more and wonder what it would be like to touch one of those girls, one who wasn't my sister. I guess skin is just skin but the thought of running my hands over those legs, arms or bellies--I can't stand it. Even just touching some of the lingerie would be something.
I know one thing I can do but that always makes me feel guilty even more. They tell you not to do that in church or you'll go to hell so I just hold the catalog even tighter and then throw it down and run out of the bathroom. Well, I had to stop to unlock the door after bouncing off it but then I went to my bedroom and jumped on the bed. Then I went back to the bathroom and got the catalogs, thinking I better replace them in Dina's room before Mom found them.
I looked around my sister's room a little nervously. It's so girly. Bedclothes in three shades of pink, covered with about a dozen cute stuffed animals. Her vanity was like, groaning under the weight of all the bottles and jars of lip gloss, and mascara, and I don't even know what half of the other stuff is. Two hair dryers in shades of purple, why does she need two? There's a little machine on the floor and I've got no idea what that thing does but it looks a bit like the grinder Dad has bolted to a bench out in the garage. Do girls have to grind their feet? Maybe their toenails?
I dropped the catalogs on Dina's nightstand where I'd found them earlier and decided I might as well snoop around some more. Mom and Dad had gone out for lunch with some friends and I had begged off going, just so I could do this--look at Dina's stuff.
She'd left the closet door open a bit and I slid it wider. She sure owned a lot of pretty clothes. It took me a while before I felt willing to touch them but after a bit, I pushed some of them this way or that so I could get a better look. The fabrics felt lush and soft and sexy but it wasn't quite the same as looking at the underwear catalog. I pushed the door almost closed again and went to her chest of drawers.
The top drawer held things like hair bows and scarfs and stuff, that didn't interest me so much, just then. I tried the bottom drawer and it had socks and pantyhose in it. The socks were pretty much just socks though some had some cute designs like hearts or fairies or kittens on them. The pantyhose looked so delicate I didn't dare touch them for fear of ruining them and then maybe Dina would start locking her door so I couldn't get in here.
But I thought I'd sort of figured out her system--weird idea that she even had one. I opened the next drawer down from the top one and there they were--bras, just like in the catalogs, all different colors, some with lace or even ruffles. There must have been a dozen or more, maybe two dozen. Did she really need so many? They were beautiful, just all jumbled together. They even smelled good, I hadn't really expected bras to have a smell.
I didn't touch them at all for a bit, just looked at them. I found a little bag that smelled like flowers and spice so that must just be to make things smell so good, pretty clever for my dumb old sister.
I glanced at the Cinderella clock on the nightstand, still at least three hours before anyone else would be home.
I put my hand into the drawer and felt of some of the bras. Soft and lacy, it just seemed like one of the nicest things in the world. I pulled one out to get a better look. This one was a deep pink color with lighter pink embroidered roses and hearts and some white lace.
It had a label and I turned it so I could read it.
Magical Bra 32D 100% Magilon Hand Wash Only Guaranteed 2 Fit |
My hands were shaking. I rubbed the cloth of the bra on my face, it felt wonderful. Girls got to wear such pretty things. I picked up a few of the other bras, most of them just as pretty as the deep pink one but I decided it must be my favorite. Like the label said, it seemed magical or something.
I held it up and looked at it even more carefully. It certainly seemed large, was my sister really this big? Probably. The boys that came around before she started going steady with Chad practically couldn't take their eyes off her chest. She and Mom even joked about it. "Another Mama's boy," Mom would say. I didn't get that at first, took me a while to think about what she meant.
Dina would roll her eyes and giggle when Mom made comments. But Chad was the first boyfriend she brought home who seemed able to look at something besides her chest. Even Dad liked him, he was funny and his parents were rich. And I guess he's good-looking; Dina thinks so.
Thinking about Dina and my parents, I looked again at the clock but it really wasn't any later than it had been a few minutes ago. I held the bra up and looked at it some more. I wondered what it would be like to wear something like that? Nothing a boy wears is really anything like a bra.
I held it in front of me and looked at my reflection in Dina's dresser mirror. A charge went through me like an electric current! I'd never felt anything quite like that before and I knew I just had to try the Magical Bra on!
I didn't even think about it. Still holding the bra, I pulled my shirt off over my head and threw it on the floor. Trembling, I slipped the straps over my arms and settled them on my shoulders. I couldn't imagine what might happen next but I felt like I had to find out! Reaching behind me like I had been doing it forever, I easily snapped the fastening, watching my reflection in the mirror all the while.
I felt a tingling in my nipples which seemed to cause another sensation in my groin. Distracted by wonderful sensations, I watched in amazement as my chest seemed to swell. It felt so good, better than anything. I said something stupid but no one was there to hear me.
I hadn't even got my hands back in front of me; my--breasts!--grew that fast! Big and round and soft, they filled the cups of the Magical Bra. Duh. Well, how was I to know it was really magic? Advertising promises things you know it can't deliver--but this!
The bra actually felt tight now. Not too tight, just comfortably so. I looked down into cleavage that had no business being where it was. They looked like they belonged there--they were mine!--I staggered a bit realizing I didn't want to take the bra off and maybe lose my breasts!
My breasts!
But they did feel a part of me, not something added on. I could feel my nipples inside the cups, rubbing softly on the downy fabric. Yeow! Now they started getting a little bit hard, I could feel that, too!
And that sensation caused something else to start happening. Oh, no!
I looked in the mirror again, to try to distract myself, I guess. But that wasn't any help. My new breasts in the pretty pink bra looked so odd above my blue jeans and under my face with my short, boy's haircut. It looked weird, like I had turned into a freak but it excited me, too. I wanted to rub my nipples--or my crotch!
"This is nuts!" I shouted.
I decided I had to try to take the bra off. Maybe the breasts would go away--oh no!--and I could go back to being Jeff, Dina's dorky kid brother. My hands were shaking but I knew just how to do it, I reached behind me and undid the fastening then pulled the bra off, down over my arms.
My big, old--new!--boobies just bounced there. I waggled my shoulders and watched them in the mirror. Okay, so I giggled. I felt tempted to just play with them and ignore my situation--cause they sure weren't going away.
I put my fingers around my nipples and pulled gently; that felt really good though it looked a bit silly in the mirror--mostly because of my doofy expression.
"Wattamaigonnadoo!" I yelped, putting my hands behind my back to stop me from playing with my tits. "I can't think when I'm doing that," I said.
How could this have happened? Well, duh. The "Magical Bra" really was magical. Okay, so magic really did work? How does that help?
"I won't be able to go to school with a big pair of tits on my chest," I muttered. That didn't sound like that bad of an idea, skipping classes, but I couldn't fool myself; Mom would make me go to school if I had grown antlers and a tail.
I dithered a while longer before realizing that I really needed a plan. Maybe my brain had been sucked out of my skull to make tits with because the only thing I could think of to do was to go through Dina's drawers looking for something that might change me back.
The third drawer of her chest held nothing but panties in all sorts of colors and styles and fabric--just stuffed into the drawer with no sort of organization at all--my sister was really a slob in some ways. I pulled out a few of the panties to look at them, noticing as I did so that my titties bounced and swayed every time I moved. They even got in my way a little.
A pair of soft pink panties caught my attention; they were exactly the color of the "Magical Bra." I pulled them out and looked at them. Just a lacy little scrap of material but inside one seam I found a label. Tiny little label that said in teeny little type, "Fit-4-U -- Pure Magilon," on one side and "Size 4 Bikini Brief - Guaranteed to Fit," on the other side.
I knew exactly what would happen if I put those panties on--but I couldn't seem to help myself! Once I had touched the lacy, flimsy, Magilon fabric, I just had to try them on! I tried to stop, cussing while I pulled my jeans and underpants both down and stepped out of them. "Stop! Damnit stop!" I told myself. "Don't do this! Oh, fuck!"
For a few moments, I felt a wild excitement combined with a nearly heart-stopping terror. I wanted to put those panties on and the very idea filled me with horror and dread. I threw myself on the bed, trying to avoid them but I just rolled over on my back and made to slip them on. My big boobies bounced and bobbled around while I wrestled with those panties.
"I duwanna be a girl," I whined as I pulled the lacy doom up my legs. I almost managed to stop before I got to my knees but I fooled myself with one quick motion, pulling them up over my thighs and setting the elastic waistband around my new tiny waist.
As I pulled them up, I could feel my thighs getting bigger then my ass. My balls shrank and disappeared, I assume, I couldn't really see down there but that's what it felt like. My dick shrank some but I got so excited by the sensations that it didn't seem like it. I expected it to disappear too--look, I was a thirteen-year-old boy--I'd never even heard of a clitoris!
It felt hot and a bit damp between my legs and I figured I knew what that meant. I resisted reaching down to feel, it just seemed too weird. I knew what I'd find--or not find!--anyway. Who had made these cursed clothes and why did my sister have them in her chest of drawers?
Duh! That's why she had the best body in the twelfth grade! She'd probably sold her soul for a whole outfit of magical stuff! It might also be the explanation for how Mom had suddenly lost like thirty pounds last year. Dad sure seemed to like the results of that--and Dina's boyfriends sure loved her looks.
I lay there across her bed in nothing but a pair of pink, lacy, demonspawn panties trying to think. Pulling on my nipples like I was doing probably didn't help with the thinking but it did feel good. Finally, I sat up and looked at myself in the mirror again.
My hands and feet and face still looked like me but from the knees to my shoulders, I looked like my sister. "I am my own sister," I said aloud. It sounded stupid. "That is stupid," I commented. "I'm Dina's sister. Huh." I actually grinned a little; Dina probably wasn't going to like this--I knew what a pain having a sister could be.
She probably had a bunch more Fit-4-U magical clothing around, if I put all of it on would I look just like her? Well, probably not; she's blonde like Dad and I've got dark, curly hair like Mom.
Hey! I could try on everything in her closet before she got back home. That sounded like fun.
Okay, now that sort of worried me. Fun? Trying on my sister's clothes? Well, yeah.
This all ought to have had me running and screaming and maybe wondering if I'm going crazy and imagining it but, honestly, I felt good. I mean, besides having been turned into a girl by magical underwear. It was a shock, but what the heck, at least I was going to be pretty. Heck. I stared back at the mirror, "I'm pretty hot, actually," I said. Except for the stupid looking haircut.
I went to Dina's closet; I knew she had some pretty cute hats and I wondered if any had a Fit-4-U label. Then some hose, shoes -- did Fit-4-U make jewelry or cosmetics?
I slid open the closet and marveled at all the colorful pretty clothes that Dina could lend to her new sister. After all, we'd be the same size. I tried not to think about what Mom and Dad would say when they found out they had a new daughter--and I wondered, just for a moment, if Dina's boyfriend, Chad, had a younger brother.
by Lainie Lee |
by Lainie Lee |
The Little Italian Bistro near Grand and Wooster in Soho served pastry, frittatas and coffees for breakfast; sandwiches, pizza and panini for lunch; chicken, seafood, lasagna and other pasta dishes for dinner; and calzones and more pizza for late night suppers. The chefs came directly from Italy to the kitchen, didn't speak English that well and tended to shout in Italian when unhappy. The original owner's widow, Audrey Feliciano, and sons, Andrew and Felix Jr., ran the place like a fiefdom; they could always find a job for the relative of a cook, waiter or busboy and they sent two happy planeloads of employees and family back to Italy for month long vacations each year. But employees were expected to work hard and show loyalty.
The staff always knew the foibles of the regulars, what they usually ordered, where they wanted to sit, what little extra service would net the biggest tip. Tourists had never really discovered the place; patrons came mostly from the surrounding shops and business with some people walking up from the Civic Center for a Panino Cubano at lunch. Senior, family and student discounts in midweek kept things busy most of the time.
Little Felix worked the morning crowds six days a week, manning the cash register and bossing around the waitresses, three of whom were a daughter and two nieces. Later, Andy and the waiters would take over until Mamma Audrey showed up to run the show into the late evening. Four grandsons were too young for much responsibility and so worked as busboys and kitchen helpers while they learned. Other Feliciano cousins filled in as needed.
Half of the front wall of the restaurant rolled up into the ceiling and small white tables covered with red-checked cloths spilled out under green canvas awnings in good weather. It doesn't get much better, weather-wise, than a sunny morning mid-October in New York City.
On Tuesdays, Davey Towers had one of those gigantic early morning lecture classes everyone hates. In a month of attending classes at the CUNY campus in Tribeca, he'd yet to find a reason to actually be awake for the lectures. Accordingly, he took a bus every Tuesday to the school, dozed through an information dump he didn't need since he'd already read all of the class materials, and at 8:50 a.m. escaped to take the long walk home to the apartment he shared with two wannabe indy musicians in the East Village .
On his first such trip, he'd taken the side streets to avoid heavy traffic and crowds and so had discovered the Little Italian Bistro at possibly its slowest time of the week. Since then, coffee and a "mixed" fritatta with crusty bread had become his Tuesday morning custom.
The "mixed" frittata was an L.I.B. specialty. The menu listed it with quotes and if anyone asked, the waitresses would say it was because the mix was different every time it was made. It usually had spinach and cheese of some kind, with potatoes, onions and little bits of the highly spiced chicken sausage Cugino Alonzo made up once a week. Frittatas came in a three egg (al uomo, manly) and two egg (a la donna, ladies') version. Not knowing any Italian, Davey ordered the smaller ladies' portion since he had already eaten a granola bar and piece of fruit on the early bus ride and it saved him sixty cents.
Davey always carried several books with him, not just his college text books but books on other subjects that had caught his interest plus fiction and the occasional graphic novel. As long as the restaurant wasn't crowded, no one tried to hurry him and the busboys would even refill his cafe americano cup with regular coffee for as long as he wanted to sit and read. He liked to take a small table along the north wall near the big opening and linger for an hour or so, reading quietly. With two musicians for roommates, he enjoyed the relative peace of a restaurant in the mid-morning lull.
Davey would read anything, up to and including romance novels donated by his mother. She prepared a sack of books for him to take back to Manhattan on his weekly visit. His parents had moved to Queens from central Pennsylvania two years before when his father inherited a small printshop. Uncle Brodey had made a good living printing small runs of public domain books for libraries and collectors until he had passed away from a cerebral hemorrhage. Much of the Brodey imprint turned out to be Victorian erotica, a fact that caused Davey's mother some embarrassment. In an effort to insulate her only child away from the family business, she kept him well supplied with other sorts of books.
So it was that Davey sat in his favorite spot, sipping coffee and reading a romance novel on that Tuesday morning. The October weather was still warm enough that he wore shorts, white sneakers without socks and a gray sweat shirt hoodie. His legs looked tanned and smooth and well-formed from walking all over lower Manhattan. Waiting for the early morning bus, he'd kept the hood up but had thrown it back during class showing medium-length hair, nearly to his chin, cut in no particular style.
He didn't notice the three men in business suits at the table directly across the restaurant from him. He pushed his dark blond hair out of his face and kept reading.
Shortly before Davey arrived, the three men had taken a spot close to the door under one of the windows facing downtown. The older man, Frank La Nez, had heavy but well-formed Mediterranean features, a prominent nose and wide-set brown eyes under very thick black lashes. He looked like a businessman who might know someone who could get you Broadway tickets that otherwise weren't available.
Of the younger men, one stood a head taller than either of the others. Ermundo Bellafonte had fought in the Ultimate Wrestling League under the name Elephant Man. Since retiring because of a pinched nerve in his back, he'd lost fifty pounds. His face hung loosely in soft folds, giving him a sad expression like a hound dog. He'd picked up the nickname Packy, short for pachyderm, during his wrestling days.
The third man, Larry Hodge, did not look Italian, though one of his grandmothers had come from Genoa. He had sandy brown hair, blue eyes and the sort of blunt good looks that made people trust and like him. He wore a mustache, a bushy thing that hung over the corners of his mouth and made him appear amusing and amused.
Lots of people called Frank La Nez, Frankie the Nose. He didn't mind. The implication that he had something to do with the mobs in New York City could be useful and in fact, happened to be true. Frank's legitimate business interests included an importing company that specialized in products of the smaller Mediterranean countries. He also owned a furniture factory in New Jersey, a part interest in a cab company in Hartford and apartment buildings all over the tri-state area. He also owned a downtown hotel where he lived in what he called the sub-penthouse, the next to the top floor.
The Hotel Del Amo sat about nine blocks from the Little Italian Bistro, near the lower east corner of Tribeca, an easy walking distance for a man in his early fifties. Three mornings a week, Frankie the Nose had Packy drive him and Larry to the L.I.B., the three of them ate a late breakfast, then Frankie walked home, alone or with Larry, depending on whether he needed to give private instructions to his personal assistant.
Larry kept the details of Mr. La Nez's life from becoming distractions. He paid personal bills, arranged appointments, talked to lawyers and accountants and listened when the older man wanted to complain about something.
Packy drove cars and loomed over people when necessary. He was good at both.
That morning, Frankie had his usual, potato and onion frittata with prosciutto and mozzarella, al uomo, of course. Larry had a spinach frittata with cheeses and Packy had "the works" meaning a four egg mixture with three kinds of meat, plus cheese, potato, onion and peppers. They all had coffee and crusty bread and Packy ordered a fruit cup which he shared.
Frankie had a piece of melon halfway to his mouth when Davey entered the restaurant. He sat there a moment, the cantaloupe dripping an orange stain onto his sleeve.
"Boss?" said Larry.
Without looking at Larry, Frankie dipped the piece of melon in his coffee and popped it into his mouth.
"That's different," said Packy. He tried it. "Hmm, not so good," he decided. "Maybe with honeydew?"
Larry looked where Frankie was looking and frowned.
Frankie reached out and touched a passing busboy. He spoke quickly in Italian, ordering more coffee and cinnamon rolls for everyone. "You guys want cinnamon rolls, don't you? They put almonds in them here."
Packy licked his lips and nodded. He loved cinnamon rolls but would never order them himself.
Larry relaxed his expression into a grin. "Something sweet would be good."
"Certamente, what you said," agreed Frankie, glancing toward Davey again. A small smile seemed to play around his lips and eyes. "How come you can never make money buying into a restaurant like this one?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
Larry surprised him. "Place like this, got to be run by family or it won't work. They looking for investors, that means the heart of the family is no longer in the business," he said.
Frankie nodded, impressed. He smiled, pleased that Larry had picked up some business sense working for him. Frankie's real job for organized crime in New York was finding legitimate investment opportunities. He'd long ago decided that restaurants were only good for money laundering, not profit taking. "You're a smart kid, Larry. I knew I kept you around for some reason."
Larry laughed, enjoying Frankie's teasing him. He had a real fondness for the older man and a personal respect that had nothing to do with his employment.
"I'm not smart and you keep me around," Packy pointed out, wanting to get in on the camaraderie.
"You're my sister's husband's uncle's grandson. Pure nepotism, Ermundo," said Frankie with a straight face.
Packy laughed, pretty sure that nepotism meant family connections. Frankie liked to tease him with big words. From someone else, it would have stung but when Frankie did it, Packy noticed, he could always figure out the word from the way it was used.
A waitress came by with coffee and to confirm their order for rolls. Larry and Packy watched her ass as she walked away. Frankie watched Davey order his breakfast, the way he held his hands, the title of the book he was reading, the way he pushed his chin-length hair out of his face.
The cinnamon rolls came. They did indeed have almonds inside, also raisins, and a sour cream icing. They were six inches across and five inches tall. Frankie laughed to see them, he always forgot how big they made the rolls at L.I.B.
Packy's eyes got big then small as he swore to himself not to eat the whole roll. Unless of course, Frankie and Larry ate all of theirs.
Larry flirted with the waitress, telling her how excellent her rolls were, partly in Italian, managing to imply that he was actually speaking of her thighs.
The waitress giggled and escaped. She'd never been told her legs were heavy in such a sweet way before, she decided.
Frankie frowned. "I meant to ask her if she knew the blonde in the corner over there," he said. He looked at Davey to show who he meant.
Larry looked, too. "Boss, that's a guy."
"No," said Frankie. "I thought that at first, too. But it's a woman. Look at the book she's reading, watch her hands play with her hair. And she ordered a la donna; it's a tall, skinny girl."
"Um," said Larry.
Packy looked over at Davey, too. He said nothing. If the boss thought that was a girl, it was okay with Packy.
Frankie gazed at the object of his infatuation. One of the reasons people called him 'The Nose' was because of his infallible intuition. And his intuition told him that this skinny blonde with the boyish good looks would make him very happy.
"Go over and ask her..." said Frankie. He stopped.
"Ask her what, boss?"
"Ask her if she'd like to come up to my hotel room and read to me," said Frankie. He smiled.
Packy stared at him. He decided that Frankie must be blushing because he could see his nose getting darker, just across the bridge.
Larry looked worried.
Frankie stood. "Have her there by three," he said. "I've got meetings with the hotel staff till then." He glanced across at Davey and headed out of the restaurant, not looking back. Larry would get the check.
Packy and Larry sat quietly for a while. They watched the boss walk toward the corner of Grand and Wooster and start across, heading south, further downtown. Larry sipped his coffee and seemed lost in thought.
Packy puzzled through the byplay, glancing at Davey who chose that moment to cough into his hand and wipe it absently on his short pants. Despite the length of shapely, tanned leg, the gesture didn't look feminine. "That is a guy, isn't it?" Packy said to Larry.
Larry stood. "Boss says the kid is a dame, he's a dame. We'd better go persuade her to get dressed for her date."
Part 2: Miss Taken by Lainie Lee |
Part 2: Miss Taken
Frank La Nez had a fantasy on the walk back to his hotel. He did all the things New Yorkers did when walking in their city, shaking his fist at motorists, stepping around street people and avoiding eye contact with other pedestrians but his mind traveled somewhere else. He didn't really see most of the city anyway, he'd lived there all his life except for college and the army, and much of it had the invisibility of long familiar surroundings.
Instead, he imagined the girl he'd seen in the Little Italian Bistro. He pictured the soft ash blonde of her hair and wondered about her eye color. Her features had made an intaglio on his mind. She had a strong profile but delicate at the same time. Full lips, long pale lashes that brushed her cheek when she blinked. Little pink ears with no earrings at all. Small elegant hands with no calluses from rough work, whoever she was she hadn't had to wash dishes or scrub floors for a living.
He waited for the light to cross Canal. The exit from the Holland Tunnel merged with the wide street only a few blocks a way and traffic was New York heavy, lots of yellow cabs and service trucks, very few private autos. When the light changed, he crossed. A cabbie trying to beat the light to make a turn honked at him but he didn't even notice.
He imagined the blonde as the pampered only child of indulgent elderly parents. She wouldn't be a native New Yorker from the City but from some rural area upstate, or Pennsylvania or the Midwest. Sickly as a child, her parents had spoiled her and still worried about her living in Manhattan.
He knew she liked to read, he'd seen the book she had in hand all the while she'd been eating breakfast -- a romance novel, The Eagle and the Dove by Jane Feather. He touched the bridge of his nose and smiled, thinking about the soft ash blond of her hair, the color of a dove's feather perhaps.
Across Canal, in Tribeca now, a bum approached him; smiling people sometimes gave a few quarters just to avoid spoiling their moods. Frankie ignored the street person with a steely gaze fixed a foot below the smelly man's face and through his breastbone. A look that hard could see the Battery from the steps of the Guggenheim, drilling through fifty blocks of concrete, brick and rebar. The bum flinched.
Frankie didn't notice that either. He'd turned east on Canal, toward what used to be Little Italy and now had been claimed by an expanding Chinatown. He had to zig and zag a bit to get to his hotel. He'd turn south again before the Thai noodle shops and Korean grocery stores made it obvious that the neighborhood he'd grown up in had disappeared. He did like oriental food, though and didn't avoid the place.
He wondered if his blonde liked Asian cooking. He knew she enjoyed good food but had to watch her pennies. She went to CUNY where she studied some soft subject like History or French Literature of the 18th Century. Or Communications, maybe she wanted to be a reporter or a telejournalist. Sure, a lot of college students subsisted on ramen noodles and hot water but she found time and money to eat a nice frittata. She had class, he liked that.
He strode purposefully along the sidewalk; people naturally got out of the way. He didn't have Packy's height but he wasn't a small man and his shoulders still had muscle from working out in the basement gym of his hotel. He'd played football, offensive guard, in high school and college and his nickname hadn't been The Nose then but 'Church', short for churchkey for the holes he'd opened like a canopener in opposing lines.
A few people still called him Frankie Church or just Church. Some of them did it because they'd known him back then, a few more maybe because they thought it was his real name and some because they felt nervous about calling him Frankie the Nose.
He passed a storefront gym and wondered what the blonde would look like in one of those lycra exercise suits the girls wore now. He pictured her in tight fuchsia spandex, breasts pushing out, small waist. Maybe she didn't have such big breasts; he liked them big but she was young. Not too young, eighteen to twenty, he figured, since she attended CUNY. He knew that from the stickers he'd seen on her books.
He knew too, that she had only a slapdash vanity, wearing no makeup on a Tuesday morning and only a simple gold chain around her neck. Her clothes were neat and clean and not cut to show off any figure, that bulky sweatshirt concealing any swell of breast, however large or small, while the shorts revealed those elegant legs. She could be proud of those legs and perhaps she was. Frankie liked them.
He imagined her in high heels and a short cocktail dress, jewels and evening makeup, a hint of some spicy, floral scent around her as they danced, her blonde head resting on his shoulder. He hoped she wasn't taller than he in heels, he'd seen her standing, walking, briefly. Five-foot-seven or eight, he guessed, which would be all right since he stood a fraction over six foot himself.
She didn't have a boyfriend, he knew it. Amazing, but would any man who called her his own not have been with her, not have made sure she had some piece of jewelry he'd bought her to display, not have been sitting with her in a crowded restaurant to deflect the gaze of men more than twice her age? No, she had no boyfriend, had never had one. More amazing, but he didn't stop to consider how he knew such a thing, he just did.
She hadn't even had a watch, let alone an engagement ring or charm bracelet. He planned a detour from the route back to his hotel; he knew of a small jewelry shop just off Lafayette owned by a Lebanese Jew with an Italian wife. Izaak's would have something nice for the tall blonde. He grimaced, he didn't know what color her eyes were, he hadn't seen. Her eyelashes were soft golden curtains hiding them and she had never looked directly at him.
Diamonds then, diamonds would catch the color of her eyes and shine as only diamonds can, crystal rainbows, drops of the sun. Hazel, her eyes were hazel, warm amber with green and golden flecks in them, he suddenly knew. An emerald with diamonds to catch and feed the glow of love; he would buy her an emerald to wear. Izaak would have just the one, true green, not too large but a pure color -- set in a ring with diamonds around it.
Romance novels fascinated the closet sociologist in Davey. Maybe his mom picked the really good ones to put in his book bag but so far he had enjoyed all but one or two of the genre. The better authors, he suspected, did a ton of research and knew a lot about human nature. He paused for a moment to look again at the cover of the one he was currently reading. Set in Spain and Morrocco in the 1400s, it was about a Muslim knight who fell in love with a half-gypsy vagabond girl.
Complicated with treachery and betrayal, imprisonment and escape, he felt sure that things would eventually turn out okay for the two lovers, The Eagle and The Dove -- even if so far the girl seemed reluctant, sort of a given in any romance novel. He smiled, he'd never read one with a sad ending, perhaps they didn't exist.
Right at the point he'd reached in the story, the Muslim guy had just abducted the girl from a camp of gypsies but out of respect for her, he hadn't had them all killed. Davey took a few moments out of reading to think about that. What would it be like to have someone that ruthless, and powerful, willing to do things just because you asked for them but unwilling to give you up to go free?
It didn't occur to him that he'd identified with the heroine of the story, because of course, romance novels are written for a female audience and the reader is supposed to identify with the heroine. It seemed natural, in the context of reading the book to have a male lover, dangerous, passionate and powerful. He actually shivered a bit, thinking about it. Then he took a sip of coffee and re-opened his book, but someone loomed over him and he looked up.
Packy Bellafonte stood six-foot-ten in his stocking feet, nearer seven feet with his specially built orthopedic shoes. Without those size eighteen brogans, his feet would hurt so bad after half a day that he could hardly walk. He had to have all of his clothes tailored, too, Big and Tall just didn't cut it. He didn't believe that love stories should have unhappy endings either, though he had very little experience with anything in the way of romance.
Davey pushed hair out of his face before realizing the shadow on his book wasn't his own. He looked up, and looked up some more and then a bit more -- and another little bit more. For a moment, he thought he might penguin out of his seat, toppled like a tourist trying to see the spire of the Empire State Building. No one that big had ever stood that close to him. His mouth hung open because his jaw hadn't kept up with his eyebrows.
Packy's deeply wrinkled face creased in a smile. Boy or girl, the kid reading the book had a cute face and such a look of astonishment that Packy felt tempted to say, "Ooga-booga," or something similar. He didn't like scaring people who didn't need scaring but the kid didn't look afraid, just surprised.
Larry on the other hand, knew love and infatuation aren't reasonable or temperate and can end in tragedy and misfortune as easily as not. He didn't want his boss embarrassed or disappointed; he'd do practically anything for the old man who deserved some happiness.
The skinny boy with the delicate face of an angel had attracted Frankie's attention and Larry felt that Frankie wanted to believe in beauty and romance. Ordinarily, when Frankie felt the urge for passion after his wife died, he had Larry hire a call girl for him from one of the better Manhattan agencies or get him tickets to Vegas for someone without a City history.
This time was different. Very different. Larry spoke. "I've paid your check, miss. If you would just come with us, someone wants to meet you."
Davey shifted his gaze to Larry's friendly mustache. He hadn't even noticed the mere six-footer standing there until he spoke. "Miss?" Davey said, his voice squeaking a bit. "I think you're making a mistake." He tried to focus on the situation but the man-mountain and the misidentification had him mentally off balance.
Larry smiled, keeping his voice low and still friendly. "Perhaps. But you don't want to make a mistake, do you? It will be very much worth it for you to meet our boss. Please. Packy, get her book bag."
Davey made a grab for the canvas satchel several seconds too late. The giant had scooped up the bag in a paw bigger than Davey's head while the one with the mustache held out his hand as if to help Davey up. It occured to Davey that the two men were dressed like Wil Smith and Tommy Lee Jones and he didn't believe any of it.
"Please, " Larry said again, using the charm and trust he seemed to naturally generate. "Just come with us. Someone wants to do something nice for you."
"Huh?" said Davey. Why would anyone want to do something nice for him? But he stood, reaching for his book bag, his other hand marking his place in his novel with an index finger bookmark.
Packy's face wrinkled up in what he meant as a reassuring smile but looked a little more carnivorous. Packy couldn't help how he looked and it hurt his feelings a little when Davey snatched his hand back. "I'm not going to keep your stuff, miss," he said. "I'll just carry it for you." He held the bag down and opened. "You can put your book away if you want."
"I'm not a miss," said Davey but Packy just stood there holding the book bag out. Davey glanced at the page number in his novel, memorized it, closed the book and put it into the bag. He really didn't like giving up the bag since he actually carried all his money and identification in one of the inside pockets. His mom teased him about his 'purse' but he had never liked sitting on a wallet and since he had to carry all the books anyway....
"Ready?" asked Larry after Davey had gotten rid of the book.
Davey pushed hair out of his face and glanced around. No one seemed alarmed though a couple of small kids stared at the giant. So Davey just nodded and let himself be led out of the restaurant, following Larry with Packy right behind. It didn't feel like a romantic abduction because there were no horses or ships, no moonlit cliffs, no chill night air to raise the hairs on his neck in dread and he didn't have to beg for anyone's life to be spared.
The staff of the Little Italian Bistro didn't even notice the drama, except that it was hard not to notice someone like Packy. Even more, with the big guy around, who noticed much else?
Part 2.5: Interlude in Green by Lainie Lee |
Part 2.5: Interlude in Green
Larry led the way most of a block to a small parking garage under an office building. A vintage stretch Cadillac occupied a space marked 'owner' in the garage. The big car had a metallic turquoise paint job, six doors, and the sort of boomerang-shaped antenna that indicated a television inside. It didn't look like a mobster's car, more like that of some lowrider who got wealthy.
It was in fact, the same model Frankie's dad had purchased when Frankie was in high school. Not the same car, but the same model Sedan DeVille stretched into a limo and repainted the identical retro-aqua. Frankie had loved his dad's car and had expected to inherit it when he graduated from college but by that time, his father had traded it in and bought Frankie one of the new smaller Cadillacs which wasn't the same thing at all.
Frankie never told his dad how disappointed he was. The sleek Caddie he'd planned to drive to pick up his best girl got sold to someone who ended up wrapping it around a tree in Montreal, of all places. Frankie had actually tracked the car to a wrecking yard in Quebec but he hadn't had the nerve to visit before the Green Machine got pounded into scrap metal and fluff -- which Frankie found out was what wrecking yards called the upholstery and liners in wrecked cars, after the hammer machines had reduced all the metal to fist-sized pieces.
Later, after Frankie's father died, Frankie had Larry find a 1970 Sedan DeVille and restore it as a six-door limo. One of the benefits of using such an old dinosaur of a car was that Packy had plenty of head and leg room. The big man loved the car perhaps even more than Frankie did and had secretly named it Kate for reasons he never told anyone.
While Larry held one of the rear doors open for Davey, Packy walked around the clone of Frankie's Green Machine, looking for dings or dustspecks. He wet a finger as big as a bratwurst in his mouth and scrubbed at one spot on the roof near the driver's door. He did this everytime he came back to the car after an hour or so; a speculum distortion in the paint made a white spot that appeared and disappeared depending on lighting and angle of view. Packy was generally the only person tall enough to see the illusion and he dutifully rubbed at it nearly every day. When he put his head close to see if he had got it, the non-existent white spot disappeared.
Satisfied, Packy handed the backpack he'd still been carrying to Larry, then opened the wide door and slid across the cordovan leather seat beneath the padded over-sized steering wheel. He checked his face in the mirrored sunvisor to be sure he didn't have any sticky stuff from the cinnamon roll hiding in the wrinkles around his mouth.
Davey balked before getting in the car. "Where are we going?" he asked, holding onto the suicide door with both hands. He looked like a child next to Packy but even Larry made him feel small.
"To a beauty shop, the owner owes the boss a favor," said Larry. He tossed the backpack into the back seat, knowing the kid would have to follow it. Trying to be less threatening, he stood back and smoothed his mustache with a finger tip. He knew he'd got sour cream icing in it, he always did. He smiled, his wife called his facial foliage a cookie duster and it had become a private joke with a meaning they didn't share with anyone else.
Larry's smile might have worked at being reassuring but Davey frowned at him anyway. "A beauty shop? What? I mean, I told you that I'm not a g-girl? Didn't I?"
Larry kept smiling. "You mentioned that, yeah. Just go ahead and get in. You don't have anywhere else you have to be, do you?"
"Uh, n-no," said Davey, automatically telling the truth. After it was out, he realized he should have claimed a doctor's appointment or a meeting with his mom or something. Anything to have an excuse not to get into the car.
Packy spoke. "You want I should come back there and put her in the car?" His city accent made him sound like a thug to Davey, who had no accent at all, as far as he knew.
Alarmed at the idea of the big man stuffing him into the limo, willy nilly, Davey immediately climbed in and slid all the way across the seat and pulled the backpack into his lap. Larry got in behind him. "It's going to be fine," he said, closing the heavy door with a decided and luxurious-sounding thunk.
Davey complained again, "I'm not really a girl. I mean, I'm really not a girl." Having the giant refer to him as 'her' was especially disturbing. If a guy that big got the wrong idea about him, well, Davey didn't want to think about it.
Larry said only, "We're in," apparently talking to Packy who started the engine and locked all the doors electrically. The purr of the six liter, twelve cylinder, German-built engine could barely be heard.
Packy liked that and his wrinkled face rearranged itself in a smile. He knew exactly what to do and he liked that, too. Packy liked things to be certain. He knew he would drive south on Wooster, east on Grand to Broadway and then south. He wouldn't take the right at Leonnard because of the construction and the obscene five-way corner at Varrick, even though that would be shorter. And he wouldn't turn on Worth because traffic went both ways on Worth and it was hell making the left onto West Broadway with a big long car. If several people were trying to turn, it could take a long time, too, maybe cycling through several lights.
No, he'd go all the way down to Thomas, follow it over to Hudson, back up Hudson to Worth, which was called Harlan at that corner for some reason and come back East on Harlan/Worth to make the right-hand turn on West Broadway, which he thought of as just West to avoid confusing it with the other Broadway two blocks east. But that circuit would put him going the right direction, the only direction, on West Broadway, on the right side of the street to go into the parking garage under Hotel Del Amo.
He could, of course, take White from Broradway to West, but that would put him making a left hand turn into the insane confusion as Franklin, Varick, West and Leonard tried to sort themselves out in three consecutive corners in what should be only one block. And there always seemed to be construction going on at one corner or the other. Going his way, there was only one left hand turn, and that from a one-way street to another one-way street; it hardly counted.
Packy backed the car out of the space and turned the wheel sharply to go down the ramp onto Wooster, completely prepared to enjoy the little odyssey he had planned. He took a moment to reflect on something he'd noticed before; north of the Holland Tunnel, West went only north while south of the Holland Tunnel, West went only south. Either way, you couldn't get to the Holland Tunnel driving on West Broadway, you would always be going away.
It was something to remember and Packy always remembered it anytime his driving would take him through the area where it was possible to get confused between Broadway, northbound West Broadway, and southbound West Broadway. Come to think of it, Broadway itself was one way south in the same area, another thing to remember. As always, Packy made a mental note of that, too.
In the passenger compartment behind him, Larry spoke to Davey. "What you said -- does it matter?"
"Huh?" said Davey, distracted. He' d just realized that the cabinet between the jump seats facing the rear bench held not only a widescreen television but also a wet bar, complete with miniature refrigerator and postage stamp sink, and a safe with a big combination lock. Who put a safe inside a limousine? Where did the sink drain? he wondered. He'd forgotten completely what he'd told Larry only a moment before. Feeling insecure, he wrapped his arms around his backpack. "I don't know," he said.
