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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 08D"( bf mF mF+ )[29/52]
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The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults.  If you are 
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic 
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make any guarantee.  You should be aware that the story might raise other 
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 8D:



    Perhaps, when I awoke groggily at my Mama Rose's house that Saturday
morning, July 2, 1955, I had been dreaming of my father while asleep in
that room.  I had little else to hold before me as a model of what I
might do and how I might behave when I went to Union Station later that
day to say goodbye to Martha.  I wondered how Steven Senior might handle
it: he was a hero, a winner of the Air Medal, two Purple Hearts and the
Silver Star.  He had faced the terror of war with the Nazis twenty-two
times.  He had readily attempted to hold together a B-17 landing gear
with little more than his bare hands.  If he could do that, then as his
son I could certainly hold my own at Union Station.

    I rode to the Tremont Cafe with Mama Rose and ate a big breakfast
there.  I left just before eleven o'clock and walked two blocks to Union
Station.  It was a gaudy Romanesque building of massive proportions, a
relic of the Gilded Age, with a vast main lobby graced with chandeliers
clustered, gigantic warm-white globes.  The atmosphere was so much
quieter than I would have thought;  I expected a noisily milling crowd
and a rush of people in all directions.  Instead, all was quiet and
sedate, with few people waiting on the long rows of curved mahogany
benches.

    Martha sat in a pleated black skirt and white blouse near the
newsstand in the center of the lobby.  She was reading a magazine.  At
the sound of my footsteps she looked up and smiled, put her magazine
aside, and rose to meet me halfway.  She gave me a long warm hug.

    She whispered a happy "Hi, hon."  And I almost cried.  But I showed
little of it.  Heros didn't cry.  The sons of Silver Star winners didn't
cry.  In the movies, neither William Holden nor Bogart did that sort of
thing.

    Evelyn was there, and another girlfriend whom I didn't know but whom
they introduced as Tasha.  So I was unable to say much of what I wanted
to say--and at any rate, I doubt I would have said anything anyway.

    Martha told me she had sold her car.  When she told Mr. Buchanan
about it before leaving, he had been bitter and unrelenting.  There had
been some angry shouting.  He would support her in Memphis, but not in
New York.  New York was golgatha, sin city, filled with queers and
commies and perverts.  If she wanted to teach, she could teach just as
well in Memphis and then find herself a husband and raise a good
Christian family.  Everybody in New York was a drug addict, the mafia
owned everything, and anyone who wasn't a mobster was a Puerto Rican, a
wetback or a Jew.  Even staid Evelyn, who now sat waiting unhappily with
Martha and her friend in the station, thought her stepdad's ravings were
little more than strident hysteria, and certainly she thought New York
could not be nearly so awful.

    My concern for my own problems vanished when I noticed that Martha
herself, keeping up a good front of cheer and optimism about claiming her
future, sat holding my hand hidden from the others in the folds of her
pleated skirt.  She held on tightly, almost frantically.  Again and again
she gave my hand a tight squeeze, and now and then she would rub her
thumb nervously and firmly across my knuckles.  At first I thought she
was doing it for my comfort; after a while I could sense the tension
throughout her body.  But others were present, and there was little I
dared to say, even in a whisper, lest they notice.

    At one point Evelyn mentioned that the announcement for the train's
departure would be heard soon, and she and their friend jaunted off to
the ladies' room.  I sat with Martha and looked around at the vast
railroad station that I knew so well and where I had spent so many
weekends roaming and playing.  Those weekends were followed by a trip
back home to the Lauderdale Courts, where Martha lived next door.

    "Steven, I'm scared," I heard her say beside me.

    I turned to find her looking down at my hand, which she grasped and
rubbed nervously.  "I'm really scared.  I didn't think I would be this
scared.  I can't have my father here -- He's long gone.  It's been so
long since he died.  I know Mr. Buchanan was spouting nonsense and
superstition.  I mever thought he'd explode that way.  I sometimes think
I understand why he dislikes what I'm doing... but I had no idea he would
hate me so much.  It scares me, somehow.  I can't even let Evelyn see,
she's so strong and so successful and she fits in so well.  But even
Evelyn had to lie to him about coming here with me.  He thinks she's at
her office.  It scares me.  I don't know why."

    I whispered, levelheaded and all grown up.  "I'm not scared."

    She looked up at me with thankful, loving eyes.

    I said, "I'm proud of you.  You earned this.  You deserve it.  And
after you leave here today, you'll be in a place where you can be your-
self.  Mr. Buchanan won't be around to make you feel like a criminal for
being yourself."

    Her eyes shuttled quickly to one side and she whispered, "Evelyn and
Tasha are coming back."  She gave my arm an extra squeeze and, looking
down, she sent me a secret smile.  "Thank you, hon."

