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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 09A"( bf mF mF+ )[30/52]
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The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
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matters that you find distasteful. Caveat lector; you read at your own
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This particular series is by Santo J. Romeo. That might even be his
real name. The version that I have copied used his initials, and I have
followed suit. It is more a tragic story of coming of age than simply a
sex story, and individual segments might not contain any sex. The entire
story, however, is a hot one.
========
**** WARNING **** WARNING **** WARNING ****
THIS DOCUMENT IS A SEXUALLY GRAPHIC STORY ABOUT AN INTENSE SEXUAL,
EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A TEENAGE GIRL AND
A YOUNG BOY AND THE COURSE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP OVER A PERIOD OF
10 YEARS. IT IS A DRAMATIZATION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE AND THEIR CON-
FLICT WITH SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS. IF THIS SUBJECTS OFFENDS YOU OR IF
SEXUAL LANGUAGE UPSETS YOU, OR IF YOU DON'T WANT THIS MATERIAL SEEN
BY UNDER-18 OR OTHERWISE UNQUALIFIED PERSONS, DELETE THIS DOCUMENT.
THIS DOCUMENT IS COPYRIGHTED 1994, 1996 BY SJR. SO--HEY, YOU CAN
COPY IT BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE IT OR SELL IT UNLESS I SAY SO.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
============
PART 9A:
Working at Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 was more challenging than
I'd expected. The store occupied the corner of Exchange and Lauderdale,
across the street from the same project and the same corner where Martha
and I grew up. Two stock-boys worked in the store, and three delivery
boys worked outside on the clunky old utility bikes.
On my first day at work in early July I was assigned to young, dark-
haired Anthony, a distant cousin who lived with his widowed mother in the
project. He could shuck a bushel of corn and trim lettuce so quickly
that his hand movements seemed a mere blur. During the first couple of
days I almost managed to compete with him, as well as learning how to
stock canned and boxed goods in the aisles and shelves as neatly as did
George, the oldest stock boy.
But after I learned the basic layout and operation of the store by
the end of that week, I was assigned to a delivery bike. That job con-
fronted me with my physical limitations. Though I was not small for my
going-on-fourteen years, I was neither hefty nor strong. A customer's
grocery order contained from one to several stuffed bags in addition to
an occasional case of canned goods or beer. The bikes themselves were
ancient chain-driven units with gigantic wire baskets over the front and
rear wheels. They had fat metal seats, no center bar, a chest-high bare
metal handlebar, undersized wheels designed for heavy loads and rough
streets, and a low-ratio single gear for hauling rather than speed. They
were slow, rusty, noisy machines. But when loaded with several heavy
grocery bags that would be pedaled over a pitted street or along a gravel
driveway, they were stronger and more manageable than a recreational bike.
One of the older boys, a chesty, tough-looking but friendly blond,
crew-cut kid named Charlie, took charge for the first few days and
showed me the ropes. He saw to it that I started out with one-bag or
two-bag loads for customers who lived no more than three blocks away. I
was slow at first; although I had once lived in the area, the building
numbering system in the project and on some of the more obscure side
streets were unfamiliar. This brief training reduced the number of daily
deliveries I was able to make. The job paid ten cents per order. At
that stage I averaged seven to ten orders daily.
By the end of the second week I was getting the hang of things. That
Saturday was particularly busy. Under the additional pressure of a
blistering noon sun, Charlie and another kid and I were on the sidewalk
in front of the store loading bags onto our bikes, along with a fourth
boy who had been drafted for the day from the part-time pool. Charlie
helped load the first two bikes and sent them on their way. He had
already loaded three orders onto his own bike.
He pointed to the last group of several bags. "They been here over
an hour. We better get caught up." He surveyed the bags. "We got one
for 236 Exchange, I can add that to my load. But all the other nine bags
is Miz Gaston's order. You'll have to make two trips outta this, maybe
three. You up to it, Speedy?"
"Sure," I said. "Load me."
Charlie helped me load the first four large paper bags onto my bike.
"That looks steady enough," he told me, checking the bike for sway and
balance. Then he climbed on his fully-loaded machine and steadied him-
self with one foot on the ground. Pointing at the one-bag order still
sitting in the corner, he told me, "Gimme me that order."
I gaped at him. "You gonna carry that with five bags already on your
bike?"
"Hell, give it to me. C'mon."
I handed him the bag, which was no lightweight, and he held it
pressed to his side with one hand grasping the bottom. Wobbling slightly
on the bike, he settled onto his seat, grabbed the handlebar with his
free hand, shoved off with one long push of his feet, and started
pedaling rough-and-ready down the street in the hot sun, gritting his
teeth and looking in all directions for the traffic.