Larry put a hand over Davey's hand. "What you said," he repeated. "I don't think it matters."
* * *
Izaak Cohen looked up when Frank La Nez came into his shop. He'd known Frankie for more than forty years, they'd both been born within a mile of the corner of Lafayette and Canal back in the post-WWII era. About the same time as the Diamond District had completed its move from the Lower West Side near the Bowery thirty blocks up to Midtown. Izaak's grandfather's shop had been a satellite of the great concentration of Jewish, Dutch and English jewelry merchants in Lower Manhattan since the 1920s; Izaak's own Pop-pop had been born in the back of the old jewelry store near the Manhattan end of the Holland Tunnel.
"Frankie," said Izaak. He couldn't keep some of the old grade school antagonism out of his voice. He'd been an undersized, studious Jew growing up in Little Italy in the fifties and Frankie the Beak had been one of his tormentors. But he grinned. They were almost relatives these last thirty-five years. Izaak's wife, Helen, was Frankie's dead wife's cousin, their grandparents from the same village on the rocky coast of Sicily.
Besides, in high school, Frank and Izaak had become friends. Not close friends but they had taken business classes and shop together. And Izaak had finally put on some height and mass, enough to be a darn good running back, following Frankie the guard through the opposing line more times than he could remember.
"Izaak," said Frankie. They shook hands across the glass-topped counter, two guys in their mid-fifties who had a New York history together.
"You know I'm not in the importing business anymore," said Izaak, remembering the last time he'd seen Frankie, nearly ten years before -- before nine-eleven, at any rate, before Pop-pop had started going blind and Izaak had taken over the jewelry business full-time. "Look at what's been going on lately. Those Arabs in Lebanon are crazy and my people aren't much better. Except, most of them got the hell out when they could, so I guess they're smarter." He smiled.
"I know," said Frankie. He'd gotten out of dealing in Lebanese products himself about the same time. "I ain't here for the import business. You've got a green stone, set in a ring with diamonds around it. I need to buy it for a girl I just met."
"A girl at your age, Frankie?" Izaak grinned. Frankie had always had an eye for the ladies and he'd always been able to be kidded about it.
Frankie laughed. "At our age, you mean. How's Helen?"
"She's fine, the kids are fine, the grandkids are fine and Pop-pop is," he waggled his hand, "okay, down in the rest home in Florida. He says he has a new girl, too, so maybe it's okay if you have one, I guess."
They both laughed. They looked enough alike to be cousins themselves. Dark men with symmetrical if heavy features, wide mouths, deep-set brown eyes, large noses. Izaak's thinning hair was covered with a yarmulke while Frankie still had a full head of black curls shot with silver. Neither had stopped growing in high school and Izaak now topped Frankie by maybe half an inch, a leaner man with a hint of middle-aged paunch compared with Frankie's square shoulders and flat stomach.
Izaak didn't ask about Frankie's family. Sylvia La Nez and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Cicely, had been killed by a wrong way driver in Boston fifteen years before while scouting out colleges for the girl. Frankie had never remarried.
Izaak pulled his glasses off his forehead and settled them in front of his eyes. "Where's this ring you're talking about, when did you see it? When the heck did you come in here last?" asked Izaak looking through his cases twinkling with showy merchandise. "Some time when I wasn't here?"
Frankie didn't look. "It's not here, it's in the back."
Izaak's eyes widened. "You don't mean the Donna Cahill piece I just bought at the estate sale, do you?"
Frankie shrugged. "An emerald set in a lady's gold ring with maybe a dozen smaller diamonds around it," he said. "That it?"
"It's not an emerald," said Izaak automatically. "A green beryl but not an emerald, the green is different. But it's a nice stone." Personally, Izaak considered a beryl every bit as good a gemstone as true emerald. He understood the chemical difference, green beryls had iron impurities while emeralds had chromium or vanadium depending on if they came from Africa or South America. Some green beryls had a brownish tint or were so dark as to be almost black, or so light as to look like a peridot. Not this particular green beryl which had a deep clear green with a golden tint. Izaak waggled his hand in a very New York gesture. "Same-same, but not the same," he said.
Disappointment flashed on Frankie's face but he said, "Let me see it. Maybe it's not the one."
"You heard about it?" asked Izaak turning to go in back. "Big Broadway star and all, Miss Cahill had a lot of nice pieces. A ruby pendant as big as your thumb. Diamond choker. Pearls. The ring is nice but it's ...." He didn't finish, looking in back behind the curtain for the case in which he'd put the newly bought jewelry.
Frankie glanced around. If this Cahill piece wasn't the ring, Izaak would have one or know of one like the ring Frankie saw in his mind. He wanted that particular ring for his girl.
"Ah ha!" said Izaak from behind the curtain. "She's a natural blonde, this girl?" he asked before reappearing.
"Yes," said Frankie, smiling. "Yes, she's a tall blonde with hazel green eyes."
Izaak smiled, holding out a small box. "Just like Miss Cahill, this is going to look great on her."
Frankie took the box and opened it to see the very ring he had come to Izaak's to find. "She's beautiful," he said. The diamonds caught fire and made the beryl glow as emeralds seldom do. A finer, purer stone than a true emerald the same size was ever likely to be, Miss Cahill's original jeweler had known just what he was doing when he set the big green beryl in gold surrounded with white fire.
"Beautiful," he repeated. "How much you want for it, you swindler?"
Izaak laughed. "I'll be honest with you, Frankie, I don't even know yet. I bought the whole lot for a package price and I haven't broken it down to set prices for the pieces, yet. You trust me, you wopster?" An old bit of private slang from grade school long ago, Italian gangster, wopster; Izaak had gotten in trouble for his mouth more than once back then.
"I trust you about as far as I could throw the Staten Island Ferry, you Jewish prick," said Frankie. "'Course I trust you. How much you think it's gonna be?"
Izaak made the wobbly hand gesture again. "Low end, fifteen, twenty. High end, a hundred grand." Izzak pushed his glasses up on his forehead again and his deepset eyes twinkled.
Frankie swore without heat in Sicilian. "Testa di minchia, uccione me."
Izaak hadn't grown up in Little Italy wearing earplugs. "Che cozzo, vaffunculo," he replied. He made the gesture, too.
They grinned at each other. Frankie closed the little case on the ring and put it in his pocket. "So bill me, momzer," he said, turning to leave.
"With pleasure, and mazel tov to you, too, meshuggener," said Izaak. His people were Sephardic Jews but living in New York, he'd learned a few Yiddish expressions, too, everybody does. "What's her name?"
Frankie almost paused but pushed his way out the door instead, not wanting to admit that he didn't know her name. Yet.
Love is a many splendored -- thing?
by Lainie Lee
I pushed a stay wisp of hair out of my face with a wrist to avoid removing my makeup with my soapy glove. Mom had put my long hair into a ponytail but some of it seemed to have escaped. She and I were doing the dishes after the lunch edition of Thanksgiving while Dad and Jim and my older brothers, Neal and Greg, watched television in the front room. Football I supposed, not that I cared but it sounded like football.
Tommi and Robin, the wives of Neal and Greg, watched the kids in the backyard -- Tommi has three and Robin two, none of them older than eight. They'd get their turn at doing dishes tonight while Mom and Aunt Beth watched the kids.
Jim and I would be leaving to drive back to Palos Verdes in a few hours. Well, Jim would drive back just as he'd driven up to Ventura; I've never had a driver's license. We had to leave in time to get to his parents' Thanksgiving Dinner by six but the holiday traffic on the 405 should be pretty good.
I washed while Mom dried and put things away -- she knew where she wanted things to go and I didn't. I wore plastic gloves to protect my inch-long acrylic nails but it had been some while since I'd done dishes; I felt a bit awkward so I took some extra care.
"Robin," Mom said.
I smiled at her. "What?"
"Don't your feet hurt, sugar?" Mom's soft Louisiana accent made it, "sugah."
I glanced down at my feet. "Not really, I wear heels all the time. I'm used to it." Actually, the five-inch sandals I had on seemed very comfortable, at least they weren't stilettos. I laughed. "If I don't wear shoes with some heel, I get a crick in my neck looking up at Jim."
Mom grinned. "He's a giant." She pronounced it, "jahnt." She glanced toward the door to the living room. "Whatever possessed you to marry a man more'n a foot taller than you?"
"Luck?" I suggested.
She laughed and shook her head. "I wonder that y'all haven't had kids 'cause things don't fit right. I mean...." She trailed off, looking confused.
My turn to laugh, Mom's capacity for denial sometimes amazes me. "Believe me, things fit fine." I didn't want to tell her we'd decided not to adopt kids because of Jim's age, he'd be sixty before any kids we got as babies could start school. Adoption would be the only way we got one but we didn't really want kids anyway.
Besides, Jim had three kids by his first marriage, the oldest at eighteen only five years younger than me -- we'd be seeing them tonight at the Murcer house. With luck, Monica would have already left them for their holiday with their grandparents. Sam, Joanie and Melissa liked me well enough. I wasn't their mom and I didn't pretend to be. They called me Robin and they called their father Daddy Jim or just Dad.
Ever since an incident with a glass of raspberry sherbert, I'd tried to avoid the necessity of being in the same room with Monica or her new husband so I had no idea how the kids addressed them. I suppose I could have cared less, but I wasn't sure how.
I heard Jim making getting-ready-to-leave-noises and looked toward the wide door to the living room. I turned my head to look, my long diamond pendant earrings brushing my bare shoulders. There he stood, his back mostly to the kitchen as he watched "one more play" at the insistence of my dad and brothers. He's not literally two foot taller than me, more like fifteen inches. He comes from a tall family, one of his uncles was a college all-star basketball player almost twenty years ago. My family is more normal height, I'm not sure why I'm short; mom says it may be that I was a preemie and "pyunsy" all my growing up.
Whatever the reason, I'm small and Jim is extra-large and I like it that way. He glanced at me just as I looked at him and I caught his wink. A flash of heat went through me. Yes, after almost six years of being together he still affects me that way. I giggled, on purpose; Jim likes my giggle.
Something must have happened on the screen, though, because Jim wandered back out toward the football. I sighed, a little disappointed.
"I can finish this, sugah," Mom offered. "Go drag him away from the teevee if you really want to get going."
"Oh, no!" I said. "I couldn't do that, Jim will come tell me when he's ready to go." I smiled at her but she wasn't having any of that.
"And you do whatever he wants, don't you?" she said.
I didn't answer. If it wasn't obvious, then Mom was just in denial again. We were down to the pots and pans and I dunked a corn muffin tin under the suds and scrubbed it out.
"Just like dropping out of high school to run away with him when he left his wife. Just like getting that boob job he wanted. Bitty thing like you with double-d tits! Everybody knows they ain't real! Besides the other -- thing!"
I smiled at her, heaping coals on her head, like in the Bible. Besides, they're double-g, for ginormous!
"And the way you dress! Heels, and long hair, and them plastic tits practically hanging out! Skirts so short, they hardly count as a wide belt -- and you've got that corset thing on again, haven't you?"
I nodded, still smiling. Jim has me wear my corsets almost all the time now. I can't remember for sure the last time I was without one for more than a half hour or so. It's not so much for making my waist slender anymore, I'm down to nineteen inches, but Jim likes the posture I can maintain while wearing my stays. Since the trip to Brazil and my implants back there, I'm all butt and boobs and blonde hair. Jim and I both like it that way.
Mom snorted. She doesn't understand that I adore the way Jim treats me. I belong to him, I'm his precious darling and I most definitely like it that way. I tried to make peace with Mom, though, for the sake of Thanksgiving.
I felt him come into the room before I heard him. It's almost like gravity. I left the heaviest pans in the suds, they needed to soak anyway and I could hardly lift them. I started turning toward him, smiling.
"I'm ready to go, babydoll," Jim rumbled.
I held up my hands and he plucked my rubber gloves off, discarding them on the counter. I turned a bit so he could pull the scrunchie Mom loaned me out of my hair. Giggling, I shook my platinum hair down to where it curled around my Brazilian butt. Jim laughed.
I put my arms up and Jim picked me up to settle me on his arm where I could lean over his shoulder and lick his ear. "We're going to go, Mama Gottenow," he said. This time, I could feel his voice rumbling in his chest.
"You treat that girl like some kind of toy!" Mom protested.
Jim laughed. "Yup, my favorite plaything." He looked at me. "You don't mind do you, dollie?"
I shook my head, letting my earrings tinkle in my ears.
"We got to get on the road to make it to my folks place, time to go," said Jim.
I waved bye to Mom and then to the life I'd left behind me. Good riddance. I belonged to Jim now and that's the way I wanted it.
But Mom was wrong about --the other thing-- I never had bothered to get that operation.
Stan Lee wrote, "With great power, comes great responsibility."
Lainie Lee wrote, "I may be in the service of a higher power...."Spells'R'Us
A Higher Power
by Lainie Lee
A continuing series of stories based on characters and situations created by Bill Hart
What do you do with a character who can do anything? Siegel and Schuster's Superman has been with us for more than 65 years, Bill Hart's wizard may yet be around that long. Because you don't tell stories about the supremely powerful, but stories about how that power interacts with other lives.
The wizard knew just what Aaron was seeking--and there's more than one kind of key.
by Lainie Lee
I do not own the SRU universe, I am just borrowing it. The Spell-R-Us store and wizard were created by Bill Hart.
SRU: The Spare Key
by Lainie Lee
Aaron felt beat, he'd just made it to the mall before closing. What a day at work! One errand to run and he could go home. He needed to get a new key made for his front door, his wife had lost hers again; he had given her the spare and now he wanted to replace it.
Frazzled by his responsibilities as lead engineer on the new Seek Missile team, Aaron turned into the curious little shop without even noticing that it wasn't the vacuum cleaner store where he usually got keys made.
The little bell on the door rang but the shop seemed deserted. Aaron looked around blindly for the rather fat shop owner or his equally fat wife or even fatter daughter. "Hello," he called. They certainly have been adding some odd stock for a vacuum cleaner and locksmith shop, he thought.
A little music box caught his eye. On the top of a lacquered white oval casket, stood a little porcelain ballerina, a child ballerina by the proportions of the figurine. One arm on top of her head, the other on her hip; one leg lifted and angled against the other calf; toes pointed; a look of pre-adolescent concentration on her painted bisque face; the ballerina seemed suddenly to Aaron to represent all that was fine and good about trying to do something well, even if you are doomed to failure.
He sniffed. Something in his eye, he told himself. Reluctantly, he turned from the lovely little music box and looked around again for the proprietor or one of his corpulent clan. This place is positively filled with -- junk, he thought, unable to think of another word for the clutter. Is that a wooden Indian by the back wall? A violet painted velocipede, half an harmonium, a full set of phylacteries, a sarcophagus in the shape of a suppliant Saluki? More than half of the stuff he could neither name nor discern a purpose for.
"Hello?" he tried again.
"May I help you?"
He turned to find the source of the voice, an old man who was certainly dressed appropriately for the new decor and stock. The wizard's robe, for that is what it must be, might even be part of the stock; it certainly looked old enough to be an antique. The wizard, if he could be called that since he dressed the part, reached out and lifted the little music box that Aaron had been admiring.
"I need, I need a key made," Aaron stumbled over the words. He watched fascinated as the old man wound the little clockwork on the back of the music box. Aaron saw now that the box was also a jewelry case, a small one to be sure, perhaps for a child. The little lid lifted just on one end of the oval, for the ballerina stood on the other end.
"A key?" The old man lifted a gray brow as he put the music box back on the shelf then lifted the lid and propped it open with a tiny hinged rod inside the compartment, provided, surely, for just such a purpose. With the lid open, the box began to play a tune and the ballerina began to practice her twirls.
The tune seemed familiar and Aaron frowned, trying to remember where he had
heard it before.
"It's 'The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies' you know," said the old man.
Aaron smiled, yes, it was. The movement of the little ballerina even had a jig to it, a pause to fit the syncopated spin of the delightful little holiday tune. "How, how much is the box?" he asked, suddenly, impulsively. He didn't even have a daughter and his wife was, well, she wasn't into fond sentiment.
"Two dollars," said the old man as if it were just the right price, no more no less.
"Two, two dollars?" Aaron couldn't believe it. "I expected to pay more than that for the spare key I came in here for you to make."
"You'll find the key you're looking for inside the music box," said the old man.
Startled, Aaron stepped closer to look. There were indeed, two keys inside the little compartment for jewelry. One was the key for winding the music box of course. He had seen the old man insert it into the square little hole on the back side of the lacquered oval container and wind the works with quick movements of those aged hands. But the other key, the other key was identical to the one he had been holding in his own hand since he entered the shop.
He held the two keys up, comparing. Absolutely identical. He shook his head, smiling. "You must be a magician."
"No," said the old man sternly. "I'm a wizard."
"There, um, there's a difference?"
"Oh, yes."
"Um, I do want the -- music box." Aaron reached back over a shelf strewn with gewgaws and doodads to retrieve his treasure. The music stopped when he lowered the rod and closed the half-oval lid.
"Two dollars."
"For the box? You can't be serious?"
The wizard shrugged. "When necessary. That box has wanted to go home with you ever since you came into the mall."
Aaron smiled at the whimsy, still convinced he would have to pay the old man well for such a beautiful little toy. He touched a finger to the ballerina head, such a porcelain figurine alone might go for hundreds of dollars in some of the shops in this mall. She was so perfect, so lifelike, so utterly convinced that she can do it right this time. He sighed. "I can write you a check..." he began.
The old man shook his head. "Did you ever make a thing, a thing with a purpose? A device designed to seek its own destiny? That box was made with just such an owner as yourself in mind."
Aaron started. The old man seemed for a moment to be describing the Seek Missiles that Aaron had been working on for fourteen months now. There weren't that many defense contracts being given out these days; his company had been lucky to get part of the programming contract for the top secret Seek Missile Project. Seek Missile technology was so highly classified that the Pentagon had only told the president about the project just last week, or so the rumor went.
Seek Missiles were like cruise missiles but they found their own targets. Just tell them what you wanted, an air base destroyed, or a chemical factory demolished or whatever and point them in the right general direction. They would find the nearest target meeting their parameters and deliver a payload. Maybe even an atomic one.
At least, in theory. The programming of an AI powerful enough to manage such a task had been keeping him up nights, keeping him away from home weekends, leaving him mentally and physically exhausted. He had begun to believe that a functional Seek Missile was actually beyond the capability of the current state of engineering art. But he couldn't tell anyone that; his bosses didn't want to hear it, the Pentagon didn't want to hear it and he sure couldn't talk about it with this old man. The classification of Seek Missiles being two levels higher than just top secret, he and the old man would both go to jail if he even mentioned the name of the project out loud.
The oddly dressed old man wrapped the music box in brown paper and twine and refused to take more than two dollars. Aaron left the little shop, still mystified, never to return. He didn't look back. He wouldn't have seen the store vanish in a flash of light to be replaced by the original vacuum cleaner store cum locksmith with its complement of corpulent clerks, even if he had looked. The wizard waited until Aaron was actually in the parking lot.
Aaron's wife, Roberta didn't think much of the music box. It didn't look that expensive and when he said he had paid only two dollars for it she almost dumped it into the trash can right then and there. Aaron wouldn't let her.
"I don't like it," she told him. "It is actually ugly." The expression on the face of the porcelain figurine particularly perturbed her. The child looked to be in pain, or anticipating some sort of pain.
"I, well, I didn't buy it for you, dear."
"Then who did you buy it for? We don't have a little girl, we don't have any children at all." She was using her lecturing voice, the one she had honed on six years of third graders before they were married.
"I bought it because I wanted it," was all Aaron could think to say. He opened the little half-oval lid and the box began to play "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies" again.
"I bought it because I wanted it. I think it's, uh, cute." He blushed.
"Well, if it is going to make that out of tune racket every time someone touches it, you can keep it on your nightstand. I don't want to see it, or hear it. Did you get the spare key?"
"Uh, yes." He handed her the piece of shiny brass.
"I'll put it where it belongs," she said. Roberta always wanted things just so, neat almost to a fault. She kept an immaculate house and his dinner was always ready for him whenever he got home, no matter how late. He knew he was lucky to have married her for she was also a stunning woman, almost as tall as he with braided blond hair and a figure she prided herself on keeping trim and youthful.
She dressed well on his generous salary and he admired the way she looked in her periwinkle print dress as she stooped in the little pool of light spilling out the kitchen door to lift the fake rock and hide the spare key inside. He wanted to want her, but he was just so tired, so drained by the impossible project at work.
It was so unlike her to have lost her own key. He didn't question her about it because he was half afraid that she hadn't lost it but instead had given it to her lover. A lover she had been forced into the arms of by his failure to fulfill her needs. He didn't know she had taken a lover, but he feared that if he could not recover his ability to function as a husband ought, she surely would. And who could blame her?
She smiled at him as she came back inside and relocked the back door. "You look bushed, honey. Why don't you go on to bed? I'll finish cleaning up the dishes and join you soon." She pushed at his shoulder until he struggled to his feet.
He smiled tiredly, picked up his junk store treasure, paused for a brief, long-married kiss and trudged off to their bedroom. Maybe things would have been different if they had ever had children. But either he couldn't or she couldn't and they had never asked the doctors whose fault was it anyway.
He never told Roberta but sometimes, he envied her. She didn't have his worries or job stress. She had quit work when they got married, quit teaching school in anticipation of raising children. But all she had to do was housework and her little charity projects, like helping out with the orphans who stayed as foster children with the family of their Episcopalian minister.
She was good with children, if sterner than he would have had the heart to be. Sometimes they talked about taking in an orphan, too, but they had never done it. Perhaps because they were both orphans and had spent time in foster homes themselves, not always pleasant ones, either.
He dressed for bed, gray and blue striped pajamas for the nights of late fall. He sat his treasure on the nightstand, on his side of the bed. The works had run down and he fished the little key out of the compartment and turned the lacquered box around so he could insert the key into the square hole. Carefully, he wound the music box, half afraid that the mainspring on the little antique would break and deprive him of half his pleasure in his unexpected acquisition.
He lifted the little hinged rod and propped the half-oval lid open so the tinny music would continue to play. It wasn't out of tune, he told himself as he watched the little porcelain ballerina jig and spin. He fell asleep to the sound of "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies" played on miniature chimes. Maybe his last thought before the darkness swallowed him was that tomorrow he might possibly be able to do something else so wonderfully right as buying the music box.
The works had run down again when Roberta finally came to bed.
During the night, the magic that had sought out the Seek Missile engineer began to work. Aaron's limbs became thinner, the trunk of his body shrunk and his manhood withered completely away. The rest of his hair fell out and his beard and his body hair too. The hair disappeared in the transformation as Aaron's pajamas shrank and changed color to fit his new form. New hair sprouted, too, but only on his head; that fine, silken blond hair that only children have. Down between his legs, a groove formed and opened into a channel into the inside of his body where other changes were taking place.
The room changed also, Aaron's clothes in the closet shrank and changed to fit his new body. The ripples of transformation spread out, altering records here and there. Aaron's engineering career disappeared, his education, his marriage to Roberta. Some of these things changed to other documents that supported his new identity. Memories changed to match records.
Aaron's company had never taken the Seek Missile contract for lack of the right talented engineer to manage it. No other company could take the contract either and so the Pentagon had canceled the Seek Missile Project. The President never did hear about it.
Perhaps somewhere a wizard smiled, knowing that his music box had delivered its payload.
When the alarm went off, the little girl yawned and stretched and opened her clear blue eyes. She so loved sleeping with Mummy Roberta, even though she knew that her privileges would end someday when her foster mother found a husband. But then they could adopt her and she would have real parents again and maybe a little brother or sister.
Roberta reached across the bed and grabbed all of her foster daughter's little tummy in her hand. "How's my sleepy child this morning," she asked, squeezing a bit to tickle the little girl into protesting laughter.
"I'm wide awake!" Erin squealed, delighted to be the object of Roberta's casual affection. She pushed helplessly at the adult hand with her six year old muscles until finally her foster mother relented.
"Okay!" Roberta said, laughing. "Now quick, what day is today?"
"It's Tuesday, Mummy," said little Erin. Her face was flushed and she still couldn't stop grinning.
"That's right, and why do we get up early on Tuesdays and Thursdays?"
"Ballet practice!" Erin giggled, she loved this game of being asked questions she knew the answers to so well.
"Okay!" And Roberta loved the game, too. Roberta paid for the ballet lessons out of her own pocket; she spent a lot more on the little girl than the state gave her for taking in an orphan. She loved children, she loved Erin, she loved having a little girl to take care of, to be firm and loving with, to be an adult for. She promised herself she would never give up teaching; that way when Erin and any children of her own she might someday have were grown, she would still have children to lead and care for.
"So, you go make breakfast for us, Mummy," said Erin. "And I'll make the bed." One of Erin's chores was to make the bed. Sometimes Roberta had to make it again but Erin got better at it all the time. It made Erin feel proud to help Mummy around the house; cleaning and cooking, too.
"Alright, honey. Don't leave any crocodiles in the bed covers today."
Erin giggled again. Crocodiles were lengthwise folds in the sheets that made long skinny lumps under the bed spread. They were called alligators if they ran sideways across the bed. Erin hadn't left any giant aquatic lizards in the bed covers for months now.
Mother and daughter set to their tasks. Roberta got dressed quickly and eggs were frying in the kitchen while Erin struggled with the last of the bedclothes, doubly smoothing each sheet to prevent crocodiles.
Roberta's voice came down the hall. "Better get dressed, honey. Breakfast is almost ready. And I still have to braid your hair."
"Okay, Mummy." Quickly Erin stripped off her pink pajamas, all the way down to her Little Mermaid Underoos. Then she paused. The music box had caught her eye. She reached inside the little compartment and removed the key. The mainspring of the music works was almost too strong for her tiny hands but she managed to wind it enough to set the little painted bisque ballerina to twirling and jigging while "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies" played out its starts and stops and syncopations.
Erin screwed up her face in unconscious imitation of the expression on the face of the porcelain figurine; the face Mummy Roberta made fun of, calling it "trying to pass a pumpkin."
In the chill fall morning, dressed only in her decorative panties, little Erin jumped and jigged and twirled. She felt happy and looked forward to ballet practice, because today was the day she knew she was going to do everything right.
Copyright 1998, 1999, 2002 by Elaine Blankenship. All rights reserved.
Andrew was afraid of the dark....
by Lainie Lee
I do not own the SRU universe, I am just borrowing it. The Spell-R-Us store and wizard were created by Bill Hart.
"The light in my bathroom is burned out," he said. He didn't quite whine.
Theodora gritted her teeth and said, "Then change it. You know where we keep the spare bulbs." She didn't need this aggravation, not after the Planning Commission meeting had broken up in shouting and name-calling and her irascible boss had almost fired her for failing to have the right paperwork for the meeting. How was she to know the PC was not going to follow their agenda but skip ahead to consider the merits of the new shopping mall.
She liked the old mall, anyway; it had lots of nice quirky shops, not like the malls in the bigger cities nearby. And it was close-by, just down the street from the city offices. She realized that she wasn't listening to her son's complaint.
"You're not listening," he almost whined.
That voice made her wish that he was still small enough to give a swat on the behind but of course she couldn't reach him through the phone anyway. "Yes I am," she lied.
"Well, it isn't the big light in the ceiling, it's the nightlight. The one by the sink, under the mirror, next to the light switch. Y'know, it plugs into the wall and it has that little blue glow. It burned out last night. I need a new one." He tended to carefully over-explain things.
"You are nineteen, Drew. You are in college. You don't need a nightlight." Why am I using such short sentences? Drew was nineteen, and a History major but, well in some ways he had never grown up. Like the nightlight.
"Yes, I do. I can't see in the dark, you know. And...." He didn't say it, but truth was, Andrew was afraid of the dark. Still. He had never outgrown a childish fear of the terrors of the night. Theodora sighed. Andrew had other problems too but she would rather not think about them just now.
"Then go get a nightlight. They sell them down at the corner market, that Quickie-Mart thing, you know."
"I looked. They want three fifty for the one I want. And I don't have it, you didn't leave me any money today." He didn't quite accuse her of neglect. "Can you stop and pick one up on your way? Actually, I saw in the paper that they are selling the same exact kind at Lamps-R-Us in the mall near you for less than a dollar."
The mall. Hmm. "Well, okay." She relented. It wasn't Drew's fault that he still had a fear of the dark. Perhaps it was hers. But it wasn't her fault that he spent all the money she gave him on video games and junk food was it? So she had to be tight with the purse strings. All they had to live on was her salary, Drew's father had been killed by an intruder twelve years ago while she and the boy slept in the next room.
No wonder the kid was afraid of the dark.
"Ok, baby. I'll stop on my way home and get a nightlight."
"Don't call me 'baby'," protested Drew.
"Well," sometimes you act like one she didn't say. "Okay, but you are my baby." Theodora smiled, a bit ruefully.
"Mom!" Andrew never quite whined on the phone.
How had she let him turn into such a disagreeable young man? Nineteen, taking history at a junior college, never having worked except a summer at a fast food stand, and of course, the thing she wouldn't think about; Theodora frowned at the phone as she and Drew said goodbye and hung up.
* * *
When the car turned in at the mall parking lot she had almost forgotten why. A nightlight? She was making a trip to the mall for a nightlight? But she parked and went in because she had said that she would. Lamps-R-Us? Was there such a store in the mall?
She thought she saw the name on the mall directory and hurried to that end of the echoing marble corridor but when she got there the shop was small, cramped and the sign did not say, Lamps-R-Us.
It said Spells-R-Us! What a ridiculous name, probably a New Age gift shop or something. She decided she would go on in and ask the store clerk for directions to the right store.
It seemed deserted at first. Well, empty of people. But full of -- odd things. A candelabra with hooves. Salt and pepper shakers shaped like Warren G. Harding. If that wasn't a ducking stool in the corner why in the world did she think that it was?
The oddest thing was the coatrack or whatever covered in some disreputable old shawl or blanket that suddenly turned around, grew a beard on a wrinkled face and asked, "May I help you?"
Theodora didn't quite yelp. "W-who are you?" she managed to stammer.
The bony old man who wasn't really a coatrack quirked a bushy eyebrow, "The proprietor of this establishment, the wizard in residence." He smiled, his teeth curiously white and gleaming in his ancient face.
"Oh." Theodora muttered. Theatre major, probably, she said to herself. "Oh, well, I'm just looking for...." She didn't get to finish.
"A nightlight?" said the wizard before she could ask for directions for the shop she really wanted.
"Uh, no? I mean, how did you know? I...."
"You must have been talking to yourself and I heard you," said the wizard. "That is certainly likelier than my being able to read minds, isn't it?" His eyes gleamed brightly, were they blue, or gray or green or...? "Hazel," he supplied, "at least, today."
Theodora almost didn't jump in surprise. "No! A nightlight? Well, of course, you don't have anything like that here, do you? No, I didn't think so, I'll just be going..."
"You're afraid of me suddenly aren't you? Fear is a terrible thing, one of the terrible things that lives in the dark, isn't it?" The old man was bent and gnarled but even so, taller than she by several inches.
Why can't I leave? Theodora wanted to ask. Why am I standing here nodding to this madman? Her hands clenched and unclenched but her feet did not move.
"Because you need a nightlight to chase away the fear," said the wizard. "Fear isn't the most terrible thing that lives in the dark, though." He studied her face, not unsympathetically, but perhaps a bit dispassionately. "Guilt lives in the dark, too."
Theodora's heart was a cold stone in her chest. Her breath came in one ragged indrawn whoop and she tried to speak.
"Did you say your child's name is Drew?" asked the Wizard with a quirk of a smile.
Had she? She didn't think so but....
The old man went on. "The one that is so afraid of the dark. The one who was afraid of the dark on a night twelve years ago, so afraid that you left your bed beside your husband and went to sleep with the child?" He didn't let her speak but nodded to himself in answer to his own questions.
"And why did you leave? Because your husband wouldn't let the child come in and join the two of you in your bed. 'The kid is seven. He's got to learn to sleep alone. You're trying to turn him into a sissy.' Is that what he said?" Theodora's neck hairs stood up, the wizard had done a perfect job of imitating Allen's voice, a voice she hadn't heard in twelve years. And he'd gotten the words right, too.
The wizard leaned close and unconscious of her action, Theodora leaned toward him. "The boy also heard your husband," the old man whispered.
She nodded. She had known that, little Drew had been crying even before the burglar had broken into the house and killed her husband. She felt her throat closing up again, the way it had on that night, the way it did whenever she thought of that night.
"Stay calm," said the wizard, calmly. "It's not fear that closes your throat, you know. It's guilt. Guilt is the other monster that lives in dark places, guilt that you are alive and Allen is dead." The wizard said nothing for most of a minute and Theodora tried desperately not to think at all. "You even feel guilty that your son is alive when your husband is dead and buried."
Tears rolled down Theodora's cheek. What sort of place was this? What sort of man knew so much about her? What was he going to do to her? Was he the devil? An angel?
"No," said the wizard. "Though I may be an agent of a higher power," his eyes didn't almost twinkle. "But then, would I know it if I were?" The wizard casually began opening drawers in a large chest and examining the contents. One drawer after another, not taking anything out, just looking in and closing it again.
The noises she made might have been laughter or sobs, she wasn't sure which.
"How long have you known about Drew wearing your clothes when you're out of the house? Your frillies and such?" asked the wizard, not looking up from his mysterious inventory.
"Years," she whispered.
"Has he ever left the house wearing them?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"Do you think he knows that you know?" The wizard removed something from a drawer, something small and wriggling.
Theodora closed her eyes, she didn't want to see what he did with it. "Drew knows that I know," she said, she was sure of that.
"But you never talk about it--the guilty little secret you both share. Why, you've bought things just for him and left them where he'd find them so he would stop stretching your stuff out of shape. And you never saw those things again, did you? Because he knew why you bought them."
"Why are you doing this?" Theodora asked suddenly with some heat. "Why? And, and how do you know this stuff? Drew's just a boy with a problem, and I should get him some counseling and...." she trailed off looking at what the wizard held out in his gnarled old hand.
"What is it?" she asked.
"It's the nightlight you needed," said the old man. "Seventy-nine cents." He screwed up his face like this last part hurt him to say it. "Plus tax. Eighty-seven cents total."
She gave the old man a dollar and left the pennies he offered in change lying on the counter, took her purchase and hurried out of the mall. She almost looked back to see if the odd little storefront had disappeared behind her as soon as she got out of it.
The wizard watched her go, satisfied that he had found just the item to solve her problem. He had known he had it in the shop, but of course he could have made one if he hadn't. A nightlight was such a simple thing. He scooped the thirteen copper pieces into the bowl labeled, "Need a penny, take a penny. Have a penny, leave a penny."
He smiled, yes, that particular nightlight is just exactly what she needed.
* * *
"It's pink!" Drew was definitely whining this time.
"I'm sorry, I didn't notice," Theodora sighed tiredly. "If you knew what I went through to get that nightlight...."
"It has little fairies and pink bunnies around a pink lightbulb and...and it's a nightlight for a little girl, Mom!" Drew's voice practically broke with emotion, dread at the thought of putting this object in his bathroom.
"It's a nightlight, Drew. Just a nightlight, use it or don't." She moved tiredly to the kitchen to see what he might have made for dinner. Cheeseburger mac, again.
"But it's pink! I distinctly said I wanted a blue one," Drew whined.
She glared at him from the door of the kitchen.
* * *
Later, they ate quietly. Theodora had made a bit of salad and they both drank Caffeine-Free Diet Cokes with the cheeseburger mac. In the living room the TV made quiet noises about some crisis in some far away part of the globe, a worry for presidents and wizards perhaps. They had their own troubles.
The nightlight lay on the table and they both ignored it for awhile, too.
Theodora considered the purchase of the nightlight as an episode of some old black-and-white TV show with spooky music. She tried to ignore the implications. The nightlight must be magic, but did she really believe in magic? After dealing with a wizard how could she not? She smiled a bit, conscious of her circular thinking.
Drew picked up the nightlight and turned it around a few times to look at it closely. "Why in the world did you buy a little girl's nightlight for me?" he asked, then blushed..
She shook her head. "You weren't there. Believe me, I'd have bought a cement mixer if I could have got out of that shop sooner."
"Huh? Mom. Uh, is this supposed to be some sort of, uh, message?" Asking the question obviously cost him something but she really didn't know what he meant.
"Message?" she repeated. Maybe she just didn't want to admit knowing.
"Never mind," he muttered, blushing again.
He cleaned up the kitchen while his mother watched TV and tried to unwind. Drew knew how hard she worked so he tried to do most of the housework, cooking, cleaning, even the laundry of her intimate things. Theodora let him, even though it made her feel guilty.
Guilty. Why did that concept make her remember the nightlight again? Hadn't the wizard said something about guilt being one of the terrors of the darkness and that was why she needed a nightlight?
Why had he sold her a little girl's nightlight for her teenage son's bathroom? He'd known all about it, everything, Allen's death twelve years ago. Drew's -- hobby?
If the old man really was a wizard then the nightlight had to be magical. If Drew put the nightlight up in his bathroom, what would happen to him? Would it turn him into a little girl? Did she want to turn her son into a little girl?
Drew came in from the kitchen and sat on the floor beside her chair. He rested his head on the padded arm and snaked his hand up to where she could grasp it. They watched a rerun of "Touched by an Angel" on the Family Channel.
Drew would be happier if he were a girl, decided Theodora. She remembered that even before --before Allen's murder-- Drew had been a quiet child who would rather talk with her about anything than play roughhouse with the neighborhood boys. He had seemed fascinated when she put on makeup and had once asked her, "Why are some grown-ups mommies and some daddies? Why are some kids boys and some girls?"
She hadn't known the answer then and now that she did know, she knew it wasn't really an answer to the question Drew had been wanting to ask. She looked over at him, slouching against her chair, his head just beside her elbow. "Are you going to use the nightlight?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I guess. I-I really do need one, Mom."
