Date: Sun, 23 Sep 2001 16:00:53 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song - 13
Blissy's Song -- 13
(b/b rom.)
by
Feather Touch
Nothing is implied by the use of media personalities
Chapt. 13.
I have to start this chapter on a personal note. Not since I was a
combat correspondent have I eaten deadlines like a `Vette eating road
stripes. It's cool to be fifty-five and be able to put the throttle down,
lean the mixture, trim everything, and howl for thirty hours as if they
were minutes. With a touch of irony I recall noting, some chapters back,
the end of the industrial revolution. I think I misspelled Mr. Torvalds'
name. Also, I seemed sure that there was nothing new in the pipeline,
nothing new on the horizon. Wrong. Now everything is new.
Life is again exciting, right? Those blasted Chinese with their
wise sayings, for living in interesting times is meant as a sort of curse.
May you live in interesting times. Hmm.
I like to run little got-ya's as I paddle along. You know, I told
you so's. One upsmanship's. Tawdry, but my job keeps me rather pinned
down, so I need the odd excursion, if only mental. The excursion I'm on now
involves my readers. Thousands of them. Many, as I've alluded to a time
or two, in publishing, in the arts. You know the type, and the rest of you
know who you are. I'm suggesting a little excursion of your own, some
mental, some physical.
What I want you to do is picture the window of a major bookstore.
Side by side, almost twins, are two fat fresh volumes. The cover art alone
is stopping traffic, the high cheekbones, the calm eyes. It's only four
inches by four inches. More would be absurd. Boys and girls look and look
again. Many move through the doors of the story, seemingly trying not to
hurry. Of course you know the titles, you're reading the second this very
moment. The thing I want you to try to imagine is this. How are you going
to feel looking at that handsome Yankee gazing calmly out through the store
window, knowing he's on another's list? Let me whisper a number in your
ear. Don't worry, it has nothing to do with salacious inches. The number
is one billion dollars. Your share is nine hundred million, mine is one
hundred million. If that hasn't got your attention, let me whisper to you
once again. This time I'll take a liberty and be a little lewd. Remember,
it's a new world when I whisper ancillary rights, licenses, and, so we
don't get bored with our impromptu meeting, Plunkett Enterprises. A/k/a
Plunkett Real-Life Enterprises. There's more, but there's more story
telling and essaying, too. See, I mine, you sell. And while you're
selling, don't forget Mr. Schwartz's cut. He created the Brady bunch, I
didn't. Not only did he create them, two stunning films bear his name.
Also, a point of all print revenue belongs to Nifty
Another group I would like to address is my government. Rumor would
certainly suggest Nifty is vetted. Hello, Houston? You have a problem,
Over.
Let's do another picture. A healthy one. You know. That Arab at
the wheel, stuffed as full of civil liberties and human rights as his
trailer is with ammonium nitrate and his head is with allah. Perhaps he's
even a doctor. You never know, Harvard's involved, so let's make the
far-fetched assumption. He's sworn an oath. To do no harm. The question
is, if his mission succeeds, has he?
Let's get back to unhealthy pictures.
Steve Brady pulled out his cell phone and pushed a button. It
appeared Alice had things under control at 4442 Clinton Way. He chatted a
minute with Bobby and Cindy, then had Peter put on the phone. Most of it
was new talk, quick, funny, decisive. Then there was a pause. Steve's
eyes rolled at Gregg and Jan. The subject appeared to be responsibility.
His words went like this. "Lots of fun, when it's fun, lots of work, when
it's work, and lots more work than fun so the fun can stay more fun than
the work."
They all heard the delighted giggle from the other end of the line,
and joined in. Brady, happy Bradys. Oh, you would think so, wouldn't you
just. Readers are like that. Fools for sentiment, sweet cuteness, and
relationships. Can be led by the nose, follow the piper, practically skip
and gambol along primrose path. Reader, you know what you can do with
readers? Trick `em something wicked. Set happy Bradys, all around the
pool, then break a glass, for something cruel. Change the whole story in a
heartbeat. New York certainly changed in a heartbeat, didn't it? That was
the greatest work of art in history or herstory. What an act to follow.
Only a god would even try. Thank goodness for Bill Gates, is all I can
say. But I diverge. You were being set up, remember. Happy Bradys,
sparkling pool, attractive crowd. Look up, look about. Not a cloud that
doesn't belong right where it is. Nothing could be more stable, happier,
re-centered at its very center. Few writers would tamper with the scene,
but few writers are living, breathing function deities, thank you very
much.
His dad had placed the phone back on their table and Gregg's mind
had wondered to the talent that had gone into the Tame Animal Farm. The
clearest example of the clear thinking of the management team had come not
five minutes ago.
Jan had turned her back to allow the males to don their trunks. All
backs to, this had taken scant seconds, and then the race of the tigers was
on. Past the chick, not roughly, but determinedly, then flashing feet and
the thunder of their descent of the rickety staircase. Pat, pat, pat and
splash, splash.
That management had included the pool, well, it had flat-out saved
two fiery pair, that very hour. And they'd filled it with water. How
irreducibly, death-bed memory, fabulous that water. To make such dramatic
use of simplicity and architectural cliché, well, it was just a marvel.
In his own way, Gregg was still giving love to the memory when it happened
out of the blue, all at once. A lot of bad things could have happened in
that moment; the teen was vulnerable, slashing through new chapters of his
life as if they were ripped from a phantasmagoric porno novel. But is just
wasn't the day for bad things.
Put simply, put plainly, put real understandable to the modern
reader, it was the boy from the toaster snack ad. The locker with the
stale pastries falling on the floor. It was the slim boy. The one with
the cute right eye tooth. It was there. Ten feet away. He was there.