I watched with admiration as he drifted slowly up Exchange Street,
steering one-handed and hefting a full sack under his free arm.
Climbing onto my own bike, I was surprised as the stubborn weight
caught me off-guard and almost felled me. Grunting, I forced the bike
upright and made sure of my balance. I proceeded slowly, knowing I'd
have to be careful with this monstrous load.
But before I could get moving, my stepdad rushed out of the front
door and pointed at the remaining bags on the ground. "Wait up! Wait!
Ain't all this part of the Gaston order?"
I told him it was all one order and that I'd make it in two trips.
He yelled impatiently about the order having been delayed too long
and demanded that I load it all at once and get moving. I was not that
good at loading up yet, so Tony grumbled and shoved me aside. Hastily,
he began stuffing the bags into the large carry baskets, shifting and
shoving until the bike was so heavily loaded it seemed to sag. The tires
were slightly but visibly pressed flat where they touched the sidewalk.
I eyed the load fearfully and mumbled something about not being sure
I could handle that much weight.
"Hell you can't!" Tony retorted, "Get on that damn bike and move this
order outta here! Go on, get movin!" He chomped on his unlit cigar and
strode back into the store, glaring back at me hotly.
At first it was all I could do to disengage the kickstand and simply
hold up the bike. The cargo's weight was considerably more than my own
and the slightest tilt of the machine required serious effort to keep the
bike balanced. I carefully walked the bike to the curb and slowly let
the front wheel off the sidewalk and into the street, then the rear
wheel. At that point the shifting weight almost pulled the bike ground-
ward. Desperately, using both arms and heaving my back and legs into it,
I kept the bike upright while I haltingly moved onto the seat, checked my
balance, hopped up onto the big metal pedals, and shoved my legs forward.
The bike seemed to move in slow motion. Before I made it across
narrow Exchange Street my ankles were sore with the effort. Checking the
traffic in both directions, I let the bike roll lethargically toward the
six-lane breadth of Lauderdale Street. Then I tried pedaling to gain the
speed I needed to cross the boulevard. But the weight I was pedaling
seemed to mock my efforts. I could not gain speed. Seeing traffic ap-
proach, I knew I had to head back toward the curb to avoid being overrun.
Helplessly, as if in a bad dream, I felt the bike tilt sideways as I
turned; then I felt the overwhelming weight shift the undersized wheels
with a sharp scraping sound; the front wheel began slipping underneath
the bike, and the bike started tumbling. I jumped off the seat and with
my arms, back, legs, and any other leverage I could muster, I vainly
tried to keep the load from forcing the bike on its side in the middle of
the roadway. But the weight shoved the wheels over the surface of the
pavement and pulled both me and the bike toward the curb. With a loud
crash the bike fell on its side, half on top of me, and several bags
tumbled into the street. Groceries went everywhere. The traffic caught
up with me and one of the speeding automobiles, swerving away from me,
smashed a cabbage into shards. Other cars crushed oranges and a cannis-
ter of bug spray. A can of creamed corn exploded sticky yellow grit into
the air, and several other items were smashed and smeared in the roadway.
Across the street, Tony ran out the door and screamed "God DAMN!"
Pitching his cigar aside he dashed across the roadway toward me, with
Anthony following. Anthony himself rushed to me in concern and alarm and
helped pull me from under the bike. But my stepdad Tony flew into a
rage. Kicking a couple of smashed cans out of the street and into the
gutter, he flared angrily at me and screamed, "How fuckin' stupid!"
Anthony uprighted the bike. Just as he wheeled it onto the sidewalk,
Tony stomped over to me and yelled, "Cain't you hold up a damn bike?" He
slapped me across my face so hard that my head jerked and I found my
startled eyeballs suddenly staring down the street in the opposite direc-
tion. I turned back to him, my neck aching from the blow, and saw his
reddened face glowering into mine.
"Get this shit outta the street and get that bike loaded again! Now
we're gonna have to rebuild this whole damn order! And whatever's
missin' comes outta your pay, goddamit!" He spit on the street and
pointed to the trash around us. "Anthony! Help this idiot clean up and
get 'im back on the road!" Tony turned and stomped off, toward the store.
"Right, Tony," Anthony murmured after him, looking almost as startled
as I must have looked. Shaking his head and eyeing me sympathetically,
he said, "That Tony's a tough customer, Speedy."
