Date: Fri, 06 Jul 2001 03:13:28 +0000
From: hobby391@att.net
Subject: Boy from the High Country Chapter 1

BOY FROM THE HIGH COUNTRY
Chapter 1 (gay, adult/youth)
by Hobbyboy
hobby391@att.net

DISCLAIMER: This story depicts a sexual relationship between an
underage boy and an  adult male. If you are offended by such
material, or if it is illegal for you to read such stories in your state
or country, consider this your warning. You are solely responsible for
the consequences if you continue reading. This is a work of fiction.
The narrator is a fictionalized version of the author. Everyone else is a
complete fabrication. Even the road map of Wyoming is fictionalized:
Yellowstone is farther from I-90 than the events in this story suggest.
This is a story, not a geography lesson. It is also not just an excuse
for a series of steamy sex scenes. If you are looking for instant jack-
off material, you won't want to bother with this story.

CHAPTER 1: WYOMING

In the high plateau country of Wyoming the nights can get very cold,
even in midsummer.  A sudden snowstorm can snarl traffic on I-90 in
July. So when I saw the boy asleep on top of the picnic table in the
primitive rest area, I immediately wondered if he had a warm jacket.
Thirty years of high school teaching have taught me that in some
ways, adolescents are young adults; in other ways, they are old
children. I always worry about them. I suppose that is why most of
my closest friends are former students.

With the exception of my camper, the rest area was deserted. On a
Saturday afternoon in the heart of Wyoming there isn't much vehicle
traffic on the highway. I needed to pee so badly it felt like my back
teeth were floating, otherwise I would not have stopped. This was
not one of those large rest areas with vending machines, telephones
and flush toilets. Each restroom was a wooden enclosure surrounding
a one-piece molded fiberglass cubicle with a single stool above a
holding tank. It smelled like a privy. Thank God for Wet Ones,
because there was no sink.

I was just past the halfway point in my eight-week summer odyssey.
Single again after my second wife got tired of my grading papers late
into the night, I decided to take my fifty-five-year-old ass out and, in
the words of an old song, "look for America." I bought a nearly new
Chevy light pickup and a used Jayco pop-up camper, and set out on
the road as soon as school ended in June. The accommodations
were not spacious. There was a bunk for two above the cab, and the
amenities included a small gas/electric refrigerator, a propane-fired
heater, a two-burner gas stove, a small amount of storage and an
eating area that converted into a bed that might sleep two midgets. I
loved it.

I had no firm itinerary, but I was visiting national parks and historic
sites so the trip would be tax-deductible. The little Chevy had already
taken me from my home in Oregon down into California, through
Yosemite and Death Valley and on to Carlsbad Caverns. I had seen
the Alamo, Dealey Plaza where JFK was shot, and the D-day
museum in New Orleans. I had followed the mighty Mississippi
northward to St. Louis, disappointed that I could almost never see
the river because it flowed between high levees. I had started out to
follow the Lewis and Clark trail westward, but after a while the
displays became repetitive and I struck out toward Yellowstone by
way of Mount Rushmore and Devil's Tower. I enjoyed the solitary
journey. I had met some nice people in campgrounds and RV parks
along the way, but there was no one to tie me down. Now here I
was peeing into a giant chamber pot in Wyoming, blissfully unaware
that my life was about to take a dramatic turn.

The boy was still there when I came out of the fiberglass outhouse. I
started to climb into  my truck, then hesitated. Something was very
wrong here. The boy did not belong in the midst of this desolate
landscape. It was none of my business, of course, but I had made a
life out of helping kids. I could not just drive away.

He lay on his left side, his legs bent at the knees, his head resting in
the crook of his left arm. His right arm shielded his eyes from the
harsh summer sun, so I could not see much of his face. He was
wearing blue jeans, not the baggy low-riding cargo pants so much in
favor with the boys in my school. His long- sleeved shirt was a
nondescript light blue plaid. On his feet were a well-worn pair of
Nike Airs. Altogether he looked more K-mart than Abercrombie &
Fitch. A dark green backpack lay in the crook at the back of his
knees, but it was not a hiking pack. It was more like the type a
schoolboy would carry to avoid going to his locker after every class.
If the boy had a mother, and she was at all efficient, his name would
be written with a laundry marker on the white maker's label on the
inside of the main flap. I decided to take a look. The flap was not
fastened, and sure enough, there was the name: Kelly G. I decided
the time had come to make sure he was all right, but I didn't have
time to wait for him to wake up. I reached out and lightly touched
him on the shoulder.

The boy was quick, I have to say that. My arm was still outstretched
when he leaped to his feet and crouched in a fighting position. He
seemed to have traveled the distance from the tabletop to the ground
without passing through the intervening space, like a subatomic
particle making a quantum leap. The sun glinted off the knife in his
right hand. "Touch me again, motherfucker, and I'll kill you," he
snarled.

I had faced angry students before, though never one with a weapon.
Never before had I faced a potential instrument of death, even when
I was in the military, unless you count the time a foster son threatened
me with a baseball bat. I knew better than to face him down, but if I
broke and ran I stood no chance of ever helping him. The heavy
wooden picnic table was between us, creating a sort of no man's
land. I dropped instinctively into my "nothing can phase me" mode,
the same neutral listening stance I used when a student trusted me
enough to tell me really bad news. Pregnancy, drugs, abuse, rape: I
had heard them all and never once had I looked shocked or upset.
Outwardly I was calm; no matter how much my stomach churned or
my heart pounded, my face and body betrayed nothing.

I backed away two steps and raised my hands, palms outward, in a
universal gesture of nonaggression. "Whoa, whoa!" I said. "I don't
want your stuff. I just wanted to find your name. Kelly, is it?"

The boy held his attack position, but I could see hesitation in his
eyes. He spoke a single word, one for which I had no immediate
reply: "Why?"

In the brief silence that followed I took a quick inventory. I had seen
a lot in my lifetime. I had seen baby-faced teenagers in uniform who
calmly sliced the ears from a dead VC and pocketed them as
trophies. I had seen fierce- looking boys dressed all in black and
wearing spike-studded collars, weeping uncontrollably over the death
of the family dog. I had been lied to by experts, flirted with by girls
trying to use a sexuality they barely understood to get a higher grade
or an extended deadline. What I saw now, or hoped I saw, was a
boy driven by fear and desperation, not by evil. If I did not threaten
him, he would not attack me.

I could not guess his age. I had seen eighth graders who looked older
than some seniors, and one of my best friends had sung soprano in a
boys' choir until he was sixteen. He might be fifteen, he might be
twelve. He was not very tall, he obviously had never shaved, and his
voice had changed, but not long ago. His light brown hair could use a
trim, I thought; he would probably disagree. Girls would call him
"cute." Hell, I would call him cute, but not to his face.

"I'm going to sit down over here," I said, "then maybe we can talk for
a minute." I moved slowly to a large rock about six feet away and sat
down. There was a brief pause; in my drama class I would call it a
beat. "I'd feel a little better if you would put away the knife," I added.

The tension in his face lessened a bit and he returned the knife to a
leather belt sheath. It was a hunting knife, something he never could
have taken to school. Perhaps he had actually used it on hunting trips
with his father. That would not be very unusual here in Wyoming,
assuming that he was from Wyoming. He made no move to sit down.
"Okay," he said. "Talk."

"Are you in trouble?" I asked. He said nothing, but I could see the
wheels turning in his head as he tried to decide whether I was safe.
But looking over his shoulder, I could see that this conversation was
not going to continue. A Wyoming state police car had pulled off the
freeway and was slowly approaching the parking area. I wondered if
he was looking for Kelly.

"Try not to look behind you," I said. "That car you hear is a state
cop. He's probably going to check the rest rooms, and then he'll
want to check you out." His eyes went wide and I heard a sharp
intake of breath. He looked close to panic, but he did not turn
around. Smart kid, I thought.

"You're going to have to make a decision, Kelly," I said. The cop
parked in the first available spot and got out of the car. He briefly
glanced our way, then slowly approached the women's rest room. I
mentally breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't interested in Kelly, at
least not yet. I plowed ahead. "You're obviously stranded here in the
middle of nowhere, for some reason. There's no place to hide, and if
you run, the cop will run faster. You're going to have to take a
chance with somebody, and it has to be either me or the cop." What
the hell was I thinking? This was a matter for the police, wasn't it?
My instinctive desire to help kids was not serving me very well here.
But somehow the words had come out, and I wasn't going to take
them back.

"Unless you're wanted for a crime, the cop will want to help you. If
that's the kind of help you need, if you're just lost or something, he'll
do everything he can to get you back where you belong. If you don't
have anybody, he'll probably call child protective services and put
you into the foster care system or something like that. They're not
bad people. They help a lot of people, and they'll try to help you."

A lost kid should look relieved at this point. Kelly still looked ready
to panic, but he said nothing. "I'm going to stand up now," I said, "but
I'm not going to come near you." I slowly rose and brushed my hands
together to get rid of the dust I had collected from the rock. "If you
don't want to go with the cop, I'm your only other choice." I stopped,
waiting for some kind of reply. He looked over his shoulder this time,
and saw the patrol car. He licked his lips, a nervous gesture. He
seemed frozen in indecision. Behind him, the cop reappeared and
moved towards the men's room.

"I'll tell you what," I said. "I'm going to go over to my truck and get
in. The passenger side door is unlocked. I'll wait about thirty seconds
and then I'll start the car and drive away. If you're in the passenger
seat when I do, we'll pretend you belong there. If not, you can ask
the cop for help." I turned and walked toward the pickup. Out of the
corner of my eye I saw the patrolman emerge from the men's room
and start down the walkway toward the picnic table. I was climbing
into the seat and was about to shut the door when I heard Kelly's
voice.

"Wait up, Dad," he said. "I forgot my backpack." Very smart kid, I
thought. He turned back toward the table, grabbed up the pack, and
ran to the truck. As he climbed in, I started the engine. He slumped
down into the seat, as if offering himself up to his fate. He made no
other move.

"Seatbelt," I said. He jumped at little at the sound of my voice, but
pulled out the belt and snapped the buckle. I popped the parking
brake and backed the truck out into the traffic lane. The cop paid no
attention.

My God, I thought, what have I gotten into now?

Next: Chapter 2, Kelly