Lots of the boys wore tees around the pool, so was he. He was not only
there, he was approaching. Smiling broadly. "You're Gregg," he said.
"Can I sit with you guys? I caught you at Valley Dale. I was almost
yipping. Everybody was. We just had to be cool.
You're being cool, now.
Sure, easy for him to say. If he could talk. Talking would be
nice, but it wasn't going to happen, not real fast. The new Gregg. The
strong, silent type. Who knew? He could move his head, slowly, carefully.
He nodded to a vacant chair, and to a place next to himself.
"Kelly Drake," the boy said, as he retrieved the chair.
The name rang something, somewhere, he didn't know what, he didn't
want to know what; he didn't know where, he didn't want to know where; he
didn't know when, he didn't want to know when. Kelly. That he was not a
Bundy, well, that did sink through, otherwise it was all Bud with no lines
to flub.
In a general sense, he seemed to be making a hit at the table. Old
word. Making a hit. A piece doesn't make a hit when it clicks into a
puzzle. It's just there, held tight on all sides, unless it was an edge,
then the math got a little different.
Young boys didn't have edges. Thoughts were still creeping like
cold snails. One could reach his talking nerves any minute. If it didn't
get lost. Then Kelly smiled, differently than the friendly look shared
with Jan and his dad. Well, it may have frozen the snail, but it was a
sputtering rocket, elsewhere. They sat long moments, participating in the
general quiet.
After five minutes Kelly spoke. "Can you show me around, Gregg?" he
asked.
It was just his voice that did it. Just the kiddo lilt, all by its
charming, cheering little-old self.
Gregg stood, the rumpled Dacron of his suit maybe or maybe not
hiding a little of something. He, little Kelly Drake came and took his,
Gregg Brady's hand, cracking a knuckle with all deliberation. They
wandered, Gregg supposed. Not far, but just where they could be alone in
pool garden. Apparently, they found a bench in a pretty grotto. It really
seemed they were sitting side by side, like one awesome inch apart. Kelly
was wearing street cloths, that was a real thing. Something to note and
try to retain. But the presence of the youngster, itself, that still froze
snails.
For long minutes they sat together radiating and in turn being
radiated upon.
"I feel the same way," Kelly whispered. "But I was standing up, so,
you know, I like had to say stuff so I wouldn't look weird."
That did them both for another significant arc of the minute hand.
Gregg was fourteen, Kelly, eleven. Age had to count. Maturity.
How many times had his dad and his step mom, his beautiful step mon,
said...
"It was really nice, what you said about us playing." That was
good. Gregg, the new Gregg, against lazy snails. He'd teach them.
"You look different," Kelly noted, "it's cool. I mean I like you
playing, but I don't think, you know, I would have like dropped my back
pack and come out to the pool in my street duds if it was the old you, no
offense."
The lord used big loaded jets to execute his mysterious ways. Gregg
had no idea what the Plunkett group exercised, but they did it much better,
and not just for Gregg Brady.
Already tightly webbed, Kelly tightened the bonds. "My agent said I
had a cute smile. Some junk like that. Stupid stuff, for girls, how about
my A's in English? So I'm here for kind of special reasons. I guess it
isn't really protecting the investment, but I guess really, it is."
"Sort of a trip to the dentist," Gregg commented.
"It would be really neat if you're funny," that awesome sweet voice
chirped.
"I had several years as a total clown," Gregg said. They grinned,
fived, and synched perfectly on their first "Awesome!" See what English
grades do, you younger reader? Every page in every story depends on it.
For example, if you know the awesome power of this language of the
gods, then you'll know how easy it is to describe two people falling in
love.
"Just don't ask for `Awe some-more."
Now what did I just tell you?
"Guess we got rid of the dentist," Kelly said.
"Clown, too."
"Dude, lighten up. It was just the clothes."
"No. The hair. The teeth. The gambit."
"Bulls shitting in a line," quoth the tender young newcomer.
Their first contact was a friendly nudge.
"Is it really weird, the stuff you have to do here?" Kelly asked.
"I think it will be on television is a few years," Gregg answered.
"Damn," said Kelly, "that's not saying much."
"You're on television," Gregg said.
"Yeah, I forgot," Kelly giggled.
"Just like you forgot the locker was full of Pop-Tarts. You have to
be a dork."
"I was thinking of your concert. Who's the cutie on the bottom of
the list."
"Cindy. She's eight. Bobby's nine, Pete's twelve and I'm fourteen.
Dad's thirty-five."
"Guess I'll have to wait for Cindy. I'm eleven."
"Do you like girls." Gregg asked.
"Rarely," Kelly sighed. "So many you know what's, so few brains.
Of course, boys fuck too fast and hit too hard, or the other way around. I
forget."
They sat for a few seconds.
"Sorry," Kelly said. "We spent a week on the set and three days on
location. I was around the crew too much."
"It's okay," Gregg responded. "It's just that some real special
stuff has been happening, and, you know, things kind of change."
"Next thing you'll be a roll model. That could get tedious."
"Line up your bulls again," Gregg intoned.
"Why?" asked the little wise guy, "you getting horny?"
"No," Gregg shot back. "I want to start a milk bar."
The Brady boy reddened almost violently. What had he just said?
"What's wrong?" asked Kelly.
"Something real complicated," Gregg responded after a few seconds.
"Like?"
"This is going to sound really dumb. You know. Lining up bulls.
For a milk bar."
"Oops. I didn't catch it. Yeah."
"But not `yeah,' Gregg stammered haltingly.