If he used it, would the magic in it somehow chase away the guilt he felt, they both felt for having survived that terrible night? How powerful was it? Could it bring Allen back to life after twelve years of being dead?
The insurance had paid the mortgage on the house but they had moved within the year to this smaller home and put the difference between sale and purchase into the bank. Living there would have been too painful for both of them.
Allen had been the only man she had ever loved. She hadn't even considered remarrying, hadn't dated and had given up several friendships because her friends kept trying to set her up with eligible men. Could a little pink nightlight wash away guilt hiding that deep in the crevices of her soul? Maybe if she had remarried Drew would have had a role model and wouldn't be trying on her underwear when he thought no one would know.
Maybe the nightlight would turn back time, turn Drew into a little girl that Allen could allow to sleep with them because she was afraid of the dark and it's all right for little girls to be afraid. And then they would have all been in the same bed and the burglar might have killed all of them. At least, they wouldn't feel guilty anymore.
Or would they? Maybe Allen's ghost felt guilty, too. Guilty for having sent his only child, on the last night he would ever see his father, to sleep alone with the night terrors; night terrors that proved to be, oh, too real. If they were all dead would they still feel guilty?
If magic was real, why not ghosts?
Drew stood up, "I'm gonna bed, Mom. Got an eighter in the morning." He stood so tall now, at nineteen taller than his father had been. She put her arms up and he bent to her face and they kissed each other on the cheek, a kiss goodnight. They did this frequently because they really did love one another even though they were often unhappy together.
She had kissed Allen goodnight and goodbye twelve years ago when she went to the child's room to sleep. Was she kissing her son goodbye?
"Mom?" Drew asked. "Let go?"
She took her arms from around his neck and let him stand back up. He would make a very tall girl or would the nightlight change that, too?
Drew smiled at her and then trudged down the short hall to his room. She couldn't see if he had taken the nightlight with him. She didn't ask.
If he plugged the pretty little thing into the outlet in his bathroom would the pink light change him immediately? Would his cock and balls melt and smooth out and form a crease and a pussy with an opening up inside of him where ovaries and a womb would form? Would he shrink and his skin soften, his hips widen and soft mounds of breasts swell on his chest? Would his voice get softer and lighter and sweeter? How long would her hair be and would the light change her wardrobe too, make his jeans into dresses and his sneaks into high heels? If the nightlight turned Drew into a girl, she might be very pretty and she would want nice things to wear.
Or would the light wait until Drew was asleep to work it's magic? Would he just wake up as a young woman and never know that he had been a boy who felt guilty for letting his father die?
Should I warn him? Theodora thought. Should I tell him what might happen if he uses that nightlight? Would he believe me? No.
Will I feel guilty for turning my son into my daughter if that is what happens?
She fell asleep in the chair in the living room still puzzling out what she ought to do if magic were real, if the past could be changed, if a little pink nightlight could wash away guilt and horror and change the past and make everything all right.
* * *
"Mom?" Drew's voice woke her. "Mom, you really ought to get up and go to bed, you'll have a stiff neck sleeping in the chair."
Theodora stretched. "What time is it?"
"Past midnight by a bunch."
She could see Drew smiling in the light from the windows. She closed her eyes again for a moment.
"Mom?"
"I'm awake. I had the strangest dream." Theodora shook her head to try to clear the cobwebs, something about a nightlight?
"I don't understand it but I don't think it was a dream, exactly, Mom." Drew stood there in her pink lace shortie nightgown, her long, champagne-colored hair looking deeper than mahogany in the darkness as it fell around her delicate heart-shaped face.
"You're beautiful," whispered Theodora.
Drew giggled. "Mom! Larry tells me that all the time, don't you start! It's embarrassing. I'm a model, being pretty is just a job."
Theodora grinned, Larry was Drew's boyfriend and they might be getting married in a few months. "You're not pretty, you're beautiful, there is a difference."
"Okay, but that's just genes and good nutrition and who's fault is it anyway?" Drew grinned back.
<>< />"Mine, I guess," admitted Theodora. "I married your father and he was the handsomest man I ever knew."
Drew nodded solemnly. "Daddy was a hunk all right. But...."
Theodora shook her head again. "It wasn't a dream, was it? You were a boy and we both felt very guilty about your father...."
Drew nodded and her blue eyes misted up a bit. "It's kinda like looking down two different tunnels that come from the same place. I get cross-eyed just thinking about it. And Daddy, well, this time we were all in the same bed." She wiped her eyes.
"And your father fought the burglar and the gun went off...." Theodora trailed off. "Just like the other time."
"And he died this time, too," Drew sniffed. "How can we both believe that we lived this life before, but different? It's like -- sideways reincarnation. Are we both crazy, Mom?"
Theodora stood up and embraced her daughter. "No, baby. I don't think we are, not now. Maybe a little bit before. Hey, you're still taller than me." They hugged and sniffled on each other's shoulders for a bit.
"But I'm not taller than Daddy, anymore," said Drew. "I wouldn't want to be, Larry likes me just this tall, he told me so." They both giggled a bit, Larry liked everything about Drew just the way it was; her face, her hair, her breasts, her voice, her sex.
"You two love each other a lot, don't you?" asked Theodora, smoothing Drew's longest strands away from their faces.
Drew thought about that a moment and decided her mother meant quality not frequency and it was safe to answer. "Uh huh. And you are so going to meet Larry's uncle Aaron, I'll be moving out soon and I don't want you to be lonely.... Daddy wouldn't want you to be lonely."
They were both quiet for a while.
"Daddy loved us very much, didn't he?"
"Yes. He died saving our lives, you know." Drew nodded and Theodora continued. "He always loved us both, even when you were a boy..." she stumbled on the thought for a moment. "He loved you so much," she finished simply.
"I know," said Drew. "But it's just easier to see that this time, it's like in a different light or something." They walked down the short hall to the bedrooms. "I still feel sad about Daddy, but he kissed me just before I went to sleep and then there was the noise, the gunshot.... Do you think we will forget those other lives? The unhappy ones where we felt so guilty about everything? Will we think they were just dreams in the morning?" Drew asked her mother as they paused at the bedroom doors.
"I don't know, baby." Theodora said. "But can I sleep in here with you the rest of the night? Sometimes I'm a little afraid of the dark, too. And you've got a nightlight."
Drew smiled and followed her mother into the dark bedroom dimly lit by a pink glow from the pretty little girl's nightlight.
Carl could not believe his luck. The fabled Spells-R-Us store, right in his own mall!
SRU: The Mousepad
by Lainie Lee
I do not own the SRU universe, I am just borrowing it. The Spell-R-Us store and wizard were created by Bill Hart.
SRU: The Mousepad
by Lainie Lee
Carl could not believe his luck. The fabled Spells-R-Us store, right in his own mall! He'd read about this shop on Fictionmania, his favorite website. Not that he had ever told anyone in his real world life about his fondness for gender-bending fiction of the sort found on Fictionmania. Stories where unsuspecting young men got turned into ravishingly beautiful young women who promptly went out and got themselves ravished to a fare-thee-well.
No, in real life, Carl was much too sexually repressed to admit anything of the sort. But on the internet, late at night, after reading and re-reading a few of his favorite Ficitonmania stories, well, Carl virtually became another person. And some of his most favorite stories, the ones that got him really hot, had been placed in the universe created by Bill Hart where an old wizard ran a strange little curio shop that moved from mall to mall.
But Spells-R-Us? Here? In real life? He must be dreaming, the store couldn't really exist could it? Magic wasn't real, was it? He took off his glasses and cleaned them and put them back on and looked again. The store was still there, the cheap mannequin in the French Maid costume dripping costume jewelry and the little music boxes and pinking shears and manicure sets scattered around her feet. And those high heels she was wearing! They must be eight inches high!
Carl felt a hard-on growing in his jeans. Did he dare go in? He looked away from the store and looked back, simultaneously afraid that the store would vanish and that it would not. He vibrated with his anxiety. If he went in the wizard would sell him something that would change his life, probably forever, in ways he felt sure he could almost predict. The hard-on was getting quite painful as he turned away from the store again.
He walked away, irresolute, indecisive, uncommitted.
I should be committed, he thought, as he sat in the food court later, drinking a double latte. I must be crazy to think that Spell-R-Us could possibly be real. The hard-on had faded slowly. Damn rebel dick, though Carl. What, you want to commit suicide, if I go in there I can probably say good bye to you forever. But the hard-on was definitely coming back.
Carl sighed, there was just no reasoning with a prick. I'll go back and the store will be gone, he told himself. He stood and began a meandering path to where he had seen the Spell-R-Us store. Or it will be a perfectly ordinary real store with a perfectly ordinary reason to call itself Spell-R- Us. New Age gifts or kinky sex toys or.... Medallions, potions, magic figurines, costumes that won't come off....
His dick now hard as a rock, Carl walked painfully back to where he expected, no, dreaded, to find the magic shop. Could anyone in the mall tell that he had a hard-on? Well, people don't normally go around examining the crotches of middle-aged nerds to see if they are getting erections because of frustrated transgender fantasies coming to life. But Carl wasn't sure, that last lady had certainly given him an odd look. He blushed inwardly and squirmed and invisible squirm.
Turning again, h headed out of the mall without looking to see if the special shop was really in the little corner where he had seen it earlier. He would go home and forget about this. It wasn't like he was one of those transsexual people who planned to have their cocks cut off with a knife or even a real tranvestite. Sure, he had tried on his mother's bra when he was a teenager but he had read that most boys try that at least once.
No, he hadn't worn women's clothes in years, not since a frat party in college for one of those silly drag dance routines. For one thing, he looked ridiculous dressed as a girl. He stood 6'4" with broad, rounded shoulders and a pot gut from a life in front of a keyboard eating Fritos and swilling Pepsi. His hair had receded and he had taken to wearing a little moustache and scraggly goatee, as much to avoid shaving as to reaffirm his masculinity. If he gained six more pounds he would weigh 300.
He paused with his hands on the push bar of the exit door. The hard-on was gone, his inventory of his physical shortcomings had quelled that. He was 37, not quite a virgin after a ludicrous encounter with a Tijuana prostitute back in the eighties but he hadn't even had a _date_ in almost four years.
Not much of a man, he told himself. I'm a virtual transsexual, a digital transvestite. He frequently signed on to chat lines as Carla, or Carlotta or Charlotte, some feminine version of his name. And there he had hot, passionate, cybersex with anyone who could spare fifteen minutes of electronic lust.
An accomplished one-handed typist, sometimes he did this five or six times a night, his stamina for this sort of sex surprising him. He went through a lot of Kleenex but he came a good healthy wad, at least the first time, and still climaxed time after time. Sometimes, he swore, more than one climax per encounter. Like a real woman.
He had tried having cybersex as a male but it was dull, disappointing, even painful when his wanking hand produced only friction and not frissons. He hated having to fake an orgasm on the keyboard for his partner. And it worried him that the woman he was digitally shagging might be another man. That made him feel -- queer. It didn't bother him to take it in the virtual ass from someone claiming to be a man, or someone claiming to be a woman wielding a two-foot long dildo, as long as he, Carl, was claiming to be a woman.
Well, it bothered him, but not while he was doing it. And so, he lived, online, as a cybernympho, a virtual bimbo an electronic Fanny Hill.
How had he got back in to the mall? And there was the storefront, with it's tackily arcane lettering spelling out the logo he loved. Spells-R-Us.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"Well, it took you damn long enough," snarled the wizard. "I've a good mind to send you home without selling you anything, Carl."
Of course the wizard knew his name. "Uh, sorry, sorry, I'm sort of scared and well, am I dreaming?"
"No, you're a goddamned character in a short story on Fictionmania, and you know as well as I do that you aren't dreaming. Here," he handed Carl a paper bag.
"Uh, what's this?"
"It's what you came here for, now beat it. I have to get the shop packed up. I'm re-opening in downtown Reno tomorrow night." The wizard began packing bottles labeled Miracle-Titty-Gro into a carton on the floor.
Carl clutched the bag, his fingers spasming, his voice broken, his face sweaty and cold. "W-what do I owe you?" he managed to squeak.
"Oh, right." The wizard frowned. "I have to charge something for the magic to work, don't I? Ah, give me whatever you've got in your left pants pocket and we'll call it even."
Carl checked. "All I've got is a Sugar-Free Orange Spice Ricola Throat Lozenge." He held it out.
The wizard coughed experimentally and clutched at his throat. "Gimme," he said. He popped the medicated candy into his mouth without unwrapping it then deftly spit out the paper. "Beat it, now, don't make me tell you again," he warned.
Carl left quickly, it is very dangerous to anger wizards.
"Oh, shit, oh, fuck, oh, piss, oh, hell," he sang a little mantra all the way home. "Oh, cocksucker, motherfucker, goddammit to hell!" What had he done? What was going to happen to him? What had the wizard sold him and what would it do to him? His prick was stiff again, the hard-on demanding at least part-time attention and Carl drove mostly one-handed, ran two stop signs and barely missed the fence post as he turned into the drive of his apartment building.
The front of his pants had a wet spot as he staggered upstairs. Inside his cluttered studio flat, he finally opened the paper bag and took out his magical treasure. It was a foamed rubber rectangle with rounded corners about nine by ten inches. One side was black, like a wetsuit, the other had a picture of a cartoony, big-busted blonde wearing next to nothing. Big dangly earrings, long artificial nails, a corset and impossibly high heels. She had one hand in her mouth and one at her shaved crotch and the look in her eyes said she was just about to come from the job she was doing on herself.
Carl had often imagined looking just like such an over-endowed, over-sexed bimbo as he played his cyberfuck games. Now, his loins ached as he contemplated the object he held. "A mousepad?" he whispered. Would this object somehow transform him into the nympho of his virtual self?
His groin ached. How was he suppose to use this? Well, duh! It was a mousepad, its use was obvious. He plunked himself down at the computer screen and, without thinking it through, without pausing to consider what might or might not happen, he replaced his old Bullwinkle mouse pad with the new one.
Then he stopped, shivering, shaking as a climactic, orgasmic, shudder racked his body and caused him to spurt a good two-ouncer into his jeans. He was vaguely surprised to discover himself to still be -- himself -- after that one. Turning into a girl ought to feel that good, oughtn't it?
What the hell was he doing!? He pushed himself away from the desk and almost turned the chair upside down getting away from the computer. Gasping, he staggered to his little kitchenette and contemplated his face in the mirror on the back of the door to the tiny bathroom. Fat, nearly forty, bearded, bespectacled, Carl. Still himself.
"Shit!"
But what did he want? Did he really want to be turned into a bimbo, a slut, a whore, a nymphomaniac who only thought of where she was going to get her next cock and into which orifice? Well?
Manfully his dick tried to get hard again but it was too soon for the delicate bio-hydraulics of his erectile tissue, too soon after that last soul-satisfying, self-shattering, orgasmic, cataclysm-in-his- pants.
This is supposed to be a short story, he reminded himself. I've got to get on with it, make up my mind, decide what I really want, figure out what I'm going to do.
He drank a glass of water.
If I turn the computer on and put a mouse on that pad it is going to turn me into the woman in the picture. Maybe forever. Sometimes the wizard gave things that could be used more than once, things where the magic wore off after a bit but could be reactivated. Actually, a mousepad would seem to be ideal for such a reusable magic talisman.
Carl calmed down a bit. That would be pretty cool. He could use the mousepad when he went on line as Carlotta, the uninhibited party girl who would fuck anything; one of her cyber-lovers had been a pony! Carl blushed remembering that one. Must have been hell, typing with hooves.
No, wait.
He was getting reality and virtuality confused but maybe he could use the mousepad to actually turn himself into a girl when he was pretending to be one online. Yeah, that would be great.
If it would be so great, why wasn't he getting a hard-on again? Not even trying to, the little wad of flesh at his groin was completely uninterested.
But let him think for just a moment, just a flash of consideration, a fleck of reflection on the idea of being _stuck_ as Carlotta, _trapped_ in the body of a bimbo, _living_ the _rest_ of his --her-- life as a slut -- agh! Now, he'd done it, hard as a rock again, painfully hard after two other recent explosions.
"You suicidal little sonofabitch," he accused his penis.
The wizard had given him a piece of magic that would permanently transform him into the girl he wanted to be; he knew it, deep down where his id lurked and yammered in the darkness, where desires are palpable and reason is a higher function yet to be evolved; he knew it. Use that mousepad and he could say goodbye to his dick and balls. He'd have a sweet, wet little cunny, hungering to be filled by any cock that came along.
"Why am I such a perverted little wretch?" he whimpered. Because he wanted it, he wanted the magic to take him and stretch him and compress him and mold him, mind and body.
He caressed his chest where little fat pockets imitated womanly breasts. Sometimes he played with them, with his typing hand, while his wanking hand brought himself to climax and he murmured _to_ Carlotta, and _as_ Carlotta, loved and lover, all complete in one self.
He imagined it. Imagined the rush as the magic took hold, shrinking him. His muscles would melt away, not that he was any great mass of masculine power, but Carlotta was girlishly weak, helpless to resist anyone if they wanted to force her into an act not of her choosing. Not that she would balk at much of anything. His waist would shrink, and shrink even more as the magic transformed his clothing into Carlotta's corset, squeezing him, compressing him. How narrow was her waist? Nineteen inches, seventeen, fifteen, for God's sake?
How had he got back over here staring at the cartoon on the goddamned mousepad again? And those jugs! Breasts, hooters, mammaries, cantaloupes, what the heck is bigger than cantaloupes? Watermelons? He imagined the blossoming of such massive milk factories on his masculine chest. Were his nipples getting hard now, fer chrissake? He moaned.
I'm sitting here at the computer! I'm out of control! His hands trembling, he flicked the switch on his power strip and the gateway to virtual space revved up, going through its digital checklist. In a moment, the mouse would begin to be operational.
How will I make a living, he wondered. Carlotta is damn near illiterate, she sure as shit won't be able to write code for a living. He remembered telling someone online that "she" had repeated the fifth grade so many times they put a brass plaque on "her" chair.
"I'm thirsty!" he shouted spontaneously and leapt to his feet, heading for the kitchenette's tiny refrigerator and one of his cans of Pepsi-Cola. Everything is going to be different, he said sipping his cola and imagining the magic changes rippling down his body.
The urethra at the tip of his dong would move down as the tube of flesh shrank and curved. His balls would pull themselves up into his abdominal cavity and migrate up near his kidneys to become ovaries. He had done a lot of reading on the physiology of sex. His scrotum would split open and a vagina deepen into a womb, while his penis continued to shrink until it was just a nub, a clit at the top of his little slitch. Twitch. Twat. Cunt, cunny, pussy, monkey, _girl-thing_.
He breathed in, inhaling a bubble of carbonation, then, bursting into a coughing fit. He wondered if he could figure out a way to pound himself on the back as he staggered around, coughing and choking before finally getting control of himself. Boy, now there is a hell of a way to get rid of a hard-on, he thought, wiping his eyes.
The monocular eye of his computer accused him of neglect from across the room. Cyclops and Noman, all-in-one. A vulva in chips clothing, God, I can't take the punishment! He snorted, clearing the last of the sputum and phlegm out of his breathing passages.
"Waddamigonnadooo!" He wanted to howl, but kept it muted for fear of what the neighbors would think. Carlotta, his cyberself was a slut, a bimbo, a nymphomaniac. She wouldn't even be able to make a living as a whore for giving it away!
"I'm gonna die! I'm gonna have a heart-attack and fucking _die_ before I'll sit in that damned chair!" What man really wants his fantasy handed to him on a platter? "He sold me a magic transformation for a _coughdrop_!? On a mousepad! It can't be real! Can't be!" He realized he was crying, sobbing, weeping -- like a woman.
Staggering he made his way to his bed, right beside the computer desk but psychologically millions of miles away. Collapsing, muttering, moaning, shivering, exhausted, defeated, depressed and soon, asleep.
Hours later, he woke to see the still accusing screen of his personal daemon, the screensaver had blinked off and the sudden flood of light filled the room. What had made the screensaver exit? Confused, at first he couldn't fathom it at all, lost still in a edges of a dream in which he had been run through the halls of his old high school, naked and pneumaticlly female and pursued by the entire football team, once the mortal enemies of all nerd-dom.
But the glowing screen brought it all back to him, the mall, the shop, the wizard, the purcahse. Terrified, he watched the cursor move across the busy-ness of his desktop background, cavorting Bunnies around the Playboy mansion Pool. Was the mousepad moving the mouse on its own?
The cursor moved toward his internet phone icon and he heard the click of the mouse. He almost jumped out of his skin but nothing really happened until, moments later, the face of the SRU wizard formed in the herky-jerky movement of a low bandwidth webcam. "What the hell are you doing lying in bed, Carl? It's almost midnight!" The wizard grimaced and pointed at the hourglass on his wrist in six frames per second it looked really kind of funny and Carl smiled in spite of himself.
"Midnight?" he murmured the question.
"The witching hour! You have to be using the mousepad at midnight for it to take effect. Now get your ass up and get into this chair."
"You mean it wouldn't have done anything if I had used it this afternoon? How come you never tell anyone everything about the things you sell?" But he began to move, sitting up and rubbing his face and eyes.
The wizard snorted. "Ever hear of dramatic tension? Get over here."
"How come you can see me? I don't have a webcam." Carl stood and staggered to the computer desk. Taking his seat he suddenly recoiled from the mousepad as if he had seen a snake.
"Like I need a webcam. You are such a wuss!" the wizard accused. "Put your hand on the mouse!"
"No!" Carl whimpered. "I'm afraid!"
"You don't want to become the woman of your cyber-dreams?" asked the wizard, sweetly.
Max Headroom, that was who the wizard was moving like, not like a real webcam but like that cartoony character from the old British sci-fi show. Carl's thoughts veered, anything but think about what he was actually doing, putting his hand on the mouse. "Well, I do, I mean, No! No, I don't! At least, not forever!" He tried to pull his hand back but he couldn't move it.
"Who said anything about forever?" The wizard smiled.
"Nobody," admitted Carl. "But there are 128 stories about you on Fictionmania, I think I know your sense of humor."
"131 now, counting this one. Drat," complained the wizard. "I shouldn't have made that deal with Mindy."
"W-what deal?" asked Carl. He tried to keep his hand very still and glanced at the clock nervously, it wasn't accurate, actually showing the time as a minute or two after midnight.
"I promised Mindy to sell something to every one of my Fictionmania fans if she would display the resulting stories. But it isn't working out well, you're my first and you aren't co-operating," the old man glared from the computer screen.
"Why me? Why did you pick me first!" Carl tried to keep the whine out of his voice.
"Your name is Carl Aals? Right?" said the wizard, patiently.
"Uh, oh, yeah." He nodded, getting it.
"So, if you don't get with the program, nobody else gets their transformation either, 'cause I ain't got time to talk everyone into doing what they really want to do in the first place."
"C-can I make a deal with you?" asked Carl. Involuntarily, his hand twitched.
"Hah! You moved the mouse! You're using the mousepad! I've got you!" the wizard cried in triumph.
"No-o-o!" Carl almost fainted. "N-no-o! Wait! Wait, wait, wait, please woncha!?"
The wizard seemed to have a cramp in his moustache or maybe it was just the jerkiness of the Real Player video. "What kind of deal? Huh? I already made this mousepad just for you. Doesn't the broad-ass bimbo look just like what you imagined her looking?"
"Yes. B-but, I'll starve to death if you turn me into HER, she hasn't got enough brains to come in from the cold!"
"But that's what you want," the wizard pointed out. "Deep down, right where it matters, right where it hooks into the pleasure center of your brain. A beautiful, brainless nympho is exactly what you _really_ want to be."
Carl cursed under his breath. His traitorous dick was getting hard again. "A-a person can want something and know that it isn't a good thing to have. I mean, fantasies are supposed to be fantasies, aren't they? If, if you make them real they aren't fantasies anymore and, and," he realized that his logic was breaking down. "Oh, shit."
He closed his eyes and trembled. "Just don't make me too stupid to live!"
The wizard chuckled. "So you are saying that what you really get off on is pretending to be a brainless nymphomaniac bimbo with a body like a wet dream?"
"Uh," Carl dithered. His mouse hand was also his wanking hand and the need to jerk off was so strong that it paralyzed him since he couldn't let go of the mouse or lift it from the pad. Stealthily, he dropped his typing hand into his lap. This would almost be a first.
"I asked you a question," the wizard reminded him.
"Uh," Carl stammered again. "Yeah, I guess so, I like my fantasy being a fantasy, I mean, I would really like to experience it b-but permanently? The reason it excites me so much is _because_ it is so scary." His hand stroked the tumescence in his trousers, his pants were already stiff there from the last ejaculations he hadn't cleaned up after.
"Click!" said the wizard. Or did he? Had the sound come from the mouse?
A surge seemed to come from the hand resting on the mousepad, a magical energy that traveled faster than thought or desire. Certainly faster than Carl's typing hand trying to stand in for his wanking hand.
The fingers changed first, long nails growing out as the bones became more slender and the skin softer. The nails first blushed and then turned bright red as they reached the queenly length of two inches past the ends of the fingers.
Traveling up the arm, the magic melted the rough curly hair into smooth flesh, the muscle and bone changing at the same time from manly, if nerdy, meatiness to delicate feminine grace. Funny elbow that bent the wrong way, smooth cylindrical upper arm with hardly a hint of a bicep, soft shoulder that was still squarer than it had been; it all happened in an instant but Carl still had plenty of time to watch.
The magic jumped to his feet he realized, his now tiny, arched feet in their impossible platform sandals with the itsy-bitsy, perfect little ruby-tipped toes. Then his smooth hairless ankles, shins, rounded calves, dimpled knees, led up to long shapely thighs with the only real muscle his new body would ever have; enough muscle to clasp a lover tightly between them. He felt his ass pillow under him, soft and round; it would jiggle with every step he would take, "like Jello on springs."
The wizard watched with interest from the computer screen as the magic leapt now to Carl's head. The thinning brown thatch blossomed into goldenrod curls, falling down behind him, past the roundness of his ass, almost reaching the floor. Smooth forehead, arched brows, shell-like ears dangling hoops heavy enough to be real gold and at least six inches across. Tip-tilted nose below cornflower blue eyes hiding behind sable lashes and periwinkle lids. A big delicious mouth with plump ruby lips opened and Carl murmured, "Fuck!" his voice breaking upward in the middle of the word as the racing magic turned his thick Guntherish neck into a delicate Hepburnian column, his nerdy croak into a bimbo trill.
Down his chest and his other arm the magic still flowed, breast swelling, larger and larger, did any alphabet have enough letters to confine them in cups? Bigger and bigger, bigger than his new head, heavy enough to sway his back if it weren't for the rigidity of the corset forming around his tiny waist and the support of the built-in demi-cups. Carl felt his back arch and stiffen and the muscles of his trunk wither away, he'd never even be able to sit up now without his pretty prison.
He gasped as the corset constricted his diaphragm, forcing him to breathe by expanding the already impressive proportions of his very mammalian chest. His waist shrank to the tiniest measure possible for function, a mere thirteen inches with a three-inch verticality like the stem of a cocktail glass. Carl cringed to hear the gasp come out as a giggle, the magic had touched his mind already and he knew that his intellect would shrink at least as much as his waist. "Feelth funny," he said in his new, sugary, soprano lisp.
Down the trunk past the straitened waist and the swelling of the loins, and down the typing-cum- wanking arm toward the last tower, the citadel of his masculinity, the magic cataract of transformation poured and flowed. His naked hips widening to match his thighs and rounded ass, Carl tried one last time to grasp the passion root, the stiff pink carrot that had given him so much pleasure in his life.
But it shrank away from his fingers with their long daggerish, blood-red nails, leaving only one last drop of male love-fluid on the fingertips of a hand that would never type again, not with those nails. The piss-hole slid down the shaft even as the shaft melted away, leaving only the nubbin of the clitty above the cleft left by the receding testes and the splitting of the ballsack. Inside other changes completed the transformation, the balls became egg-heavy ovaries and the new vagina opened onto the new babybed. It had never been Carl's fantasy to get pregnant but it was certainly possible now for Carlotta.
"I'm me!" she whispered.
"Cogent if circular," observed the wizard from the computer screen.
"Waddaya, 'thpeck, I'm not too bright, y'know," she dimpled at him and giggled then got distracted investigating the bit of Carl-cum still clinging to her fingers. "Ooo, tasty," she lisped around her finger.
The fluid seemed to electrify her, the nipples showing above the corset-cups erecting like rosy- brown sunflowers seeking Apollo loins. Her little twat swelled with blood and the miniature prick of her clitoris crinkled and twitched above a flood of girl-juices. "I am tho damn horny!" she said, sounding awed but pleased.
"Of course you are, dear," the wizard muttered. He seemed to be consulting a list just out of sight of the non-existent web cam.
Carlotta giggled as she worked one hand almost entirely into the cleft at the center of her being. "Um, ooo, um." With the other hand she teased her nipples, her lips and played with the hoops in her ears. "I need to cum, oh, I need to cum," she whimpered. "Oh, I'll never be able to cum enough!"
The wizard smiled slightly as he made a mark on a sheet of paper. "Having fun, Carl?"
"Uh huh," she gasped. Then, breaking character for just a moment, "Thanks, I guess. Oh! Oh! O- o-oh!" She shuddered, orgasming as she contemplated a lifetime of pretending, being forced by the magic to pretend to being a brainless, nymphomaniac, blonde while still retaining enough mind to keep herself safe and enough memory of being Carl to make it still sweeter. "I-I wasn't expecting an ending quite like this. "
"Oh, this isn't the end," said the old man. "One down, and maybe a million or so to go." He looked up, smiling at some wizardly thought. "Better not wait up for me, Steve."
The End?
Spells'R'Us: The wizard offers Simon a fresh start...
I don't own the SRU Universe, Bill Hart does, I'm just borrowing it.
Copyright 2002 by Elaine Blankenship.
Originally posted 2005 March 13
"Have you got a refill for this ink pen?"
"Just a minute, Simon." said the old man. "I'll be right there."
Simon stood at the counter a moment more then looked around at the odd little shop. The strange items on the tables seemed to want to speak to him of odd places and stranger origins. He shrugged, fantasy was not on the agenda today, he needed a refill for his pen so he could fill out employment applications.
Somewhere behind the back counter the old man who owned this little shop puttered with some task and wasted time, Simon's time. Simon suppressed his irritation, he didn't want a meaningless confrontation over the old man's inattention to business.
He tapped nervously on the counter top with the empty barrel of his eighty dollar Cross pen. Forcing himself to stop, he examined the pen to make sure he hadn't damaged it. It was the only pen he had and he needed it.
"I know I've got one somewhere," the old man called from the back part of the store.
"A refill?" asked Simon, surprised. He hadn't thought the fellow had heard his original request.
"Yes." The strangely dressed old man slapped the little package down on the counter. "Seventy-nine cents," he said. Then, after a moment, "Uh, what state is this?"
"State?" Simon stared at the package blankly, so little for a refill for the gold-barrel pen he had gotten for his thirteenth birthday almost fifteen years ago?
"Yes, state! Don't tell me I'm in Canada, damn it, I know I'm not because I had to pay five dollars for a Molson with lunch! Now, what state are we in?" The old man petulantly grabbed the pen refill back.
"Hey! I need that!" Simon looked up, startled and more than a little annoyed but frightened a bit by the old man's action.
"Then tell me what state we're in!"
"Uh, California." This guy was weird, and now Simon wondered just why he had chosen to come into a shop called Spells'R'Us looking for a refill for his pen anyway. It hadn't looked like a stationery shop from the outside, and looked even less so from the inside.
"It's not," said the strange old man. "California, huh? Damn, highway robbery, I call it. That's six cents tax, you owe me 85 cents." He handed the little blister pack with the ink refill in it back to Simon.
"Not...what?" Simon took out one of his last dollar bills and handed it over, his qualms about buying such a cheap refill for his expensive pen forgotten in his confusion. He couldn't really afford a more expensive refill anyway.
"Not a stationery store." The wrinkled lips creased in a grin, "Nor a stationary one for that matter, but we always have what our customers need. Have a nice life, Simon." He dropped the change into the younger man's hand.
Confused, Simon backed away with his purchase and stammered a good bye. "Uh, have a nice -- day?" the California-ism sounded even more inane after the old man's strangeness.
Simon fled, not quite running and definitely not looking back over his shoulder.
Down in the food court, a bit more calm now, Simon bought an Orange Julius and a Relish Dog and sat down to eat lunch before filling out the applications he had collected during the morning. The dog and drink took the last of the cash in his wallet and even the fifteen cents change he had gotten from the strange shop, but it was comfort food and he didn't feel bad about spending it. He ate slowly, enjoying the tastes and dreading the work and embarrassment of filling out the applications.
Finished, he bussed his table then sat back down and took the paperwork from the folder he had been carrying. He ripped apart the blister pack and took out the dull gold-colored pen refill, more slender than the one the Cross had come with. "Cheap," he sighed. Opening the Cross he took out the old ink-barrel and tossed it then slipped the new refill inside. Nothing tingled or flashed or warned him in anyway.
The first blank on the application was his name. He could fill that out truthfully, at least, and so he did. "Simon K. Brent." What the? He stared at his name on the page.
The purple ink didn't change color to any sort of comforting black or blue.
"I, I can't turn in an application written in purple ink!" he said out loud. He retrieved the blister pack from the trash and scanned it indignantly. "Majik Brand Universal Ink Refill" it said. "Color of Ink: Loving Lavender."
He considered storming back to the little shop and confronting the strange old man who had mysteriously called him by name and hadn't seemed to know what state he was in. No, that sounded as bad an idea as any other he had had in the last few years. Confrontations made his knees tremble and his bladder feel weak anyway.
He debated internally borrowing a black or blue ink pen from someone to fill out one of the other applications, but the sand had all run out of him. How was he going to get a job now, anyway? All the forms had the same questions.
"Who was your last employer?" Pacific Federal Savings and Loan.
"Reason for leaving?" Fired for embezzlement. Sure, someone would hire him after reading that, written in purple ink, no less!
He bit his lip. Well, they hadn't pressed charges. He wouldn't go to jail but they had made him put his signature on a piece of paper admitting his crime. And he could always lie on his employment application. After all, he was an accused thief, why stick at lying?
The glare from the big window at the end of the food court made his eyes water. He wiped them with a napkin and a trembling hand and sighed. His lips curved around a sour smile, it wasn't an expression that suited him.
He sat back down at the table and stared at the application for a moment then went to work, filling out blanks with complete and total lies. Maybe no one would catch him out. Maybe he'd be able to get a job and put his past behind him.
The purple ink bugged him though. It seemed sort of girly. Like maybe he should be dotting his i's with little hearts and flowers.
Damn it.
He'd just done that very thing on the second application; he'd filled in the name blank with 'Simone' and drawn a little heart for the dot! He shivered a bit, he must be worse off than he thought, acting out even trivial impulses.
And misspelling his own name.... When he'd been younger, the kids at school had teased him by calling him Simone. He'd been small and weak and sort of pretty with full dark eyelashes and curly hair. It had especially hurt when the girls used the wrong name because he had thought that many of them were his friends.
He still had those physical traits, of course; the mop of curly black hair, the clear, pale skin that made his lips seem redder and fuller, the long dark lashes framing the bright blue eyes. At five foot seven and only 130 pounds, Simon was often mistaken for a teenager even though he had passed his 27th birthday a few months ago.
And in dim light, like in bars, he'd sometimes been mistaken for a girl. Which was one reason he stayed out of bars.
He sighed and started to crumple up the application but again, the futility of his situation sapped his will. What he needed was a brand new start in life.
A strange, mad, desperate idea began to form in his mind. He went back to filling out the applications, chuckling grimly. "It's just a joke," he told himself. "These applications are ruined with this purple ink anyway. What does it matter what I write in the blanks?"
The person Simon described on the applications was almost entirely fictitious. He got a little silly, even; he changed his birthday from May 3 to March 5 and made himself ten years younger. I'll be a Pisces instead of a Gemini, he mused. Pisces are more trustworthy, aren't they? He had no idea, really.
His birthplace he changed from Westminster, California to Westminster, England. He wasn't even sure that was a city. And with a little smiling flower instead of an X, he marked the box beside the F for sex. Female. He grinned nervously and folded the applications.
He sat for awhile and sipped the dregs of his orange drink, trying not to think at all. Why bother? Thinking wasn't going to get him out of the mess he found himself in.
A little dazed, he wandered back through the mall, dropping off the applications in the various in boxes and slots of the stores where he had picked them up. He wasn't sure why he did that, just completing the joke he thought. No one was going to look at an application filled out in purple ink, not seriously.
But now he had no money, no real hope of a job and not even bus fare for getting back to his cheerless apartment.
He'd have to call his mother and ask for another loan. And listen to another lecture about how he'd ruined his life. Maybe that was why, in filling out the fictitious applications he had listed his father's younger sister as his only parent, or rather the only parent of Simone K. Brent. "I think I would rather be Aunt Gloria's bastard daughter than listen to another lecture," he thought.
He decided to walk home to his apartment from the mall, what choice did he have? Even if he called his mother, he'd get an answering machine at this time of day. The self-pity felt like gumbo clinging to his feet and making every step seem to be up an endless hill.
He had to pass near the edge of the downtown area, going this way. Maybe he should have come downtown instead of taking a bus to the mall, he wouldn't have had to walk so far back. And maybe he could have found a real refill for his pen instead of a purple one from that weird store.
The police-station-city-hall-and-jail complex intimidated him and he went two blocks out of his way to avoid walking near it. I'm not a criminal, he told himself, I just made a mistake.
Then he stopped and stared. Right there, across the street, between Fernando's Bail Bonds and Klesowitz Pawnshop, there it was. The freaky little store from the mall.
Was it a damn chain of franchises? Spells-R-Us?