    Within five minutes the cathedral-like walls rang out with the echoes
of the departure announcement.  Groaning and sighing, Martha and Evelyn
and Tasha grabbed the baggage and we all walked to the departure gate at
one end of the lobby.  Before us the trains waited noisily, hissing and
steaming and whistling.  It was near the end of the era of the long pas-
senger railroads, and the line of Pullmans was not as long as I remem-
bered from a few years earlier.  But the black porters were still there,
smiling and polite and spry, asking "Can I see your tickets, please
ma'am?  Here ya go, Miss, the porter'll take those bags for you, ma'am.
George, these are for car 4111."  It was still the age of tipping caps
and friendly smiles.

    We walked together to the start of the waiting platform, where the sun
blazed down on us in the open air.  Beyond that point, only ticketed
passengers could venture down the platform walkway.

    "'Bye, sister," Evelyn whispered tearfully as she gave Martha a
close and affectionate hug.

    Then her girlfriend took her hand and looked in her eyes and tried
bravely to smile, saying "Martha...", only to break up angrily and sob,
"I'm gonna miss the hell outta you!"  They clutched each other and Martha
whispered something in Tasha's ear I couldn't hear above the hissing
steam of the waiting trains.  In response, Tasha nodded and stepped back.

    Then Martha came over to me with a courageous smile and reached out
for me to come to her for a hug.  I went to her and she grabbed me like a
big watermelon and almost lifted me off my feet.  I felt certain there
was no danger at all that Martha would cry, but I still wondered if I
could hold myself together so well.  I was barely taller than she; her
lips, as usual when we embraced, were just below my ear.

    She laughed and whispered, "I won't cry if you won't."

    "I won't," I said.

    And then, her face on my shoulder, she started crying.  Almost in
terror, I wondered if the others noticed.  They had, but not in the
manner I feared; Evelyn gave a sad little smile and said something to the
other girl and pointed to me, as if explaining about me and Martha.
Reading her lips, I saw Evelyn mouth the words "grew up together", and
the other girl nodded as if she understood.  That, at least, is how their
conversation appeared to me.

    But my concern was about Martha's crying.  With a deep breath and a
sudden straightening, she stepped back and wiped one eye hastily with a
bare hand.  "Damn, I didn't think I would do this."

    I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and a gentle smile that said it was
okay.

    "You behave, cowboy.  And write to me."  She kissed my cheek quickly
and turned away.  Unstopping, undaunted, she smiled and waved to the
others and made her way down the length of the train.  Two or three times
she turned as she walked, one time shouting to us, "You people write to
me, or I'll come back!"

    The other girl shouted back, "Watch out for those New York taxi
drivers!"

    For a brief time I watched as she grew smaller on the path down the
line of Pullmans.  I did not want to see the rest of it.  She was walking
ahead strongly now, far past the point where any of us could be heard
over the steam and the commotion of the boarding platform, so she no
longer turned to yell at us.  The others stood waiting, and as I turned
to leave I caught their glances and motioned a polite goodbye.  I felt I
had to go elsewhere; I was exhausted from holding back all expression
of my feelings.

    I walked into the cool shade under the giant awning that covered the
departure area, and into the quiet station.  The noise of the trains
retreated behind me, leaving me feeling less haunted by the sounds of
their leaving and taking Martha away.  I retreated to the area around the
newsstand, stood alone and shoved my hands into the pockets of the dressy
slacks I wore for the occasion.  A deep breath.  Another, deeper breath.
I loitered, pretending to gaze at the magazines while I pulled myself
together enough to pass through the station and appear perfectly normal
in front of the bystanders who entered and left through the main arches.
I was not really aware of anything around me.  My mind went completely
blank.  I didn't know where I was going or what I would do.  My urge was
to hop on the train, ticket or no ticket, baggage or no baggage.  I could
not believe I was thinking such impossible thoughts.

    Abruptly I felt I'd had my fill of this scene.  I turned and, in one
long series of movements during which I consciously fought to keep moving
ahead rather turning and running for the departing train, I kept going
until I was out of the station and onto the sidewalk.  I made my way
quickly back to the Tremont Cafe.  I have no idea what kinds of sounds
the train made as it left Memphis, no idea how it looked or whether
Martha might be gazing out the window and back at Union Station, or what
she might look like riding in the Pullman on her way out of town.

    I entered the front door of the Tremont Cafe, now crowded at the
height of the lunch hour with crusty old railroad men and a bunch of my
aunts and grandfolks and the two middle-aged waitresses who worked there.
Bill Hailey and the Comets were drumming out "Rock Around the Clock" on
the light-swirling Wurlitzer.  It was a record that had been on the juke
box so long it had taken on a cloudy, garbled, hissy sound.