`What do you mean?" Kelly quizzed, attention fully engaged by the
struggles of his new friend.
"Kelly," Gregg whispered.
"What," came that diamonds and pearl voice.
"Kelly," Gregg repeated. Why was it suddenly so hard to talk, for,
it seemed, about the tenth time in half an hour. Was he actually going to
have to sit right down and lose it?
Kelly didn't repeat his interrogatory, just looked puzzled.
"Kelly, not you." Gregg floundered. Think. You're big now.
Tonight you're going to be a man. At midnight. Until then, you have to
practice. Keep things tied together.
"Okay," Gregg re-started. "We were talking about bulls, and milk.
And it first, it was unintended comedy, lame, but we're not in the union.
So then, that brought up a memory. Really hot and really fresh. And that
memory brought up the not-you Kelly. That's just the outline."
"When you're eleven," Kelly said, "outlines like that get you
excited. I mean, you know, you were eleven."
"Okay," Gregg said, "try this. You asked about this place, right?"
"Yeah," the cutie acknowledged.
"Okay," Gregg said, his voice dropping in a familiar way that made
him giddy on the spot. "And you don't, like, you know, totally hate all
girls."
"I was just kidding around," Kelly explained.
"Good," said the older boy. "Because, yeah, there's stuff going
on."
"Really? Have you seen anything?"
"Kelly," the Brady replied.
"Wha..." He caught himself, and they both giggled, again bumping,
then recovered with cool aplomb for an eleven-year-old. "What about
Kelly."
Gregg couldn't help it, he reddened again. He wanted to come right
to the point and say it out loud to his new friend, "Have I got a date for
you!"
It was like that old rural joke. Well, fella, truth o' the matter
is, it appears you can't get there from here. Bull. He was a New Brady
living in New America. Grab that puppy by the horns, and twist.
"Okay," Gregg said. Patiently. Gee. Patiently. When had he ever
been patient? Would Johnny Bravo ever be patient? It was a delicious
feeling. Compoundable. The more patient you were, the more you'd have of
it.
"Okay," he repeated, feeling maybe he was getting a bit full of
himself. "Look, at this place, see, it's not like the Mustang Ranch, you
know, consenting adults, bosooms with about six o's. It's different."
"Everyone looks real nice and normal," Kelly observed.
Gregg grew physically dizzy at the thought of how normal Kelly had
looked after her father had done what she wanted him to while he was lying
beside her on the dirty squeaking bed. Maybe the old billy-goat-whiskers
had been right in his advice to the country driver. That didn't make him
any less a Brady. March young soldier, or go sit under that bush and get a
corn going for when I circle back. Now he was fantasizing. When do you
suppose that had started?
"Look, Kelly," Gregg began, "Kelly. Her dad did stuff with her, you
know, that big guys do with their girlfriends. Or husband with their
wives."
"You could really see?" the young actor asked, his eyes impressed.
"Have you been to your room yet?" Gregg asked.
"My junk's in the lobby, I've just been there and here. Why? Is
something wrong with the rooms."
It had to end somewhere, and here it did end. Gregg chocked
manfully for six or eight seconds, then he started grunting and panting
with laughter. He hugged Kelly gently, gripping his arms lightly to
reassure the youngster that he wasn't the butt of anything, and also be
sure he was still simply there. Then he lost it, like going into second
gear, and Kelly couldn't help joining in, mystified though the cute tyke
surely was.
Sputtering and stammering, Gregg finally got to the point. "There
are holes, Kelly. Dozens of them. Even in the bathroom and the shower and
up in the ceiling, and, if you're on the second or their floor, in the
floors."
"Holy cow," the boy said, innocuously, but the cow thing did it for
another whole minute. Go away you stupid hick geezer, I'm getting there
the New Brady way. He didn't mean to be forthright in his thoughts, he was
just in one of those moods.
"Look through the holes. That's the idea, I guess. Plus, the walls
are like hardly more than cardboard, only sheathed on one side. You can
hear everything."
That did sound intriguing and off hand Kelly couldn't think of any
of his buddies who wouldn't like to hang out in such a novel place. Okay,
though, peeping. Voyeurism they called it. Loads of people liked it, so
it must be popular. "Porky's." And who ever talked of anything else in
middle school, anyway.
"Gregg," the younger boy began, "I hate to tell you this, but, well,
you know. Peeking?"
"Judge not, least ye be judged," Gregg intoned "And hearken to my
story before you casteth your stone."
"I don't have a stone," Kelly said.
"No problem," Gregg retorted.
"Okay," the older boy began again. He was taking so many deep
breaths he was going to oxygenate or something. "Yeah, holes, and yeah,
you can look almost anywhere from room to room. That's one set of facts,
uninteresting except in the case of fire, when it might allow earlier
warning of the guests. Good, done with and out of the way. The other set
of facts would be interesting, if there were no such thing as a hole."
"You mean Kelly?" Ah, a nice responsive mind. His dad would like
that.
"Kelly," Gregg affirmed.
"And she was doing weird stuff?"
"Look," Gregg said, trying for a bit of pace. He wondered if Kelly
was a dancer, but this was not the time to find out. "Maybe it used to be.
Who knows. It's just that what it is is so real, you know, when you can
see right close up."
"So what does that make Kelly?" Kelly quizzed, "a nympho or a snake
lady? I mean, come on Gregg, I may not have done anything, but I've seen
stuff. It's on the cable. She wasn't dead or anything, was she?" Typical
eleven year old. Thank god they were cute, because the could be a little
dense.
"Kelly," Gregg whispered, suddenly more intimate in his town, "Kelly
is six. She's the girl in the Cheerios ad..."
