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From: pleasecain@aol.com (PleaseCain)
Subject: "Remember Ol' Stretch's Train?" by PleaseCain
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Vive la Tern.



EXPLICIT MATERIAL NOT INTENDED FOR MINORS.
© 1998 PleaseCain@aol.com -- Commercial use prohibited
without author's consent.




Remember Ol' Stretch's Train?
© 1998 PleaseCain@aol.com


The day-glo parade of festivalgoers, its bright bobbing balloons and warm
cottoncandy, slowed where it passed a swarm of boys flitting in and out of
the grove behind a wall, watching them gather in tittering groups of twos,
threes and fours, break apart into kinetic units, nervous as gnats, and
recongeal in unstable packets.  Merry boys:  the onlookers craned and
smiled uncertainly whenever exuberant barks bubbled through the lads'
stacatto murmurings.

Something was definitely going on.

A man with silvered temples nudged the boy seated on the curb with his
back to the others.  "Hey," the man jerked his chin over his shoulder, "what
you guys got going, huh?" but he didn't wait for an answer.  The boy
watched him approach the other youths, and after a few words he
disappeared around the corner with a few of them.  The guy had ditched the
woman and stroller from earlier.  One of the kids jogged over.

"You're up, Stretch.  Go on, man, we ain't got all day."

The seated one rolled his eyes.

"What's this?" the first mimicked.  "What the hell is that?"

"Fuck you," Stretch hissed under his breath.

"What?  You son of a . . ."

"Hey! Hey!" a third one bellowed magnanimously, then whispered, "You
fucks, there's cops right there."  A cruiser inched past on the closed street.
The peacemaker playfully scruffled Stretch's hair and crouched to the
sidewalk, slyly eyeing the blue-and-white.  Calmly, he continued, "What
gives, dickheads?"

The one kicked the curb.  "Jagoff's pulling some kind of attitude, and I don't
know what this's all about, but I'm not gettin' burned, none of us is . . . I
mean, what the hell is this shit, Keith?"  He stammered in rage, and
addressed Stretch again.  "I'll beat the piss out of you, and your mother, and
that's just me."

Keith interjected evenly, "Why don't you cool off, go back there get another
piece."

Stretch didn't look up when a hocker splattered the concrete beside his
jeans; he got a knee to the shoulder as the other walked by.

Keith:  "Is there a problem?  I'm talking to you."

"No problem.  Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Is there a problem, I said?  You know, you better say something, 'cause it
looks like Woodsy's getting the crew all riled up.  They're looking this way,
anyhow."

"You know . . . let's just head out.  That's enough already."

"What do you mean, enough already?  You ain't had none.  So bing, bam,
boom, and we're outta here.  Right?"

"No, I'm not doing it, man.  Let's go."

Keith's easy tone turned instantly hard, like an icy cloud shrouding the
moon.  "You'd better watch.  This is your girl, you brought her round.  What,
do you think you're gonna boag out on us all of a sudden?  I don't think
anybody's gonna let you do that."  He stood and stated, "You don't have any
choice."  They stared at one another.  "Come on."  For good measure, he
nodded the others over.

Stretch tottered to his feet, turned on numb legs, Keith at his elbow.  Charlie
met them halfway.

"Aw Stretch, she's all waiting on you.  Wait'll you see her.  I mean,
fanfuckingtastic.  This chick is rocked."

"Yeah, Charlie?" he mumbled.

"Oh yeah, bud.  This is a great thing you done.  Aw, Stretch!"  He saw
Wood's insolent glare peripherally on his other side, black eyebrows and
nostrils flaring, following step-by-step, flanked by Bill and Micky.  Ahead,
the
Family Man stuck his head out from behind the wall, looked both ways, then
darted into the sidewalk traffic.  "I mean, you know I 'preciate the reading
and homework and all you help me with--you know I do--but this, I . . . well, I
really owe you on this one, and I'll getcha, too.  I'm not gonna forget this,
Stretches."