    Without a word I stepped behind the lunch counter, grabbed a dish,
and filled it with several round scoops of Forest Hill vanilla ice cream.
Though there were no tears, I knew I was crying: I had a thick salty
taste in my throat.  Shuffling past the help and the dishes, I made my
way through the rear kitchen where my ancient great-grandmother, Mama
Nifa, smiled her toothless smile and happily stirred a huge caldron of
steaming beef stew.  I smiled and nodded to everyone who smiled and
nodded at me, and found a seat in the fairly quiet and unpopulated rear
lunch room.  I sat wordlessly and poked at the ice cream, which was
soothing and cool, although in my numbed state I couldn't taste it.

    Wanda, a wiry little redheaded waitress who always talked out of the
side of her thin mouth, came into the room on a break with a glass of
iced tea and asked me, "Hi, sport, you gonna type the menus for us again
today?"

    Mustering my most casual smile, I answered, "Sure."

    "Here," she said, grabbing a seat at the table in front of me and
pulling several handwritten pages out of her apron pocket.  "Here's the
dishes and the prices, so you can type this up for us.  I'd rather you
did it anyway, I can't spell worth a damn and you do such a nice job on
the typewriter."  She spread the pages on the table before us.  She lit a
cigarette and sipped her iced tea.

    I looked at her.  She was in her late thirties and I knew she was
divorced.  She was thin, long-necked, rather attractive despite her long
and slightly crooked nose.  I had always felt there was something seduct-
ive about what I could see of her small tits and slender arms.  High-
waisted and leggy, she was always friendly and unceremonious with me from
the first time I saw her.  Now I sat directly across from another woman
whom I knew to be sexually attractive to me in a kinky way that partook
of something of the forbidden manner in which Martha had been sexually
attractive.  But Martha was gone.  Those two facts -- Wanda's physical
presence and loose manner, and Martha's complete absence -- gave me a new
and undefinably odd feeling.  It suddenly occurred to me that for the
first time since I became a sexual person, there was no way for me to
express my sexuality.  I found it strangely disorienting.

    Wanda puffed on her cigarette.  "What's up, sport?  You don't look so
happy."

    Brazenly I said, without a blink:  "I just lost my girlfriend."

    "What the hell," she said, with a disdainful smirk and a wave of her
hand.  "So get another one."

    "I don't know any other ones."

    "So what?  You're young.  Not like me!  My last one wore me out!
Made me old before my time."  She stretched in a tired yawn, a motion
that shoved her tiny nipples against her thin apron, and it occurred to
me that she didn't appear to be wearing a bra under her uniform.

    "Anyway, I gotta get back to work.  Give the menus to the boss-lady,
you know, your Aunt Frances, when you finish.  And thanks, honey--my
English ain't nearly good enough for that kind of work.  I envy you,
bein' smart enough at your age to do that kinda stuff."

    She turned and sauntered off, with horny little thirteen-year-old me
following her slim hips and long legs all the way out of the room.

    I retrieved the heavy Smith Corona typewriter out of the broom closet
and loaded it with paper and carbons for the day's food listing, of which
I would type several carbon copies that would be slipped inside the
plastic covers of the restaurant menus.  As I worked I wondered what it
might be like to fuck Wanda.  But, then, Wanda wasn't what I wanted.  I
knew I was merely lonely and that what I really missed was knowing that
sooner or later Martha would be around, moaning and talking and fucking.
Of course, that wouldn't happen.  With a new and sudden pain in my balls
and in my gut, it began to hit me -- suddenly and with the force of the
wind from an atomic blast -- that my needs had nowhere to go.

    Restless and growing anxious and angry, I threw myself into typing
the menus.  The restaurant had no duplicating machine; I had to type the
menus manually, one original and five carbons at a time.  Aunt Frances
would give me five bucks for the job.  Not much, but five bucks was five
bucks, in addition to a couple of bucks for a weekly allowance that she
would slip to me, and another two or three bills from Mama Rose or Daddy
Joe as the balance of my allowance.

    My brain started adding this up.   That was about nine to eleven
bucks a week.  If I continued to lie about my age at the movies and kept
getting in on the child's ticket price, and if I kept my spending down to
a reasonable level at school during the week, I could save perhaps
twenty-five or thirty bucks a month.  Maybe more.  And I would be deliv-
ering at my step-dad's grocery, which would amount to more money every
week.

    As I typed, I wondered:

    How long would it take to save up enough money to get to New York?


                           Continued...

                   ====================================
                   THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
                                 by S.J.R.
                               ============
                                  PART 8D
                                   -30-


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