Honest to god, he hadn't meant to shoot the kid. He hardly knew
him. Plus, he didn't have a gun. It wasn't an issue, he just didn't have
one. So why was this outwardly healthy boy dying right in front of him.
Or was it death? It was a hell of a close call, that's what. But yes, the
nipper was coming around. Why look, the little dear was trying to speak.
"Kelly Grunwald," the youngster breathed, as in religious fervor.
"Oh, Gregg, tell me it's not a joke. I put five thousand fire cracker's
under my agent's stoop the day I got the Kellogg's part. You're not... how
could you be... you're Gregg. I'm sorry. She's with Fisher Cutbait, the
action agency. I've seen her twice, once forty nine days ago, and the
second time, seventeen days and three hours ago. Have you seen her dad?
He's awesome. Is he here, too?"
Easy company, this little newbie in the Brady ken. You didn't have
to be nice to him, just tell him simple facts, and he did the nice thing
all by himself. Condensed happiness. Just add anything. Gregg thought of
adding Sven, pictured the formula bubbled like a very witches brew. Better
incorporate the ingredients with a touch.
"Kelly," he asked, "how much do you know about, you know, like
different kind off stuff?"
"I guess that's why I'm here," the boy responded.
"Well," Gregg went on, "to answer you question, yes, Mr. Grunwald is
here. But, you know, we should like, you know, talk about some stuff."
"Okay," Kelly said, "talk."
"Thanks for making it easy," Gregg gulped with a nervous grin.
"I didn't mean it wise," Kelly whispered. "Sorry. I know you're
trying to tell me something."
"Thanks," Gregg breathed, taking Kelly's right hand in his left.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
"It's nice," the boy affirmed, squeezing quickly.
"Has anyone ever done, you know, like anything unusual with you?"
Gregg stammered.
"No such luck," Kelly said, with a wry grin. "With this stupid
face, everyone is fluttering all the time. You know. It's like sometimes
the lions can't catch the Zebras, because they get confused by all the
stripes and can't figure out which one to grab."
"I can see your problem," Gregg said, staring into the limitless
eyes of the absolute cutie.
"You've changed, Gregg," Kelly pointed out. "Now that you're no
longer a groovy guy and a magnet for the babes, it's going to rain. Hot
and cold, long and short, fat and thin, boy and girl, young and old."
"So then nothing will happen for me either," the boy noted. One day
ago, it would have been noted, glumly, but now? What was there to be glum
about? Sure, school might change from a negative polarity, repelling by
dint of bottled personality, to attracting, by virtue of no personal
display at all, but, as the little guy had just said, more is less.
Neither was right. Ordinary was right. What the Plunkett seemed to be
doing was expanding ordinary. Giving it added depth and life while
offering a savvy buffer between ordinary and the excessively extraordinary.
Of course, Kelly was the very definition of excessively extraordinary, but
maybe he as the exception that proved the rule, along with... Kelly, Jan,
his dad, and by god, himself... Hmm. He was glad he had someone to talk
to about more practical subjects.
"Okay, look" Gregg, "have you ever got laid?"
"No," Kelly said, glad his friend wasn't a total Puritan, though
loving that part plenty.
"And like staying overnight with other guy, or anything, and like
something happened?"
"No," Kelly confessed. "You know, when that happens we just play
videos and talk about sports and junk at school."
"No fooling around?"
"I think one boy wanted to. You know, like take a shower with me."
"Do you like him?"
"He's my smartest friend. All poetry and show tunes. Library
freak. Too cute to be a nerd, but he tries his damnedest. He'd be my best
friend, but I play ball a lot, so I have to have a jock for my best friend,
I think."
"One thing this place will do," Gregg commented, "is teach you not
to think."
"Sounds pretty sophisticated," Kelly responded. "I mean moving
around in a plane where you don't need to think. Hope they don't reduce
the standard, or well be in school again."
It was fun holding hands with him. He could help his jokes with a
squeeze. Even when he wasn't kidding, it still felt nice.
"What's your smart friend's name?" Gregg asked.
"Kelly," the boy replied with a grin and a squeeze. A truth
squeeze. And why not? Christina Applegate set the world on fire with her
years as the Bundy bimbo. Boy or girl, who cared, as long as it was Kelly.
Gregg laughed and tried to stay on message.
"Would you have been freaked, if, you know, you'd been taking a
shower and he just got in with you."
"I don't know." It was the younger male's time to be a little
hemmy-hawy.
"Think about it. You know. Save hot water. Your mom makes you do
it, or he comes in to wash your hair because he likes you. I mean, it's
not gym class, and there's a lock on the door, and everyone's away, so no
one will ever know what happened. Then?"
"As long as he didn't use that generic shampoo that smells like
strawberry road kill," the boy quipped. They were an easy pair to set off,
and that's a fact.
"Kelly," Gregg whispered, "what if it wasn't your friend, what if it
was Sven?
"What." the boy said.
"In the shower. You know, like he was your uncle, and you really
like him, and you were on a trip, and, like, you know, you only had a
little hot water. Would you get in the shower with him."
"I guess so," Kelly said, his sweet voice dropping instinctively.
He yawned. Bright eyed and yawning. Where had he seen that before? Never
mind, never mind, they weren't getting any younger and if that mop-headed
six year old kept storming the ramparts, well...
"Would you feel embarrassed taking your underpants off in front of
him?" Gregg asked, his voice sickening as deliciously as... forget it.
"Wow," Kelly said. "I didn't picture it that way. To me, I was
washing, and he came in behind me and did my hair."
"Do you want to keep it at that?"
"I don't know," the young beauty replied after a moment, "that
sounds like just the clean part."