He stared for a bit longer then shook his head. Maybe he could go in and get a refund on the crappy refill he'd bought. The now used refill that he hadn't kept the blister pack from and had never even got a receipt. He snorted.
It would be smarter to go to the pawn shop and sell his worthless gold pen. The metal alone should bring thirty or forty dollars. Not that pawnshop, though, not the one next to the strange little store. There was another pawnshop in the next block. He started walking again.
A man dressed in a slightly rumpled business suit staggered out of a bar and looked at him. Good grief, thought Simon, it's not three p.m. and this guy is drunk.
"Heysa?" said the inebriated businessman. "Is it dark out yet?"
"No," said Simon. Now why did I bother answering him.
The drunk fell into step beside him, "Well, then, I guess I'm lucky, huh, yes indeed." He grinned a sloppy loose-lipped grin at Simon.
"I don't know you," Simon began. What did this guy want?
"Oh, that's okay," said the drunk solemnly. "I don't know you either, and I kinda prefer it that way."
Simon picked up his pace, but the drunk stayed with him, more than half a foot taller he had no trouble keeping up. Maybe I should guide him into a telephone pole, thought Simon.
"How much?" said the drunk suddenly, grabbing Simon by the upper arm.
"How...much?"
"Yeah, you know? How much do you need?"
"Do I need?" Simon struggled against the grip, an edge of panic in his voice.
"Yeah, what's your rate?"
Simon had a terrible feeling that he knew what the man meant now. With a gurgled shriek, stifled by stuffing his free hand in his mouth, he broke away from the man and stumbled backward. Horrified and ashamed though he had certainly done nothing wrong, he stared at his accoster and walked backward till he stopped up against a parked car.
"Don't be that way," said the man. "You need money don't you?" He stepped forward, reaching into his pocket to pull out a wad of bills. "I got money, you got what I need."
"No, no." Simon ran.
He heard what the man called him as he ran away; an accusation, an assumption and a form of address. His face burned and he yelped again as he crossed a street without a light, dodging through traffic.
"I'm not," he whimpered. But he didn't slow down until he went around the next corner. "I'm not that desperate," he told himself. "Not yet."
He stopped to get his breath and his bearings. Where had he run to?
Or had he run anywhere? There was that damned shop again.
Spells'R'Us.
But this was Abraham's Pawn and Music on one side and a laundromat on the other. And it faced Fifth Street, not Broadway. He looked around, dazed, disoriented. He certainly knew where he was, he'd grown up in this town, he could name all the streets and knew most of the businesses.
And before this morning, he'd never seen a store called Spells'R'Us, never heard of it, there couldn't be three such stores in his hometown. One in the mall, one downtown and one on a side street.
What. Kinda. Thing. Was. Happening. Here?
His brain started and stopped and stalled out completely. He just stood and stared at the sign for a long while. Finally, he shook off his paralysis and decided that not thinking, especially not thinking about a store that seemed to be following him was a good thought; but not thinking about that...what should he be thinking about?
Money. The drunk had been right in one thing, he did need money. A few dollars would give him enough to eat so that he didn't have to call his mother for cash, for at least a few more days.
He had a gold pen, with a crappy purple refill in it, but the barrel was real gold. And there stood a pawnshop. With a sign in the window that said, "We Buy Gold."
He crossed the street and went through the door.
"Hello, again, Simon," said the old man.
It almost looked like a pawnshop inside, with all manner of odd things; nameless stringed instruments and handmade silk kites decorated with pictures of pandas; bottles of unidentifiable oils and a stack of hats that might have been worn by Davy Crockett, Henry the Eighth, Shaka Zulu and Cleopatra; all manner of objects whose purposes he could not imagine and a stuffed dog as big as a pony lying on the floor next to the very familiar old man..
"I'm..." Simon began.
"Yes," said the old man. "You're back in my shop."
"How..." he tried to ask.
"You just walked through the door," said the old man. "I'm a wizard in answer to that next question."
"God," said Simon.
"A chance resemblance, I assure you," said the wizard.
The dog showed teeth in a grin and Simon realized that it was a real live wolf, not a stuffed animal at all, and that it probably weighed twice what he did. The grin was not reassuring in the least, being made from ivory teeth more than two inches long.
"If you squeak like that again," warned the old man, "you might be mistaken for a mouse."
Simon stood very still and made not a sound.
The wizard and the wolf looked at him contemplatively and speculatively, respectively. The wizard spoke first, though Simon felt sure that the wolf had just been about to say something. "Are you sure your aunt would want a teenage daughter?" asked the old man.
Simon tried to think. Aunt Gloria had once confided to him that she had had an abortion while in college, a decision she had felt was necessary at the time but still had bittersweet feelings of lost attached to it after all these years.
"All right," said the wizard. "You obviously get along with her if she told you that."
I did not say that aloud, Simon told himself.
"No, you didn't," agreed the wizard.
Simon made a noise, not a squeak, more of a moan.
"You wanted to sell the pen you had just bought a refill for?" said the wizard.
It wasn't exactly a non sequitur, somehow this whole thing was about that refill. Simon nodded cautiously.
"Lemme see it," said the wizard.
Simon handed the gold keepsake to the old man in the bathrobe.
The wizard unscrewed the barrel and removed the refill, "This is almost new," he said. "It could last you for years yet." He pocketed the gold pen and took out another more colorful object. A cheap plastic pen with a pink and purple barrel and a yellow cap shaped like a daisy. Opening this unlikely writing instrument, the wizard inserted the nearly new refill. "I'll trade you," said the wizard, holding out the assembled gewgaw.
Simon stared. There could hardly be a more girly pen on the planet. He didn't make a move to accept it and the wizard suddenly snatched it back.
"Maybe you can't afford it," he said.
Simon either shook his head yes or nodded it no.
"You didn't steal the money, did you?" said the wizard more kindly.
Simon gasped.
"Your drawer came up short and they bullied you into signing a confession, didn't they?"
"Yes," Simon croaked. "They said otherwise they would call the police and I would go to jail." His eyes filled up with tears and he didn't even care that the old man stood there and watched him cry. The wolf put its head down on its paws and looked away.
"They haven't come under my jurisdiction," said the wizard. "Not yet, anyway, I rather hope they do. Or he does. One particular vice president in that bank...had a thing for you, did you know that?"
Simon's ears tried to crawl together on top of his head to join his eyebrows. "No!"
The wizard grinned and shook his head. "And you, you're no damn good with money anyway, are you?"
"Uh."
"A bank was the last place you should have been working, you gave the two hundred dollars to one Mrs. Maria Luz Gongora, instead of a pair of tens."
"I did."
The wizard nodded, "She bought presents for her grandkids and pads for her bunions, then she lit a candle for you and confessed her sin to a priest. He told her to take the money back, but she couldn't, she didn't have it."
"How do you know..."
"Don't ask," warned the wizard. He held up the pretty purple pen, "I want more from you for this than just a stick of gold that someone gave you."
Simon stared. "What. What do you want?"
The old man put the pen in Simon's hand and wrapped both of their fingers around it. The wizard's hands were old and wrinkled but surprisingly soft, his grip was firm and he held Simon fast.
Staring directly into his eyes, the wizard told Simon, "I want you to go home, take this pen and go home to your apartment. You don't have the money to pay the rent and you'll be out on the street in another week, so I'm going to help you out."
The wizard's voice was not loud but it roared through Simon's mind. "You've got a yellow t-shirt and a grey pair of sweat pants and a pair of black shower thongs. Go home, take all of your clothes off, even your underwear and put those things on."
"What?" asked Simon feebly.
"Don't worry, you'll be able to remember these instructions. When you're dressed, gather up everything you own that's in that apartment. It will probably only fill two or three garbage bags. Take it all down to the Goodwill box on the corner. Everything except the t-shirt, the sweat pants, the shower flops and this pen, give the rest of it all away. Don't take anything else with you, lock the apartment with the key inside."
He let go of Simon's hands and stepped back. "You'll have your fresh start, Simon. If you want it badly enough."
Simon opened his mouth, but the wizard shook his head. "No more questions, follow instructions and the refill in that pen will last you a lifetime, a new lifetime." He didn't say it unkindly but firmly.
Simon turned, dazed. He looked for the door.
"Funny thing about lifetimes," said the wizard. "They're not like yardsticks, no one can know exactly how long one is until they've measured it end to end. A life is more like the ink in a ballpoint pen, sealed up, ready for use, finite but of unknown length.
"Even mine," he added sadly but whether sad because it would turn out to be too short or too long, he didn't say.
Simon staggered toward the door. The wizard's voice followed him. "That new refill should last you a good long time, use it and have fun with it. It's got purple ink, you know, just for the fun of it."
Opening the door of the shop, it struck Simon as bizarre that outside it was still afternoon, still summer, still his hometown.
"It's a genuine Majik Universal Replacement," said the wizard, smiling, as he closed the door.
How he made it home, Simon could not have described. The few blocks to his apartment seemed an uncrossable gulf when he looked back. He'd been in some other country, a strange land ruled by an old man in a dirty bathrobe.
He put the purple-red-and-yellow pen on his little kitchenette table then sat and stared at it a while.
A new start. "If I want it," he said out loud. Enough to give up everything.
He went to the bedroom and found the yellow t-shirt, and the grey sweat pants. He took off his clothes, even his underwear and put on the shirt, too small in the shoulders, and the pants, too loose in the seat. He found the shower flops in the bathroom and he put those on. They fit as well as such things ever did.
He found two garbage bags and moved around the apartment, gathering things that belonged to him. His clothes and shoes, a few books, some food from the cabinets, some bathroom things, it made a very meager pile. He'd lost a lot of his stuff when he'd had to move from his last apartment for non-payment of rent. The flops made slapping noises against his feet as he walked about.
He took his wallet from the pants he'd worn to the mall and looked through the contents. No money, some old receipts, his driver's license and social security card. An expired credit card, his student ID from college five years ago. A picture of his mom and dad, with his two older brothers behind them and he and his sister kneeling in front.
He cried for a while and then he dropped those things into one of the trashbags.
The pretty purple pen he clipped to the neck of the t-shirt then he took a last look around and added a few small things to the bags. They seemed very heavy as he carried them out to the stoop. He turned the lock so it would latch, then he threw the key into the fireplace and pulled the door closed behind him, locking himself out.
He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment then he picked up one bag and slung it over a shoulder and picked up the other bag, half carrying it, half dragging it in one hand, he set off toward the Goodwill store.
The instant he stepped off the stoop, he felt it begin happening. At first, his hair just itched a bit and then his face. He stopped to wipe his cheeks and chin and lips with the hem of the t-shirt and he wiped away most of a day's growth of beard, leaving his face smooth and soft.
He suddenly pulled the t-shirt down as he felt itching begin on his chest. "This can't be real," he murmured.
After a moment, nothing more seemed to happen so he picked up the bags and began his journey again. Across the parking lot of the apartment building and onto the street, he carried and dragged the bags full of his old life. "They're getting heavier," he complained.
His nose itched, then his ears, then his fingers.
He stopped at the sidewalk and ran a more delicate hand through his now shoulder length hair. His chest still itched but he did not scratch there, instead he rubbed his eyebrows and felt hairs that might have been plucked fall away.
"This can't be happening," he told himself. "I'm not turning into Aunt Gloria's daughter." How could something so impossible be the most likely explanation?
He struggled to shoulder one bag and drag the other a few more feet. The bags had gotten bigger as well as heavier. He felt a drawing, pinching sensation in his pants and remembered that he had no underwear on. "That's not it," he said, pausing again to rest. "My balls are shrinking away."
He looked down the street. The Goodwill boxes weren't visible but he knew where they were, more than a block away. "I'm not going to make it." He felt like crying. If he couldn't carry the bags two blocks would he be stuck halfway between lifetimes?
He picked the bags up again and struggled on. His throat spasmed and he knew that his voice had most likely gone up an octave. The t-shirt that had been tight in the shoulders was now loose there but getting tight across the chest. "I'm growing boobs," he told himself in his new voice. "Breasts," he corrected himself with a bit of a grin. Guys called them boobs when the girls weren't around.
Do girls call them boobs or boobies when it's just girls? he wondered. "I'm probably going to find that out."
The sweat pants were tighter across his rounder ass, the flops looser on his smaller feet and he had just felt his dick pull up inside him when the car stopped at the curb. "I'm all sweaty," he thought.
Two guys got out of the car and smiled at him. "Where you going? That isn't trash is it?"
She shook her head. "Um, no? It's for Goodwill." She pointed down the street and realized that she could feel her boobies bounce when she moved like that. "Stuff that belonged to my--cousin," hardly a pause,"he's dead."
They frowned to be polite. "Sorry," said the nearer one. "We just thought you looked like you could use some help?"
She bit her lip on a giggle. This was funny. These guys thought she was a girl. Well, wasn't she? "Um, yeah, I guess I could? I mean, I could if..." I'm not sure? Do the rules allow me to have help? she wondered.
The two guys each took a bag and smiled down at her. They're huge, and I think I've shrunk some more, she decided.
"I'm Andy," said the moose with the crewcut, "that's my brother, Tony."
"'Lo," said the other moose.
They walked toward the Goodwill bins, and she walked between them, feeling tiny. Most of the remaining changes seemed to be internal, she decided as she felt things rearrange inside. I wonder what it's going to be like to have periods?
"What's your name?" asked Moose Number One.
Simone, I hate that name, she thought. What does the K, stand for now? "I'm Karen," she said.
"Do you live around here?" asked Moose Number Two.
"Not exactly, well, not close?" she said. Where do I live now? she wondered. Maybe I'll remember.
With the help of two beasts of burden, the trip to the charity boxes took hardly anytime at all.
As the bags fell into the bins, Karen felt the last of her old life topple into the abyss of never-was. Suddenly afraid, she grabbed the pen clipped to the collar of her yellow t-shirt and held it tightly. She closed her eyes and sighed in relief.
"You hadn't lost it," said Andy. "That's a cute pen."
She smiled remembering and repeating what the wizard had said, "It's got purple ink, just for fun."
The boys laughed and she giggled to hear them laugh.
"What are you doing tonight?" asked Tony.
She blinked. "Um, I'm seventeen, guys?" she said. Seventeen. Yes, I'm seventeen, she repeated to herself.
"When's your birthday?" Andy asked quickly.
She laughed again, "Not till March?"
"Six months," moaned Tony, "I'm dying."
"You guys are silly," she said. "And I'm all hot and...um, glowing?"
They grinned at her.
Uh oh, she blushed as she realized what she had said. They don't really care that I'm only seventeen and sweaty. She said aloud, "Have either of you got a phone I can borrow? I need to call my mom?"
With a show of reluctance, Andy handed her a phone. Do I know the number, she wondered? But her fingers were already tapping it out.
When Gloria answered she felt like babbling but restrained herself, "Mom? Can you come pick me up?"
"We can give you a ride," offered Tony.
"Where are you?" asked Mom. "I didn't even know you'd left the house!"
"Um, I took some stuff to Goodwill," she had the pen in her other hand again and she clicked the button in the middle of the yellow flower. "There's two guys here that want to give me a ride."
"I'll be right there," said Gloria. "Stay put."
"Yes, ma'am," she said to her mother. "I love you, Mom."
"I love you too, dear, but don't get in any car with boys you don't know."
"I won't." She disconnected and handed the phone back to Andy.
They talked about nothing much in great detail while Karen waited for her mom. Gloria drove up in a brown BMW and glared at the two young men as Karen got in.
Andy handed her something before she closed the door. "My number," he said. "You can call me on your birthday?"
She grinned and nodded.
Glory pulled away from the curb and tried to scowl at her daughter, "You could have been in big trouble there, young lady."
"Mom! They were nice, they helped me carry stuff."
"Well, just you don't get carried away. I swear you're going to make me old before I'm forty. You deserve a good scolding, you know?" said Gloria.
"You're not Aunt Beth, Mom, you're no good at scoldings."
"Maybe I should take lessons from her," said Gloria. "Except that then I'd have to listen to her scold me for letting you run wild."
They both giggled. "Oh, Mom, you know I'm too chicken to do anything really bad?"
"I know," agreed Gloria. "But I worry about whether you have good sense sometimes."
"Can I go to college next year, Mom?"
"See what I mean? What brought that up? Were those two college boys?"
Karen nodded.
"Well, we'll see."
"Okay."
"You need to bring your grades up," reminded Gloria as they drove through the downtown area.
Karen made a face. "Okay," she said. I did it once, I can do it again, she thought. Then she turned her head quickly, trying to catch a glimpse of a storefront she thought she had seen out of the corner of her eye.
"What?" asked Gloria.
"Nothing," said Karen. "Mom, don't get in an accident, okay?"
Gloria turned back to her driving. "I won't."
Karen smiled, thinking about things that never were and things that now might be someday. What will it be like to feel a man inside me, she wondered. Will I like it? What will it be like to be married, to be pregnant, to have kids to take care of?
She sighed happily, the future looked scary but with a potential for joy it had not had before she bought a refill for her favorite pen.
She took it from where she had clipped it again to her t-shirt. Do I have a diary, she wondered? Sure, I do, full of hearts and flowers and smiley faces drawn in purple ink, just for fun. She giggled.
Gloria smiled at her. "What's funny?"
Karen grinned, just then remembering something else, "I'm not wearing any panties."
"Karen!"
The end.
Hal needed something from the wizard, even though he didn't know exactly what it was...
SRU: A Higher Power -5- The Pardon
by Lainie Lee
The shabbily dressed man hurrying through the holiday shopping crowd slipped into the first door he came to. Hal David figured it must be a side corridor into service areas of the mall where he could hide for a bit. The little bells ringing took him by surprise, it was a shop?
He looked around, a weird, dimly lit little shop full of odd things. A very lifelike carved and painted leprechaun perched on a toadstool the size of a hassock. A painted fan bearing the image of a Chinese dragon adorned with a forked beard like a cossack. A brass demiurge carrying a basket full of haddock. A porcelain stallion standing in a miniature gilded paddock.
He shook his head in wonder, what the hell was a demiurge, anyway?
"It's a magical being, sort of an angel or a fairy or a djinn; but not quite any of those, more powerful and much to be feared, a maker of worlds," said a voice.
Hal looked up; an old man wearing a dingy bathrobe blinked at him owlishly from the end of the aisle. Hal didn't think he had spoken his question aloud but he must have; how else could the old man have answered him?
"Yes, you must have," agreed the wizard. "Otherwise, I'd have to be a mind reader, wouldn't I, Hal? Now, get out of here, we're not open yet, it's hardly half past the Cenozoic."
Puzzled by that remark, Hal glanced at an ornate clock showing the faces of the Oriental moon; it read a quarter 'til two. "I'm sorry, I didn't even know this was a shop," said Hal. He meant to ask how the old man knew his name but the fellow interrupted him.
"I just told you," the grumpiest old man said. "Now, again, get out. It's much too early for me to be working, I need my rest. I've got carpetlag from visiting my colleagues in Wonderland and Oz; Trellia can make you tired just listening to her twining her tales around her branches." He yawned, showing more and better teeth than could have been expected in the mouth of someone who looked older than the sort of oak planks that have been seasoned long enough to be hard as stone.
"I beg your pardon," began Hal, growing more and more confused. Had the old man said Australia? Had he said Wonderland? Had he said tales or tails? Had he really said Cenozoic? Had Hal known the bronze figurine was a demiurge when he didn't even know what a demiurge was?
"You beg my pardon, do you?" scowled the wizard. "What have you done? And it's brass, bronze would be redder more than goldener. Golden. More golden. Now you've got me doing it."
"Doing what?" asked Hal cautiously.
"Thinking like a mortal idiot," growled the wizard. "So, you want my pardon? But am I the one you committed a crime against?"
Hal's heart froze. This old man scared him, he knew too much and....
"And I really can read minds," warned the wizard. "So don't even try anything, I'll turn you into a snuffbox shaped like a toad and fill you full of flies faster than you can say remacadamize."
Hal stepped back. The wizard stepped forward; sparks like miniature lightning glanced from his eyes.
"I never done nothing to you!" Hal said, taking another step toward the door. Even the mall security cops seemed less threatening than this crazy old man with eyebrows like thunderheads.
"Meaning you've done everything!" stormed the wizard advancing like a cold front with scattered flurries of ire. "You just hadn't got around to it, had you? Casing the joint? If you came in here to nibble on my cheese, you will regret it."
"Cheese!?" Hal's eyes could not get wider and if his bowels got any looser he would need to change pants. "No, no, I'm a dip not a booster!" What was he saying?
"You're a pickpocket not a shoplifter? I should turn you into a rooster, or something worse. That's not a pocket you're carrying under your arm, it's a purse. Is that your swag?"
Hal nodded nervously, a tic so violent he almost couldn't talk. "I tried the dip but I had to snatch the bag; Miss Mark twigged and I thought she'd roust the heat. I just ran in here 'cause I didn't want to get nicked."
The old man put a finger beside his nose and smiled. "Looking for Easy Street is asking to get tricked. You're a thief and a rascal, your crimes are many and various. You asked for my pardon. Why should I give it to one so nefarious?"
"I'm not a bad guy," said Hal in a weak voice. "It's just sometimes, I don't seem to have a choice?"
"Next you'll be blaming your peers for leading you into a life of crime," scoffed the wizard. "This will be your third strike, you're looking at twenty-five years. Don't commit the offense if you can't do the time."
Hal staggered. The old guy was right. "I'm forty two now, I can't go to jail again, I'd be older than dirt if I lived that long," he protested. "You won't turn me in?"
"You're singing the wrong song. You've never repented, you feel no remorse. You steal and you lie as a matter of course. Still, I will say, in your defense, you've never used a gun, not even a knife."
"I ain't going to neither! Even though nothing has never gone right in my life," said the miscreant sadly. "But it ain't true that I'm not sorry for what I've done. Sometimes I feel bad."
"Badly," said the wizard. "Don't add bad grammar to the list of your sins. I'm a wizard, nothing more; not a syntax collector, among the many things I'm not; neither father confessor, nor window dresser, not chicken inspector nor what I said before!" He hit a high note and held it for a moment.
Hal just stared at him, too stunned to be amazed.
The wizard took a deep breath and sang rapidly, "I am the very model of a modern magi general, with incantations to turn a mortal into animal, vegetable or mineral. And while I sometimes do indulge in stunts a bit theatrical, I've never quite before descended to the operatical."
"What never?" sang the chorus.
"Wrong play," said the wizard, "And that is just about enough of that. See what happens when you wake me up before I've had my wisdom nap? We almost fell out of reality into a Gilbert and Sullivan universe." He shuddered and made his beard quiver indignantly.
"I'll just leave now," offered Hal. He looked around nervously for the chorus. Where had they come from and where had they gone?
"No," said the wizard. "You begged my pardon and I haven't quite got around to giving you that boon. What's in the purse?"
"I--I hadn't looked yet?" Hal put the handbag on one of the counters and opened it up. "Uh, it's full of jewelry and makeup, most of it still on the store cards." He grinned sheepishly, "What do you know, Miss Mark was a booster!"
The wizard nodded thoughtfully, "There is no honor among thieves after all. You stole someone else's swag. She never rousted the heat but probably took a powder out the other end of the mall." He looked into an invisble distance briefly then nodded in satisfaction. "In fact, the little lady is on the bus now, cursing her luck."
"This is schlock," said Hal, examining the loot. "She was young, probably a thrill junkie. You know, stealing just for the high she gets?"
"And what about you, Hal? Why do you steal? It surely hasn't gotten you the good things in life?" The wizard looked over Hal's shabby clothes and runover sneakers.
"I get by," said Hal. "Well, most of the time?"
"You mean when you're not living off crime you're living off charity," the old man drove the sad truth home with a sneer. "Are you sure you want my pardon, you inconsequential recidivist?"
Hal had no idea what that last part meant but he protested again, "I ain't never done nothing to you!"
"A triple negative makes all come out even but I warned you once already about bad grammar. I'll give you my pardon, Henry Ambrose David, if you truly want it."
Hal felt his face collapse around his fear, he knew now that he had stumbled into something as dangerous as being the witness to a mob hit. He nodded cautiously, "Whatever you say, I don't want no more trouble." Getalong Hal, that's what they had called him in prison. He began backing toward the door again.
"My pardon," the wizard insisted. "Do you want it?"
"Yes!" said Hal, his terror once again threatening to loosen his sphincters. "Yes, please?" His habit of polite respect to figures of authority granted his speech more grace than he usually possessed.
"Freely asked and freely given," said the Wizard. "I pardon you, Hal, from your life of crime and despair. You need a second chance, a new start and someone to guide you and give you moral instruction." The old man gestured with two fingers and spoke a word in a language no one on this world had ever spoken before.
The changes came so quickly they left Hal breathless; he felt his slight paunch shrink, his bald spot disappear. His beard stubble shrank into his skin, as did most of his body hair. His limbs became slender, his shoulders narrow and his waist narrower still.
"What's happening?" he asked in a small voice that ended in a squeak because his voice box had suddenly changed. His eyebrows thinned as the hair on his head grew down to his shoulders then to his waist, then braided itself into two pigtails. His lips grew softer and rounder as his nose grew shorter and smaller. His balls retracted into his abdomen and his penis shrank to a tiny button. At least, that's what it felt like had happened.
His clothes began to change, too; his ratty jacket became a red blazer and his food-stained shirt became a pretty white blouse with simple ruffles at the neck and wrists. His hands, slim and graceful now, reached up to feel his new face. The dirty boxers in the once-blue pants he wore became sparkling white cotton panties under a plaid skirt. His threadbare socks and worthless sneakers turned into white knee-high stockings and penny loafers.
He felt a slit open into a new place between where his balls used to be. His now youthful, feminine voice cried out again, "What's happening?" just as small pubescent breasts sprouted on his chest. Her chest.
Little gold earrings shaped like hearts flew out of the stolen purse and pierced her ears. "Ouch?" she yelped. The wizard chuckled.
"What did you do to me?" she asked in a tiny schoolgirl voice. Tiny was right, the wizard towered more than a foot over her now.
"Given you a new opportunity to learn proper behavior," said the wizard. "I pardoned you right back to when you first stole something in the fifth grade. We won't count the jelly beans."
"I--I'm..." she stammered.
"You're ten, and you're an orphan in a Catholic girls school," the wizard informed her and she knew it was true. "The nuns are good to you but they're very strict, if they catch you with a purse full of stolen doodads, you won't be able to sit down for a week."
She backed away from the handbag, "I don't want it!" Her hands flew to her ears, remembering that the earrings from the bag had made now-healed holes in her lobes.
"You can keep those," said the wizard. "You had a little money in your pockets, from doing chores. I'll see that the rest of this stuff gets back to where it belongs." The bag and swag therein vanished with a modest, if slightly indecent sounding, "Poot!"
"I'm a girl?" she asked, one hand feeling of her chest and the other pressing her skirt to her thigh. Soft brown hair in long braids tied with ribbons, clear rosy complexion blushing in her confusion, neat little school uniform and long coltish legs, she didn't yet know what an adorable little pixie she had become.
The wizard smiled at her, his ancient face creasing in lines of benevolent amusement. "Yes, you are. You'd better go, you don't want to spoil your outing by being late back to the bus. Your friends will be waiting for you."
"I've got friends," she said wondering and she knew their names, Karen and Cindy and little Sarah who talked with a lisp and couldn't say her own name plainly. The nuns would get Sarah speech therapy, just like they had gotten braces for Cindy's teeth. "What's my name?" she asked.
"You're Alison Hildegard Stuckey, and you're going to hear Sister Elisabeth Mark calling that name out if you don't get going." The old man made shooing motions and she drifted toward the door.
"Stuckey? My sister married a man named Stuckey years ago," she murmured. But the memories of Hal David seemed like something she had seen in an old movie.
"That's right, they were killed in a car wreck on their honeymoon; only this time it happened after they had lived long enough to have a daughter. You're your own niece, Heidi."
She smiled and almost giggled. Heidi for Hildegard because there was already an Alison in her grade at school. She liked it and her pigtails bounced with her pleasure. Her blue eyes danced and she gave the old man a wide smile, showing the gap where she had lost a tooth only last month.
"Go," said the wizard, raising his arms like a conductor. "They'll put you on restriction if you're late. Those nuns are tough. I wouldn't want to mess with them." Which was true, religious with a true vocation had a power proof against wizard spells. He could only affect them indirectly as he had done now, and only if he worked no harm.
This particular order took in children that weren't even Catholic; since Heidi's mother had been Jewish they would offer her the opportunity to study her heritage in a few years. The wizard looked forward to see his latest client growing up to become a teacher herself, and a wife and mother before discovering an unknown love of music and talent for songwriting in her old age. At least, that was one possible path the future could take.
In the there and then, ten-year-old Heidi spun quickly, sending her pigtails flying. The little bells jingled as she paused at the door. "Should I thank you?" she asked, looking back.
"You should. I've given you the opportunity to grow up to be something other than a sad little thief; take care and do it right this time. The nuns will show you the way and correct you if you get off the path."
Somehow it all made sense to her; all fear had dropped away and she felt only awe and wonderment. And gratitude. "Thank you, sir," she said politely and discovered that she knew how to curtsey. The bells jingled joyfully again as she shut the door behind her.
"You're quite welcome," said the wizard, purposefully a beat too late.
"Who were you talking to?" asked Dannie coming up behind him.
The old man looked at his latest apprentice, "Just a little girl who had lost her way; she was polite and begged my pardon, so I gave it to her." He kept the smile out of his voice and off his face though he knew she could sense his satisfaction.
"You gave someone something," Dannie said doubtfully, yawning the sleep out of her own voice. She looked to be in her teens, a shapely girl who had once been a client of the strange old man herself. She stretched, deliciously unaware of how she looked when she did that. Sometimes she reminded the old man of a cat. Now she smiled a question at her boss.
"Freely asked and freely given, even the devil knows the path to heaven," said the wizard mysteriously.
"Oh. Okay," Dannie didn't feel curious anymore. "I'm hungry. Are the mastodons all dead, already?"
Gordon's purchase of a lost suitcase would change his life in unexpected ways. Actually an artifact from a different universe and time, the SuitCase tempted Gordon with the possibility of living a life completely different from his own....
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Synopsis: Gordon's purchase of a lost suitcase would change his life in unexpected ways. Actually an artifact from a different universe and time, the SuitCase tempted Gordon with the possibility of living a life completely different than his own....
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They came in the mail with Louis Taylor's name on the package. Were they some alien lifeform? If so, why did they look like breasts?
Louis Taylor gets a surprise package, just as his life is about to change forever.
M.A.T.D.A.M.B.
by Lainie Lee
I walked into our old house in Appaloosa at the end of the last day of school carrying my backpack, my gymbag, a canvas tote of stuff from my locker that had not fit into either other bag and the package that had been leaning against the door when I got home. "Hey!" I yelled. No one answered.
The house looked more deserted than usual, Dad and my sisters had already moved out; for the last two weeks Mom and I had lived alone in the old house while I finished up my sophomore year of high school. Deirdre's community college classes and Suzanne's sixth grade had gotten out earlier and they had gone ahead. I missed my sisters a little and my Dad a lot more but now that my school was out, Mom and I would be moving too.
Dad's new job in Greenfields meant we could afford to live on the coast now. The move to the new house excited me a little, but leaving the home I'd grown up in depressed me. I hadn't let anyone see me cry about it, at fifteen I was much too old to get all snuffly about the old neighborhood, my friends or the old house.
But if I were alone where no one could see me, I could get a little choked up and no one else had to know. Mom might not be home for another two or three hours depending on how the party they were throwing for her at work went. Dropping my stuff in the middle of the nearly empty living room, I put the oddly heavy package down on the dining room table, got myself a drink of cold water from the fridge and wandered out back.
The golden light of afternoon made bright pools between the tall, cool, fruit trees lining the back yard and I could see the peaks of the Marathon Range west of town. Day after tomorrow, I'd be looking at them from the other side. I held the glass up and looked at Old Sandy, the nearest mountain, through the lens of water. I'd said goodbye a hundred times already since I'd learned the family would be moving but I said it again with every bit as much feeling as before.
"Goodbye," I whispered. Then I walked slowly around the yard, poking my toe into various heaps of grass and dirt where I and my sisters and friends had played "King of the Woodpile" and "Last Train from Appaloosa" and "Taylors on the Moon." I drank the water, wiped my face and went back inside.
Mom's last day at work would be over soon, she'd come home then we would pack a few things, go have dinner somewhere nice and sleep the last night in the old house. Dad would fly in tomorrow morning, Mom and I would run a few last errands and we'd all be on the road in the van for the trip down Interstate 7 before noon. With luck, we'd get to see the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.
The new house actually was in Pacifico, on the coast northwest of Greenfields, but an easy commute for Dad. It would be kinda cool to live near a big city, I could go see the Shamrocks and Davids play when they were in town, big name rock bands performed in the Richmond Bowl, and there were tons of interesting things to do in the city. Not to mention a whole ocean next door, but I would miss my friends.
I didn't want to cry again so I went back inside and picked up the package on the dining table. It seemed to be addressed to me, though they had misspelled my name. Honestly, how hard can it be to spell Louis Taylor? I didn't remember ordering anything and especially not something so big, a nearly cubical box ten or twelve inches on a side. And heavy, it must weigh fifteen pounds or so.
Some company I'd never heard of on the return address, maybe Mom or Dad had bought me a present? "Huh?" I said out loud. my parents weren't big on surprises, though; if it were a present from one of them, they would have told me to expect something. I ripped off the outer paper and discovered that the package actually consisted of two plain white boxes taped together.
A dinner knife cut the tape holding the boxes together and also separated the flaps holding the lid on one of the boxes. I flipped open the box, expecting--maybe books or walkie-talkies or--well, I wasn't sure exactly what I did expect. Certainly not a five or six pound lump of silly putty, for that was exactly what it looked like.
I laughed. The inside of the box was made of hard white plastic and shaped like a sink. A lump of plastic jelly lay in the depression, pinkish beige, looking like nothing so much as a giant blob of plastic clay. I opened the other box, just to check and sure enough, it contained an identical lump of rubber-looking, flesh-colored whatever-it-was.
Shaking my head, I looked for some kind of instructions or identifying papers. Nothing had any writing on it except the original outer wrapping addressed to 'Lewis Tyler.'
"Makes no sense at all," I muttered. Experimentally, I poked one of the blobs, "Sticky," I noted. So sticky, in fact, that it still clung to my finger, stretching amazingly as I drew my hand back. The sticky tendril seemed to get thicker as I watched, the plastic blob oozing out of its container. I tried to scrape it off against the table, then grabbed the dinner knife in my other hand and tried to remove it that way but the gelatinous clay clung and oozed like some amoebic refugee from a late night movie.
"I'm dreaming?" I wondered. But slamming my hand against the table edge convinced me that my experience was real enough. "Ow!" I yelped.
Somehow, the glob had anchored me to the table too, even while it engulfed my hand and oozed up my arm. And now the second sluginaceous nightmare crawled out of its box and advanced on me. I screamed, thrashing around hard enough to pull the table and both boxes over on top of me banging my head painfully on the floor as I went down.
Dazed, I stared as the two blobs, moving rather more quickly than such sluglike apparitions had any right to do, crawled up my arms and into my shirt.
* * *
I must have passed out for a moment, I decided, 'cause when I came to, I found myself lying on the daybed in the den. I'd been sleeping there for the last week, ever since my own bedroom stuff had been packed and shipped to the coast. My head hurt and my brain felt sort of oatmealy. I sat up suddenly and immediately regretted it.
First, my head started pounding and my eyes almost fell out and rolled around on the floor. Second, something on my chest wobbled and jiggled as I moved. "What the fuck?" I yelped, bringing both hands up to my chest and looking down to see--two enormous pink lumps under my t-shirt.
I almost sighed in relief when I realized they must be the horror-movie plastic monster amoebas from the planet Postal--for a moment there, I thought I had grown breasts. They stretched my black t-shirt all out of shape. I groped the right one, then the left. They felt--like me.
I mean, I could feel them, not just with my hand but with them. "I'm still dreaming," I said out loud. I pulled out the neck of the t-shirt and looked inside at my own private cleavage. "Christ in a pick-up truck," I said.
I don't remember how I got there but next I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror with my t-shirt on the floor. They looked real. Realer than real. Enormously real, and I mean enormous--the two of them together were actually wider than my chest and I could see they went under my arms and partway around to my back. Nice big titties in the world's worst place for nice titties.
I tried to get my fingers under an edge but there were no edges. There was sort of a crease under them in front 'cause they were so big and heavy, they hung there kinda droopy but only a little. I tried to pull on them but that didn't work. In fact, rubbing and pulling on them was having a very strange effect. I watched while two enormous nipples--my nipples!--got big and hard, popping out on my chest from the middle of two dark areas that tipped each impossible breast.
Rubbing them felt good--too good. So I stopped. I felt like I was getting a hard-on and that made me wonder, had anything changed further down? I got my pants down quickly and took a look--though lookingbetween the big mounds was a strange experience. All present and accounted for, sir. Right hand on my male genitalia and left hand on a breast, I recited the old Sesame Street mantra, "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not belong." Then I giggled, probably insanely.
Without really thinking about why I would do such a thing, I began rubbing my new parts with both hands. It felt so good, I didn't want to stop. My nipples were hard little pebbles and it occurred to me that my breasts were so big, I could probably get them in my mouth. I tried it, it worked.
That felt so good that pretty soon, I couldn't stand it, so I switched to the other nipple. It kept feeling better and better, and I sank slowly to the bathroom floor. I could hear someone moaning, probably me. My thighs opened, then clenched on my penis and I came so hard I passed out again.
Okay.
I woke up on the bathroom floor feeling enormously satisfied with myself for no good reason. Idly, I played with my nipples before realization sank in. I sat up suddenly, banging my head on the u-shaped pipe trap under the sink. My boobies bounced pleasantly on my chest, too. The conflicting signals of pain, pleasure and just plain weirdness almost caused another blackout.