Enraged and humiliated, I avoided his eyes and began fetching the
litter out of the street while Anthony walked the bike with its bent
baskets to the storefront. Five minutes later I trekked wordlessly into
and through the store, into the rear stock room. Storming into the
restroom, I slammed the door shut behind me and threw the bolt lock into
place, then untied and removed my garbage-stained, shin-length cotton
work apron and, wadding it up tightly, slammed it into the wall and
screamed "Son of a bitch!" into the little room.
Covered with sweat, I bent to the sink and splashed my head and neck
with cold water to cool me down both physically and emotionally. I held
my dripping head over the sink and massaged my sore neck, muttering "Son
of a bitch" again, and then paused and took several deep breaths.
"All right," I muttered aloud, hearing my voice sound grim and wobbly
with hate. "All right, dammit."
I fetched a new white apron and got back to work. I'd kept track of
Mrs. Gaston's sales receipt. I repacked the entire order, noted what was
missing, and retrieved new items from the shelves. When the order was
complete I got Mrs. Gaston's telephone number from the delivery listing
and gave her a call, explaining that her order had been damaged but that
it was fixed and ready to go. She was very gracious and said she knew
that Saturday was always a busy day and she wasn't annoyed.
This time I packed the bags myself, making certain that the load in
each bag was evenly distributed and that each bag weighed nearly the
same. I managed to reduce the original nine bags to seven. As I began
carrying them outside and loading them on the bike, Anthony paused in his
work to speak to me briefly.
"Don't take it too hard," he said. "You're his son and he expects
you to do better work than the rest of us."
"I have my own expectations about how good my work'll be," I replied
angrily.
Outside, I loaded and unloaded the grocery order onto the bike sev-
eral times, until I was certain the cargo was perfectly balanced.
"What the hell 're you doin'?" said a burly young voice behind me. I
turned to see Charlie, his hands on his hips and a wry grin on his face.
"I'm takin' this order," I said flatly, grabbing up the last bag.
"I heard about what happened, " Charlie said, his tough-kid's voice
slightly taunting. "I know he shouldn'a done that to you, and I know it
was too big a load for that bike, but you ain't gonna tell me with a
straight face that you intend to deliver all this in one trip."
"That's exactly what I intend to do!" I said, jamming the last bag
into the rear basket.
"Hell, man, I weigh twenty pounds over you and my legs are longer,
but I wouldn't carry that in one load. You trynna get yourself fucked up
again?"
"Not this time," I vowed. I held the bike straight and level, dis-
engaged the kickstand, and then let go of the bike altogether. For a
brief moment it stood still and upright until I grabbed the handlebar
again.
"Not bad, tiger," Charlie said, nudging his lips in approval. He
grinned and threw me a salute. "But this time, if you fall, try t' land
on yer butt instead of yer head."
I turned the bike toward Mrs. Gaston's and walked it off the curb.
The bike landed on the street surface and remained level, with no bounce.
Mounting, I tested the sway range of the weight piled around me. I found
that managing the weight from the front was the key tactic, rather than
trying to manipulate everything at once. I engaged the pedals and began
pumping my legs with all my might. Soon I was rolling fast enough to
make a rapid shift to the right. I glided almost gracefully across
Lauderdale Street.
My initial optimism was short-lived. As I slowly progressed down the
street the load seemed to get heavier by the yard. Mrs. Gaston's address
was three blocks into the project. The last leg of the trip was a seg-
ment of rising driveway that led to her building; unable to pedal uphill,
I dismounted and walked the bike to her building. It was touch and go
all the way, with several close calls as the weight persistently forced
the bike toward or away from me. Finally, covered with salty sweat and
grime, I arrived at the front of her building. For some reason the cargo
was now too heavy for the kickstand, so I leaned the bike against her
building. There was no elevator, so one by one I began hefting the bags
up the steep, narrow stairwell to Mrs. Gaston's third-floor apartment.
She was a tiny, elderly woman in a dark flowery dress who expressed
alarm at the sight of my sweat-soaked face and clothes. She gave me a
glass of ice water, smiled and thanked me, and gave me a ten-cent tip.
Later, leaning in the shade at the side of her building, I cooled off
and caught my breath. I looked down at the shiny dime in my hand.
I told myself: you made it, dammit. And with a dime to spare. An
extra dime for New York. One step closer to the big city.