Was he going to get jealous? Kelly the girl was out-of-this-world
too young for him, but maybe not for Kelly the boy, especially considering
their rather substantial bond of working for competing cereal giants. But
Kelly the boy? That was getting differenter by the freaking minute. From
an instantaneous and dazzling crush he'd moved to a stage of falling in
love even faster than things had happened when the Bradys moved into Room
275. Jan in the shower. Being so close with his dad. The pretty voice
through the wall. The sublime minutes in the cool miracle of the pool.
And now...
"Okay," Gregg began once again, "you're in the shower, facing the
wall, he comes in behind you, he washes your hair." This was getting
dreamy. "When he's finished, he puts the shampoo back in it's place. Now
his hands go up on your neck, because you have a long slim neck, and it's
wizard, and then his hands go down on your shoulder, real soft and gentle
and moving around, then his voice gets really low and kind of rough
sounding, and if you were looking at him, you might see him yawn a couple
of times, then he asks you if you have a girlfriend or if you ever fool
around with your friends when you have sleepovers. How do you think you'd
feel if stuff like that started to happen, you know, his hands on you, and
asking you real personal questions."
"You mean, if like nobody else was in the house?" Kelly knew of
course, for the aspect of security and privacy had been addressed in the
opening statement, but he had to say something. If he didn't, Gregg might
think he wasn't interested and change the subject.
"Yes," Gregg whispered.
"If the door was locked," Kelly said, "I think I'd let him do what
he wanted, you know, if he was gentle and stuff."
"Kelly," Gregg's voice was now dank and secretive, "what if, you
know, you liked feeling his soapy hand on your skin, and he put his arms
around you, real gentle, and started to wash your chest and your belly. Do
you think you'd, you know, get big?"
"Yes," Kelly whispered.
"What if he wanted you to turn around, so he could look at you. You
know, like a pervert?"
"As long as he wasn't dressed in armor so, you know, I could see him
too, I think I'd let him look."
"You'd take you hands away?"
"If he really wanted me to," Kelly whispered, his voice sicking out
just fine as far as Gregg was concerned. They seemed to have passed a
significant waypoint in their embryonic relationship (had he ever not known
him?) and Gregg paused to take stock. Reviewing the overall situation,
there was only one thing he was proof-positive, absolutely and indelibly
sure of. And it was a vital point. His ticket to everything that happened
in the next moments of his life. He needed time to be with Kelly the boy,
and the thing he knew if he knew nothing else was that Kelly the girl and
her beautiful young father were sound asleep.
"How about if he wanted you to hold your arms way up high? Would
you do that?"
"If he did," the hushed and ragged response came.
"If he stood like that, and, you know, was really excited, and he
wanted you to touch him, you know, down there, would you?"
"If I really like him," the boy replied, "I might. Have you done
stuff like that, Gregg?"
"I did some stuff with a baby sitter, but it was a long time ago.
I'm going to do it tonight, at midnight. But no, to answer your question.
I saw somebody doing it, but I've been too into Gregg the wanna be the last
few years for anything exciting to happen."
"My babysitters were mostly prunes of the AARP brand, and a couple
of college girls. Not exciting."
With a friend, the more you talked about, the more you had to talk
about. This did not include marriage, but both boys were way too young for
that.
"Only one of mine was," Gregg acknowledged.
"Did he come a lot?" Ah, the innocence of that sweet mouth, those
clear bright eyes. Yes, by the thunder of the great spirit in the sky, the
Plunkett was the right place on earth for this angel. Anywhere would be,
he brought heaven along like a salesman brings samples. But The Tame
Animal Farm would give him permanent residency status. He'd be smiling
like that, and driving them wild, when he was king of the walker Olympics.
Back to the subject.
"Babysat a lot," Gregg replied, gently nudging his way through the
heartrace of a minefield surrounding him with dread and delirious
exultation with every grin and pensive lip nibble of the boy that liked
Toaster Strudel with its sugar-syrup icing. Jesus, child, he harangued
himself, next thing you'll be imaging is don... He couldn't finish that
word. Not in his present shape.
"Let's swim, then we can talk some more – K?"
Panting, spouting and giggling they came to rest, arms up over the
ledge of the pool. Steve and Jan waved cheerily. They were both deep in
big books. Being a new Brady was so neat. There they were, happy, here he
was, happy, for sure, Pete, Bobby and little Cindy had found something to
keep them happy. His mom had been glowing like a teen queen when she'd
come in for late breakfast. Marsha? She was shopping. It wouldn't make
her happy, but then nothing was likely to. He'd settle for seven out of
eight, and Alice seemed to be making up for the princess of prig, anyhow.
"You didn't even take your clothes off," Gregg teased.
Kelly blushed, which in turn set Gregg off. The both muttered
Sorry. What a bond that was to share. They were so excited they couldn't
even talk about it.
"Do you want me to take them off?" Kelly whispered down his elbow.
"Yes," the boy answered. No more words needed for that response.
"I can do it here, if you'll help me," Kelly said.
Those Plunkett engineers again. Maybe his dad could work for them.
They approached their work with a passion for detail. Putting in a pool,
so he could strip that slim young body without exploding. Thoughtful and
competent, that's what they were.
"Okay," Gregg said, thrilled at an opportunity to frolic. He eased
from the side of the pool and arched slowly backwards, claving to the
bottom of the pool, and completing his reverse arch at a pair of wet shoes
on what looked like two pretty big feet. He couldn't see much, but he
didn't have to. Shoes were shoes.
Kelly was impressed he got them both at one go. His mature male
friend drained them and squeezed the socks before taking a breath.