I hadn't hit my head that hard, so I carefully extricated myself from under the sink. The throbbing in my new breasts bothered me a lot more than the pain in my head. I looked down at them, they didn't seem so outlandishly big as they had before--were they shrinking or was I just getting used to them being there?
I tried very hard not to do what would come naturally to any fifteen-year-old boy--play with an available pair of beautiful tits. I poked, pushed and prodded them a bit more; it felt too good to be good for my sanity. "Dammit, this just isn't happening," I muttered.
Real or not, it felt too good to stop and pretty soon I'd worked myself into a frenzy of rubbing and squeezing and sucking when I thought of it. I couldn't spare a hand for my crotch so, again, I squeezed my thighs together. I squealed like a cheerleader in heat as I came but I didn't pass out again at first. Nor after the second or third crescendo of renewed self-lust--but I lost track around five or nine and finally lost consciousness shortly after.
Okay, this could be habit forming.
I woke up slowly this time, wary of bumping my head again. I looked at my chest and saw with some surprise that the false breasts had almost disappeared. The big nipples and dark-colored skin around them were still there and a definite puffiness under them. I imagined that they looked about the size my twelve year old sister might have. My brain sort of froze up, considering that idea.
But before I could really do much thinking about my situation, nature called and I had to sit down quick or leave a major dump in my pants. Not to get gross about it but I did both number one and number two in a big way and ended up flushing the bowl three times. The odor got pretty intense, too, and I turned on the fan.
I had stood up, contemplating my discarded clothing and realizing that despite the fan the room smelled like dirty gym socks. The sudden urge to toss my cookies made me fill the bowl a fourth time. I didn't actually feel sick, I just had to throw up and quickly. Things kept happening to me, I felt like a character in a really bizarre video game.
When I straightened up, I decided that part of the smell must be me. My skin seemed covered in a wet substance, slimier than sweat. I needed a bath but the downstairs bathroom had no shower. Naked and feeling more than just a little dazed, I wandered into the den looking for some clothes I could take upstairs with me. I grabbed some, practically at random, from the semi-packed suitcase on the floor and went up to my old bathroom, feeling unaccountably eager.
Hot water and soap felt wonderful but I kept getting distracted by--differences. Besides the mini-boobs--and where did the mega-boobs go?--I noticed that my skin felt softer and more sensitive all over. The small amounts of body hair I had been sprouting for the last year or so, including groin and underarms, seemed to have disappeared, too.
I checked. Nothing else had gone missing that I could tell. Relieved, I finished my shower, even washing my hair. I felt very--sensual I guess is the word--but I had no trouble resisting the any urge to play with booblets or other parts. I felt good which was weird, considering.
Drying off, my eyes kept being drawn to the mirror. I'd never before felt so much interest in how I looked. I knew I didn't look the same as I had the day before but I ignored the differences and just enjoyed looking.
I put on the clothes I'd grabbed, briefs, a yellow t-shirt, and a pair of denim baggies. The clothes felt strange as if they belonged to someone else. I combed water out of my hair and continued looking in the mirror.
My image in the mirror looked strange, though I couldn't put my finger on just what the strangeness might be. I tried to feel alarmed about everything that had happened but my reflection kept smiling back at me. Until I noticed the two bumps made by my nipples.
I looked inside the t-shirt. They were still there, as big around as dimes almost; while I watched, they stiffened a bit and got bigger. Uh-oh. I started noticing other things. All of my zits were gone and my face looked softer and less angular somehow. Same for my arms and legs which were also unusually smooth, even my hands and feet.
Other people might not notice some things but chest ornaments on a boy tended to stick out. Stand out. I suppressed a giggle. Why was I concerned about people noticing but not worried about all the changes? I didn't know and even that didn't bother me much.
Feeling a bit dreamy and unreal, I cleaned up the bathroom then wandered downstairs where I found a pair of sandals to wear and a short sleeve, white cotton shirt to wear over the t-shirt. Hanging open, it still covered my nipple bumps. I looked in the mirror downstairs and decided that the resemblance to my sisters was alarming. So--why didn't I feel alarmed?
In fact, I felt a weird sort of satisfaction with myself, as if I had accomplished something I had planned on for some time. "So this is what it's like to be a pod person," I murmured. Then I giggled.
I'd like to say I laughed but it was definitely a giggle. "Oh well," I said aloud and smiled, noticing that I had a really cute smile. Still smiling, I cleaned up the downstairs bathroom and put the dirty clothes in the wash. Mom and I intended to do a load tonight before leaving for Greenfields and the house in Pacifico in the morning.
I found the wrapper and boxes from the package containing the Mutant Alien Titties Done Ate My Brain. I threw all of it away, going so far as to carry the trash out to the big cans beside the garage. But I saved the return address, tearing it off the paper and putting it in my wallet which I put into my backpack instead of my pocket. I wasn't sure why I did that but it might be useful.
The phone rang and it took me a moment to realize it had to be my cell phone since the house phone had already been disconnected. I dug that out of my backpack, knowing from the "Brady Bunch" ring that it was Mom calling. "Hi, Mom," I answered.
"Louis?" she said.
"Who else?" I rolled my eyes; what, she didn't recognize my voice?
"Um. Well, the office manager and the women in the office want to take me out to dinner..." she trailed off.
"Sounds good, Mom. Should I get my own dinner? I've got money," I offered.
"Would you mind, honey?"
"No. It'll give me time to see some of my friends before we go. I can take Deirdre's old bike we're leaving behind down to the Spot."
"Well, okay. I should be home by eight," she said.
"No worries, it doesn't get dark till after nine, Mom. And I'll call you if I need to be picked up."
"All right, dear. Oh, your father called. He's coming in tonight instead of tomorrow. Got a ride with one of the corporate types heading to Boise, they'll be dropping him off at Appaloosa Muni around ten."
"Cool," I said. I had to grin. Dad had hated being separated from Mom for most of the last two weeks and had twice already pulled this trick of getting a plane ride for an overnight visit.
"You be careful," Mom warned before we hung up. "You sound like you might be coming down with something."
"I'm not and I will," I promised. "Wait, stop, reverse that."
Mom laughed and disconnected.
It would be cool to see my friends one last time. I used my cell phone to send a broadcast text to my buddies list, "C U spot 6 2 9 YF lu". I checked the house to be sure nothing was left undone or unlocked then I went out to the sideyard to get Deirdre's old bike.
It would be so cool to see my friends. It didn't even occur to me to wonder if they would recognize me.
Next: Horsefeathers
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Why did I go anywhere with two alien parasites that sometimes looked like big tits stuck to my chest? Okay, I'm dumb, but I think I had help.
by Lainie Lee
Riding Deirdre's old two-speed bike wasn't so odd, even if it was a girl's bike. For some reason, that fact made me want to smile. It had big balloon tires, had been spray-painted powder blue about ten years ago and was older than our parents. You couldn't even buy a new two-speed but it wasn't the only such old machine in town.
I saddled up and pumped my way south on Clark Boulevard toward the Burger Spot on the north edge of downtown. The gears were shifted by twisting the right handlebar and the bike had both a rear coaster brake and a front caliper brake operated with the left hand. When going downhill, you had to remember not to use the front brake without using the coaster brake first or you might do a header over the handlebars.
Dee had cried at the decision to leave the bike behind for the nine-year-old daughter of the tenants who would soon be renting our house even though she hadn't ridden the thing since her tomboy days ended in junior high. Suzanne, our younger sister, had never ridden it. Zuzu'd never been a tomboy, going straight from baby in lacy bonnets to fashion-conscious teeny-bopper all at once, it seemed.
Mom had probably gotten the most use out of the old bike, she's the one who kept the tires inflated and the chain oiled. I had ridden it before, after I discovered its perfection for navigating the sandy trails in the foothills west of town. My friends on their narrow-tired ten and twelve-speed machines struggled to keep up while I floated above the loose gravel. Only Ken Tarrant on his fifteen-speed mountain bike, which also had balloon tires, could consistently outrace me in the hills. Of course, the planetary gears inside the rear hub of Dee's old Higgins didn't get clogged or misaligned like the derailleurs of Ken's newer bike.
I felt good and I blamed it on the air. Appaloosa is in a wide flat valley between the Marathon Range to the west and the Mustang Peaks of the Rocky Mountain Range to the east. The Jefferson River flows sort of down the middle and a lot of farming is done near it because the area doesn't get much rain. Away from the crops and pastures near the river, the valley is pretty much desert or scrub. The air is clear and sweet and I didn't want to think about any other reasons for feeling good.
Like the mutant alien tits under my shirt. What were they, where had they come from and why me? It's hard to believe that I hadn't told anyone, hadn't really done anything about them and didn't spend much time thinking about them,
Even when I tried to think about what had happened, it just seemed so unreal--even unimportant. Since I could think of no reasonable explanation for my own behavior--let alone the existence of whatever the mutant tits really were--I just ignored the incident and happily pedaled my ass toward the Burger Spot.
In a town named for a kind of spotted horse, it wasn't surprising that lots of local stores had references to horses or spots in their names. Our high school team name was even the Spots. School officials had put it up to a vote when the decision had been made to axe the old team name of the Braves. Most of the girls had voted for Spots over the other popular choice, the Stallions because they didn't want the girls' teams to be called the Mares.
Of course, the joke around school was that the girls' teams were now the Menstrual Spots. For my whole freshman year, I thought they were saying Minstrel Spots and I would laugh with everyone else but I didn't get it. And me with an older sister, but I'd never heard the word. Painful to be so young and so ignorant, isn't it?
Anyway, the Burger Spot looked like a typical one-off fast food place, big glass windows, plastic booths, menus above the counter. The back room full of video games attracted a lot of teeny-boppers and young teens who probably spent more for entertainment than they did for food. The burgers tasted better than the ones at the chain places--I think they were cooked instead of manufactured--and drink refills were free. The building sat in the middle of the huge parking lot for a strip mall, right on the edge of downtown with its old buildings, mostly offices these days.
I wheeled up close to the building, intending to put the bike into the rack where I could see it from inside. A tall boy I didn't know standing near the door said, "Here, let me help you."
I didn't think I needed any help but he took the bike from me and lifted it into the rack, instead of rolling it in like I would have done. "Thank you," I said, trying to be polite.
"No problem," he said. "That ancient piece of metal must have come west with the wagon trains. It's three times heavier than a modern bike."
I grinned. "It's built to last," I agreed.
Nodding and smiling, he opened the door to the Spot for me. "Meeting someone?" he asked.
"Some friends," I said.
"Have fun," he said. "And if you're not having fun, come see me." His grin got wider.
I went in, wondering what that was all about. Sure I was dumb but I had an excuse.
At the counter, I looked up at the menu, deciding if I really wanted a burger. Jerry Aronstedt, a high school boy from my neighborhood, was behind the counter. He grinned at me. "Lots of choices," he said.
"Uh huh," I said. The Spot's menu covered four panels and included Greek gyros, Mexican burritos and pizza as well as seven kinds of hamburgers, if you count vegetarian burgers as burgers. "I guess I'll have a strawberry milkshake," I decided.
"Excellent choice!" Jerry beamed at me. I couldn't remember him ever having been so friendly before. As a senior, classes had ended for him yesterday and he would be graduating at the ceremony tomorrow, maybe that's why he was in such a good mood. Normally, we seldom spoke since he ran with an entirely different--older--crowd. "Large or small?" he asked.
Large or small--what? I had to remember what the question was about before I could answer. "Large," I said.
Jerry grinned at me again as if that had been a funny answer. I almost laughed, he seemed to be clowning around. He made the shake quickly but with exaggerated movements, glancing at me to see if I were watching him.
Should I clap, I wondered, as he delivered the shake to me with a flourish. "Looks good," I said, not clapping because that would have been just too weird.
"I made it extra good, just for you," said Jerry, still grinning.
I had to smile which made the grin get wider. I handed him a five and when he gave me my change, he actually took my hand in his left and put the one and coins in my palm with his right. I blinked and so did he, his eyes seeming to widen and sparkle as they opened. "Enjoy," he said.
I nodded and turned away. What had just happened? When Jerry touched me, I felt very peculiar.
"Miss?" said a voice.
I glanced back in reflex since the comment clearly wasn't meant for me.
Jerry still smiled. "You forgot your shake."
Embarrassed, I took it from his hand, feeling another peculiar tingle. "Thank you," I murmured and fled the counter area. I glanced down, suspicious.
Okay, I'm dumb and unobservant but I wasn't blind.
The tits were back. Jerry hadn't recognized me, he'd thought I was some girl! Thank God they weren't as big as they had been but they were definitely there, pushing out the front of my shirt and jiggling a bit when I walked. It felt so peculiar I wondered how I had failed to notice. How long had they been there?
And through the big internal window into the back room, I could see two of my friends, Ken Tarrant and Bud Loomis, already playing Ultimate Deathmatch on one of the video games. "Crap," I whispered and quickly sat in a booth with my back to them before they saw me.
Unbelievably, the next thing that happened was I got distracted by that damn strawberry milkshake. I couldn't believe how good it tasted. If I'd never had a strawberry milkshake before it couldn't have been more fascinating. I sat there sucking sweet nirvana through a wide straw and didn't even notice Jennifer Sorenson until she had done a double take at seeing me. "Louis?" she said.
I looked up. "Huh?" I said, still blissing over the strawberry goodness Jerry had filled my cup with. Had he really made it extra good just for me,I wondered.
"Oh sorry," Jenny said, glancing at my chest. "Thought you were someone else." She walked away, frowning.
I almost called after her then my brain unfroze and I realized that explaining why I had tits to my friends would take too long and they would still not believe me. And if they did believe me, well, what then? I glanced down again, shit, they had gotten bigger again. I didn't believe much of it, either, come to think of it. The whole thing was unbelievable, especially the part about growing tits at inconvenient times.
I poked one of them and it jiggled. Still not the monster tits of the afternoon but way bigger than any fifteen year old had any right to, especially if he was a boy. These were Pam Anderson class tits. I poked one again and giggled.
Then I shrugged it off and went back to finishing my strawberry shake.
I sat there a while longer, lost in strawberry nirvana before something percolated into my awareness. Two boys in a nearby booth were staring at me. I wasn't sure what to do about that. Should I make it obvious that I saw what they were doing or should I just ignore them. Without making any decision at all, I looked back at them and smiled. Why did I do that? All I can say is that smiling at them made my tits feel good.
The older looking one got up and came toward me. I recognized him vaguely as being one of the jocks in my class. A big guy who had played on the junior varsity football team last fall. What's his name? I drew a blank so I just kept smiling.
"Hi," he said, sliding into the booth opposite me. He really was big for a sophmore, he barely fit in the booth.
"Hi," I answered. How could I be so calm, I wondered. This guy is hitting on me because he thinks I'm a girl and I'm still smiling. My tits still felt good and I was enjoying it, too.
"I'm Robert deVore," he said. Oh, yeah. "What's your name?"
So help me, I don't know why I answered him. "Lulu," I said. Lulu?
He smiled and I giggled.
"That's a cute name," he said. "I don't think I've seen you in school?"
"You haven't," I agreed. Well, not looking like this. I wondered if there were more differences than just the tits. Maybe I should find a mirror. I put my hands on the table, thinking about getting up.
He put his hand over both of mine. His hand was huge, mine looked tiny under it. Tingles radiated from where his skin touched mine. I looked up into his face. His eyes were blue and he had long golden eyelashes. I felt my nipples begin to stiffen. I wondered how well the shirt I was wearing over my t-shirt would conceal them. Not very well, I suspected.
I wanted to jump up and scream, "This can't be happening!" But I didn't. Have you ever swam near the water inlet in a swimming pool and felt the hard, fast little currents all over your body? That's how I felt but it all felt so good.
"You do look familiar though," he said.
"Louie Taylor," I whispered.
"He's in my math class, I think. Is he a relative of yours?"
I nodded. Well, sort of. I was surprised he even knew who I was--or who Louie was. With over 200 kids in the sophomore class, I sure didn't know every one of them, not even all the ones in my classes.
"I thought they were moving away?"
I nodded again. I noticed his smell. He smelled good. Hard to describe but I could tell my tits liked his smell.
"So," he said. He made it sound fascinating.
Iknew that if I didn't get out of this situation soon, Bobby deVore was going to find out I was a boy--if I still was. That thought worried me a tiny bit and distracted me from admiring his dimples. "So, are you here helping them?" he asked.
I'd lost track of the conversation so I guessed. "Uh-huh?" I said.
"Louie and Lulu?" he said. "Is it really Louise?"
I giggled. "Grandpa was named Louis." True, but that was his middle name, Albert Louis Taylor.
"Ah," he said. "Well, you're not twins but I guess you do look like relatives. You're much cuter, though."
I giggled again. I couldn't think of anything to say so I giggled some more. I must have a cute giggle 'cause he couldn't stop grinning. It sounds so odd to say I giggled but I was there and I heard it.
"I've got wheels," he said suddenly. He must have turnd sixteen during the school year if he had a car. "You want to go someplace?"
The idea of being alone with this guy was both terrifying and appealing, like the parachute jump thing at Wide Country in Greenfields. "Like where?" I asked, like a goose.
"We could just go for a drive?" he suggested. Where could we go, we were already at the prime teen hangout on this side of town.
We talked a bit more about nothing in particular then he said, "Shall we go?" He stood up as he said it and smiled down at me.
I nodded and got up, realizing as I did so that my jeans had gotten tighter in the hips and butt and settled lower on my waist. The mutant alien things on my chest again, I realized. It's not just the tits, I thought, possibly the single most inane thing that has ever occured to me while I was wide awake.
He held the door open for me and put his arm around me after we were outside. Every boy in sight watched us, or maybe they were watching my tits. I tingled all over from the attention; I liked it even though I knew it was just wrong to feel that way.
Bobby held the door of a beat up old pick-up open for me, too. It had a bench seat, so I slid over into the middle. When Bobby started to climb in I said, "My bike," and pointed.
"Right," he said. He tossed it into the back of the truck then climbed in beside me. He seemed pleased to see me sitting so close and I scooched over a bit nearer so that our legs almost touched. Almost too near, his elbow touched the pointy part of my left tit when he moved the shift lever.
"It's a stick," I gushed.
He blushed and I wondered for a moment if he had thought I said something else.
"Stick shift, right," he said after a beat. He backed out carefully, shifted again, looked carefully both ways before pulling out onto Appaloosa Avenue, the main drag through town. Then he put his arm around me.
I looked up into his blue eyes and wondered if he were going to try to kiss me. I also wondered a little bit what I would do if he didn't try.
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The Devil walks the Earth on Strangefellows Day, looking for people making foolish wishes.
The Devil wants a date for Armageddon...
The Devil in Drag
by Lainie Lee
Chapter I "Conjurations"
"You're gorgeous!" Phil exclaimed.
Satan kissed the air in front of her perfect cupid's-bow mouth. "You say the sweetest thangs, sugah," he drawled in a magnolias-and-mint-juleps accent. Maybe the smoky growl was pitched just a tad too deep.
Phil back-pedaled quickly, literally as well as figuratively. Old Nickie sashayed forward and put her long white kid gloves on Phil's shoulders. The Princess of Air and Darkness purred in his best contralto. "Now you just tell me whut it is you want, honey, and we'll see if we cain't make ourselves a de- al."
"B-but, but the Devil is a GUY!" Phil managed a stammer while walking backward. He barely avoided tripping over the end table he had used to fasten down one corner of plastic protecting his mother's living room carpet from the chalk pentagram he'd drawn. The spell he'd cribbed from www.walpurgisnacht.com had said nothing about this.
He felt grubby in his jeans and t-shirt in front of this vision. "You're dressed like a PROM QUEEN, for Chrissake!" All he'd wanted was a date for the Halloween party on Saturday.
"Like mah tiara?" Nickie preened, having caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the couch. "Ah am a princess, y'know." She fluffed her platinum bouffant and adjusted the lavender ribbon around her slender neck to better display the cameo she wore. The Devil frowned prettily at Phil's reflection and smoothed the satin of her Bill Mackie original over her lush hips. "Ah'd be more kyerful about the profanity, if ah were you. The ma-an upstairs has some mighty strict rules about that sort of thang." She swung around to face Phil again. "Now, once more, whut did you want?"
"If you're the Devil why are you dressed like THAT? And isn't the pentagram supposed to keep you inside it?" Phil had just noticed the dainty feet in their satiny high heels were standing half in, half out of the pentagram.
"Oh, it will, if you draw it right!" Satan tried out a girlish giggle. She was beginning to get the pitch right, a little more Loni Anderson, a little less Tennessee Ernie Ford. "Seems you forgot the virgin's blood that's 'sposed to be mixed into the chalk, sugah. I reckon you could have pricked yoah fanger for the necessary. Maybe you were to busy fangerin' yoah prick?" She smiled like a Fallen Angel. "As to yoah, first question, honey, it's the third odd Thursday in the month."
"Huh?"
"Gotta please all mah constituents, you know. It's an election year," she simpered.
"What?"
Old Scratch pursed her mouth in a delicate pout. "If Ah weren't a lady, Ah just know Ah'd swear. This is getting plumb tiresome." She flounced into the kitchen and paused to glare at a chair then turned her smoldering glance on Phil. "If you were any kind of gentleman, you'd offer a poah Southern belle whose feet are pure killin' her a chair and somepin' to drank." Her lower lip trembled.
"Oh, sure, right." Phil pulled out the chair for Satan and placed it under her round little derriere. "Orange juice alright?" he asked.
Satan smiled up at Phil saucily, showing her dimples. "If'n it's got jest a drop of gin in it, it'll be fahn, sugah."
"Um," Phil swallowed. "We-we don't have any gin." His gangly nineteen year old frame seemed about to fold up on itself like a cheap jackknife.
"Vodka, then." She licked her lips in anticipatory delight. Her bosom inflated slightly and so did Phil's eyeballs.
"No vuh-vodka, either," he croaked.
Satan mimed alarm, one delicate gloved hand at her rosy cheek. "Anythang then, aquavit, brandy, bourbon, Manieshevitz, schnapps, tequila, jest somepin' with a li'l kick to it." She fluttered her eyelashes and fanned herself with her hand. "Ah may faint," the devil announced in an affected voice.
"Um, Miss-uh, I mean. Well, my Mom is President of the Women's Christian Temperance Union, we're tee-totalers."
"In this day an' age?" The Queen of Hell pouted. "You mean to tell me you doan even have any cookin' wahn? Nothin' to offer an invahted guest?"
Phil shook his head miserably.
"You did invaht me, didn't you?"
"Uh, well, I guess so. I mean, technically. Yes."
"Well, then, find me somepin' to drank, pizza-face. Sterno if that's all you've got. Ah'm immune to all pizens y'know but Ah have this teensy li'l ol' drankin' problem." She batted her eyelashes again and Phil promptly forgot about the insultingly apt endearment she had tagged him with.
He scrambled his way through the kitchen cabinets, searching. Once upon a time his father had been given a bottle of Cutty Sark for Christmas by a misguided client. He didn't find that but he discovered a bottle whose label proclaimed 40% alcohol. "Vanilla extract!" he exclaimed in relief.
Satan pursed her lips, "It'll do. Poah 'bout half the bottle into the orange juice." When the promised drink had been produced, The Girl Who Fell to Earth pronounced it, "Delish. With a little Bailey's it'd taste jest lahk a fifty- fifty bar. You got the talent of a first class bartendah, sugah." A pink little tongue licked golden drops off ruby lips.
Phil cleared his throat nervously.
"Won't you sit down, honey," Satan purred. "Ah'm purely gettin' a crick in mah neck lookin' up at you."
Phil sat.
Nickie patted his knee affectionately, giggling. "Now listen carefully, sugah. You have been most hospitable to a poah li'l gal from WAY down South but there is somepin' I jest hafta know."
"Um, what's that?"
"Oo. Is it warm in here to you?" She fanned herself theatrically then began to remove her gloves. "Silly me. Gotta take off my rangs first." She laid five baubles on the table, each worth the price of a Middle Eastern sheikdom and resumed tugging on the white kidskin. "Ah lahk them to fit tight, but it is hard to get them off after awhile. Could I trouble you to he'p me get it started with yoah big strong MALE muscles, sugah?" She presented one delicate limp hand in its snowy prison.
"Uh," Phil grunted. Trembling, he grasped the tip of her forefinger in his hand and attempted to pull but the kidskin was too slick for his grip.
"You gotta hold on tight, sugah, if'n you don't want to fall off."
He tried again. I can't really hurt her if I grip harder, he reasoned, she's the Devil. He wrapped his right hand around her left forefinger and pulled. The glove loosened and a ripping noise erupted from the back of Phil's chair.
Satan tittered, Phil blushed. Nickie removed both gloves with no further problem and resumed fanning herself with them. "I would sweah it doesn't usually work that way, sugah. I mean, if I weren't a lady, I would swear." She began fiddling with the gold chain of her cameo. "Now, as I said before, I need to know somepin'."
"Wh-what's that?" His eyes were fastened to the cameo.
"That? Oh, it's mah locket," she simpered.
"Huh." Phil stared at the bauble blankly.
"Oh, you mean what is it Ah need to know. Well, sugah, you invited me into your home and served me well and even, if I say so, had lascivious thoughts about me. But, and this is the third time Ah've asked you, what is it you want from me?" The cameo, at that moment, separated from its chain and plunged into the valley between the mounds of her breasts.
"Gah!" sputtered Phil.
"Sugah?" asked Nickie sweetly.
"Ook!" he choked.
"Is there somepin' you're tryin' to tell me?"
"Muh, yuh, luh." Phil struggled to express a thought, any thought.
Nickie smiled so sweetly any termites in the walls surely died of acute diabetes. She turned her lovely face to the ceiling and addressed herself to the Royal Oak Combination Chandelier and Ceiling Fan. "How was that? I warned him twice, I asked him thrice. I counted the questions, ever so nice. He served me wine, he wasted time. You know I know You know he's mine."
"Doggerel," complained a Voice from Above.
Nickie shrugged her pretty shoulders. "It's Your curse, it could be worse. You commanded me to speak to You ever in verse." Phil nervously searched the ceiling visually for some source of the Voice.
"Well, it's annoying." The Voice sighed.
Nickie smiled a wicked little smile. "I win. Again. Now judge my servant in his sin."
"He's not your servant. He's a good boy, he's still a virgin at nineteen." Phil blushed at the Voice's accurate pronouncement.
"Three times he did as he was bade, three times the question to him was made. And You know as well as I do that his wish is to get laid." Nickie's triumphant smirk still looked cute as Hell.
"He was only playing with being a witch, he didn't know it would actually work. Besides you distracted him with that locket trick." It was beginning to penetrate to Phil just Who the Voice was.
Nickie protested, her lower lip protruding in a pout. "Look, I gave him three more tries. I am the Queen of Lies. If I have to play fair the game is no fun at all."
"That doesn't rhyme."
"It will in time."
"You can't have him."
Nickie sighed. "Look, Josh, I'm not dim. He may have tried the witch's robes on just for size, but if he's not mine now, he is when he dies. If You're
gonna break our contract to save him, it's Your call. Armageddon tired of waitin', anticipatin', let's get this over with and end it all." She grinned, knowing the Hellish pun and her use of His own Words in her rhymes would annoy Him further.
The Voice sighed. Phil trembled realizing that Satan was threatening to move up the date of Judgement if she didn't get his soul. His knees went weak, his vision went dark around the edges. This can't be happening, he thought. I'm having a weird dream, I'll wake up now.
He willed himself awake. Nothing happened. I'm going to be sick, I'm going to faint, I'm going to throw up or pass out or both.
The Devil in the prom gown and the Voice from Above continued their debate, oblivious to his distress.
"You can't take a virgin to Hell just for wanting to have sex. In this day and age a nineteen-year-old virgin is practically a saint," the Voice said.
"You keep changing the rules, protecting these fools; I tell You he summoned me to his own damnation. He served me in my celebration, he's one of my tools." The pretty little Princess of Air and Darkness whirled to point at Phil, causing him to flinch and dodge foolishly.
"One of yours, huh? Then you could use him to bring about the downfall of some other soul, right? Just try it, sister. He'd rather spit on his mother's grave than serve you." Phil could not believe his ears, the Voice was taunting the Devil.
"Wanna bet, Mr. Four-Letter-Word? Or can it be You haven't heard? Every mortal being has his price. I could turn him to my uses in a trice.
"But let me get this straight, 'cause the Doomsday clock says it's getting late. You want to have a contest o'er this bird? Can I believe what I just heard?" Nickie's eyes gleamed in her excitement. "These little wagers give eternity its spice! You know me well to so tickle my vice. What are the terms? Don't make me wait! Name Your wager, and it's a date!"
The Voice paused then intoned in mighty majesty,
"Satanas, you shall have till Strangefellow's Day next,
To subtract his soul from the Number of the Elect!
Free Will, Free Choice, freely made and freely given!
If by his sin one other is lost from the Roll of Heaven,
You will have won the wager and shall name your forfeit!
Keep the souls or free them and I shall give you let
To name the hour in which the Last Blessed Trump shall blow
Thus ending Our contest and struggle here below!"
Phil trembled at the thought of such tragedy.
"Three times his virgin soul you must taint,
Else he goes free at the end of our bet!
Three mortal sins, he loses all, but lest
In your despite, he remain a saint
He shall have won from you the forfeit
Of a wish! Not one from your lying Grammarie
But a True Wish, free of hellish jest!
Accept you these terms, O, Adversary?"
The Devil in Drag winced. "You call that poetry? I can do better in my sleep! But if I don't accept the terms, he's mine to keep? You must have made one Heavenly joke, when earlier of Armageddon you spoke?"
The Voice seemed amused, "Know, Satan, that to all mortals I show My Grace and Love. But 'tis for you to find out, does Lord Jehovah bluff?"
Satan chewed the end of a dainty fingernail in frustration. Phil, dazed and dizzy, sought out a kitchen chair and collapsed into it. The Voice waited silently.
Nickie sighed, patted her blonde hair absently, smiled sweetly at Phil-- causing him to flinch involuntarily--then looked coyly at the ceiling. "I can do anything I want with him during the bet? Anything short of injuring his precious free will? Hey, I'm not rhyming anymore, you get tired of that game?" She simpered at the Royal Oak Combination Fan and Chandelier.
"This one is better," said the Voice. "And the answer to your first question is yes, you may do anything you like with his physical body." Phil listened, horrified, numb, shocked and mute. God and the Devil were playing a game and he was one of the markers!
"Ah accept," said Nickie, her cornpone accent had instantly returned. She turned to Phil and wrinkled her cute little nose at him. "Relax, sugah, this is gonna be fun."
"God," Phil whispered.
"He's gone," said Satan. "Deserted you. Left you to mah gentle charms." She watched him critically for a moment then decided that despair based on abandonment by God was not going to be an effective lever on a child of the television age. Shock, however....
Phil noticed that Nickie's eye teeth were pointy and prominent and that her gaze roamed critically over his body. He felt nervous, naked and never more than nineteen.
"You're a mess, sugah. No wonder you cain't get laid." Nickie tsked. "Your complexion looks like someone planted corn then burnt the field before the harvest. Your hair is nice stuff but you went to the same barber as Bill Gates. And those clothes, surely you bought them at some yard sale. Well, nemmine, sugah. Momma Satan's gonna fix."
Phil swallowed. "What are you going to do?" He wished his parents would get home. He wished he'd never stumbled across that website. He wished that looking at Nickie didn't make him sweat and tremble. He wished she weren't so beautiful. He wished he didn't have a hard on.
"Well," said Nickie. "We can fix that last one!"
Suddenly terrified of the Princess of Air and Darkness, who certainly seemed capable of reading his mind, Phil bolted past her toward the stairs.
Nickie laughed, a tinkling sound full of magical broken promises. "We'll have to make sure you can get laid, sugah. Just anytime you want to, you'd like that wouldn't you?"
The offer alarmed him more than anything else she might have said. She would read his mind and know, KNOW, how desperately he wished to "get laid." He stumbled on the first step of the stairs. It didn't seem to be where he'd thought it should be. When he lifted his foot, it came right out of his shoe, the sock dangling loosely.
He shook his head in consternation and alarm and something brushed his neck, his shoulders, his cheek. He tried to continue up the stairs but his pant legs flapped about his feet, tripping him. The waist band had settled around his hips and the jeans were now more than a foot too long.
When he put out his arms to catch himself, they had shrunk also. Delicate little fingers sprang from tiny little palms at the end of much shortened arms.
"What's happening to me?" He tried to ask but his voice sounded strange, squeaky, almost childish.
His gaze followed his now smoothly rounded arms up to where two bulges in the front of his t-shirt gave him another clue as to what the Devil in Drag had done to him. Blonde curls dangled in his face, obscuring his vision as he tried to look down. The mounds on his chest were tipped with darker color visible through the straining t-shirt. He had tits! Big ones!
Nickie simpered at him. "It's always easier for a girl to get sex, sugah. 'Specially a girl as pretty as you. And being built like a brick shithouse won't hurt neither."
Phil caught sight of the mirror above the couch. A beautiful blonde babe tangled up in his clothes lay across the first few steps of the stairs. Her wide blue eyes stared directly back into his. His hand flew to his mouth and in perfect, beautiful, synchronicity her hand flew to hers.
"You gonna have to beat the boys off with a stick," said Nickie. She smirked. "But if you use your hands, most of 'em will be back for moah."
The Devil turned Phil into a girl when he wished for a Halloween date. Now -- who's that at the door?
Chapter II - "Reflections"
The Devil in Drag
by Lainie Lee
Chapter II: "Reflections"
"I'm gorgeous!" Phil exclaimed.
His reflection, her reflection continued to astonish her, him. The blonde hair fell in soft waves across delicate shoulders, big blue eyes deeper than oceans under a canopy of dark lashes, and skin flawless as a baby's. Not to mention the delirious wetdream of a shape filling out Phil's old clothes, all visible in the mirror above the couch.
"Ah do good work, sugah," the Devil said, smiling. Phil looked at her warily, this whole thing of a contest between God and Satan for his, her soul, had gotten out of hand. Now the Devil had turned Phil into a gorgeous babe so he, she could get laid easily and allow the Devil to control the start of Armageddon. The Devil in Drag, Nickie Asmodeus, that is.
It occurred to Phil that she, he now looked remarkably like the Apparition he, she had summoned up with the instructions on WWW.Walpurgisnacht.Com. Two nearly identical blondes faced each other across the length of the suburban family room.
Phil's eyes were blue, Nickie's green. Phil's hair a soft, nearly white ash-blonde and curly-wavy down to the shoulders, Nickie's hair platinum with a brassy undertone and done up in a big-hair-Southern way. Nickie's clothes looked like she had just stepped off the Prom float, tight, short evening gown and high heel pumps while Phil was still wearing the blue jeans and t-shirt of a boy much taller than she was now. Nickie's makeup was theatrical but perfect, Phil's face was bare and her expression, shocked.
And they had the same tiny waist, abundant hips and surely Phil's tits were just as big as Nickie's if not bigger. A few moment's ago, Nickie's face and figure had inflamed Phil's passions. She had played him like a fiddle and physical desire constantly threatened to embarrass him. Now, SHE could look at Nickie and the only thing that really came to mind was an inanity; she dyes her hair, Phil thought.
She. That was the proper pronoun now. The enormity of what had been done struck Phil like a blow. One moment he was a nineteen year old boy, the next a supermodel. "This can't be happening," she heard herself say.
"Sugah, you just bet it cain't!" Nickie grinned, well, evilly. "I gotta go now, lovah, lots of people wanna talk to li'l ol' me on Strangefellows Day. I'll check back in on you, later, honey." Nickie gathered her things and raised a pretty hand in the air. "Bye-ee," she waved before vanishing in a puff of lavender smoke.
"You can't just leave me here like this!" Phil protested. "Don't leave me!" She scrambled across the floor dragging the too long jeans behind her. "Satan! Come back!" But the Devil was gone.
Phil tried to stand but tripped on the jeans legs and fell to her knees. The jarring did odd things to the new distribution of weight on her chest. It didn't exactly HURT but it wasn't entirely pleasant. Grabbing the bobbing boobies to stop their jiggling did major damage to Phil's remaining self image as a guy. Guys did not have breasts this big, bigger than a double handful each. "I'm gonna need a bra," she whimpered, appalled at the idea.
She glanced around the room, even bent to look under the table hoping that The Devil was simply playing tricks and would pop out like a jack-in-the-box and admit to having played a cruel joke. "Satan?" Phil called softly. The odd sound of her own voice kept her from shouting more loudly. "Miss Devil?" she whispered hopefully.
Pulling herself up into a dining chair she spared a reproachful glance for the Royal Oak Combination Fan and Chandelier over the dining room table from which the Voice of Jehovah and been heard. "You were a lot of help!" she sniffed.
"I was," agreed the Voice.
Phil squealed in terror and slipped from the chair to her knees. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean any disrespect, sir! I didn't know you were still there! Honest! The Devil said you had left!" she squeaked.
The fan blades began to turn slowly. "I'm always Here," said the voice.
Phil trembled, feeling weak she bent forward to support herself on all fours. God was in his, her parents' dining room and by implication had been and would continue to be for all time. "It's a miracle," she whispered. She tried to remember which way to cross herself, though she, he had never been in a Catholic church in his, her life.
The Voice made no comment.
"Um, God?" Phil ventured. "If you are still there can you change me back?"
"Yes."
Relief flooded through Phil and she struggled with herself not to start bawling. God would change her back, she had always been a good boy and God wouldn't let the devil turn her into some sort of fantasy cheerleader.
She braced herself for the ripple of change that had so startled her the first time. Nothing happened. For several moments she crouched there waiting and nothing continued to happen.
"Aren't you going to change me back?" she asked trembling, half expecting a lightning bolt to descend from the gently turning blades.
"No," said the Voice. "You haven't thanked Me for saving you from hell."
"You did?" squeaked Phil. Her voice was definitely higher now, she wondered inanely if she were a soprano. Phil had been a boy soprano in a children's chorus at school but he had never really tried to sing again after his voice changed.