"Charlie, don't.  Put it out of your mind."

"Stay here, Spaz, keep an eye out," Keith told Charlie at the corner of the
building, where the crabapple trees began.  "Don't let nobody back here no
more.  Tell them others we're cuttin' out soon."  Then to Stretch's back:
"Go.  You sallys are taking too long."

Stretch plodded through clinging treelimbs and leaves whispering like
unfurling veils.  They followed, at least two others, driving him.  He had
blocked it for hours, but now she appreared clearly in his mind.  Her
beautiful bronze skin:  black, but light as smooth caramel, with freckles on
her pointed cheeks.  She must've been Caribbean, with that name he
couldn't understand, Janquay or Tranquil or something.  But could she
dance! her legs that delicious color, tantalizing from the form-fitting black
dress, lean but muscled calves, dimpled, tapering to thin feet and long pink
toes flexing in open mules.  Already tipsy and ebullient, she performed a
languorous snakedance to the bassbooms from the distant stage, her naked
arms pirouetting seductively as cobras in thin air, floating in hypnotic
tension over her head, in space, around his neck.  "Mmmm," she hummed
against him, oblivious to the music.

In the clearing, she sprawled on an athletic jacket, legs lifeless and wide as
if broken.  Amid the sallow yellows and tired greens of matted grass, the
fecal browns and grays of pasty mud, the girl's sex swelled beet-red
between those once-delicate legs, now streaked grimy to their heels and
grassy toes with encrusted nails.  Her dress crumbled about her chest,
framing the juncture puffed like cheeks holding breath, weeping like an eye.
She hummed unperturbed by his approach, an ambling gurgle, an
indecipherable catechism to a blank sky.

A surrepticious glance from the corner of his eye:  he couldn't see them, but
they were watching.  Two oblong skids, shallow craters of mud too wide to
straddle, scarred the grass at her crotch.

Without looking, she blathered, "Ha baby, j'got more f' me?"  He peeked
again, but still couldn't see them, so he unbuttoned.  She was sodden,
incoherent, and probably wouldn't recognize him.

"More, more, more," she laughed up vapors of rum.  "'at's whuh I need,
more, more, more."

He held himself above her as in a pushup; her fingers grasped his flacid
penis as if a lightcord or teat, to begin once again.  Then she looked and
saw him.  "Oh hiii . . . where've y'been?  Huh?  J'got sump'in for me?"

He humped her hand for show.  "I have a car," he rasped.  "I can take you to
the hospital, or to the cops.  Or home."

Over his shoulder, the girl coughed the doomed laugh of a tubercular, and
instantly her head whipped forward and teeth gripped his ear.  She clenched
his hanging sack.

"Why did you do it?" she growled through teeth and taut earflesh; the grip
around his scrotum tightened.  He wanted to say he didn't do it, that she
was the one who'd danced with his friends, spinning carelessly in the
tightening circle.

"Why did you do it?"  But all he could think of, her words, her tone, was
when he'd heard that phrase before, after months of cursings and beatings,
about his brace, about being teacher's pet, about any arbitrary thing, until
he'd told the stories about Mrs. McMullen . . . they'd started small, but over
weeks grew, about how she'd touched him, there, but he hadn't intended to
go that far . . . until he was helplessly ensconced in the arms of the
neighborlady, watching his mother march away to school: "Shh, it will be all
right, child."  They were waiting for him outside the entrance, staring like at
a
strange creature.  And later he'd found an eraser on the floor and
announced it at the head of class, and she was behind him, pinching his
ear, hissing privately, the trust and happiness of a year and a career drained
from her bitter voice, the warm nursery between teacher and student, adult
and child, stolen, only one naked soul impugning another, "Why did you do
it?"

He vomited on the grass, even before she tried to tear his nuts, before she
blubbered her hatred and turned on her side, crying.


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