"What are you wearing, you know, underneath?" he asked in a shaking
whisper, blushing. Again, the delicious feeling was echoed by his young
friend. "The world wants to know, Mr. Strudel, boxers or briefs? Sorry,
we live on Clinton Way. It just came out."
Kelly thought it was pretty funny. Guys sat for hours, even days,
writing lines for his work on the set. Gregg should drop by.
To answer Gregg's question, he said, "Looney Tunes, wouldn't you
know it? Your mom buy your stuff?"
"Tell me where you back pack is. Maybe I can get your suit and
bring it."
"I'm too excited, Gregg," Kelly whispered. "I don't want to wait.
I know what this place is about. At least a little. You know, like free.
And I want to fit in, so I've got to start sometime. You ever do a first
rehearsal with four ADs and two interns?"
"Just Marsha," Gregg winced.
"She looks a little Marsha," Kelly noted.
"Don't get me started," the older boy said.
"Get me started, Gregg," Kelly whispered, "get behind me and pull
down my pants. You know what you were telling me about pretending Kelly's
dad was my uncle, and he came in the shower behind me. Now you pretend
you're Mr. Grunwald, and I'm a little kid. You can even pretend I'm Kelly
if you want.?
Playful. What a lost character that was. Jewish children were not
playful. No, no children were. Bicker Backer Stale Cracker, Hollywood
Does It Again. But it took two to play that game.
"Does it feel funny," Kelly whispered over his shoulder.
"The morons put a pool in the place," Gregg answered, "it's real
safe feeling all electric, and someone built a pool."
"Filled it with water, just to make you happy."
"How do you feel?"
"Like the water has nothing to do with it," Kelly whispered. "I
mean, it might feel even better if, you know, we were up in your room."
"There's holes in all the walls," Gregg reminded Kelly. "How would
you feel if someone was spying on us?"
"Why," the kid giggled, "what are you going to do, molest me?"
"Have you ever been molested," Gregg whispered.
"I haven't, I told... "
"Then how do you know you're not being molested, now?"
"Good question. If you did what you're doing under my tee, then
you'd be molesting me, right?"
"Maybe half right," Gregg acknowledged. "You can molest a kid, just
using words. Or touching him or her, anywhere, if you do it a special way.
Even a doctor can molest a kid while he's examining him, if he knows how."
"Well," Kelly observed, "it definitely feels like you're molesting
me, even if you aren't up under my shirt, yet."
"Good," Gregg whispered. "Any time I do to much – it's my firs
time in years, and my first time leading, ever, so I may not be very good
at it – tell me, and I'll cut the crap."
The underwater touching went on slowly, gently, for a minute or two.
"What are you pretending, now; about Sven?" Gregg whispered.
"I'm pretending," Kelly whispered back over his shoulder, "that
handsome Gregg Brady is sexually molesting a young boy at the side of a
swimming pool, and that lots of people are trying to see without noticing
they are being noticed."
"I'm glad you brought up sex," Gregg said, after giggling at his
young mate's aplomb, "because there's something I need to talk to you
about."
This set both boys off and the lifeguard had risen in his chair
before they got back to a choking version of normality. Another strike
against the pool. One could drown is a state of bliss. The old Gregg
would have made a point of informing his father of the defect. The new
Gregg took it like a man.
"Where were we," Gregg finally asked.
"As I recall, you were starting to pull my tee up. You weren't
fast. You weren't efficient. You seemed to dawdle and play at your work,
Slacker, but you were on the job."
"I could call for help," Gregg suggested with a giggle.
"No you couldn't," Kelly retorted with a nudge that sent the older
boy back from the ledge, and a sweep of his left arm which brought the
young powerful teen dancer behind him once again. Gregg supported himself
with his chin on the child's shoulder, and ran his hands right in over the
boy's slim girl chest.
"Okay," he whispered very gently
"Yes," came an equal break in the throbbing silence.
"If we were up in the room, in the shower, you know, forget about
the holes in the walls, would you let me do this, or is it just because
we're in kind of a public place."
"I'd let you do it to me in private," Kelly said very quietly.
Gregg's hands roamed down, found the lower hem, and rose again,
pulling the wet tee shirt with them. Finding the boy's warm skin at the
top of his slacks made both the striplings grunt with shock. Gregg brought
his left hand up out of the pool and grabbed the railing. He turned Kelly
slightly away so it wouldn't be quite so obvious what he was doing to the
youth. This was going to take some minutes. Both boys fantasized at what
it would feel like to be doing what they were doing on the soft carpet of
their private bedrooms.
Eventually they had to get along with their business, and Gregg
again positioned himself behind his young mate. The soaked tee came up,
over and off the raised arms. Gregg pretended a tangle in Kelly's left
hand, and the child helped in the subterfuge by keeping his arms stretched
high as he could reach toward the sky. Ah, the American Western. While
jockeying, Kelly presented his now naked back to his teen friend and was
immediately rewarded with a gentle hand on his bare chest. Left elbow and
left elbow they perched, seeming to try to untangle the wopse of wet tee
supposedly hung up on Kelly's watch, while Gregg molested the slim eleven
year old boy thoroughly minute after minute. By the time the shirt was
free, their private giggling had given way to a low constant pant. Chalk
up another star for Mr. Pool.
Now they were arms akimbo again an inch or two apart, trying to
pacify the lifeguard without being obvious about it. Shoes and neatly
folded tee sat in front of them They couldn't help glancing at the neat
pile and blush at the paltry nature of their symbol of order and implied
innocence.