Mounting my bike I grabbed the handlebar, shoved off with both feet,
and went into a long glide down the driveway toward the street, the cool
wind now flapping my apron around my shins. I pumped the pedals swiftly
and pushed the bike through the breeze that mounted with my speed. I
spotted Charlie under the front awning of the store two blocks ahead. He
glanced in my direction and grinned and gave me the "OK" sign with his
raised hand.
For the rest of the afternoon the orders proliferated. Charlie and I
and the two other boys kept loading and shoving off with one delivery
after another. Charlie kept his eyes on me, sending me on the lighter,
nearer orders. Finally I told him I expected to be treated the same way
the others were and that I should carry the same loads as they.
"Take yer time," Charlie told me as we loaded up yet another group of
bags. "You're smaller than the others, and your legs are shorter." He
paused to reach into his shirt pocket for his cigarette lighter. He
retrieved a cigarette from the pack he kept in the folds of his rolled-up
shirt sleeve. He took a quick puff and extended the pack toward me.
"Smoke?"
"Thanks," I said, even though I didn't know how to smoke.
He gave the pack a quick, short jerk and the tips of several ciga-
rettes protruded from the pack. I grabbed one and put it in my mouth,
instantly feeling the mild burn of tobacco on my inner lips. I resolved
that whatever could be done by Charlie, who was robust and taller and
three years my senior, I could do as well.
He flipped open his Zippo lighter and lit my cigarette. I puffed. I
coughed several times.
"Shit," he said, grinning with his cigarette dangling from his mouth.
"C'mon, man, take it one thing at a time. That ain't no way to smoke,
you got tobacco all over your damn lip. Maybe you oughtta start out with
filters instead of straights."
"I'll start with straights," I said, embarrassed but grinning back
stubbornly. "There's a four-bagger over there. Come on and load me up."
He took another puff and sighed. "Man, what a glutton for punish-
ment."
For the rest of the afternoon I watched Charlie closely, chiding him
when I saw him pass up a large order and assign me to a much smaller
one. He smirked and warned me, "Don't pass up all the small orders," he
cautioned. "They're short and quick. And they pay the same ten cents as
the big ones that take longer."
As dusk neared and the flow of business waned for the day, I loaded
one more four-bagger onto my bike and was just getting ready to shove off
when my stepdad came out of the front door and stood near my bike. I
averted my eyes from his and pretended to be engrossed in straightening a
bag in my front basket.
He spoke evenly and calmly. "All right, I have to apologize for
losin' my temper today. You cleaned it all up, and you got the order to
the customer all by yourself. The customer called up and said nothin'
was missin', and nothin' was damaged. So you did a good job. And forget
about anything comin' out of your pay this week. I'm sorry I got so
angry about it." Without another word, he walked away.
His apology changed nothing. At that moment I deeply resented him --
not for his anger, but for the humiliation I felt at being struck. Even
before he disappeared into the store, I had turned my bike around and was
on my way with the next order.
Soon I was cruising in the cool late afternoon breeze with a four-
bag order, my sore thighs arduously pumping at the pedals that pushed my
squeaky, straining bike down Lauderdale Street. Earlier, when no one in
the store was watching, I made Anthony sell me a pack of Chesterfield
unfiltered cigarettes. As I turned into the project driveway and slipped
out of sight of those in the store, I reached into my shirt pocket under
my stained work apron, pulled out the pack of cigarettes, jerked the pack
in the manner I had learned from Charlie, and pulled out a cigarette by
holding the tip with only the dry, outer portion of my lips. Using
another technique I learned from watching Charlie, I struck a match on my
bluejean leg and lit up. The smoke was bitter and hot. I vowed I'd
learn to inhale the way older kids did, and the thought that my stepdad
would be incensed at my smoking merely firmed my resolve to smoke as much
as I wanted, to carry my own load, to ignore him and be free of him. I
told myself that it was what my real father, Steven Senior, would have
done.
In my pants pocket I had the tips I'd earned and that I didn't let
Tony know about: two quarters, two dimes, and some pennies. That day I
had already broken my previous record by carrying thirteen deliveries,
and the store would not be closing for almost three hours.
I knew I had considerable growing and building-up to do. Charlie and
the others outclassed me in every way. But I had a goal ahead of me, a
goal far beyond the grocery store, beyond Memphis.
By mid-September I was running thirty orders a day, and over fifty on
Saturdays. The savings account that Tony managed for me slowly grew.
Slowly. But as soon as it looked as if I might be getting somewhere
financially, I had to register for my last year of grammar school. This
meant that I could earn money only on Saturday deliveries and on Sundays
when I typed menus at the Tremont.
I began looking for more work and more money.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 9A:
-30-
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