"Several times," the Voice sounded mildly amused if not a little exasperated. "Most recently when you meddled in the use of magic. Lucifer had every right to carry you off to The Pit, I talked her out of it."
Phil considered. The church he, she had been occasionally involved with had not been particularly heavy on the fire and brimstone but she, he was familiar with the images. "What is Hell like?" she asked faintly.
"You really don't want to find out, do you?"
"I guess not. Uh, thank You."
"You're welcome," said the voice and the lamps in the Royal Oak Combination Fan and Chandelier glowed momentarily on their lowest setting.
"Now will you change me back? Sir?" asked Phil meekly.
"No."
"Why not?" It was probably bad form to whine at God but Phil couldn't help it. She couldn't see her own face at the moment and did not realize she was pouting, too.
The Voice ignored the appearance of disrespect. "The rules for the contest The Adversary and I have agreed to forbid My intervention in that way." Phil was distracted by the odd thought that the Voice had begun to sound familiar. "Changing you into a female was to be expected, once the parameters of the wager had been established. The Enemy expects your will to be weakened by your transformation. Only you can give The Liar power over your soul. But your body, even your brain can be manipulated by the Fallen One, under our rules."
"M-my brain?" squeaked Phil, horrified by the images of thousands of bad horror movie cliches. "M-my brain? Uh, God, that-that's where I LIVE." For the moment she forgot her speculation about just who, or Who, the Voice sounded like.
"Yes. Your brain is not you, it is only part of your domicile. You are a soul, a being of pure beingness. Made in My Own image." Involuntarily, Phil glanced down at herself. The idea of God with two bulges in Her t-shirt seemed sacrilegiously funny at that moment but Phil resisted incipient hysteria.
The Voice continued. "I have endowed you with free will and the rules of the wager do not allow the Adversary to rob you of My gift."
"You-You're warning me not to fail in the wager. Not to be the cause of Satan controlling the date of Armageddon. I-I'll try, God. I promise I will try, I know You're depending on me not to fail." Phil trembled, the fate of Mankind was resting on her narrowed shoulders.
"No," said the Voice. "You are only human. I'm expecting you to fail, at least twice." Again the Voice seemed amused. "I am warning you to guard your soul, do not lose sight of your chance at Heaven. As for the date of Armageddon, trust Me that I know what I am doing."
"W-what?" Phil, dropped her head in confusion. The blonde curls made a tent around her face as she stared at the pattern in the carpet. The small hands with their delicate nails at the end of her too slender arms distracted her once again with the impact of her transformation.
The Voice did not answer.
Phil looked up again. The lamps were dark and the blades of the Royal Oak Combination Ceiling Fan and Chandelier coasted gently to a stop. Phil spent several minutes uselessly pleading with the inanimate appliance. God might still be in the building but He was answering no more questions.
At last, exhausted by hope and fear, Phil began to cry. Not fair, she told herself. Magic doesn't work, everybody knows that. How was he, she to know that on Strangefellows Day, the third odd Thursday of the month, it would. She had used the spell just for fun, she hadn't really wanted to summon up a devil, especially not The Devil. And certainly not be turned into a girl! All she, he had wanted to do was get a date for Halloween this Saturday -- and maybe get lucky. She felt her face redden at that last thought.
"I'm never lucky," she sobbed. She sat back on her round bottom and lifted her t-shirt to wipe her eyes.
She felt the globes on her chest swaying with her movements. Reaching under the t-shirt she touched them. They certainly felt real, though Phil had never actually felt of a girl's tits before. Well, not skin to skin, just a few "accidental" collisions with one of the cheerleaders back when he had been in high school glee club.
She pulled the t-shirt higher and bent her head to look at her new breasts. Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the delectable globes. Each smooth round mound of flesh had a nipple with a ring of soft crinkly flesh around it. The nipples and areolas were a warm brown, darker than the same spots on his old chest. Her explorations caused the nipples to react and become erect. It felt like two soft little erections on her chest.
She felt weird, to say the least. "I've got to get a good look at myself,' she murmured. Standing in the too-long jeans seemed impossible, so she undid the snaps and wriggled out of them. The pale blue boxers were just ridiculous, so she took them off, too.
Naked from the waist down now, she walked to the couch and sat, suddenly disturbed by the odd sensations of walking. First was the feel of something missing between her legs and then, well, her breasts bounced with every movement, and hair brushed her shoulders distractingly. Sitting, she suddenly reached back to feel of her butt. Soft and round and just a little jiggly, it was sort of like sitting on a water cushion.
She sighed, with a little hiccup of a sob in the middle of it. Leaning forward she looked down the Valley of the Boobs toward her crotch. Soft curly blonde hair grew there in a narrow box shape around her pussy. "My dick is gone," she whimpered. She reached one delicate hand down there just to be sure. No protruding male member, just a slit edged with soft flesh. She didn't dare stick a finger in there though she couldn't have said why.
It didn't occur to her to wonder why her pubic hair grew in that peculiar shape. Her sole experience with seeing the female body nude had been the pages of a certain tasteful men's magazine and she actually thought girl's pussies all looked that neat and trim. She had no hair on her legs or underarms, and she hadn't noticed that either.
Small wonder. The way her mind fell and swooped she might not have noticed if the house had caught fire.
The hell of it is, she thought, I know I'm not crazy. I KNOW this is real. I've met the Devil and talked to God and still I know I'm not crazy. I kind of wish I was. She whimpered a little then wiped away her tears. "I-I-I'm a girl," she said out loud. Her voice startled her again. It sounded so wrong. Higher pitched and even the cadence, the music was wrong. She tossed her head to get her hair out of her eyes, a very feminine gesture that she was immediately aware of.
"Whattamyegonnado-oo-oo?" she suddenly wailed and burst into tears again. Great wrenching sobs that made her chest heave so that every bounce and jiggle of her breasts communicated once again that she was now a girl. Would God or the Devil ever change her back? Would she be stuck like this for the rest of her life? "Please, please, please change me back," she sobbed to Anybody who might be listening.
Why can't I believe that I'm crazy and that this isn't really happening, she asked herself. But she knew; God had made it a part of the rules of the bet; she had to retain her sanity and her free will; she wasn't going to be allowed to go crazy.
She finally cried herself out and lay on the couch, wearing nothing but Phil's old undershirt, almost long enough on her new body for a very short miniskirt. Exhausted, or at least momentarily drained of emotion she idly played with a lump of wet Kleenex. She felt better for having cried, better but still depressed. Every movement she made, every sound, reminded her of her predicament.
Just the kinesthetic sense of how her body parts were arranged was wrong. Her thighs were too close together, her hips too far apart. She felt short; she could actually stretch out full-length on the six-foot couch but her legs felt absurdly long. Even her elbows seemed to bend funny and she spent a few moments flexing her arms and marveling at the out-of-joint dislocation of reality and her new elbows.
When the doorbell rang she almost fell off the couch. Panicky, she wondered if anyone could see her from outside. She sat up and tried to pull all of her limbs inside the t-shirt while staring at the door.
The bell rang again. "Michael," she whispered. The relief in knowing who was on the other side of the door almost caused her to break into tears again. The afternoon had slid into evening and Phil's friend Mike had come to go to the movies with him -- with HIM. She whimpered a little. She couldn't let Michael see her like this. "Go away," she muttered. Then louder, "Go away!"
The key moved in the door lock, startling her again before she remembered, Mike and Phil had had keys to each other's houses ever since seventh grade. Mike's mom had made jokes about having a second son and Phil's mother had actually suggested the exchange of keys so either boy could go into either house and wait for the other while busy parents conducted busy lives.
The door opened and Michael stepped in, smiling. Mike, good old solid Mike. Good old broad-shouldered, square-jawed, snappy-dresser Mike. Mike who effortlessly made straight A's and ran 90 yards for touchdowns. Mike who got all the girls that seemed to forever elude his skinny, gawky buddy. Mike for whom Phil had always felt equal parts friendship, admiration and envy.
Handsome Mike. She had never realized just how good-looking Mike really was. Six-foot-five, brown hair bleached almost golden by the sun, hazel eyes that changed color when he smiled or frowned. Stubbly jaw, muscular arms, big hands, trim waist, legs in perfect proportion to his height. No wonder the girls all went nuts about him, he was like a god. She had to stare, drinking him in, her mouth open -- and he stared right back.
He smiled. And she felt her nipples crinkle and a small muscle or something she had never known she had somewhere in her groin area flexed just a little, a tickle that sent a shiver up her spine and into her brain. Her brain? The realization that Satan's transformation had not stopped with the shape of her body but had extended even to her brain finally penetrated.
The horror of the idea paralyzed her for a moment before.
Mike opened his mouth and before he could finish asking, "Who are you?" she was off the couch and running up the stairs, into the bathroom, with the door locked. She had wanted to go into Phil's room for refuge but at the last moment she remembered, that door had no lock. And she definitely wanted a lock between herself and the handsome stranger who used to be her best friend.
She didn't think about being naked from the waist down until she had locked the door, her hands trembling. But she heard his admiring "Wow!" as she fled.
Phil's best friend wants to get reacquainted.
Chapter III - "Introductions"
The Devil in Drag
by Lainie Lee
Chapter III: "Introductions"
"She's gorgeous!" Mike exclaimed.
He shook his head in wonderment. What was a babe like that doing here, in the home of his friend Phil? "Wow!" he murmured to himself, seeing again in his mind's eye the lush body fleeing up the stairs; the large breasts bouncing under the t-shirt, the cloud of blonde curls, the round bottom jiggling a little as she closed the door of the bathroom upstairs, the look of terror she had shot back at him.
He frowned, replaying that part again. Yup, he had definitely scared the pants off one beautiful blonde babe; perhaps literally, he certainly hadn't seen any pants when she fled up the stairs.
"Are you okay?" He called up the stairs. "Miss?" No answer.
He glanced around the room before starting up the stairs. The discarded clothing attracted his attention. Sneakers near the base of the stairs, a sock here, a sock there; jeans and boxers over by the dining room table. Men's clothing, from the sizes and choices, probably Phil's clothing.
Mike's eyebrows went up. Phil? With a babe like that? He peered at the top of the stairs again but the beautiful blonde was nowhere to be seen. Mike pursed his lips in a soft whistle. "I didn't know you had it in you, buddy." He grinned, pleased for his friend and pleasantly envious, "But the question is, have you had it in her?"
* * *
In the bathroom, Phil huddled on the non-slip mat in the bathtub with the shower curtain pulled completely closed. Eyes closed, legs pulled up under her, arms wrapped around her shoulders; she tried to will herself into the sort of withdrawal she had seen in movies and television. But it wouldn't work.
"It's not fair," she whimpered. But after a few more moments of cowering and trying to will herself into a catatonic trance; she sat up, feeling ridiculous. That her large breasts bobbed with every movement did not make her feel any less ridiculous.
Sighing, she pushed her mane of pale blonde curls out of her face and carefully clambered out of the bathtub. "I am just doomed to be sane in this crazy situation," she muttered. Her voice still startled her.
She was used to hearing her, his baritone rattle around in his, her chest a bit before emerging with a masculine resonance. Now, her voice was all in her head, no chest to speak of; it sounded thin and high-pitched and a bit nasal. "I hope to God I'm not whiny," she prayed with a nervous glance at the light fixture. Actually, she had a pleasant, even musical, soprano but no one hears their own voice the way it sounds to others.
She stripped off the t-shirt and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door surveying her new body in all its magnificent femininity. Rose-beige skin with no tan lines, smooth as a baby's behind except for darker nipples and areolas and the little exclamation point of blonde fur between her legs.
Phil had been six-feet-three inches of gawky, post adolescent male, about 170 pounds. Curiosity impelled her to measure herself with the yard stick nailed to the wall; five-feet even in her bare feet. "I'm a shrimp! I'm short even for a girl!" Lower lip trembling she stepped on the scales. "One hundred pounds, on the nose," she whispered. The numbers were suspiciously even. Did the devil think in round numbers?
She was certainly round, rounded all over. A hundred pounds sounded like a lot for a girl only five-feet tall but her butt felt a yard wide and the bags of flesh on her chest probably added a bit of poundage, too. Funny, looking at herself in the mirror, she was so perfectly, if generously, proportioned she did not look short. Not short, just, well, stacked was the word that came to mind.
Another thing, looking at the image of such a living doll would have made Phil practically cream in his shorts; but now, SHE could look at herself without arousal. Perversely, she did feel a bit of pride that she was so good-looking. "Mike would whinny like a stallion if he could see me now." she said smiling involuntarily. Then frowning, she remembered that Mike had seen her, fleeing up the stairs, practically naked.
At the thought of Mike she realized she could still hear him calling for her. Or rather for Phil. And another thing or three, her nipples were crinkling at the thought of Mike and that little whatever it was where a penis ought to be crinkled or wrinkled or something, too. Unbidden, the image of Mike in the boys' locker room sprang into her mind. Mike with a semi-soft dick arching out from his loins all of seven or eight or nine inches long. Mike looking at her and smiling.
* * * * *
The scream from the door at the top of the stairs brought Mike scrambling up the steps so quick he tripped on the top step and had to catch himself before plowing head first into the wall with his full 220 pounds. "What's wrong?" he shouted before trying the door. "Are you all right?" Rattle, rattle, another scream, locked. Mike debated crashing the door down. Phil's parents would certainly be upset.
"Go away! Go away, go away, go away, go'way!" The girl sounded nearly hysterical through the bathroom door.
"Do you need help? Who's in there with you? Is someone bothering you, uh, miss? Phil? Is Phil in there with you?" Where the heck was Phil?
"No, no, no! I don't need no help and I'm talking to you, you big, dumb, lump-ass! Get out of here, Mike! Go home!" Boy, she really sounded upset, but somehow the distress kept coming through a layer of kitten- like sexiness in her voice.
Mike did not want to leave the lovely damsel locked in the tower room, even if it was by her own choice. "Do I know you?" Surely he would have remembered such a cupcake if she numbered among his conquests and acquaintances. "You know my name, what's yours?" he ventured.
"Uh," inside the bathroom, Phil stammered mentally. She wanted to give Mike her name; she wanted desperately to tell Mike who she was; she wanted to open the door and throw herself into Mike's arms and unload the whole heartbreaking problem on him.
Right.
"Get a hold of yourself, kid," she warned herself. And so she did, both arms wrapped around her body, just under the overlarge titties. What could she tell her oldest and best friend, a man she loved as dearly as the brother she never had...whoa up, don't go there! She danced from one foot to another in her frustration, her titties jiggling in her self-embrace and her fat little round butt jouncing slightly.
"Just...just go away," she finally managed.
Mike decided to feign deafness. "I'm sorry, honey, I can't hear you through the door. Do you know where Phil is? Has the crud abandoned you here? Wha'd he do, go out for pizza?"
Phil felt her eyes filling up with tears. Her boobies bounced again as she wiped her face with both hands. "Oh, Mike!" she wailed. "You don't understand! Can't you just go away?"
Mike felt the teeniest bit guilty about not obeying the lady's request, but, after all, what could Phil do for such a delectable dish that Mike couldn't do better? "I'm not leaving until you tell me your name, honey." He grinned. "And preferably your phone number. I'm standing out here kicking myself 'cause you remember me and I can't believe that I don't remember you!"
A sudden thought occurred to him. "Say, did I know you years ago? Like when we were little kids?" That would explain why she recognized him and he didn't recognize her. He combed his memory for likely little girls who had disappeared from his life over the years. "We knew each other like back in the sixth grade, huh?"
Phil shrugged at the door, then grimaced; even shrugging felt weird. Well, it was true, they had known each other since the sixth grade when Mike's parents moved into the area and took the house just three doors away. "M-maybe?" she ventured.
"Alright!" Mike thought some more. A natural blonde --he had glimpsed the exclamation point during her flight up the stairs-- who might have turned into a bombshell but who he hadn't seen in years long enough that her best characteristics had not had time to develop? "Angela?" he guessed "Phil's cousin, Angela? Is that you, Angie?" Mike vaguely remembered a slender blonde girl his age who had stayed with Phil's family for a month or so, along with her rather pneumatic mother, back in the summer before high school started.
Phil grimaced, surprised. Maybe Mike had something. Angela was in New York, well, supposedly. Actually she had dropped out of high school a few years ago and no one in the family had heard from her since. Angela was the daughter of Phil's father's first cousin, Deborah the much-married. Deborah, who had died and left Angela in the care of disinterested paternal relatives about which Phil new little.
Phil's head spun. I've got to be someone, she told herself. "Angel," she said out loud, inspired by her sudden audacity. "Call me Angel." She hadn't said she was Angela, but she hadn't said she wasn't. Coming so near to lying made Phil, Angel, want to squirm. Was lying a mortal sin?
She wasted a moment vaguely wishing that she had been raised Catholic so she would have a better idea of just what pitfalls she might be treading near. Then she called out with false confidence. "Hi, Mike. Gosh, I haven't seen you since, oh, five or six minutes ago." She laughed, or giggled, really, a sound that startled her with its apparent merriment.
Mike laughed. His heart leaped in his chest, he did know her! Shy, quiet, skinny little Angela had turned into the voluptuous, if slightly spooked, Angel he had seen on the stairs. And she was Phil's cousin! He wouldn't be poaching on his little buddy's preserve if he tried to get better acquainted. Mike was very glad. What a cute, saucy, little laugh she had!
"Angel, how have you been? Come out where I can get a better look at you!" Oh, yes. Mike felt the stirring of his lust at the thought of a better view of what he had glimpsed of this Angel. Down, boy, he warned himself. She's practically family, be nice.
"Mike!" Angel giggled again, this time with a hiccup in the middle of it. "I don't --hic-- don't have any clothes in here."
"You were wearing Phil's t-shirt?"
"Uh-huh, hic!"
"Where are your clothes?" Mike had not seen any girl's clothes lying around downstairs but he glanced back down to the living room anyway. Just the little pile of Phil's pants, socks, shoes and boxers. Huh?
"I wish --hic-- I could tell you!" Angel dodged the question. "Oh, hic, darn! Now, I've got the hiccups. Hic."
"Have you been crying?" asked Mike.
The solicitation in his voice almost made her open the door. "Yes, hic, and I'm going to cry again if you don't go away!" Sniffle. "Hic."
She sounded like a heartbroken child. Mike wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. "Where the hell is Phil?" he asked.
"Probably," she nodded lugubriously. "Hic. Gone. Hic. I don't know where."
"Did somebody just dump you here, naked, Angel?" It was the only explanation Mike could think of.
"More or less. Hic." The hiccups were making it hard to think; Angel feared that she would say or agree to something that would end with she and Mike roasting slowly over some fiery pit in Hell while the Devil in Drag rode a tank down Santa Monica Boulevard like some macabre Prom Queen Hitler. Shaking her head a little at that image, she got herself a glass of water from the tap and tried to drink it slowly. "Hic."
"What have you gotten yourself into, Angel?" Mike was a bit worried. Drugs? Porno movies? Prostitution? Angel? "Angel?"
"You wouldn't, hic, wouldn't believe me if I, hic, told you, Mike. Really, I'd rather, hic, rather not. It's kind of embarrassing." The water was doing absolutely no good. "Hic."
"Hold your breath and count to ten," Mike ordered. "So, did Phil go after the guy who dropped you off here? I hope the idiot doesn't get hurt."
"So do I! Hic! Oh, Mike, don't make me lie to you, just, hic, go away."
"You keep saying that but I'm not leaving, you know."
"I know, hic. You always were twice as stubborn."
"As who?" Mike smiled, she did remember him, alright.
"As God! I guess! Hic! Just...!" She took a deep breath with a hiccup in the middle. "Mike, I'm naked in here, I can't come out until you leave!"
Mike nodded. "I'll go downstairs and get you some sugar and a paper bag."
Sugar and a paper bag, she wondered? "Stay down there. Hic. In the kitchen."
You couldn't see the stairs or balcony from the kitchen. "Okay, doll." Mike agreed. "Wear that t-shirt and wrap a towel around yourself. Maybe you can find something to wear in Phil's mom's stuff. But she's taller and, uh, bigger than you."
"Ma-Marian is fat, I don't think her stuff will fit. Hic." It felt strange to call her, his mother by her first name. Why did she do it?
"You might have better luck with some of Phil's baggy shorts or something. I can't believe he offered you a pair of his boxers." Mike shook his head.
"I can't either," she feigned agreeing. "Now go downstairs! Hic! And let me find something to wear."
Mike ka-lumped down the stairs and hid in the kitchen, resisting the urge to peek when he heard the bathroom door open. "Down boy," he told his crotch, "we're thinking up here." Granulated sugar to swallow dry and paper bags to put over one's head were old hiccup remedies and he got them ready.
"Wowza," he sighed, mentally anticipating seeing the lovely Angel again. Then, "Wonder what kind of trouble she's gotten herself into?"
Upstairs, Angel was wondering the same thing. With Phil's t-shirt covering her tits and a towel wrapped as an impromptu skirt she dashed out of the bathroom and, more from habit than anything else, into his, her own room. "How am I going to get rid of Mike now that he thinks he knows me? What am I going to tell him happened to Phil? What happens if he tries to kiss me? Why in the world did I think of that?"
The room of the nineteen-year-old boy she used to be seemed bigger. It made her feel very young and vulnerable. And feeling vulnerable made her think of Mike. Mike had always been her, his protector through grade school. Always bigger, stronger, faster, more confident than his classmates, not just Phil, but all the other kids their age. Mike had been the hero and Phil had been the sidekick in a series of adventures stretching back more than seven years.
Angel discarded the towel and sat disconsolately at the computer desk. "Now I've gone from Tonto to Jane," she sniffed. She glared down at her breasts, swelling under the t-shirt; the nipples were stiff and very visible and -- sort of itchy. "You two are being no help at all! Hic! Every time I even think about Mike you stand up and salute. What else has the Devil done to me?"
Suddenly, she knew. Right in front of her on a little bookshelf built into the desk sat Phil's technical computer manuals. None of the visible titles made any sense to her at all. The lettering might as well have been Greek, Hebrew or Chinese. "I-it's impossible," she gasped. Grabbing one of the books she opened it at random, realizing as she did so that she wasn't even sure which way to open the book or which direction the mysterious symbols inside should be read.
Nor could she read the digital clock built into the telephone. The computer keyboard was covered in strange glyphs, runes of unknown purpose. The Dilbert desk calendar she recognized only because of the familiarity of the strip characters and a memory of Phil having owned such a calendar. "This gets worse and worse! How can God have allowed her to do this to me? It's -- it's just fiendish!" Not a book or a piece of printing in the room made the slightest sense to her.
She felt her voice rising but panic is a form of insanity and the terms of the bet would not allow her to go crazy. Phil's education had included enough information that Angel knew that reading, writing, even speech and memory were physically based. "If she can do this what else has she done to me?" she sighed, unaware that she was repeating what she had said only moments before.
"Angel?" The voice came through the door. At first, she thought it might be God again but the shout was Mike, calling up the stairs. "Angel? Phil's back and he brought you some clothes!"
"He what!" She bounced to her feet and almost ran out onto the balcony wearing nothing but Phil's t-shirt. What stopped her was she seemed to have forgotten which way to swing the door.
Phil? Out there? How? She was going to have to stop asking such stupid questions, she realized.
"The Devil he is," she muttered.
What the hell is the Devil planning?
The Devil in Drag
by Lainie Lee
Chapter IV
"Accusations"
"That's gorgeous!" Mike exclaimed.
"I thought you'd like it." The Devil who looked like Phil snickered. He waltzed around the room holding the abbreviated orange dress against himself like a slowdance partner. "Good thing Angel told me her size and they had something this nice at K-Mart." Actually, the Devil knew "Angel's" sizes perfectly, since he had transformed the real Phil into the voluptuous Angel upstairs.
"What the heck happened, how did she get here with no clothes to wear?" Mike asked. He still remembered the glimpse he had got of shapely legs, rounded tushie and little golden bush flying up the stairs.
The ersatz Phil smiled at a private joke. "Well, she's already told me three different stories. So I don't know what to believe. But apparently her -- boyfriend -- or sometimes she calls him her MANAGER -- well, he just dumped her here with nothing on. They had some kind of big fight from what I understand. Something he wanted her to do and she wouldn't or vice versa."
"But -- naked?"
"Yeah, well, apparently she was naked when the fight started and he just dragged her out and threw her in the car and dumped her on my lawn. She'd told him she had relatives here, so.... She's got bruises on her arms where he manhandled her."
* * *
Upstairs, Angel yelped and rubbed her upper arms. Where had these bruises come from, she wondered?
* * *
The Devil amplified his tale. "I think she twisted her ankle, too and she landed kind of hard, right on her tail bone when he pulled her out of the car." Phil's face looked sympathetic but the Devil's eyes danced with delight.
"What kind of -- bastard! -- does something like that to a girl!" Mike grimaced, he'd like to get his hands on anyone who could hurt someone like Angel.
* * *
"Ow!" Angel rubbed her derriere, then limped over to the mirror and tried to see what had caused THAT sharp pain. "It must be the Devil doing this! She's, he's beating me up by remote control!" she whimpered.
* * *
"She's up in your room," Mike said. "Trying to find something to wear."
"None of my stuff is going to fit HER," said the Devil. "She's built like a porn star." Mike winced at the description but his crotch throbbed, remembering the glimpse he had had on the stairs. "I think she's even had breast implants and body -whatchacallit-- sculpting." The Devil judged the effect of his words on Mike carefully.
* * *
"Oh! No!" Angel wailed, as her already large breasts swelled again, adding at least three inches to her bust measurement. Her waist shrank a bit more, her classic figure had become something more like a wet dream.
Angel realized she was gaping at her own reflection. She reached up and touched the newly enlarged breasts and grimaced. Not that it felt bad to touch them, but that they were there at all.
* * *
"I'd better take up this dress and these panties." The Devil waved the dress again, having subtly altered it to Angel's new and improved dimensions, and picked up the package of pink nylon panties he had also brought. Not from K- Mart but there was no way a mortal could tell that.
"Let me take it up to her," said Mike anxiously.
Phil's face smiled and the Devil's green eyes gleamed. "You wanna get another look at her, huh? Think she's gonna let you in while she's naked?" He snickered.
"No, I well, I just want to have talk to her again. She remembered me from junior high. Boy, has she changed!" He shook his head, smiling.
"Boy, is she ever not a boy!" the Devil agreed, still smirking. He handed the items to Phil's best friend. "Gonna use that famous charm, Mike? You gonna have those panties off her again, quicker than a fastball tossed at Sammy leaves Wrigley Field?"
Mike smiled. "Maybe. She's an old friend and she's in trouble. I'm just trying to be nice."
"Yeah, right."
Taking the items, Mike headed for the stairs. "Really," he said. "Don't you think she needs a friend?"
"Uh, huh," agreed the Devil. "A shoulder to cry on. Or something. Just be careful, Mike. She's not little innocent Angela from the seventh grade, you know. She's been living on the streets doing who knows what for the last four years."
"Poor baby. Now she gets thrown out by whoever took her in. Naked." He sighed. The memory of those flashing thighs did not exactly inspire pity but he tried manfully to push his baser motivations back down. He really wanted to try to help Angel, he told himself. Really.
The Devil watched him go, then turned to wink triumphantly at the Royal Oak Combination Ceiling Fan and Chandelier.
* * *
Upstairs Angel debated finding something heavy and waiting for the Devil to stick his head into the room. Then she realized that it really would be HIS head, Phil's own head. The one she, he used to look at in the mirror every morning or an unreasonable facsimile. Could she really cold cock someone who looked exactly like her old body.
Paralyzed with indecision while considering this, she almost leaped across the room when the knock came at the door.
"It's me. Mike."
"Go away."
"Angel, I brought you some clothes. Phil went to K-Mart and got you some clothes, remember."
She considered. "What kind of clothes?"
"A dress and some panties."
"A dress!" Angel wanted to scream but restrained herself. A dress. She was going to have to wear a dress! "Couldn't I have some pants?"
"Uh, he didn't bring any pants. He said you said it would be harder to find the right size."
"I didn't say that! I-" Angel stopped herself. What could she say, what could she do? The Devil was playing this hand out. She felt helpless.
She looked down at herself and sighed. Of course, if the Devil was going to furnish clothing for this body it would likely be sexy clothing. Then again, with this body, she would probably look sexy wrapped in an old dog blanket. Th
"Can I open the door far enough to leave the clothes?" Mike asked.
"I'll open the door," she said quickly. "You just hand the stuff to me." She moved to block the door with her naked body then carefully eased it open, into the room, careful to keep the door between her and Mike.
"Thank you," she said automatically, taking the orange dress and package of panties. Then she happened to glance up because Mike had said nothing back. The mirror on the back of Phil's closet door clearly showed Mike's face through the opening.
If she could see Mike then.... Mike goggled at her. Squealing, dropping the clothing she slammed all her weight against the bedroom door, trapping Mike's arm inside the room. "Pervert!" she tried to snarl but she realized that her body had responded to Mike's gaze, her nipples had crinkled up and her twat felt hot. She couldn't have enjoyed being looked at, she just couldn't!
"Ow! Ow!" Mike yelped. "Angel, please let me get my arm out." He pushed at the door, surprised that it yielded and swung wide open.
Angel fell back, suddenly unbalanced and astonished at how easily Mike overcame her best effort at holding the door closed. The carpet impacted on her round butt in the exact same place the Devil had previously magicked up a bruise. Tears came immediately to her eyes and she cried out.
Quickly Mike stepped into the room and knelt beside her. "Angel!" He moved to lift her up. "Are you hurt?"
Mike bending over her seemed enormous, much bigger than she remembered him being and Angel gasped again. She tried to turn away from him but the details of his appearance rushed at her like the mythical flashbacks to the sixties her mother accused her father of having.
His eyes were neither hazel, nor grey but had flecks of every color in them. The lashes were long and dark. His brows were even and thick. His hair fell in curls around strong cheekbones. His wide mouth was smiling and the dimple in his chin was aimed right between her eyes.
The tears leaked down her face as the physical attraction she felt for her oldest and best friend beat at her defenses. She nodded, not sure what she was agreeing to; Mike had asked a question but she had no idea what it was.
"You are hurt." Decisively, Mike bent his knees and easily lifted her from the floor. She felt tiny, weak, helpless, childish. Her nipples crinkled again, even harder, and something wet and warm seemed ready inside her. She whimpered as he laid her on the bed.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked.
She smiled. Blood roared in her ears. "No. I-" she didn't know what to say.
"Do you need a doctor?"
"No. Mike."
"Yes?" He looked at her. Blonde hair spilled on Phil's coverlet, lush body exposed to his view; she was making no effort to cover herself. Her eyes were bluer than the skies over the mountains. Her lips, full and red. Her breasts, so large and fine and perfectly shaped above a tiny waist.... He jerked his gaze back to her face. His own reactions were about to betray his lust.
She sat up suddenly and snatched at the edge of the coverlet to try to draw it over her. "Get out of here, Mike!" she pleaded.
"I'm going, I'm going." He stumbled backward, remembering just in time to turn and not step on the new clothing on his way out. He shut the door behind him.
Standing in the hallway, he remembered a scene from the Godfather. When Michael Corleone first saw the young woman in Italy and fell instantly in love. A character in the movie had called it "the thunderbolt." Mike felt sure he had been struck by the thunderbolt.
But he could still hear her crying inside the room.
* * *
Downstairs, the Devil cursed. Somewhere flowers died and dogs howled, but Satan translocated the side effects to avoid disturbing his plans in this neighborhood. "I may have to take more direct action," he murmured.
"Why couldn't he have just taken her then and there! She wanted him to!"
"Michel is a good boy. Besides, what's your hurry?" asked the Royal Oak Combination Ceiling Fan and Chandelier. "You've got plenty of time." The voice sounded amused.
"Eternity is all very well and good for You," said the Devil in Phil's voice. "But patience is a virtue I lack."
"I know."
The Devil paused and glared upward a moment. "Of course, You do, You're omniscient, says so right on the label." Phil's face wasn't really used to the snarling expression that crossed the Devil's face and it made him look totally unlike Phil.
Mike, coming into the room just then was a bit taken aback. "You ok, old buddy?"
"Yeah, yeah," the Devil said. "Sure. So, how'd it go?" The Devil knew but of course Phil wouldn't so the Devil had to dissemble.
"Okay," said Mike. He looked thoughtfully back up the stairs. "That is one troubled girl, Phil. Something is really got to her, I think she was actually afraid of me." He looked back at his friend's face, his own puzzlement and hurt showing.
"Well, look, hey, Mike?" said the Devil. "Do you think you could stay here with her? While I go take care of another errand? I mean I wouldn't want her to pawn the silverware or anything while I'm gone. Hah?"
"Sure, I guess." Mike's heart took a little leap. "And she wouldn't do anything like that, Phil. But weren't we going to go see a movie?"
"Nah. I don't think I'll go." Leering, the Devil planted another idea. "And it'll give you some time alone. Just the two of you. Here in the house. Alone. Huh?"
Mike grinned, used to being twitted for his supposed prowess with the ladies. "Okay, okay. Go on, I'll stay. Maybe after she's dressed, she will want to go to the movies."
Phil's body moved to the door to the garage. "Sure, you could take her to the Pussycat to catch the early show." The Devil used Phil's teeth to grin at Mike again, one last time as it turned out.
"The Pussycat! That's the...," Mike didn't finish the sentence. The Pussycat was the porno theater in town, often closed when the city council could find some violation or other. He blushed to think of taking Angel to such a place, then turned and looked thoughtfully back toward the stairs and some of the things the Devil had said before sank in.
* * *
The Devil slipped out the back door and took the steps into the garage all at once. "Nothing like being a teenager again to make one feel young and restless," he said to no one in particular. Chortling, he slid behind the wheel of the neat little sedan Phil's parents had bought for their son to drive.
Laughing out loud, the Devil tooled the little car out of the driveway and onto the street. Cackling like a fiend, he disappeared around the corner, still accelerating, his foot pressed leadenly to the floor. He was literally driving like a cliche.
* * *
Upstairs, Angel dried her eyes and contemplated the orange dress, her future and the possibility of ending it all. It seemed like the only way out of an impossible situation. But...how could she commit suicide in the face of sure knowledge of the existence of both God and the Devil? And presumably, both Heaven and Hell.
She sighed. Even without the certainty, she didn't think she could do it, it just wasn't in her. Phil might not have been raised in a particularly religious household but his parents had given him a morality that went deeper than words on a page or hymns in a book. Angel, though her body was different, felt the same strong moral urgings. Besides, wouldn't the Devil win if she killed herself?
Or would he?
If she did kill herself, kill Angel, would the Devil continue to live her life, Phil's life? Surely not. "Can I kill myself, when I'm not myself?" An absurd supposition predicated on a ridiculous premise, certainly, but what would happen if Angel were dead and Phil still alive? She smiled hesitantly, would it work? Could it work?
Would she get her own body back if she killed Angel? Something very much like a counterfeit of hope surged within her? But... could she actually do it?
The sound of a roaring engine pulled her out of her despondent reverie. Some maniac on the street outside tortured his engine and tires, perhaps for the last time. She shook her head. "There goes an accident looking for a place to happen," she said, using one of Phil's father's phrases.
Reposted form 2005-04-20
A very short lesson in home economics, sort of.
Threading the Needle
by Lainie Lee
"Where did you learn to sew?"
"My mother taught me. And I can't sew, putting a button back on isn't sewing, it's mending."
"Whatever."
"Hold still."
"Weren't you a guy back then?"
"I guess so, a sissy little boy, at least. Would you believe it better if I said my drill sergeant taught me?"
"He did?"
"Sort of. My mom and my aunts and my drill sergeant."
"All at the same time?"
"No, silly. Hold still or I'll sew this button to your chest instead of your shirt."
"What's sewing if what you're doing isn't sewing?"
"Sewing is like making a dress from cloth and a pattern. I remember going with Mom to the yard goods stores and looking at all the patterns. I wish I could sew."
"This looks like sewing."
"It's not, it's just putting on a button. I helped Mom sew some when I was little."
"You were a boy and you helped your mom with the sewing? Didn't you get teased about it."
"Some, but we didn't tell anyone."
"Were you any good at it?"
"Sew sew."
"You should thank me for setting that one up for you."
"Hold still, look this seam is ripped, too. Take off the pants, you ought to know you're too old to go skate boarding. Losing buttons and ripping your pants at your age."
"Yeah. Yeah. You learned to nag from your mother, too."
"And my drill sergeant."
"I believe that."
"I need blue thread, this time. Are you actually getting a boner watching me mend stuff?"
"There's something very erotic about a woman threading a needle."
"Hush. Your spoiling my aim."
"Mmm."
"I can't--fix your pants--with you doing that!"
"Fuck the pants."
"You're going to get poked with this needle."
"No, you are."
"That's not a needle."
"I'm the thread, you're the needle. The thread goes in here."
"Ack! Wait, stop. Let me put this down. Or one of us really will get poked."
"You."
"No, you."
"Ow."
"See, told you."
"Fuck."
"Isn't that what we're going to do?"
"I'm not bleeding am I?"
"No, silly, that was the blunt end. Now, really, if we're--let me!"
"Rrrr."
"You nut. Is this why you like me to wear skirts?"
"One reason. A good one. Two other reasons are you've got nice legs."
"I like your reasoning."
"Don't giggle. It throws off my aim."
"It's just like threading a needle, it's better to bring the needle to the thread. And some times you have to lick the thread to make it stiff."
"That's not something else your mother taught you, is it?"
"Well, no. But my drill sergeant...."
"Don't make me laugh now, girl."
"Okay."
"Ah."
"Ooo."
Earth has been invaded, and no one has noticed...
Being shipped off to war is not the worst thing that could happen to a person...
Poison?
by Lainie Lee
PVT Gerald Jones made it back to his barracks, still feeling sick. He shouldn’t have drunk so much but in two more days, he would get on a plane and fly to Viet Nam. So why not get drunk every chance he had? And in the last place he'd been, no one would let him even buy a drink but kept pushing whiskey and cocktails at him until the bartender had cut him off and told him to go back to base.
Officially, he wasn't even old enough to drink anywhere off base, but no one begrudged a soldier in greens on his way to kill or be killed. He swallowed a mouthful of something nasty and decided to get a drink of water from the fountain next to the door of his barracks. He rinsed his mouth twice, but he could still taste the sourness of too much alcohol and the bitterness of bile.
Good thing he’d thrown up in the gutter at the bus stop and not on the company lawn. Before going upstairs, he stopped in the latrine to throw up again, careful to not get any vomit on his shoes or clothes or the floor. It was only a transit company, but the CO could still put a guy on KP ten hours a day if someone messed up. Gerald wiped the toilet ring with paper and flushed that, too. He'd done most of his growing up in foster care and orphanages and habits of keeping things clean to avoid trouble ran deep.
He glanced in the mirror below the dim latrine nightlight; he couldn't see anything but his bright blue eyes, already bloodshot. His Army issue black-rimmed glasses were in his jacket pocket because he hadn't wanted them to get lost while drinking but he only needed them for close work like reading or reassembling an M-16. "I sure do look drunk," told himself, smiling, before heading up the stairs to the cubicle he called home for his three days in the transit company.
The stairs were steep and dark, but he managed to navigate. He should have taken his shoes off downstairs and carried them; he would make less noise that way. Too late for that but at least his bunk was right at the top of the stairs, just past the dayroom. These old wooden barracks creaked and groaned like some of the houses his aunts had lived in back in Louisiana.
His bunkmate, Jack Smoot, hadn’t come back yet, but he could hear some guys snoring in other cubbies. Walking around quietly in the dark took some care, but he reached his bed without obviously disturbing anyone. Nearly a miracle considering how drunk he was. He clapped a hand over his mouth not to laugh out loud at that thought.
The little twenty-five-watt bulb at the top of the stairs gave just enough light in his cubbie for him to find the door to his locker. He hadn’t left anything in it, keeping his valuables in the packed duffel in the footlocker, so he didn’t have to mess with a combination lock in the dark.
Think ahead, he told himself, if you’re going to get drunk, plan on getting drunk. He choked off another snicker at his own fatuous thoughts. Opening the locker as quietly as he could manage, he took out some black wire hangers and lay them on his bed.
He didn’t want to sleep in his dress greens in case the transit company CO pulled an inspection or something. Thinking ahead, he undressed in the dark and stowed his clothes and shoes in the locker. He put his little foldable garrison cap on the shelf above his uniform. The other guys called it something obscene and again he had to stifle laughter.
Someone somewhere in the room called out a name when he made a tiny noise closing the locker door. He paused in the dark, trying not to make any noise at all so whoever had roused up would go back to sleep. He swayed gently in the drunken darkness, but he didn't notice. After half a minute of quiet, he decided to climb into bed. Late June in Oakland, California wasn’t particularly cold, but it wasn’t warm either.
Clean sheets and a warm wool blanket sounded very good, and soon he had snuggled down into his bunk with his pillow wrapped around his ears so he wouldn’t hear if anyone else came in late or got up to go to the latrine. He kept his black dress socks on because, at a couple inches over six feet, he usually ended up sleeping with feet sticking off the bed, getting cold.
He lay in the dark, his head still spinning a bit from the beer and whiskey, but he couldn’t stop thinking. Two more days, or technically, just one since it must be early Wednesday morning by now and his plane would leave Oakland at 4:40 a.m. on Thursday. He felt very strange about that.
Life had changed a lot in the six months since he’d reported to the Los Angeles bus station on a similar early Thursday morning. Now he might have not much more than 24 hours left in the United States before he flew halfway around the world where he would be given a rifle and told who to shoot at.
And they would shoot back, trying to kill him, just as he would try to kill them because war was like that. He did not want to kill anyone, and he did not want to die, but he knew that he might not come home again. He tried to think about something else, so he could go to sleep which had really been the reason for going out and getting drunk.
The Army was sure a different way of living, he thought. Different from growing up as he had, but maybe not that much. When to get up, when to eat, when to go to bed; in the Army, they even told you what to wear, but he had lived according to other people's rules since his parents and sisters had been killed in a hurricane when he was only six. Happenstance and unreliable relatives had caused him to end up living in Southern California for most of the last ten years, and his occasional visits back to Louisiana convinced him that it was better that way.
At least, in the Army, he wasn't missing any meals; he had, in fact, gained weight during Basic and Advanced Infantry Training. Despite the drill instructors ragging on him for not having lost all his baby fat, he felt and looked good. All his clothes were new issue, to fit the new slightly larger self, from green G.I. boxers out, including the combat fatigues and jungle boots packed away in his duffel. And they all fit, wonder of wonders. He’d gotten used to the way the gear he’d been issued in basic had not fit after he gained twenty pounds of muscle running up and down hills carrying his rifle and full pack and yelling “Bravo Team, move out!”
A dozen or so of the guys he’d gone through training with would be getting on the same plane early Thursday morning. His buddies. Maybe they’d all be assigned to the same unit in Viet Nam and could watch out for each other. The four guys he’d gone drinking with had all been together since induction, but he’d caught a late bus back to the barracks when they had decided to pay a cab driver to find them some whores.
Gerald just didn’t have a taste for whores; the thought didn't even appeal to him. He could never stop thinking that even a girl like that might have brothers and how would those guys feel if he took advantage of her need for money?
He had no girl of his own at home; he didn't even really have a home. He'd enlisted almost right out of high school, as soon as he had turned eighteen, leaving his most recent foster family with mutual relief. Juanita Parker, the last girl he had dated, would graduate from high school right about the time he got back from Viet Nam. Maybe he could look her up if he got back….
Damn. The very thing he had tried not to think about....
But the distraction had worked well enough; he fell asleep before he could start worrying again.
* * *
Sometime later, deeper in the night, Gerald woke up, cold and shivering. He felt drunker than he had when he’d reached the barracks, and now cramps wracked his arms, his legs, and his belly. He’d kicked the cover off, apparently, and lay there, cold and sick in just his G.I. drawers, olive green t-shirt and black dress socks, all of them soaked in sweat.
He almost fell, getting out of bed, the room spinning again. Wrapping the scratchy wool Army blanket around him for warmth, he staggered toward the stairs, hoping to make it down to the latrine before he got sick. Or had some other sort of messy accident, he thought, feeling his guts roil inside him.
Four steps from the bottom of the stairs, he tripped on his loose socks and fell into the little foyer between the latrine and the ground floor bunk room; his head and then somehow his feet banging against the barrack door.
“Sh, sh,” he said and added, “Ow.” He tried to lay there for a minute to get his wind and balance back, but gurgles inside him compelled him to crawl down the three more steps to the concrete-floored latrine lest he puke on the pine boards of the entryway.
Another 25-watt bulb hung over one of the sinks in the G.I. bathroom, enough light so he could see that the room was empty. It was dark; it was cold; he rubbed his arms in an effort to warm himself up, wondering vaguely if his skin was really as smooth as it felt at the moment.
He lay there wondering if he should try to wake someone up, now. Maybe he needed to go to the clinic. Food poisoning? He’d never had food poisoning, but whatever was wrong with him felt worse than the flu he’d had back in junior high. His head throbbed and not just from where he had collided with the door.
He doubted if he could stand up at all for the knotted pain in his belly. I shouldn’t have been worried about going to 'Nam, he thought. I’m going to die right here on the bathroom floor. Struggling, weak and dizzy, he tried to sit up or at least crawl closer to one of the toilets. More cramps wracked his body, and nasty fluids came out of his mouth, his ass and every pore in his skin. Slime ran off him like dirty slush melting off mudflaps in a thaw.
The smell hit him then, and even more misery forced its way up his throat. His teeth felt loose. Everything reeked of rotting meat and rancid grease. I don’t smell like I’m dying, he thought, I smell like I’m dead.
“Help,” he tried to call out, but he couldn’t be sure he had made a sound at all. “Help me,” he struggled to make enough noise that someone would hear him. “Poison,” he whispered before he passed out.
* * *
After a sixty dollar taxi ride, Jack Smoot and the other guys finally admitted to themselves that they weren’t going to find any whores after midnight in Oakland, at least not ones that didn’t look scarier than a drill sergeant’s shiny boots.
Disappointed and relieved at the same time, they directed the cab driver to take them back to base.
“Ain’t gonna let me in this late, I’m-a have to drop you off at the main gate,” the cabbie warned, his Puerto Rico accent worn smooth by thirty years in California.
“Yeah, yeah,” they agreed. Anything to get closer to a nice warm bunk, even a lonely bunk by this time.
The driver smiled. He had a nice fare, and he’d shown these boys the worst Oakland had to offer precisely to get them back to their barracks before they got in trouble for missing roll call in the morning.
“Now, doan you let them Military Po-lice think you is drunk going in the gate,” he told them as they clambered out half a block from the guard post.
“Yeah, yeah,” they agreed, too tired to point out that the M.P.s wouldn’t just think they were drunk — it would be impossible to think that they weren’t.
After only a customary amount of hassle at the gate, the young G.I.s were directed to their barracks and told that reveille would be at 0515, and they had less than three hours to get some sleep and look alive for roll call at 0530.
Twenty minutes later, after hiking across the base, they staggered through the door and down the three cement steps to the concrete floor of the latrine. They had all puked themselves out during stops on the cab ride, but now they needed to piss.
“Holy shit!” one of them whispered in the dimness. “It smells like something died in here.”
“Fuck!” said a second, a little louder than he had intended. “There’s a body on the floor!”
“Help me,” the sodden lump moaned. “Poison.”
Jack, a bit braver than the other boys knelt and pulled the reeking G.I. blanket away from the body. “It’s a girl!” he squeaked.
“Holy fucking shit,” said another of the soldiers, uttering a trifecta of profane, obscene vulgarity.
"She's alive," said Jack wonderingly.
"Don't touch her," said one of his buddies. "Anyone who smells like that is not going to live till morning."
There's drunk, there's passed-out drunk and then there's so drunk that even a cold shower won't keep you awake....
Drunk?
by Lainie Lee
Master Sergeant Lawrence Polk chose that moment to wander in from his room at the other end of the barracks. A 22-year veteran of “this man’s Army” Polk did not feel it necessary to abide by the unspoken rule that no one turned on the lights in the latrine before reveille. He had no intention of blundering around in the dimness created by the tiny nightlight, banging his knees on the plumbing.
He flipped the heavy, old-fashioned switch near the steps and blinked in surprise to see four G.I.s in dress greens standing around something that looked like a pile of shit and garbage containing the mostly naked body of a girl wrapped in a thoroughly soiled Army blanket. The room, he noticed, smelled like barbecued pig shit.
“Is she dead?” he asked. He had no idea what was going on but the most important question seemed to be just how much trouble were these boys in.
The newly minted privates blinked at him, paralyzed by the sight of his grizzled curls and skinny shanks. Polk was a very dark-skinned African-American and only his looming darkness really saved him from looking ridiculous. He'd practiced looming for two decades and had gotten very good at it for a man who stood less than six-feet-tall and weighed no more than 170.
The soldier holding the blanket dropped it back across the girl who at that moment proved she wasn’t quite dead by muttering, “Poison,” again.
Polk took care of some urgent business at the urinal then sauntered over to look at the evidence. He’d never seen a girl dressed in G.I. boxers, a green t-shirt and black dress socks soaked in what appeared to be every possible disgusting bodily fluid imaginable — except blood. No blood. The girl groaned.
“Why haven’t you boys got this girl out of here yet?” he asked, testing his jaw for soreness. Earlier in the evening, he had celebrated the imminent beginning of his third tour in Southeast Asia in the customary pub crawl that ended with the traditional fist fight. Some Navy petty officer was going to wake up with a black eye and Polk felt magnanimously protective of his boys in green because he had already done such a good job of protecting them from squidly aspersions cast on their honor.
“We found her here,” said one boy.
“Like this,” said another.
“Just now,” agreed a third.
Making a command decision, Polk bent to pick the girl up, the blanket wrapped around her to keep himself from getting slimed. “Bring some towels and see if you can find her clothes,” he ordered. “I’m going to wash this shit off of her.” He headed toward the back of the latrine. “Scoop all that crap up and flush it down the toilets, then get a mop and mop up. And you," he pointed at Jack with his chin, "go to my room to get me some dry underwear and a pair of pants,” he added before stepping into the shower room.
The boys hurried to obey, relieved to have someone in charge.
* * *
Sergeant Polk had the girl washed off by the time the boys returned with towels. She seemed marginally awake after the cold water hit her though still monumentally drunk. Her hair hung in limp dark-brown ropes across her breasts and shoulders. She shivered a bit and peered owlishly around, looking bewildered or maybe just really, really drunk.
“Couldn’t find her clothes anywhere, Sarge,” Jack reported. “Nobody else is awake. I brought a sheet, though.” He didn’t mention that he had ripped it off the empty bunk of Gerald Jones, his cubbie-mate. Jack couldn't take his eyes off the naked girl, neither could the other boys.
“‘M cold,” she whimpered, trying to burrow into Polk’s side.
The sergeant had a teen-age daughter living with his ex-wife back in Texas and restrained himself with not much difficulty. She's built like a brick shit house with gables and flying buttresses, he noted to himself, with some amusement. Aloud he said, “We’ll get you taken care of, Miss,” drying her off with vigor.
“Ow!” she complained. “Who are you? Where am Ah? Why are y’all starin’ at me?”
Her voice had the drawl and cadence of the Deep South and might have reminded Jack, at least, of someone else but looking at her standing there in nothing at all was quite enough to take away most males’ ability to think, let alone remember.
Polk glanced up at the four young soldiers standing in an awestruck line. “Ten-hut!” he snapped. “‘Bout face. At ease.”
The boys obeyed, snapping to attention, turning about and relaxing into more casual posture.
“First one of you sneaks another peek is going to drop and give me twenty,” warned Polk. He had to admit looking at the naked girl might be worth twenty push-ups, though.
She had an outstanding figure; a large bust, wide hips, long legs, dark mahogany hair down to her round ass, and the smoothest, fairest complexion he’d ever seen on anyone old enough to go to school. Only her youth and his position of authority kept him from smacking his lips and grinning like a fool.
He folded the sheet into a pseudo-sari and wrapped it around her. “What’s your name, Miss?” he asked in a harsher voice than he had intended.
She stared at him, big blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes, cupid bow mouth half-open showing perfect, and perfectly white, teeth.
“Your name?” he repeated, pulling on the dry pair of pants one of the boys had brought.
She blinked. “Yo’ askin’ me?” She looked confused, tried to get a hand inside the sari he had wrapped and tucked around her and looked even more confused.
Polk shook his head then jumped to catch her as she pitched forward in a faint. She wasn't tiny, but she was no hefty load either. He lifted her easily, fitted her curves into a basket carry and made another command decision.
“Get out of the way,” he ordered, striding between the boys. “I’m going to put her in my bunk for a bit. But we’ve got to get her out of here.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” the boys agreed, perhaps looking a bit envious.
More quiet as he walked down the hall between ground floor cubbies, Polk whispered to the kids still in their dress uniforms following him. “Someone from another barrack must have left her here. They’ve probably still got her clothes.”
“Maybe she still wouldn’t…. You know, after they got her drunk?” one of the boys suggested.
"Did they shit on her just because she wouldn't put out?" asked another of the young men, sounding puzzled and outraged at the same time.
The idea that he might be covering up evidence of a crime by getting the girl out of the barracks almost stopped Polk. This could be more serious than he first thought. Not just someone’s bending of regulations but actual criminal behavior, something someone would likely go to prison for? “Christ,” he muttered, breaking one of his own rules never to use vulgar or profane language in the presence of a woman.
He considered things quickly. If he turned the girl over to the MPs, there would be hell to pay. The least bad thing that would happen would be he would miss his plane back to Viet Nam. So would the boys and maybe everyone in this barracks and the ones on either side.
Most of them wouldn’t mind not reaching a warzone quite as quickly as scheduled but Sgt. Larry Polk wanted to get back in-country where he had a wife and kid waiting for him in Saigon. One the ex-wife and daughter in Texas did not know about.
Much worse things could happen, though. He and the four boys could end up in the stockade, charged with who knows what if no one else could be found to blame for the situation. Bad Conduct Discharges for them, Reduction in Grade for him or even worse; even if the brass believed their stories they might be hung out to dry.
Especially if the girl’s parents had any pull, locally, militarily or politically. He didn’t want that to happen, he had to figure out how to get the girl out of there.
His bunk was one of only three in the barracks that had doors, usually all of them occupied by senior non-coms in transit. The bunkie across from his held two staff sergeants, and the one upstairs had two Specialist 5s but he wasn't sharing his. One of the boys dashed ahead of him to open it. Polk went inside and gently put the girl on the second bed and pulled the blanket off his own to cover her.
She muttered, “Daddy?” without quite waking up.
“Go to sleep, punkin,” he said.
He glared at the boys gathered around his door. “Go on to bed, reveille is mighty early and you’ve got appointments with the Medical Corps.”
“Huh?”
“Shots,” he said, sitting down to put on his socks and shoes.
“We already had shots,” one of the kids protested.
“And you’re going to have more.” He smiled at them. “The one for dengue fever is the only one that really hurts, what are you worried about?”
“Dangy fever?” said the one who squeaked sometimes.
“Get out,” he repeated. “And don’t say anything to anyone about this. I’ll get her off base. Tell Sergeant Carter I stayed in town all night and he’ll cover for me till I get back.” He nodded toward the door across the hall. “Now get out.”
They each took one more glance at the girl-lump under his blanket and left, yawning.
Polk stifled one of his own and reached for his dress shirt. He might have to hijack a jeep but he’d smuggled girls into and out of secure compounds from Santiago, Chile to Wiesbaden, Germany for more than twenty years.
If she woke up enough to tell him where she lived, he’d take her home. If not, he’d stash her in a motel room somewhere.
He tied his tie with practiced ease, glancing again at the girl. Sure a pretty thing, her dark hair spread across the striped tick of the mattress. But he wondered if she had good sense, getting into such a situation. If she were his daughter, he’d be tempted to paddle her if she weren’t obviously too old for that to do much good.
Probably some spoiled rich kid, but if things went well, she’d have no way of coming back at him or even the Army. He slipped into his short Eisenhower jacket, set his garrison cap at an angle and left the room, locking it this time, using his spare combination padlock.
It wouldn’t take him long to promote a vehicle and the road into the city was lined with cheap motels that wouldn’t ask too many questions at the desk. He might even make it back in time for reveille.
She woke up.
Cloudy daylight leaked in around the heavy curtains but even that minimal brightness felt like splinters in her retinas. “Where am Ah?” she asked no one and winced at the sound of her own voice.
Her stomach felt empty, unhappy and vengeful. She tried to ease her way out of bed but she seemed to be wrapped crossways in the sheets and ended up falling out of the bed with a stifled shriek.
She took a minute or so sitting on the cheap carpet to recover her will to care whether she lived or died.
“That hurt,” she complained.
The light no longer felt like torture and she looked around the room. Two beds with a night table between them, a cheap television on a shelf, a chest of drawers and a vanity made of some wood substitute, two chairs, three doors and two windows. “Motel,” she said out loud. “How’d Ah get here?”
Thinking seemed like too much trouble at the moment and she had a more urgent problem. She crawled out of the tangle of sheets, headed for the door that looked like it might lead to a bathroom. There were too many things wrong to think about any one of them except the urgent need to empty her bladder.
Reaching the doorway, she tried to pull herself up but her balance seemed off and she stumbled into the tiled room, almost taking a header into the shower stall. Even in her dazed and confused state, facts began to penetrate.
Holding onto the towel bar she managed to stand up. “Am Ah dreamin’?” she asked herself. She lifted her hand and found one of her breasts and squeezed it lightly. “Oh,” she said. “Ah am havin’ one of those dreams again.” She looked down at herself and tried not to laugh. “They always look so big from this angle.”
She squeezed her thighs together. “Ah gotta pee.” She blinked, a little disconcerted by the feel of thigh against thigh with nothing in between. “Ah’m dreamin’ I need to pee but it feels so real.”
Still, first things first. She sat on the toilet, not because she knew she needed to but because she felt too unsteady to do her business standing up. Liquid came out in a hurry. It felt odd but she sighed with relief. She didn't notice the lingering feel of dampness down there.
Somehow, she made it back to the bed and gratefully crawled between the cheap motel sheets. "Ah'm so drunk, Ah'm talkin' like a country boy,” she muttered, hearing the accent she had lost somewhere around the fourth grade. "And Ah'm havin' a heck of a dream." She giggled, snuggled into the pillow and wrapped one hand around the pointy part of a breast before falling back to sleep.
Waking up is not the hard part...
Jack Smoot barely got half an hour asleep in his bunk before being rousted out by reveille. His roommate, Gerry Jones, still wasn't back yet. Jack rolled out of bed, stumbled through some sort of morning routine, appeared at a very perfunctory roll call and ended up staring at a plate of eggs and potatoes in the mess hall while sleepily stirring his coffee.
The noise in the crowded room pressed on his skull and made his eyeballs hurt. His tongue tasted like an old jockstrap forgotten in the back of a locker. His stomach roiled and rumbled, threatening revolt if he should put anything into it. On the whole, he felt good, he reflected. Good for someone who had spent the evening and most of the night drinking in every bar in Oakland that he and his friends could find open, that is.
His mind shied away from the horror they had found on returning to base. That had turned out better than could be expected with the help of Sergeant Polk. With luck, he would never have to consider the girl lying in the pool of yuck again after this morning after.
He sipped coffee cautiously, stirred in more sugar and sipped again. A part of him worried about Gerry Jones but not actively. He had his own troubles. In less than 48 hours, he would be flying to Viet Nam.
His buddies, as hungover as he was from the night bar-crawling, eventually found him and sat down with their own food and beverage. Vance Moss, the Mormon, was drinking only hot water, but the other two had coffee like Jack.
"How can you drink just hot water?" Jack asked.
"Like this," said Vance, taking a sip from the big mess hall earthenware cup. Vance had never gotten used to coffee; he thought of it as a life lesson, the aroma had great promise, but the taste was always a bitter disappointment. He preferred his hot water.
"Anyone seen Jones?" asked Buddy Randolph, the oldest of them by two years. He glared at his eggs. He didn't like them scrambled, but this mess hall wasn't cooking to order. "Gerry's going to be in trouble for missing roll call and even more trouble if he doesn't show up."
Vance pointed out, "He's already scheduled to go to Viet Nam, what else they gonna do to him?"
Paul Montana reached for the salsa while chopping his sausage into pieces with the edge of his fork. He was a big, Indian-looking kid from New Mexico and nothing he could do to mess hall food made it taste like home but he did like the all-you-can-eat feature. His plate was heaped with eggs, three kinds of meat, both potatoes and oatmeal, toast, a biscuit, tomato slices, and a small bowl of stewed apples. He had a glass of milk and one of juice, too, as well as his richly sugared and creamed coffee.
Paul grunted an agreement with Vance and kept eating.
Nobody else had that much of an appetite, and no one had answered Randolph's question. Buddy asked another, "Anyone seen Sergeant Polk?"
Everyone shrugged or shook their head.
"Did it all really happen?" asked Vance. "Last night?" He looked puzzled, his narrow features wrinkled in concern.
"Did what happen?" asked Buddy.
"Finding the girl in the pile of crap…." He trailed off because Buddy was shaking his head.
"Until we hear different from the Sarge, nothing happened at all last night except we got drunk, came in around three in the morning and hit the sack," Buddy said, looking at each of them.
Everyone nodded or said something affirmative, even Paul who had a mouthful of jelly biscuit.
"Wotta we got to do today?" asked Jack. "I need more sleep."
"Line up for shots at 0800," said Buddy. "Then some kind of orientation at ten, then we're free to sack out except there's an optional, uh, company assembly at 1600 to hear some Congress-critter tell us all how brave we are."
Jack made a rude noise, and Paul almost sprayed oatmeal on the table, trying not to laugh.
"Does he think we're all volunteers?" asked Jack.
"I volunteered," Vance pointed out.
"Not for Viet Nam," said Jack. "You got screwed out of tank school by that paperwork mess-up, Mossy. You ought to be on your way to Germany."
Vance shrugged.
"I ought to be on my way to Taos," said Paul after swallowing. "Got a girl there just got out of school last week. She ain't gonna wait for whatever is left of me to come back from the Nam. She gonna be married and probably knocked up in less than a year."
The other three looked at the vanishing contents of his plate. "Man-Mountain," said Buddy, "there's probably gonna be more of you that comes back than gets on the plane tomorrow if you keep eating like that."
"I hear the food in Nam really sucks," said Paul. "I'm gonna eat all this good American chow while I can."
Jack pushed his plate toward the bigger man. "Eat mine, too, I ain't hungry." Then he asked again, "Has anyone seen Gerry Jones?"
Sergeant Polk carefully opened the door and quietly stepped inside. The girl he had deposited in the bed some hours before on his first trip to the motel was still sleeping. She lay on her side with her face away from the window, her dark hair across the whiteness of the sheet. The draping of the cloth seemed to reveal her shape beneath. It made an erotic picture that Polk felt it hit like a physical blow. It didn't help that he knew she was nude under the sheet.
He might be forty-one, but he wasn't dead.
He shook his head, grinning to himself, thinking such thoughts about a white girl half his age. He put down a bag of clothes he'd picked up at Sears on his way back from clocking in at the base. He already had all his shots and with his rank, all he had to do this day was wait and no one cared where he waited. In less than 48 hours he would be on a plane for Viet Nam, and he didn't want to miss it. But he couldn't just abandon a drunk, naked girl in a motel room.
He'd checked her in under the name Cheryl Jones, though he couldn't have said why he picked that name. And he'd paid for a two-night stay, in case she was unable to get moving this morning before the 11 a.m. checkout time. They still hadn't found any clothes she might have left in the barracks so coming back with a few necessities seemed the decent thing to do.
But what a picture she made lying there. He'd be glad to drop things off and get away from temptation.
He'd had to guess at her sizes, but she wasn't much bigger than his own daughter, an inch or so taller maybe and quite a bit bustier. Dresses were more forgiving than pants of being too big or too small, so that was what he had purchased. A pale blue dress with puffed sleeves and a pattern of white birds, sailboats and clouds. A package of three cotton panties with elastic bands in assorted colors. A stretchy sports bra. Flip-flops because guessing shoe sizes was just too hard. A blue and white sweater to match the dress, weather in the Bay Area being so unpredictably cool or warm at any time of year.
A small black purse with a long shoulder strap nearly completed the outfit. But because he knew most girls felt naked without some jewelry or makeup, he had picked out a costume necklace of white pearl-like beads and a charm bracelet with three charms, a teddy bear, a unicorn, and the reason he had chosen the bracelet, a tiny golden model of an Army jeep.
A tube of red lipstick, too. She would look good with a bright true red, kind of like a fifties movie star. She had all the curves of someone like a cross between Dorothy Lamour and Jayne Mansfield.
Get back, Jack, he told himself silently, still grinning at his own lustful thoughts. He could understand why someone had smuggled her onto base, but it must have taken a real crud to abandon her, drunk and sick on the floor of a latrine.
At least he was going to abandon her in a nice hotel room. He glanced around, well, a fairly clean hotel room.
He put the clothing on the other bed and everything else on the dresser, pulled the wadded up blank newsprint out of the purse and put two hundred dollars in twenties and tens inside. He'd extorted the money from the boys who'd found her. The last things in the shopping bag were a travel kit in a little plastic pouch with a comb, brush, toothbrush, scissors and nail clippers. He put that down in front of the mirror on the dresser where she could easily find it.
He took a last look around. The girl on the bed sighed but didn't move. He'd told the desk to call her an hour before check out so she would have time to get dressed and get a cab to take her wherever she needed to go. As a final thought, he took out his wallet and put another fifty under the purse. He could afford it even after paying for the motel, the clothes and stuff and she deserved as much as possible for what must have been a strange and unsettling experience.
He watched her breathe for a while but started when he realized he was getting another hard on. Chuckling, he saluted her then went to the door. "Wish you luck, kid," he whispered as he let himself out.
She woke up when the desk called to tell her that checkout time was 11 a.m. But that she was paid up for another two days, anyway. She hung the phone up, carelessly, getting it on the hook almost by accident. The call had hardly penetrated to her consciousness, and she went back to sleep immediately, a heavy sleep with slow, amnesiac, aquatic dreams.
She woke up again, thirsty and ravenously hungry. The room still darkened by the heavy drapes, she had no idea of the time but felt vaguely as if she must be late for something. Her hand reflexively squeezed her breast, and she startled more awake.
Looking down at her chest, she marveled. "Ah'm still dreamin'," she said aloud. Getting out of the bed more carefully this time, she stumbled toward the bathroom again. "How much did Ah drink?" she asked and giggled. Her breasts wobbled gently as she walked and that amused her even more.
In the dark bathroom, she first tried to get her mouth down to the faucet in the sink; then it occurred to her to unwrap a glass. "Don't be stupid," she told herself, filling and drinking two full glasses before setting the container aside. She peered at herself in the mirror, but she could see very little in the darkness.
"Am Ah dreamin'?" she asked aloud, finally finding the light switch and turning on the brilliance. She blinked and squinted then decided that her head didn't hurt quite as much as it had earlier. She looked at the mirror again and saw a very curvy young woman with tangles of dark hair falling to her waist. She lifted her breasts and wondered at the weight of them in her hands. "Why would Ah dream Ah look like that?"
The only thing she recognized about the image in the mirror was her bright blue eyes. She leaned in to look closer at the face then staggered backward. "Momma?" she whispered. Her image did resemble her mother, dead for more than a decade. The dark hair, the angles of cheek and chin and nose and the same bright blue eyes she had left her son.
That thought sent her hand to her crotch to find the soft cleft where dangling bits ought to have been. She didn't have a hand mirror, but there was a full-length one on the back of the door, and she examined herself carefully. Inside a luxuriant set of curls the same color as the hair on her head was a set of soft, fleshy female equipment.
"Ah'm a woman?" she asked no one. She'd had dreams of being female before; gentle dreams where she went about a daily life she remembered as resembling that of Gerald's dead mother and sisters. She'd never dreamed before of waking up naked in a motel room with still damp, uncombed hair tangled about her face. She closed the toilet lid and sat down to save herself from collapsing.
She looked at her hands. They weren't her mother's hands that had been roughened and calloused from farm chores and housework. These hands were soft and delicate as if they had never been used. The nails were a little long and ragged, and the lines in her palm were babyish and barely formed. There were no wrinkles at her wrist. She put the odd, impossible, womanly hands to her face and wept.
“Why am Ah cryin’?” she wondered aloud.
Once you're awake there are other needs...
Terrence Cook, the night shift clerk at Seven-Ups Lodge in Oakland had checked in the tall, black sergeant who had registered as Cheryl Jones for two days and paid in advance. After occupation taxes, it came to $14.47, but the soldier had given Terrence a twenty and told him to keep it and not tell anyone about the woman.
"Just let her sleep it off," he'd said.
Terrence had stood at the window with the lights in the office off so he could see out without being seen. He'd watched the sergeant carry a limp, white female form into the room and come back out entirely too quickly to have engaged in any hanky or panky.
Terrence had waited for the very black man to leave and then had used his passkey to check on the occupant left behind. He'd stood there in the dark long enough to be sure that the woman was breathing, deep, slow breaths that did sound like drunken but ladylike snores. Satisfied that at least he hadn't been party to some homicide, he had left.
"You never can tell," he told himself. He was black, too, though a shade of red oak instead of the nearly blue color of the sergeant. Being black, especially in this particular part of Oakland, was not remarkable but a black man parking a white woman in a motel room in the middle of the night had some implications. It might be 1971 and the West Coast, but some things could still be dangerous.
Like the area around the Seven-Ups, industrial low-rent. Terrence personally knew of heroin shooting galleries, illicit bars, and clandestine bordellos within five blocks of the motel. Hell, a woman who usually signed in as Mary Stanebrace used one of the rooms in the back row as her occasional crib.
At seven that morning, before Sergeant Polk returned with clothing for the woman, the day shift clerk, Anna Watson arrived. Terrence Cook had gone to his own room in the back of the motel (the rent was paid as part of the job), eaten breakfast with his fourteen-year-old son, Clarence, and gone to bed. At three that afternoon, he woke up. He couldn't get the thought of Cheryl Jones out of his head.
He knew his son would be going to a baseball game; the boy had a good eye at the plate and a decent glove in the outfield; he wouldn’t be home till after dark unless Terrence went after him. The sun went down after nine o’clock in Oakland during July, so Terrence had time to consider things. Like some very disturbing dreams.
He’d been dreaming of a lush white body, and he couldn't think of a reason why this was so; he'd barely glimpsed the woman, once while she was being carried across the parking lot and once in a darkened motel room. White women generally didn’t interest him, at least not viscerally, though he could appreciate a beautiful female body of almost any sort. But the image of Cheryl Jones had haunted his sleep with erotic tension.
Apparently, he'd been thinking about it all the while he slept. His mental machinery had balked at any sensible explanation. He couldn't believe that a black U.S. Army sergeant would be pimping a white woman in a motel in South Oakland. And he didn't want to believe that little more than a pair of glances had triggered something approaching obsession in him.
He checked with Anna on the desk to see if she had made the required 11 a.m. wake up call. “Ah called,” said Anna. “She didn’t sound awake and Ah ain’t seen hide nor hair of her.” Anna was from some little town in East Texas near Nagadoches and sounded like the rural south. She was black, too, but had a missing white husband and a mixed race son going to the local community college, staying out of the draft with his momma’s help.
Mannie Pablo, a young Filipino, would have the evening shift, starting at 4:30, and would probably be swotting the books for his own college courses.
Terry dithered a bit about going out and running errands, but he couldn’t stand to think that the mystery woman might leave without his ever getting to see her in daylight. He settled himself into the tiny lounge where the motel served weak coffee and day-old Danish in the mornings. His excuse was that the TV there was bigger than the one in his room. He munched on stale afternoon pastry and watched out the window to see if the woman came in or out of her room. He made up little fantasies about what she would be wearing and what he would say to her… and where they would make love.
His son would be home from school a bit after five; he would wait that long for Cheryl Jones to make an appearance.
* * *
She could only cry so long she discovered, but somehow did feel better when she stopped. It was as if the tears had washed away anxiety and confusion. And maybe memory, too. “What was Ah cryin’ about?” She couldn’t remember and after only a moment, it didn’t seem important.
Feeling thirst, she wandered into the bathroom and discovered two full glasses of water sitting on the counter beside the sink. She drank both of them, smiling at herself in the mirror, without wondering at all who had filled them or why they were sitting there still full.
She leaned toward the mirror, a dreamy expression on her face. “When did Ah get to be so good lookin’?” she asked herself and giggled. Again, she lifted one breast after the other. “Ah’ve got some titties,” she said. “They’re pretty, but Ah don’t remember having titties … before …?” Before what, she wondered. Before she woke up….
She looked at herself in the mirror again. “Ah look like someone Ah ought to know … and don’t that sound stupid?” She did look as if someone should know who she was, that sort of charisma a movie star has.
Her stomach suddenly growled, distracting her, and she realized she had been hungry for quite some time. “Ah’m starvin’!” she complained.
A quick check of the room revealed no food in the place, just the package of clothing lying on the other bed, along with the purse, the grooming kit and … the money on the top of the chest of drawers.
She hadn’t opened the purse, so all she found was the single fifty dollar bill Sergeant Polk had put under the other items. She blinked several times, peering at the bill. “Ah oughtta have enough to get some breakfast somewheres,” she said, giggling again. The face of the man on the bill meant no more to her as far as a name did than the face she had seen in the mirror.
Holding the money clenched in her fist, she looked around for the door but stopped herself. “Ah better get dressed,” she said. It almost seemed silly to wear clothing, to cover up such a beautiful body. But some remnant of… caution, perhaps?… warned her to conceal herself before leaving the sanctuary of the room.
The clothing on the bed must belong to her, why else would it be there, but it didn’t look at all familiar. She stared at the bra, then at the package of panties. She shrugged, realizing she had no idea of how to put the bra on. Getting the panties out of their package proved to be a problem, too. She pulled this way and that on the plastic then two ways at once, and the wrapping came apart with the panties flying across the room. That made her laugh, but then she couldn’t find where the panties had landed and played for a moment with the remnant of the plastic bag.
Giving up on that, she picked up the simple shirt-style dress and decided that it must go over her head. “Like a t-shirt,” she said out loud. The thongs on their card lying on the floor beside the bed escaped her notice and the need for shoes did not occur to her. “No one’s going to know Ah’m not wearing undies,” she told herself. She looked in the mirror and ran the fingers of her left hand through her dark chestnut hair.
Clutching the money in her right, she glanced around again for a door to the outside just as someone knocked softly on it.
* * *
At a few minutes after four, Terrence Cook could wait no longer. He left the lounge of the motel and headed across the quiet parking lot where rain three days ago had left frozen rivers of sand that had not yet been disturbed much. He walked up to the door of Unit 7B, hardly hesitating at all. He didn’t want Anna on the front desk to think anything at all about what he was going to do.
He knocked softly and listened. Surprised, he heard a female voice call, “Come on in, sugah.”
He opened the door, and there she stood, wearing a pale blue dress with white printed decorations. She had the same sort of lush figure as Raquel Welch and the same dark mahogany hair, too, but tousled as if she had just gotten out of bed. Her bright blue eyes looked back at him from the smoothest, most innocent-looking face he had ever seen on anyone over the age of four. Terrence had an instant hard-on.
“Ah’m starvin’,” said the woman. “Kin we go get somethin’ to eat?” For a tall woman, she had a surprisingly light, clear, almost childish, soprano and a soft, sensual Louisiana drawl.
“Sh-sure,” he stammered. He tried to look away, the raw sex appeal she exuded felt like a physical force. “Uh, you want to comb your hair and,” he noticed her bare feet, “put on some shoes?” If he took her to a restaurant looking like she did at the moment… Well, he didn’t want to have to do that.
She pouted. “Ah don’t got no shoes,” she said. She ran her fingers through her nearly waist-length hair, “Nor no comb neither,” she added. “And Ah’m pow’ful hungry.”
Oh, lord, thought Terrence. Does she know what she’s doing to me? “Uh, you can’t go to a restaurant without shoes….”
“Ah’ve got money,” she said. She took the money out and waved it, then dropped it on the floor. “Oops,” she giggled and bent to pick up the fifty. The open neck of her dress top showed clearly that she wore no bra.
Terrence stared. Visible only for a moment before her hair swung forward around her face and upper body, the creamy globes came at him like two fast pitches, low and inside but definitely in the strike zone. Involuntarily, he stepped back.
While bent over, she noticed the purse on the bed and picked it up, managing to upend it and spill its contents, across the bed; more money, a tube of lipstick, and some cheap jewelry still on cards. She looked up at him and laughed. “I’m so clumsy,” she said. “Am I still drunk?”
“Wait right there!” Terrence said, backing up again, feeling for the doorway behind him. “I’ll go get you some food.” He bolted out the door, locking it behind him again. If she’s doing all that on purpose, she should be in movies, he told himself. And if she’s doing it by accident, she should be locked up, for her own protection — and mine!
He stopped himself from running; someone might see, but he hurried around the end of the building toward his apartment on the back row. A raging internal debate made him fumble with his own keys, but he got them out and made it inside. Minutes later, he emerged carrying a sack containing two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. He made a stop at the soda machine and bought a Coca Cola and an Orange Crush and added them to the bag before hurrying on to the door of 7B.
He didn’t knock this time but stepped right on in, waving the bag of sandwiches in front of him like a shield.
Cheryl Jones stood right where he had left her and in almost the same position, half bent over the bed. She beamed at him. “I smell peanut butter,” she cooed.
Terrence took a sandwich out of the bag and handed it to her. “Here,” he said when she merely stared at it for a moment.
She handed him the fifty with one hand and took the sandwich with the other. “I love peanut butter,” she said, smiling at him.
Terrence didn’t think he had heard anything so sexy in his life.
Maybe you need to get out more often...
On a dirt road in northwestern Louisiana, Nora DiLuchia, an operative for a secretive government agency, plodded back to the rental Chevy Malibu. Even dressed in loose, faded khaki coveralls with a wide-brimmed slouch hat hiding much of her features, nothing really concealed her lush shape and the perfection of her face.
She’d traced the “excursion,” as it was being called, to the dilapidated two-story farmhouse at the end of the country lane behind her and needed to report to her superiors. She had approached to within a quarter mile and her body practically hummed with the sense that this was a place where others of her sort could be found. If she got any closer, someone inside might detect her presence.
She’d gotten close enough to the building to confirm her suspicions and now there would be more work to do. Work that shouldn’t have been necessary if other people had done their jobs correctly. She sighed to think of the waste of effort and time, her cherry red lips making a moue.
Her partner, Piers Truscott, stood beside the car on the driver side, waiting for her. “From your expression, I assume this must be the place.” Piers stood over six-feet tall with a receding ginger-blond hairline making him look even taller. He squinted at her, his pale blue eyes mostly concealed behind tinted glasses against the sky-glare of an overcast but still brilliant Louisiana day. It was warm and humid and Piers forehead was beaded with sweat.
Nora shook her head, long black tresses brushing her shoulders. She turned her large, liquid brown eyes at Piers’s silhouette outlined against the bright western sky. She didn’t need to squint, even looking into the late afternoon sun. “Yep,” she said. “But we’ve got real problems. It’s a whorehouse.” She turned to look back at the building. “And a popular one, I think.”
Piers looked at her ass where the khaki cloth shaped itself around an upside down heart. “Probably,” he agreed. He didn’t ask her how she had made the determination that the farmhouse hosted a bordello.
He let out a breath he hadn’t know he was holding, then got into the car behind the wheel. He watched as Nora climbed into the passenger seat and reached for the communications equipment sitting on the console between the seats.
Nora glanced at him. He didn’t let a lot show but she knew he liked looking at her. Well, maybe liked was the wrong word. He was always watching her; sometimes as part of the job, sometimes it seemed, against his will. Despite her time in the decontamination ward, no one at the agency quite trusted her. Her body attracted the attention of most men and Piers was no exception. And it really was part of his job to watch her.
She tossed the slouch hat into the back seat and shook out her long hair; her damned hair, as she thought of it. Nearly waist-length, curly-wavy, and black as night, it drew looks even from as far away as a city block. She should learn how to braid it, she thought, not for the first time. Better yet would be to cut it but she already knew how useless that would be. It would simply grow back in a few days.
She took the handset out of the pocket in the commo rig and keyed the mike. “November Delta requesting Sierra Uniform,” she said quietly. She smiled, Piers’s coded ID on the comm was “Papa Tango” which always sounded funny to her.
“Sierra Uniform,” said a voice. “Acknowledged.”
“Possible contaminated site. Correction: likely contaminated site. Unknown number of affected individuals. Request Delta Tango Mike Foxtrot. Repeat, request Delta Tango Mike Foxtrot.” Decontamination Team Maximum Force. Nora keyed the mike off and waited.
“Acknowledged,” said the voice after a long wait. “Delta Tango Echo Romeo Sixty-One Thousand Etta Kay.”
Nora interpreted the message: decontamination team en route, estimated time of arrival 9 p.m. She keyed the mike twice, counted to three and keyed it twice more for a non-verbal confirmation of message received. She looked at Piers; he didn’t need a translation either.
“We’ve got four hours to wait. Want to go into town and see if we can find some beignets?” he asked.
She smacked her lips reflexively. Something sugary would be good; her screwy metabolism would turn it into sudden energy and lightning reflexes if it turned out she needed them. She nodded. “Let’s be quick; they might get here early.”
Piers started the engine and turned the car around, heading back down the dirt road.
* * *
MSG Lawrence Polk caught the earliest flight out he could, pulling a few strings he found lying around in Transit Battalion 5th Army Oakland HQ that only a master sergeant could reach. The seven hash marks on his sleeve did not represent the score in a backgammon tournament.
Settling into his seat in the forward area of the DC-8, Polk could not stop grinning. Soon he would be back in-country and back in the bed of his unofficial wife. And with his stateside divorce scheduled to be final in a little more than five weeks, he could start the paperwork to marry Hoa, the mother of his daughter, Kim. He could hardly contain himself; he’d been working toward this for three years.
The man in the seat beside him grinned back. Where Polk was almost licorice black, the CPO had cinnamon skin and the name tag on his Navy dress uniform said Sanchez. “Hombre going to a warzone with a grin like yours is thinking about one of two things waiting for him in-country,” said Sanchez.
“Yeah?” said Polk.
“Hm-mm. Either he has himself a con, a racket, something really grande – or he’s got a wife and child he can’t wait to see.” Sanchez chortled. “You should see your face, hermano.”
“Yeah, well,” agreed Polk. “You shouldn’t see yours. You might keel over dead, you ugly s.o.b.” But he smiled when he said it, and he meant the smile.
They laughed, and Polk admitted he had a girl and a child in-country.
“In a few more months, I’ll have all the paperwork done to marry her and take her and the kid home with me when this tour is up in six months.”
Sanchez nodded. “Good luck, compadre, eh?”
Polk smiled and looked out the window, anticipating.
* * *
Terrence watched the beautiful woman eat both peanut butter sandwiches, the first one ravenously and the second with an erotic languor that almost drove him wild.
“Mm, good,” she said, licking jelly off of her lips.
He offered her the sodas, and she drank both of them, too, though she stopped before finishing off the Coke to offer him a drink. “Want some?” she asked, her voice a melody rising with the question.
Oh, yes, he thought, he wanted some. He nodded, taking the bottle from her hand and drinking a tiny sip before handing it back. Her fingers touched his, cool skin felt almost icy hot. He couldn’t tell if he were fevered or she was.
She giggled, burped, looked surprised then turned up the Coke and drained it. “Mm,” she said again.
He nodded, smiling.
She sat there on the bed in her blue-patterned dress; her long thighs spread a bit in an unladylike way, her heavy breasts pressing the cloth out in full mounds that moved a little every time she breathed. Her chestnut hair fell past her shoulders, her almost familiar face smiled at him, and he smiled back.
She opened her mouth and used her pink tongue to scrub at her lower lip, pursuing still some morsel of sweetness. Her eyes crossed slightly while she did this.
Terrence sat on the straight back chair at the vanity, watching her, wondering that he had enough restraint to not throw her onto the bed with her long legs in the air while he had fierce sex with her. Part of what held him back he supposed was that she was a white girl. He presumed that she must be a prostitute but that wouldn’t save him if she complained about any advances he made.
So he sat, smiling, waiting for her to make some more overt invitation… but he didn’t know how much longer he could wait.
Cheryl Jones, the name she had been registered under last night, looked back at him with open curiosity, then her eyes focussed past him. “Who’s that girl?” she asked.
“Who?” he asked in return.
Cheryl pointed over his shoulder. “The pretty woman on the bed….”
Terrence glanced at the mirror behind him and smiled. “That’s you,” he said, assuming she must be teasing. “You’re beautiful.” In his experience, women who called attention to their appearance were asking for compliments.
She nodded. “But who is she? Do you know her?”
Confused, Terrence glanced at the mirror again. “You’re Cheryl Jones?”
“I am?” She frowned the tiniest bit. “I guess I must be, huh?” She looked down at herself then at her reflection. “That must be me, same dress, same tits.” She laughed. “Cheryl, huh? Okay.”
He laughed with her, still unsure of what game she might be playing.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“Terry,” he said. “Terrence Cook.”
She laughed again. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cook. You make a good sandwich.” She leaned toward him.
He leaned toward her in response.
“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” she asked.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said, not without reverence.
* * *
Nora nibbled on a beignet appreciatively. No one in the rest of the country seemed able to master the right puffy sweetness. You could get better beignets in New Orleans but even in the farmland north of Shreveport, you could find a place where someone had the know-how. It was terrible how she craved sweets now. And she could eat and eat and never gain an ounce.
She ate her beignet and tried not to think of bugs. Tiny bugs, microscopic creatures — no, one of the big brains had told her that they were nanoscopic animalcules. Nanimals. She sighed, trying not to think of them as bugs, swarming inside her.
* * *
Piers watched Nora eat. It was hot in Louisiana in the last week of June, but the air conditioning in the doughnut place had been set to stun. Not that he had ever seen Nora sweat. Did she? Could she?
Perfect teeth in Nora’s sensuously wide mouth snatched little bites of another of her sugary snacks. She didn’t sweat, but he had seen her eat five packages of Hostess Devil’s Food Cupcakes, one right after the other. She didn’t hurry; she savored every morsel.
Her pink tongue flicked out and retrieved an errant flake of sugar, and he almost lost it. Good thing he didn’t have to stand up to go anywhere right then. Maybe he could control his erection if he didn’t watch her eat. He turned away to watch out the window at the cars running down the narrow two-lane state highway.
If it weren't her mouth or her eyes, it would have been her hair. She’d taken off the slouch hat and let that black torrent fall to her waist, shaking it out so it rippled and shone in the light while she ordered her doughnuts. Not doughnuts, beignets. He had one on a paper plate himself. He didn’t look at its crispness, at its golden crust, at the sweet glaze they put on them here.
The woman had skin like honey, and he could smell her sitting there, a musky, spicy odor like flowers having sex. She wore baggy clothes, but his mind had no problem picturing her shape, small waist, lush hips, full, heavy breasts.
He tried to get his mind off thinking about his partner. One look at her and he had volunteered for the field assignment of being her driver and security. They’d stayed in the same motel last night, only a thin wall between them. He’d heard her taking a shower, and then he’d needed one himself.
How could he sit beside her in a public place? He needed something to distract him.
Maybe something disgusting, frightening, unbelievable but true. He tried to think of bugs. Tiny bugs so small you couldn’t see them with a microscope.
Space bugs.
* * *
Mysterious ways, indeed....
Cheryl knew the dark man, Terry was his name, wanted her. She could feel it, strangely. And she wanted him, which seemed even stranger. Something inside her responded to his need. She smiled at him, wondering vaguely if she had ever had sex before. Somehow, she thought that she must have; just not with a man.
What did that mean? With a woman?
Heavy curtains kept out a bright midsummer day, and the motel room stayed dark. The only interior light came from an overhead light in the bathroom where the rattling ventilator fan competed with the groan of the air conditioner to wrap two people in sensory isolation.
He stood abruptly and moved to sit on the bed beside her, her long thigh alongside his, thin layers of cloth between them.
She leaned toward him, opening her mouth slightly. She could still taste peanut butter and jelly. She wondered if he would be able to taste it if he kissed her. Did she want him to kiss her? Yes, she did which surprised her. She’d never been kissed by a man before.
Had she? No. She leaned closer and Terry leaned toward her one arm going around her back.
* * *
The boys, Gerald Jones’s young friends, spent a miserable day moping around the transition company compound with light hangovers, standing in lines to collect new issue jungle clothing or to get shots to protect them from tropical diseases. Twice they had roll calls which Gerry missed, but no one seemed overly concerned.
They were asked three times if they had seen or spoken to Private Jones or knew anything about where he might have gone but no one pressed them hard on the issue, and they didn’t have to mention the girl they had found in the bathroom.
“Covered in slime,” Vance murmured during a short window where they moped around the enormous dayroom, sitting under the wall of windows.
“Huh?” said Jack. The huge room had three televisions in pride of place against each of the other walls. One screen showed a game show that kept grabbing Jack’s attention with the antics of the contestants.
“The girl, she was covered in slime….”
“There was no girl,” Buddy pointed out. “I thought we agreed on that.”
Paul snorted, though whether at the comment or at something happening in the soccer game he was watching on another of the distant screens.
“Where did the slime come from?” asked Vance. “And how come there was no trail of it dripping, leading up to where we found her?”
Jack shrugged. Buddy frowned. Paul grunted again.
Vance looked around. “We’ve got roll call again at seventeen hundred,” he said, meaning five p.m. in military lingo. “If Gerry isn’t at formation, then…he must have ditched.”
“Bugged out.”
“Gone AWOL.”
“Escaped.”
They nodded at each other, simultaneously worried and relieved for their friend. He wouldn’t be catching their flight out at three a.m., 0300 hours. He wouldn’t be going to Viet Nam with them, but he might eventually be going to prison. If he got caught.
* * *
Sergeant Polk dozed on the plane that had already left. It would be a long flight, more than 20 hours. First, they would stop in Seattle, then Anchorage. The longest hop was next, from Alaska to Kyoto, Japan. A shorter leg to Taipei and finally, Saigon. The DC-8 was specially modified to carry more passengers, about 250 G.I.s plus a crew of ten or so. The name on the side he’d seen when entering had been FTA. Which stood for Flying Tiger Airlines or Fuck The Army, take your pick.
He dreamed as he often did of Hoa and Kim waiting for him, of marrying Hoa and taking Kim back to the states with him to raise. The child had his coloring and her mother’s eyes; she would be a beauty some day. He dreamed of sending his daughter off to college one day, tall and slim, darkly exotic, the image so vivid he could almost reach into the dream and touch her.
He smiled in his sleep.
* * *
Nora contemplated her partner as they drove away from the bakery cafe. Piers had been working with her now for over three weeks. He must have a will of iron, she thought. No one else had been able to stay close to her for so long before this. Maybe the pheromone cloud she generated had weakened somewhat. Or maybe Piers was just made of stronger stuff than the last nine partners who had endured being paired with her. One guy had given up after only three days, asking to be reassigned.
Eventually, she knew, it would wear Piers down. Already she could see that he thought about sex with her a lot. Maybe she should call their bosses and have him transferred out now before the breakdown she knew would be coming.
But it wasn’t only Piers that thought of sex—a lot. She wanted him, too.
His ginger-blond complexion was not suited to the climate of Louisiana and his blue eyes looked pale and watery when he took off his sunglasses indoors. He had a receding hairline showing a sharpened widow’s peak. His left ear had a mole high on the outside curve. His nose made a whistling noise when he ran. When he thought he was alone, he whispered the lyrics of Beatle songs to himself, no tune but getting the rhythm right.
She loved everything about him and lusted to see him naked. It would break him. Sex with her nanimal-enhanced body was highly addictive. That worked both ways; she was addicted to it, too.
She could bear up better than a mere human, though. Maybe she needed to get out and run, sweat out some of the stuff the little beasties inside her produced. Sweets, violent exercise, and self-gratification were the only outlets she had that would not destroy a good agent.
Time to send Piers away and request a new partner. They wouldn’t let her work alone. They were right, the responsibility of having a partner kept her grounded in the job. But it certainly wasn’t fair to him.
And yet, she knew they had no trouble finding volunteers to take the assignment. A few minutes with her and every healthy human male wanted more of her company. She’d made them stop sending her out with married agents; she didn’t need that kind of guilt.
They’d tried a female partner twice, not that the agency had a glut of female operatives, but both times that had been a disaster. Heterosexual women could not handle the attraction she generated; it made them uncomfortable, then bitchy, then either violent or—well, that second experiment had ended in a rather memorable orgy after her partner had invited the trucker they had been following to join in a threesome.
She smiled, wondering vaguely if Rhoda had ever made it back to a stateside assignment.
Piers made a noise. He’d been taking sideways glances at her. She turned her smile on him and watched with a bit of guilt as he evidently dealt with a sudden dry mouth. If he’d been about to say something, he’d most likely forgotten it.
She shouldn’t enjoy making men stammer and sweat, but she did.
* * *
Cheryl and Terry kissed and fondled each other on the dim bed in the soft motel room. She began undressing him, and he helped her. Then they both stood, he to drop his pants and she to take her simple dress off over her head.
That riot of chestnut hair fell around her, and he saw that she had not been wearing underwear. Nothing contained her plentiful treasures, the heavy globes of her breasts, the wide invitation of her hips. The whiteness of her skin….
That did give him a moment of pause. This might be the 1970s less than twelve miles from San Francisco but he was still a black man, and she was a white woman. The thing that relieved his paralysis was telling himself that she must be a hooker. She hadn’t been wearing even panties under her dress and then there was the fifty dollar bill she had casually handed him in exchange for the sandwiches. Who kept fifties around? Well, servicemen often took their pay in fifties and hundreds and the whores of Oakland ended up with them, often as not.
But she had given him the money. He laughed softly, and she smiled at him then they both fell on the bed.
* * *
Sex, reflected Cheryl afterward, was a lot of fun. She’d enjoyed every bit of it and maybe the quiet languor that followed just as much as anything else. She seemed to have worn out her partner, though. Terry dozed against her shoulder, the rough stubble of his beard tickling against her soft skin, the buzz of his breathing curiously loud amid the rattle and groan of the fan and air conditioner.
She closed her eyes, wondering, what now? Nothing suggested itself to her; she seemed content to lie there next to him. Didn’t she have to be somewhere? Somewhere important….
I’m dreaming, she decided. I’ve fallen asleep and I’m dreaming. I’ve dreamed some weird dreams before but this is the weirdest.
* * *
Gerald Jones opened his eyes and knew it was not a dream. He remembered everything. Falling in the bathroom in the transition barracks, the guys finding him, Sergeant Polk carrying him out to a borrowed jeep and bringing him to the motel where he had just had sex with Rodney or whatever his name was. It was all unbearably strange to him but he knew it had happened.
* * *
But I’m a woman now, she thought. How the heck could something so impossible be true? She ran a hand down her side, touching her hair, her breast, her belly, her sex.
It felt good.
She remembered the name Polk had given her and the black man lying beside her had called her that, too. Cheryl.
She could be Cheryl. She wouldn’t have to go to Viet Nam to kill or be killed. And it had been the first of those options that had bothered her most. Everyone dies, you have to count on that. But not everyone has to kill someone else. She had dreaded being faced with that but had known what she would have done. Killing the enemy to protect her friends, her fellow soldiers, would not have been easy but she could have done it. Would have done it.
Now she wouldn’t have to. She wouldn’t have to go to the jungle, carry a rifle, kill someone she didn’t even know. Or die there instead. She had prayed, Gerald Jones had prayed, that God would take that choice away.
He certainly does work in mysterious ways, she thought, bringing her hand up toward her face and finding Terry’s arm across her body.
“Babe,” a voice said in the dimness. “I’ve got to get up. My kid will be home now, wondering where I am.”
“What’s his name?” she asked. “What’s your name?” He’d told her once but she had forgotten that.
“He’s Clarence. I’m Terry. Terry Cook. I’m the night manager here.”
“Hmm,” she murmured.
He disentangled himself from her and sat on the edge of the bed to get his bearings. Then he stood, found his clothes and got dressed.
She watched him; the darkened room seemed clearly visible though it had color only near where light leaked in from the window or the bathroom.
He leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek and she giggled. Why, she couldn’t have said.
“Will you be back later?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he assured her before opening the door and stepping out into the sudden light.
“Thank you, God,” she said to her pillow before closing her eyes again.
Night moves...
Cheryl Jones, as she determined to try to think of herself now, had a series of chaotic dreams. Some of them were scenes from Gerald’s past life with Cheryl inserted in place of her original male self.
One of these seemed more significant than others. A recent memory, Gerald had gone back to Louisiana briefly after graduating high school and before reporting for induction into the army. He’d had a few jobs in Los Angeles, kept his expenses down, trying to save up to attend community college with the financial help offered to people who had aged out of foster care. But then he’d found out what his draft number had been and it all seemed pointless.
So he had chucked the job, taken his savings and gotten a bus to Baton Rouge then another to the small town north of the city where one of his elderly aunts ran a board-and-care. Aunt Brontay was actually his mother’s aunt and much older than his mother had been. He had seen her last before being taken to California and then she had been frail and fragile-looking with white hair.
When he looked her up on his final trip to Louisiana, though, she had looked much younger than he remembered with black hair going gray and a youthful figure. And it had turned out that the board-and-care was a whorehouse filled with young women eager to make the acquaintance of their madam’s nephew.
Had that really happened or was it a memory of a dream, or a dream of a memory?
For in this dreaming version of the memory, after enjoying getting acquainted as Gerald, Cheryl took up residence with the other whores….
* * *
She woke up with a start, in the Oakland motel room again. In the dream she had been having, her Army buddies had shown up at the house her Aunt Brontay ran. And each had money in his hand.
“Was any of it real?” she asked but the sound of her own voice told her that at least some part of it had reality. She ran her hands over her body, lush, ripe, female. And responsive. It felt good to touch herself.
It felt good to be alive.
Someone knocked softly at the door. “C’mon in, sugah,” she called in the country accent she had used in the dream. She didn’t give the slightest thought to the fact she was still in bed, still naked.
Terry Cook came through the door, looking harassed or worried. No, he looked like he felt guilty about something.
“Did you bring me sumpin’?” she asked.
“My shift starts soon,” he said. “But I brought you another sandwich with chips and a soda from the machine.”
“Mmm,” she purred. “Put’em down on the dresser and come to bed.”
“I don’t have a lot of time,” he said but he was already undoing his pants before he set the food down.
She giggled. “This won’t take long,” she said, reaching for him.
“You don’t have any lights on in here,” he complained, almost missing the top of the dresser with the goodies he had brought.
“Whuffo’? Don’t need any lights for what we gonna be doin’,” she murmured.
He kicked his shoes off and dropped his pants, then pulled his shirt off over his head without unbuttoning it.
“You’re so brown,” she commented. “Sugah, are you a black man?”
He paused. “Uh, yeah?”
She could clearly see the heat of embarrassment travel up his body.
She gurgled a laugh. “Don’t make no nevermin’ to me, honey. Terry isn’t it?” She patted the pillow beside her. “Get in bed and I’ll be sure you forget what color the sky is.”
He dropped his boxer shorts and got into the bed.
Cheryl pulled the sheet over them both, thinking, I can read him like he was a book. I know just what he wants me to do and where and how to touch him to make him scream, or laugh, or cry.
She did all three and more besides before he got out of the bed and fumbled around, trying to get back into his clothes. She had his juices inside her now and felt them warm and silvery there.
“I’m late, I-I gotta go,” he stammered.
She pouted at him for the fun of it, but he couldn’t see her expression in the darkness. “I’m gonna be lonely here. All alone. Maybe you have some friend you could send me to keep me company?”
He stopped what he was doing to stare in her direction then he grabbed his clothes and shoes and found his way to the bathroom. He turned on the light, an explosion of vision that made his head hurt, before he tried to think of an answer.
“Sugah?” she said, sitting up in the bed and feeling the weight of her breasts move on her chest. To one part of her, that was something very strange, and to another part, it felt very right. I used to be a guy, she said to herself, almost a question. “Sugah?” she repeated.
“Are you a prostitute?” Terry asked, starting to get dressed. He had to unbutton the shirt before he could put it back on.
Cheryl tried to think about it, ideas flitting through her mind like lazy moths around a light bulb. Gerald Jones was gone. The Army would not be looking for her; they’d be looking for Gerry. And she liked what she had been doing with the night manager. She had no job, no way to earn money. She had no identification, could she even get a job? There’d been the cash she had found on the dresser, where had that come from?
She felt so alive. She could see into the dark corners of the motel room where the cockroaches were hiding from the light. She could hear the traffic on the highway a few dozen yards away outside, and Terry’s heart beating fast in the bathroom while her own heart beat more slowly. She could smell the sex they had been having, the stains left on the sheets. She could still taste him on her lips and tongue.
She reached down to a sticky spot she sensed on her belly, touching it, then carrying the salty, sweet muskiness to her lips. She knew she wanted more. And she knew how she could get it.
* * *
Terry left the bathroom light on as he made his way through the dim room to the door outside, taking a detour around the bed. Cheryl reached for him, and he almost hesitated. He looked back at her, his hand on the doorknob. She was uncovered, naked and lush, her dark hair and white skin vivid. She spread her legs wide and arched her back, thrusting both her breasts and her sex at him.
His hand cramped and he realized he’d been squeezing the knob instead of turning it.
“Your name is Terry, and I’m Cheryl,” she said in a sultry voice. “I can be your whore, Terry, and make us both a lot of money.”
“All right,” he said and fled the room into the darkness of night.
Walking around the end of the building and across the parking lot towards the manager’s office, Terry reflected that he had never had a sexual encounter like either of his experiences that day. After his first time in bed with Cheryl, he had gone back to his own apartment in the back of the motel and taken care of his son. Then he’d delayed coming back to see to the strange white woman in 7B until after Clarence had done his homework and headed to bed. Almost the regular routine of their evenings.
Except, two hours before his shift started, Terrence Cook had slipped out of his apartment with a sandwich in a bag and made another stop to buy a Coke and a bag of chips. Then he’d gone into a white woman’s motel room and had the wildest, most thorough sexing he had ever had in his life. He’d done everything with her he’d ever heard of except sticking it in her ass and eating her pussy. Well, maybe not everything, but everything he’d ever thought might be fun to do with a willing partner.
He found it unbelievable. It wasn’t like the reality he’d known, and it wasn’t like himself.
He stopped at the machines again and bought two more Cokes and a bag of Cheetos. He smiled to himself because, though he had given the woman the sandwich he had made for his own middle of the night meal, he hadn’t bought her his favorite sort of chips. Because orange dust anywhere near bed clothes just had not seemed a good idea.
Maybe he hadn’t gone completely crazy.
He could see Mannie Pablo through the window of the office, gesturing at him to hurry up. It was ten ’til midnight, and Terry was twenty minutes late, but he did not rush to relieve the evening shift man, moving only with deliberate speed.
Mannie met him at the door. “What the fuck, man? What the fuck? You’re never late; you live right here?”
Terry blinked. It occurred to him that Mannie had been genuinely worried that something had happened to him. The young Filipino college student was a good kid who worked seven-hour shifts weekdays and one nine-hour shift Saturdays. Always on time, always did his job. “Sorry, man,” he said in genuine apology. “You in a rush? If you can stay for a bit, I’ll tell you what happened.” Or part of it, he amended silently.
Mannie backed into the office in front of him and glanced at the clock. “I got an early class tomorrow, but I caught a nap here when it was slow. Huh? So, what happened?”
“Seven-B Happened,” said Terry. “Chick named Cheryl Jones is in there and, uh….”
The kid interrupted him. “You got the look of someone who got greased good,” he said grinning.
“Yeah, well, you ain’t wrong.” He wagged his head. “Woman could suck the greed out of a landlord’s soul and fuck a whole platoon of cops straight as arrows.”
Mannie laughed so hard and suddenly he almost banged his head on the counter bending over. “You… you…” he pointed at Terry. “You are looking a bit pale,” he managed, gasping.
Terry popped the top on a Coke and handed it to Mannie. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d gone white from the eyebrows up.” He popped the other can for himself, and they both sipped fizzy brew for a moment.
“She a pro?” Mannie asked.
“Says so. Wants to stay here and offered me to be her manager.”
Mannie squinted. “There’s that rathole studio flat on the back row, next to Mary. You could put her there.” He grinned. “Give Mary a little competition. But do you wanna pimp her? Mary gets by herself without no manager.”
“Yeah, I dunno,” Terry agreed. “That girl may be a gold mine.”
“Or at least sitting on one,” said Mannie, smiling.
“Wanna try her out?” Terry asked.
“Uh.” Mannie glanced at the clock.
“Go ahead. Young fella like you doesn’t need sleep.”
They both grinned, but Mannie looked uncertain. “I’ve not got any money. And I’ve never been with a whore.”
Terry shrugged. “Then don’t pay her. She won’t mind. Girl loves her work and would do it for free.”
“I…. What?”
“She’s a white girl,” Terry said. “Probably has a rich daddy somewhere and is doing this to get back at him for not loving her enough.”
Mannie sipped his soda again. He looked nervous. Maybe he’s a virgin, thought Terry, taking another sip of his own Coke. “She’s sweet, not hard-edged like women who’ve been in the life too long,” he said more gently. Why am I doing this? he wondered.
“Yeah….”
“Take her some candy, outten the machine,” said Terry. “She always seems hungry. Couple bags of M&Ms.”
Mannie felt in his pocket to see if he had any coins. “Yeah, well.”
He’s going to do this, thought Terry. “Just go up, knock on her door and walk on in. If she wants you, she’ll let you know. Believe me, she will.”
“Uh huh, I just….” Mannie stammered and fussed around a bit more before draining his can of soda then gathering his books and things and heading for the door. “I’ll…” he said as he went out but he didn’t finish the sentence.
Terry watched through the window as Mannie carried his stuff to his old jalopy, a ten-year-old Plymouth, then wandered toward the snack machines. Terry smiled, but he didn’t feel much humor. Kid is short, he thought, Cheryl is two, three inches taller than him. He opened the bag of Cheetos and selected a wrinkly stick of colored corn to crunch.
Mannie bought two bags of peanut M&Ms from the machine and disappeared around the corner of the building.
Terry thought, he’s gonna get his brains fucked out. He finished his first Cheeto, took a sip of Coke and selected another orange tidbit. Why am I doing this? he wondered again.
Because this is what she wants me to do, he realized.
by Lainie Lee
Carl Bruno shuddered when Dr. Pease instructed him to put his feet in the stirrups. The big burly construction worker did not like what the instructions implied. "Why you want me to do dat, doc?" he asked.
"I need to do a complete physical, uh, Carl. Of your internal parts, too," said the general practitioner. "I may need to refer you to a specialist."
"There's people who specialize in dis sort of thing?"
"Um, hm," said the doctor. "Now, just settle back, and relax. I'll be using my smallest speculum so it won't hurt at all."
"Yeah, yeah," said Carl. He licked his upper lip then gnawed on it with his lower teeth. He lay quietly, looking at the ceiling and thinking of Cleveland.
At one point he said, "Dat's cold."
"Sorry," said the doctor.
Carl did not like any of the sensations caused by the doctor's investigation. He felt, well, violated. Some things ought to be private but he'd come to the doctor for a check of what had happened to him.
"You waited a long time, Carl," said the doctor. "The changes are pretty far along."
"You mean, it's too late to do anything about dis?" asked Carl.
"I'm sorry. It was too late when the process first started. Modern medical science has no cure for your condition."
Carl knew he felt like crying but he resisted the impulse. Big, strong, construction workers didn't cry at all. Not for any reason.
"You're saying I've got SCryPTs?" asked Carl.
"Spontaneous Cryptogenic Proaedificator Transsexuality. Yes." The doctor nodded. The recent news programs on the syndrome made explanations easier but acceptance by men like Carl would always be difficult.
"And no one knows why? Or why it mostly hits men in da building trades?"
The doctor nodded. "A few in pro-sports, some taxidrivers and streetvendors, some cops and military-types but yes, mostly construction workers."
Carl sighed. "How long have I got, doc?"
"Well, the initial outer transformation is almost complete. All soft tissues, so whatever is making this happen has an easier time of it." Dr. Pease had read several scholarly articles on this lately. "Have you had any pain?"
"Just some itching," Carl admitted. "I been afraid to scratch."
"Well, don't overdo it, but scratching an itch is perfectly normal." He smiled exactly as if a secret dirty joke had just occurred to him.
"What, uh, what happens next?" Carl asked. He picked at the hem of the examination gown then took his feet out of the stirrups and turned to sit on the little padded bench. For some reason, he felt compelled to keep his knees together.
The doctor took a moment to answer. "Well, first, your testicles will complete their internal migration to their new location. That may cause some cramping. Your urethra has already opened a new outlet at the base of your penis which will continue to shrink until the folds of your new vagina almost hide it."
Carl listened, his mouth open, his eyes watery.
Dr. Pease kept an eye on his patient, he didn't want the burly fellow to faint and fall off the examining table. "The cervical opening, which is very small right now will expand as a uterus forms. This will take another six or eight weeks. By that time, your testicles will have completed their transformation into ovaries."
Carl shivered but kept his eyes open.
Pease continued. "Your body will then be manufacturing its own estrogens and more physical transformations will take place. Around this time, you'll have your first period. I know it will be a little scary but there are drugs to make it less painful and if you need any psychiatric support, I can give you a referral."
Carl shook his head. "I don't t'ink so, doc. But what else will happen?"
"The next part is very mysterious," the doctor admitted. "We really have no explanation for how this can come about. Your skeleton will begin to shrink and reshape itself. You'll need to drink a lot of water to get rid of all the calcium salts your body will be producing."
Carl sighed.
"At the same time, you'll be losing muscle mass and tone. Your skin will change texture. Your beard and much of your body hair will disappear and so will your bald spot. It's not uncommon for the new growth of hair to be lighter in color. Were you blond as a child?"
Carl nodded.
"Well, then it's possible you will be blonde when the transformation is complete," said Dr. Pease. "You're going to grow breasts, too, generally a cup-size or two larger than your nearest female relatives."
Carl pictured his bountiful sisters and aunts and wondered just how big a chest he would be growing. His plump mother wore something toward the middle of the alphabet, he knew.
"You'll also be four to eleven inches shorter and perhaps as much as 100 pounds lighter." He glanced at a chart. "Six-two, 220 pounds, odds are you'll end up about five-foot-seven and 130 pounds, and all curves. It will take close to two years."
"Will it hurt?" Carl asked.
"No, not really, other than some twinges and a few cramps. In fact, most victims of this condition report a feeling of euphoria." He looked at Carl. "In fact, that tends to happen from the very start. You're nowhere near as fearful or panicked as a reasonable ordinary man might expect to be."
Carl shrugged. "You want me ta be honest, I feel good, doc. Like I don't have a trouble in da world. Doesn't make sense, huh?"
Dr. Pease shook his head. "Nothing about this makes much sense. We medical types have spent most of the last decade denying that it could actually happen. But there are too many cases, first in the US and Canada but now around the world. This went through the Italian army faster than the clap, almost a fifth of their servicemen affected in a six month period four years ago."
Carl couldn't suppress a rueful grin. "All dem macho-types turned into Ginas and Sophias? Must be sump'in to see."
"Mm-hmm," said the doctor. "And all of them healthy nineteen-year-old virgins, to all appearances and tests. Not that they are likely to remain so; an increase in libido and decrease in inhibitions seems to go with the syndrome, too. And a change in sexual appetites."
Carl blushed.
The doctor nodded again. "Thought so, that part begins early, even before most of the superficial physical changes. Started fantasizing about men, have you?"
Carl mumbled something and turned even redder.
"The curious thing is that the fallopian tubes are the last thing to form in the new female plumbing." Dr. Pease pulled out a very technical, medical magazine and flipped through it. "Yes, that doesn't happen until about six years after the initial symptoms. Until then, you won't be able to get pregnant."
Carl's face glowed with embarrassment and an almost reverent anticipatory joy.
"After that, most of the postSCryPTs girls turn out to be astonishingly fertile."
Carl covered his face with his hands and suppressed a virulent attack of the giggles.
Watching him, the doctor grunted again. "Mm-hm, mm-hm. You know, you're kind of a late case, Carl. We can't cure it but there are some pretty good guesses as to what causes SCryPTS. Not how, but what."
Carl looked away from the doctor and gnawed on his lip again.
"You knew that, didn't you?"
Carl nodded. "Sure, doc. It's been in all the construction trade papers, what not to do. And lots of scuttlebutt in the workgangs."
"And daring each other to do it, anyway?"
Carl laughed, pulling the skimpy examination gown around him with an almost feminine gesture. "Yeah, yeah. Can't show that you're afraid of anyt'ing, doc. Besides, it's a chance to be young again, too."
"Young again? Carl, you're only thirty-one."
Carl tugged the hem of the gown down again.
"So you were whistling at girls? Knowing what might happen?" asked the doctor.
"Doc, I been whistling at girls, on purpose, for da last six years. I just finally got caught by whoever or whatever did dis." He smiled. "It finally worked."
I freely release SCryPTs as a plot device to anyone else who wants to use it. Enjoy. :) -- Lainie