It was hard to stop giggling. Getting harder. They still had
Kelly's pants to go. And he was wearing Looney Tune underpants. Suddenly
they were both very glad for the life guard. As one, they looked at him
and smiled. He returned the standard "Plunkett Look." You guys are
awesome, so how about you stay nice and safe and comfy and happy so we'll
get to see you, tomorrow. Point taken.
"You ready," one of the boys whispered.
"Yes," the other replied nervously, cavalier attitude of the
management, of not.
The stallion again moved gently behind the colt. Pawed his tender
belly, then found his light summer belt, undid it, found the catch, moving
just a little slower now, and unfastened it; dragging it out, found the
child's zipper, and lowered it fully and all the way to the bottom. Gregg
kept his hand purposely from touching. That was thanks to the cool water
of the pool. If they'd been alone in his bedroom, he would have fondled
the child, openly, and probably with both hands. He'd been fondled with
both hands by his baby sitter, and he knew it felt almost explosive.
"I'll bet you wouldn't have done it that way if we'd been in
private," Kelly whispered. The boy sharing the wanting, hinting at it as
best he knew how, was liquid thrill.
"You just said a mouthful," he replied.
"I've got to get back to work, darling," Gregg quipped. "Don't you
think you're over dressed for a day around the house?"
"Oh, heavens, honey," Kelly replied, falling into the foolery as
fast as he'd fallen in live, "I was excepting a young seal, fresh out of
training, to stop by and help with a little this and that around the house.
If you think I'm over dressed for that, why, darling, I just know you'll
oblige your sweetums, won't you, big boy."
Know Gregg knew why he'd seen Kelly on television.
"If the seals follow that cabbie in a suit running the defense
department," Gregg said, "they're going to end up shrimp on the barbie.
You might want to invite several."
It had started in fun, but both boys quickly realized that the
overall quality of national leadership hollowed out the attempted levity.
Utterly and beyond the pale, atrocious. Fit only to lead mass prayer
services.
Though they hadn't discussed it, both also knew, instinctively, that
without the miracle of Microsoft and allied enterprises, American history
would have ground itself out like a dead cigar twelve years earlier. That
the country had survived into the new millennium was, by ten times, the
greatest outright miracle in the history of the spinning planet.
Philosophizing was fun, you know, for those long softer intervals
that came with a mature friendship. Both were glad there was nothing
mature about their friendship, and, still thinking in sync, Kelly turned
his back and Gregg made a final dive to lower and remove his slacks.
Although kittenish when dressed, Gregg was thrilled to find the boy
was boyish underneath. Long not quite shanky legs, and feet quite large
for eleven. He couldn't stay long, being underwater, but he did feel a lot
as he practically fondled the drowned slacks free of the alabaster limbs
and big boy feet. Dancer. He hadn't asked. Now he didn't have to. Oh,
to be alone, dry, comfy, and able to touch Kelly there. It was like a
nuclear thought, only safe submerged.
"We've got to do an eye trap," Kelly said. They were now back to
their side by side positions, Kelly on Gregg's right.
"What do you mean?" Gregg asked, thrilled at the deviltry in Kelly's
almost lisping whisper.
"For the life guards. For you dad and Jan. For everybody."
"I think the seas metaphor had gone to your head. Remember, it's me
doing all the diving."
"You've been promoted," the gamming boy continued. "No more
underwater recon. You're now in diversion and interdiction. Illusion."
"Thank you sir," Gregg intoned. "The family can use the extra
money, I can use the parking space, and the team can use a more authoritive
player."
"That's the military for you," giggled Kelly Drake. "give a guy a
mission, he wants to be a general."
"Well, that's easy," Gregg pointed out. "Just give me another
mission."
"You already have it," the cutie reminded him.
"Illusion? Walk on the pool? Disappear under the surface for ten
minutes. The choice is yours."
"No," whispered the voice of the young boy. What was wrong. Didn't
he want to play anymore?
"What?" Gregg's voice instantly hushed to match it's mate.
"I want to feel you, Gregg. Doing stuff to me, under water. Making
your, you know, yourself go up inside my boxers. Secretly. So just you
and I know what's happening. Everyone else had to guess."
Suddenly they felt like two giant bull frogs in a teacup. Very
conspicuous. It was one thing to horse around after a kid jumped in with
his clothes on. But what Kelly wanted was lingering, carnal, sensual and
hardly to be done slam-bam, oops, I didn't mean it, or I was just kidding.
For a minute, it seemed like mission impossible. Then god all but spoke
out loud, and the answer was born. If I ever grow up to write cliff
hangers, the New Gregg Brady thought to himself, I'm going to tell this
story... and leave the audience hanging. Tune in next week. After all,
how many times did messages that were comprehensible come from on high?
The neophyte writer wanna-be didn't know long he'd hold the suspense, milk
it. But the old pro does.
"Do you have a wallet?" Gregg asked, his voice back to their
whisper.
"Cripes, yeah! It's in my pants," the boy rejoined, a startled look
in his eyes. Instinctively he reached for his neatly folded slacks.
"Wait," Gregg hissed almost silently. Go slow. Take it out. We
can examine it together.
"It's wet, what's to..." Then the boy caught on. Luckily the pool
buffered the thermal shock well enough that the cute little hands crept to
the pile of neat with clothes, and in a minute drew forth the wallet. He
brought it to the verge of the pool where his big friend could help.
Propped again on their left elbows, the children unfolded the bill fold and
began doing a clumsy job of hauling out cards, paper and money.
Gregg's right hand went to Kelly's now bare chest and belly. He
pinched the tiny little nipples he'd never seen, and fondled the boy from
the back of his neck, and over his beautiful bird-like shoulders, down
under his arms and along his sleek flanks to the trace of softness just as
the line of the boxer shorts. They both pretended they were reading a
soggy note.
"Are you pretending Sven's doing this to you in the shower?" Gregg
whispered.
"Your dad," came the return. Mostly I know it you doing it to me,
but just when you asked, I wondered what it would feel like to have a man
doing it, and I thought of your dad because he'd sitting just over there."
"If it was him," Gregg continued, no sign of recovering sicko in his
voice, "would you let him keep doing it, and, you know, go all the way with
you?"
"I'd sure hope he didn't stop," Kelly said. "And even more, I hope
you take the hint."
"We're bound to last, don't you think?" the teen quizzed.
"Yeah," Kelly said. "Can you think of a grater nuisance?"
Both boys giggled and took advantage of the distraction to get Gregg
fully behind Kelly, with both arms reaching around to toy with the soggy
wallet.
"I'll be back in just a second," Gregg said, and he dropped back,
pretending to splash and spout water, which he actually did, while
pretending, then he came back up behind Kelly, wrapping both arms tenderly
around the warm, slim middle of the lithe eleven year old. His chin sagged
against the tender childish shoulder, and he panted very gently in the boys
left ear. Kelly's fingers slowed to a crawl with their bits of paper and
money.
"Did you take it all the way off?" Kelly whispered.
"Yes," came the strangled whisper in response. "Are you ready for
me?"
"I think some people are looking," Kelly responded.
"No one comes for the housekeeping," Gregg said.
Again the illusion of two kids giggling over something in a soggy
wallet. What really happened was that Gregg used the moment of foolery to
duck himself. He surfaced very slowly.
"Gregg, I can feel you, you're up inside my underpants."
"Spread your legs a little bit for me."
"Okay."
"Gregg," the whispering went on. It had never been so intense.
"You're huge. I mean, how would I know, but you feel like a big animal."
"You feel like a kitten," Gregg sighed into the ear at his chin as
he again wrapped the sleek young male body in his arms, and thrust and
eased himself further up between the long, white boy legs.
"Can you feel me against, you know," the teen panted.
"Something's causing a fire," the child whispered.
"I can feel you against me. You're big to, Kelly. Really big."
"It's the feet," Kelly managed to whisper. "One girl at school,
Ellen Fitzroy, that's all she looks at. Not my cute tooth. My feet. She
has a brother, Roger, he's probably got the biggest feet in school."
"Is she a happy girl?" Gregg prodded.
"Seems to be."
"Know you know why."
"I'm going to date her. She's just the right age for me."
"Sounds like a plan," Gregg said.
Gregg tried not to surge obviously against the child in his arms.
"Are you going to go all the way?" Kelly whispered.
Mr. Pool groaned. "There go my filters," he thought to himself.
"Can't," Gregg explained. "Remember when we first talked? There's
something special happening tonight."
"Can I be there? I want to see it."
"You can be there, for sure, but you won't see much," Gregg
elaborated.
"Why not," came the sick whisper. Was it sick enough? One way to
find out.
"Do you promise not to be shocked or get uptight if I tell you. You
don't have to be my friend, but promise you won't get mad, okay?"
"Of course, you ninny, unless you're going to use a knife or rope.
That I could miss."
"It's a lot sicker than that," Gregg whispered.
"What?" The boy was not impatient, but that was not going to last.
But it was a plunge. Rolling the dice with the first utter love of his
life. The kid could freak right out of the hotel
"Can I kiss you on the back of the neck, before I tell you, just in
case, you know.
"You can kiss me any where, any time for any reason, but if you
don't tell mw what's going on, my kisses are going to be delivered by cold,
dead lips. Blue. Lifeless. Get it?"
Gregg did, and settled for a place just under the awesome little
fairy ears young boys seem to sprout is if by matter of course. It was a
perfect place and felt delicious on the boy's drying skin.
"It's my sister. Jan. My dad's going to be with her tonight.
She's a virgin. He wants me to be with her first, because, you know, I'm
not as big, plus, he wants to feel my, you know, on him. It's meant to be
very awesome for a guy to, you know, feel another guy when he's with a
female."
"Sounds like vestigial atavism," Kelly said.
"It's okay?"
"If you're going to be a cuckoo bird, leave the pool or you'll
drown."
The teasing lilt focused what remained of Gregg's brain on a fiery
ride into the future, with a beautiful sidekick. Very good news. Somehow
he had to return the favor. This was no measly wet wallet scam. He needed
something big. Something huge. Something monumental. Something for his
friend that was outta' sight, over the top, and around the moon.
"I think Kelly may be waking up from her nap," he whispered to the
beautiful child actor.
After the car races sometimes the winner goes out on the track and
does big donuts. Jackie's communist sometimes painted on glass so a
lenscamera could record the bold slap of his work. Donuts, flamboyant
slashing with s brush. Artists showing off. Can a writer show off? I
know one who would like to try.
First would be a plaque for the remains of the twin towers, assuming
they are left more or less as they fell. It reads as follows: "Awake to
the needs of lesser people, or you shall be awoken."
The second one has religious significance. If you think I'm not a
god, please keep it to yourself. If you are right, the talent comes from
my mother.
The third one is just plain brutal. It is addressed to my fellow
Americans, and was inspired by the telethon: While you have the greed off a
pig eating a toddler, you have none of the beauty.
After that, a virtuoso would lighten the presentation. When they
foreclose on America, will Carlton Sheets be there in our hour of need?
And let's close, just to show we have a sense of humor, with the
bizarre and ludicrous. It's called The Homeland Security Office.
Okay, that's my little sketch pad. Time for a break for all of us.
See you in the next chapter, god willing, and the sheiks don't rise.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx