CHAPTER THREE (of NINE)
I don't know why I abruptly rode away. Richie didn't do anything wrong. It's infuriating that I continue doing stupid things when I'm with him; infuriating and very disturbing! And, here I am again, flying down back roads going nowhere. Well, the road I'm on goes somewhere; it leads me out of Wildwood, first to Cape May and then into Stone Harbor, so I'm going 'somewhere' although nowhere I need to be.
And, what must Richie be thinking? Omigod, he has to know there's something wrong with me. Yeah, well, that makes two of us because I know there's something wrong with me too; I just wish I knew what it was. And why am I constantly finding reasons to touch that kid and then have the 'balls' to accuse him of being queer?
Without question, he is in my head. He possesses a mysterious, um, something. There's some kind of vibration coming from him, or maybe it's as simple as me not being familiar with a kid who is so, um, so smiley and nice... and so, um, pretty. Fuck, I need to get real with all this shit! And, did I just use the word 'pretty'? I'm really losing it, Jesus!!
Okay, so I'm losing it, but seriously, Richie is so different from every new guy who has ever ventured into my part of town, my part of the boardwalk. New guys on the 'scene' are the complete opposite of smiley and nice. They're suspicious and challenging, constantly testing who among us is tougher, who's the 'Alpha dog,' cautiously finding where they fit into the peer hierarchy... or some such shit like that.
It was that way growing up, too; you tested what you could get away with, 'split lip' by 'split lip,' so to speak. You didn't smile and act all nice! My entire persona is based on phony macho shit, and it's exhausting maintaining this image. With Richie, it's, um, Christ, I don't know what it is. I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore.
I need to start thinking clearly! Okay, let me put this in perspective. From the kid's viewpoint, as far as Richie knows, I'm still a mysterious tough, bad-ass who he continues trying to make a friend of, right? I mean, he has no idea that I rode off because my action on the porch frightened me. As far as he knows, it was he who did something wrong. Something that annoyed me enough for me to ride off. He probably blames himself for that. And, yeah, it was kind of his fault. I mean, he never objects to anything I do, so, in effect, he's encouraging my bad behavior and thereby causing me to do stupid things.
Hmm, with that tenuous rationalization hanging on a thread in my head, I slow the motorbike down, entering the town of Stone Harbor. Then, I glide into a convenience store parking lot, still frustrated and pissed off, and still not sure why I'm pissed off or who I'm pissed off at. Probably at myself, but it's all so fucking unfair that I'm the one suffering while the kid continues 'enabling' my toxic behavior. Yeah, as I said a minute ago, it's like he's encouraging me to do stuff to him, and that leaves me with a guilty conscience. That's what I meant when I said it's so unfair. Sure, that is convoluted logic, but fuck it.
What's it been now, three or four weeks since I met him? My life wasn't great before that, but at least I wasn't torturing myself trying to figure out what's up with, well, what's up with me? Interacting with Richie stresses me out something terrible, so, from now on, I'll avoid Richie-whatshisname and continue drifting through life doing the best I can. That's what I've been doing for as long as I can remember. All my 'split-lips' has put me in a position where my 'gang' thinks I'm the coolest thing since canned beer, girls think I'm hot, and my brother and mom love me. All I need to do to get my life back on track is to stay away from that fucking kid. If I do that, I'll be fine, or as close to 'fine' as I've ever gotten.
Taking a deep breath, I feel better now that I've broken it down and come to the obvious conclusion of simply avoiding that 'effing kid. If I accidentally bump into him, I'll say 'Hi,' and just go on my way, making sure to keep my hands to myself! Whew, it's not all that complicated.
Getting off the bike, mumbling to myself that, yeah, I can do that. Inside the store, I grumpily buy a pack of Marlboro. Then, since I'm still thirsty after not finishing Richie's Coke, I buy a Coke. There's a picnic table sitting in the shade at the side of the building and, since no one is using it, I sit there to drink the Coke and smoke a cigarette while trying not to think of Richie-whatshisname.
I mean, why think about him? He's just some random skinny young new guy, and so what if he's cuter than my ex-girlfriend, who was pretty fucking cute, by the way. Yeah, well, Richie's skinny, but I did feel some strength, some nice muscle definition in his body. Hmm, I wonder if he works out at all, or... NO! What the fuck am I doing? I don't want to think about him!
What I need to do is make-up with Debbie and get super sexual with her. Fuck her brains out! No, not Debbie because I'd look weak crawling back to her after just breaking up. Yeah, but that girl, Jeanie Baldwin, is always flirting with me whenever I have the misfortune of running into her and her sister on the boardwalk. Next time I see her, I'll turn on the charm, and...
Interrupting my thoughts, I hear a girl's voice, "Yo, you... dude at the table." Looking up, I see two girls standing in the sun. The tall girl walks over and sits across from me at the table, saying aggressively, "You don't mind if we join you, do you? We need to get out of this fucking sun?" She's already sitting here, her cup of iced coffee in front of her, so why did she ask if I minded? There goes my solitude.
Looking with disdain at her, I mumble, "What the...." The other girl, a blond with goofy little pigtails all over her head, sits down too. She drops a plastic-wrapped sandwich next to her iced coffee, takes a Salem cigarette from a pack, and says, "Hey, hottie, is that your motorcycle parked out front?" I mutter, "It's a motorbike, not a motorcycle, but yeah, it's mine; why?" Blondie lights her cigarette and takes a big drag while giving me a hard 'look.' The tall girl snickers as blondie exhales the smoke from her cigarette, then opens the wrapping on her sandwich, muttering, "Why so snippy, honey? Having a bad day?" I'm like, "Are you for real?" She grins, and, with smoke still coming from her mouth, she bites into her sandwich.
What the fuck...? Who smokes a cigarette while eating? Fuck this! I stand up, mumbling, "A wasp is buzzing around your ear." She smacks herself on the side of her head. I smirk at her as I walk away. She swats the side of her head again, and yells at her friend, "Kelly, you bitch, help me out here. Do you see the wasp?" Kelly mutters, "He's 'punked' you with that shit about the wasp, and now you got mayo in your hair." Dumb asses.
In front of the store, I dump my half-full soda can in a trash barrel and get on my bike. Hmm, I need to practice drinking whole cans of Coke someday, but it won't be today, apparently. This day blows! I fire up the engine and roar away, thinking, 'Jesus, pushy cunts suck, ya know?'
As I ride down a secondary road heading for the Parkway, I'm asking myself... 'Why did I let those girls run me off?' On the other hand, why would I stay there? Well, almost every guy I know would have stayed on the off chance they could fuck one of the girls, or make out with one of them, or do something with them. That's what the 'guys' are always talking about... 'getting in some girl's pants,' or getting a blow job, or feeling a girl's tits or ass. Those girls were a little old for my guys, though, and, seriously, neither one of those girls is as good looking as the new, um, I mean... oh, forget about it.
Later that night, I'm still grumpy, and, at dinner, Danny asks me why. I just shrug, and he pats my shoulder but doesn't push the issue. I shouldn't be grumpy because before dinner Danny told me I look good; he said I'm the coolest looking brother in Wildwood. Ha, he said that because I finally got a haircut. Whatever, it gives me a good feeling when Danny praises me about any fucking thing. Even after that, though, a gloom is hanging over me. I'm a moody guy, I guess.
I finally mellow out when Danny asks if I want to go with him tonight. The DeCarlo Painting Company's softball team, a team in the Shore League that Danny plays left field for, has a game. And, of course, I want to go with him!
After the game, I drink beers with the team celebrating their win. During the game, I sat with two of my boys. One of them, Karl Ray, had a couple of joints. I don't often indulge in drugs, but fuck it, I 'gave in' and smoked some pot with the guys. We all got a little 'high.' It felt good. Then, drinking with the team, I felt special and forgot about getting run off by those two girls, and, in a way, getting run off earlier by Richie-whatshisname. I hardly gave a thought all night to, um, those two unfortunate incidences.
So, for the next couple of days, my life gets more or less back to normal. You know, nothing special, just working out in the morning and then 'hanging' with the boys. Then, Wednesday, I ride to the farm to sign up for summer work and get a really friendly greeting from Bob Winslow, the foreman. Yeah, things are looking 'up' for me. The only thing out of the ordinary was when Tucker, whose nickname is 'tiny dick,' asked me where the new kid was. I've been trying to forget the new kid, so I was like, "How the fuck would I know where he's been?" And, yeah, that nickname of Tiny's is weird, but he deserves it considering he has, well, he has a tiny penis. Heh-heh, yeah, it's about two inches short, which is freaky!
Anyway, then, changing the topic, Tiny tells me he got beat up by a tourist kid last night. The tourist kid tried to seduce him under the boardwalk, and when Tiny objected, the tourist beat him up. I immediately know this is a highly unlikely story. Tiny's been known to lie, plus he didn't appear to be 'beat up.'
In any case, I sent two guys out with Tiny looking for the tourist. A much more likely scenario is Tucker, Tiny Dick, who tried to seduce the tourist teenager. I've heard rumors of Tucker fucking around with guys at school. He's small, Tucker is, but he seems to have a 'Jekyll and Hyde' thing going for him, some kind of dominant personality disorder he keeps under wraps except when he's fucking around with meek kids, or kids he thinks are meek until he finds out differently. Not children; kids his age. That's what I've heard anyhow.
So, yeah, Tucker may be queer. Plus, he's got some kind of secret mean, dominant streak. He's never been one of my 'favorites' anyway, and I try ignoring him as much as possible. He was definitely the most enthusiastic gang member about my bullying of Richie, by the way. That was one more reason I felt like shit as I was doing my bullying routine. Yeah, the thought of me acting like Tucker would if he had the opportunity, well, that's a very off-putting thought.
Anyway, the boys never do locate the tourist kid, mostly because Tucker kept changing the kid's description. None of the other guys 'get it,' but I'll bet my left nut that Tucker didn't want to locate that tourist kid because then the true story would come out.
We're an arrogant bunch of local-yokel-assholes when we're on the boardwalk, our boardwalk... heh-heh. Yeah, well, we resent the tourists taking over our hometown. Amazingly, even though we act like tough local assholes, we don't get in many outright fights. The fights we do get into are mostly pushing and shoving affairs, mostly just a lot of threatening words with nothing coming of it.
And, nothing came of the tourist 'search' although it was a temporary diversion. I can't lie to myself; Richie-whatshisname is still on my mind. Maybe I want to apologize to him for my weird behavior, and maybe I'm getting bored with the same guys doing the same things all these years. Richie is refreshingly different from any of the boys I grew up with. He's something new, a new face, and anything new is intriguing to me. As I just said, we have been doing the same shit for years now, and, I don't know, but Richie's such a strangely friendly motherfucker. Yeah, so what's wrong with me wanting to know him better? What's wrong with that?
Using that logic, at ten o'clock Tuesday morning, I talk myself into riding to Richie's part of town. I do that and, just coincidentally, stop on the sidewalk across the street from his house. My intention is to tell him I have no hard feelings, and blah, blah, blah. I admit that isn't anything resembling an apology, but apologizing outright is taking things too far. I plan on telling him my rough treatment of him is nothing out of the ordinary. It's the rude treatment all new guys on the boardwalk get. I'll tell him something like that, although it's a lie... pretty much.
Well, he's not on his front porch, so, hmm, should I go over and knock on the door? My feet are on the sidewalk on either side of my idling bike as I'm wondering what the fuck would I say to Mr. Whatshisname answers the door? Yeah, well, what the fuck do I say if the kid answers the door? And, am I out of my 'effing mind? I'm not going to knock on the door!
This was a stupid idea! Then, as I'm about to ride off, Richie comes out the front door and, with a big smile, waves at me and says something I can't hear over the rumbling mufflers. Obviously, he came out here because he heard my bike's mufflers roaring. Ha-ha, yeah, I got a ticket from a Wildwood cop for too-loud mufflers a week ago, but fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. I like the loud muffler sound.
Looking over at the kid, I almost smile because of the huge smile on his face. I catch myself, though, and just stare at him. He stays on the porch looking uncertain while I desperately try to remember my reason for coming here. My brain just went blank on me. Then, again he yells, "Hi!"
For some reason, and I don't know why, I shake my head, and the kid yells, "What?" He's asking why I shook my head, I guess. Not having a clue what I'm doing, I yell, "Get over here." He jogs over and stands too close, saying, "Hi, Mike." Has he already forgotten that I rode off for no reason the other day? I frown at him but can't stop looking at his cheerful smiling face and brilliantly shiny eyes!
Since I'm not saying anything, he nervously babbles about finishing his chores for the morning, and blah, blah, blah. I hold my hands out, like... 'Who cares?' but he interprets it differently and goes, "Oh, yeah. Um, I suppose you're wondering why I haven't gotten a buzz cut yet, right?" Well, no, that was the furthest thing from my mind, but I don't say that. He makes a face like he's sorry and says, "It's just that, um, my old man doesn't want me to. Um, he says buzz cuts are for white supremacist groups which he's opposed to and, um... yeah, he's opposed to that kind of, um, thing and, well..."
Ha-ha, his dad thinks only white supremacist groups get buzz cuts! That sounds like total bullshit to me; his old man never said that not that I care. I shrug and revert to what comes easiest, which is me being a prick, so I say, "Don't matter anyway because the guys say you're definitely queer." Why did I say that?
The kid opens his mouth, then closes it. He's completely startled by my unfair lie. I shrug again, and he sputters, "What? That's, that's, um..." Shaking his head, he goes, "Why would they say that? They don't even know me."
I pretend to consider that, then mumble, "Okay, maybe they're wrong. I can give you a test that'll prove it one way or the other." He looks doubtful as I turn off the engine, get off the bike, and say, "Bring the bike across the street." He nods, grabs the handlebars, and, like last time, struggles mightily getting the bike rolling as I walk across the street and go up on the porch. I'm trying to think what the hell I'm going to do now. I don't know anything about any test, plus I promised myself I'm not going to touch him!
Standing on the porch, I watch Richie as he gets the bike up the curb onto the sidewalk, and then has trouble getting the bike stable on its kickstand. Standing at the bottom of the three steps leading to the porch, he asks, "What kind of test?" Hmm, yeah, well, that's a good question.
Not having an answer, I go, "Ya got a cold drink? A Coke maybe?" He nods, comes up the steps, and goes inside. A minute later, he brings out two Cokes. I'm sitting on the railing not, but I still don't have a clue what I'm going to do next. I'm enjoying being with the kid again, though. Taking the Coke, I nod my head at him as a 'thank you' gesture; then I swallow half the can of Coke as we stare into each other's eyes. Motherfucker, it's so 'effing weird, but he has some kind of hold on me! What is that 'thing' he has going for him? It's like some kind of magic.
He makes me uncomfortable, but yet it's kind of a pleasant sensation too. I can't think what to do, so I smirk arrogantly at him, making him look away and then drink some of his soda. This silence is getting weirder by the second. Then, without saying anything, I hop off the railing and put the Coke can on the arm of a rocking chair. Richie's staring at me again, but he's seemingly comfortable. Good for him, but I've got to do or say something eventually.
He gives me a nervous grin, and thank God he finally seems a bit uncomfortable himself. Now that I've come off the railing, he gets up on it, sitting where I was sitting. Nodding, I mutter, "Yeah, that's good. Just sit-up-straight right there." He grins as he sits up with his shoulders back like he's in a military 'attention' position. Jesus!
Okay, I take his Coke can from him and finish it. He watches me do that with his greenish-blue eyes shining brightly. I give him a hard 'look,' and he sits up straighter. Huh, will he do any-fucking-thing I tell him to?
He's wearing the same shorts he always wears, flimsy nylon basketball shorts. Well, I've got to do something, so I put a hand on each of his knees. Jesus, the touch of his bare skin sends a shiver through me. Omigod, he's so trusting! Yeah, but I promised myself I wasn't going to touch him. Dammit!
Not knowing why I'm doing it, I spread his legs apart, trying not to look at any part of him for more than half a second. Without realizing it, I spread his legs so far apart, he loses his balance and starts falling backward off the railing. His arms flail out, his hands grabbing the back of my neck to keep himself on the railing. Fuck!
Hmm, I didn't mean to do that, but the kid has nice reflexes, and his hands feel good on the back of my neck. He lets go of me as soon as he's stable. We both looked a little startled, but neither of us said anything during that close call. Meanwhile, I realize my hands are now moving from his knees down his bare thighs. His skin is so smooth, so smooth and lightly tanned, and so, I don't know... so perfect?
I can't stop myself from staring at the gaping leg openings of the flimsy shorts he's wearing, but, oh no, what am I doing? My hands are near his crotch, and he says, "Please don't grab my dick again, Mike. That's no test! Anyone will get a boner if his pecker's massaged." Huh, what was that he just said?
I'm feeling dizzy and angry at the same time. Why am I doing this? I need to take my hands off him but don't. Richie tries moving away from my hands and loses his balance again. Like the first time, his hands grab hold at the back of my neck, and this time he doesn't let go. His back is curved because he's leaning forward so far, half his ass hanging off the sidewalk-side of the railing. Our heads are only inches apart as I squeeze his thighs near his crotch and his body jerks, "No, don't..." he mutters, as his head moves so close to mine our noses bump. I can't catch my breath... I can't fucking breathe.
I do a gasping exhale, and I can smell my own breath bouncing off Richie's face. It smells like cigarettes, Coke, and Juicy Fruit gum. He tightens his hold on my neck as I feel my face flush, getting hot. Our faces are so close. I think I can smell him too. It's a boyish male scent of some kind, but my concern is mostly that my fingers are now very close to the opening of his boxer shorts, just touching his underwear. Richie gasps, "Come on, Mike! Let me down, please. I'll split my head open if I fall off this railing." It's been fifteen seconds since I started this, but it seems much longer.
Engrossed in rubbing the inside of his thighs with my thumbs, I feel my dick getting hard. Taking a deep breath, but quietly to hide my arousal, I try forcing myself to take my hands away from his 'junk.' Richie, still leaning far forward, readjust his hold on my neck so that his arms are completely around my neck, the sides of our faces lightly touching. When he moves even slightly, I close my eyes, willing myself to let go of his 'effing legs, but it's as though I'm paralyzed.
The leg opening of his boxer shorts is loose and my fingers, seemingly on their own, move into the opening, getting closer to his cock and balls until I can rub his privates with my fingertips. Pulling my fingers back the second I feel his dick getting hard, I hear, seemingly from far away, Richie pleading, "Oh, God, no, Mike. Don't do that again, please!" I barely touch his dick, almost accidentally, and now he has a nice boner in his shorts.
Totally losing my 'shit,' I use two fingers to take hold of his hard penis and stroke it twice. Omigod, what am I doing? He drops his forehead against my shoulder, moaning, "Oooh." In almost a coma-like state of mind, I stroke his boner again. His hips sort of hump, he jerks on the railing, almost a hop making the side of his face slide against mine, his arms tightening around my neck as he quietly moans, like a moan of relief, "Aaaaah," as semen floods his underpants and my fingers.
This can't be happening, but yet I felt his climax hit his shorts and heard it make a 'Puff!' sound, then felt wetness on my thumb and forefinger. I'm in shock... this can't be real. I pull both hands out of his shorts, put my arms around the kid to keep him from falling off the railing, and then pull him off onto the porch. We're standing on the porch with Richie leaning fully against me.
I'm hugging him gently, his body feeling so good. Then, coming to my senses, I let up on the hug, mumbling, "You flunked the test, Richard." My voice sounding funny to me. I'm so stunned that I did this inexcusable, um, 'thing' I'm paralyzed, and I can't think straight.
Yeah, well, the kid probably thinks I'm blasé about this, as though I did it on purpose. Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm horrified by my lack of self-control... it's frightening!
Being horrified quickly morphs into me being royally pissed off. There's a roaring in my ears and I barely hear Richie says, "That wasn't fair, Mike, you..." I shake my head; then, realizing what he said, I yell, "No fucking way," which makes no sense at all. The kid lifts his head and frowns, like, "What the fuck?' There's a big wet spot on his shorts, and I can't stop myself from glancing at it, and then I step away from him as if it's 'catching.' I find myself stalking off the porch as if I've been offended somehow. Richie goes inside, slamming the screen door behind him. That poor kid!
Sitting on my bike, I hesitate to fire up the engine, but then do it and rev it until the mufflers are roaring. I'm hoping Richie will come out because if I leave it as is, rationalizing this bizarre turn of events in my favor isn't going to be easy. I mean, I made him cum in his pants outside the luncheonette on the boardwalk, which was bad enough, and now this time, I can't even process what the fuck happened. And, I've promised myself I wasn't going to touch the kid!
Omigod, did I actually make him cum in his pants? Obviously, this kid 'climaxes' faster than any human on the face of the earth. I mean, I may have stroked his dick two or three times. Oh, fuck, it's still on me, though. The question is... why did I do that?
I can't think any more about it right now because, for one thing, it seems impossible that it even happened. I am feeling wicked guilty and sleazy, so I call out, "Hey! Yo! Um, Richie... you were right! That wasn't a completely fair test." Hmm, he has no comment, so maybe he didn't hear me. Or, more likely, why would he ever want to see me again?
A second later, I see him come up to stand on the other side of the screen door. I try sounding, um, compassionate, or friendly, or something, saying quietly, "Change your pants, and we'll take a ride so we can talk. Um, I don't know why I did, um..." I guess he's not buying it because I don't see him now. I wouldn't blame him for telling me to go fuck myself.
But, no, now he's back looking out through the screen door, so I flip my hand in a 'Come-on' motion as if I'm impatient. He mumbles, "Okay, I guess." Trying to maintain the upper hand, I go, "What was that?" He says, "I said, okay, I'll change and be right out." It's as though I'm incapable of being nice to him. I feel sick and, Omigod, what if he tells his dad? His old man should be at work, right? Um, no, he works nights, I think.
It's only like three minutes later that Richie comes outside, again slamming the screen door behind him. He's wearing a clean pair of flimsy basketball shorts. Standing on the porch, he hesitates. I try not to look like a crazy person as I wiggle my fingers 'c'mon', and he walks down off the porch. The expression on my face hopefully indicates I'm sorry. He's too busy pouting to notice, acting the victim, which he is.
So, apparently, as the victim, he's not going to say anything. That's okay; he doesn't need to say anything. I nod for him to get on behind me. I'm determined, somehow, to make this up to him. I hate myself for getting in positions where I need to make something up to someone. It frustrates me, but my stupidity when I'm around this kid is mindboggling. For no good reason, I yell, "Fuck!" and then take off doing a wheelie, the back-tire squealing. Off we go with both Richie's arms tightly around my waist.
Why did I suggest we go for a ride, and why in hell would he agree to go with me after that, um, unimaginably stupid porch fiasco? And, as usual, I don't know where the hell I'm going or what I'll say when we get there?
I DON'T KNOW SHIT!
That's right; I don't have an answer to anything anymore! Still, I feel strangely good that Richie agreed to come with me. We're now flying down the road, going way too fast, when I see a sign for the middle school. It's the one I attended a lifetime ago, so I ride us there and pull into the playground area, my bike digging up the lawn when coming to a stop next to the swings. Why park here? I don't know.
Killing the engine, I wait a couple of seconds and then glance back at Richie. After hesitating another second, he gets off. Without saying anything, I get off the bike, and, sitting on a swig, I kick-off with my foot to drift back and forth while nodding at Richie to use one of the other swings. After thinking it over for a few seconds, he gets on the swing next to mine. Hmm, I suppose he's wondering what it is I have to say, which makes two of us.
I can't imagine what he must think about all this. Since leaving his house, we haven't said a word, and now there's more silence as we swing on these 'effing kids' swings. The silence soon becomes a roaring noise in my ears. I've got to say something so, looking straight ahead, I clear my throat and then babble on about how I don't know where I came up with that totally unfair and absurd so-called test. I'm like, "I have no idea why I did that, that, um, idiotic crap on the porch."
He still doesn't say anything, so I go on... blah, blah, blah, not making any sense. I finish my rambling, disjointed monologue by mumbling, "That craziness wouldn't prove anything. It was a joke. I started it out as a joke, but then it got out of hand, so I'm sorry about that." Hell, that was a pretty damn good apology...
When he still doesn't say anything, I get pissed off and look over at him. He's still pouting. Well, hell, I can't blame him for being pissed off, but I don't like pouting cause it's childish. I go, "Okay, I'll make a deal with you, Richard. I'll never mention to anyone that you 'spunked' in your underpants, um, again. And, you don't mention to anyone about that dumb test. Let's forget it ever happened. Ah, plus, to show you my heart is in the right place, you can hang out with us on the boardwalk whenever you want. Your initiation is over, so, ya know, no more of that initiation horseshit. You're a 'regular' now."
When he glances over at me, I nod my head encouragingly. He nods his head once, then shrugs but still doesn't say anything. Goddammit! He could help me out here a little bit. He doesn't, though, so my temper makes me add, "Um, but you can't be a 'real' gang member because you don't have a buzz cut. Sorry 'bout that."
I had to add that last asshole-comment even though I could feel myself getting stupider with every word. My brain dropped an IQ point with each stupid word... Christ! He should laugh in my face. Laugh at this fake tough-guy image I've been dragging around now for ten or twelve years. I'm tired of it but don't know how to let it go.
Hmm, be that as it may, the kid actually does smile now. He was trying not to, but he couldn't help himself, and a cute smile snuck out on his face. Then, the smile turns into a grin as he looks down and mumbles, "Um, Mike, well, do you think we can be friends too?" I swear to God, I feel like crying.
He is so fucking desperate to make a friend he's going to break my heart. Unfortunately, it's simply not possible for me to let go of my dip-shit persona, so I say something about him not getting ahead of himself with his 'friend' expectations... we'll see how it goes. That satisfies him because he's smiling again, and now he's holding out his fist. I bump fists with him and nod my head.
What I'd like to do, if I wasn't such a prick; well, never mind what I'd like to do. I say, "C'mon," and we get off the swings to walk across the street so I can buy a pack of smokes. He's right there next to me and, unable to say the words I'd like to say, which are 'I'd be proud to have him as my friend' I tell him I need to meet my brother pretty soon. That's another lie, but I don't know how to end this awkward time we've had together gracefully.
We walk back to the playground, where I smoke a cigarette, the two of us standing next to my bike. Out of the blue, Richie tells me about his mom's boyfriend moving in with her and how the boyfriend insisted Richie get out, basically. His mother chose the boyfriend over her kid and sent him, Richie, to live here with her divorced husband, Richie's old man. Holy Christ, the story of his life just gets sadder and sadder!
I mutter, "That blows," and then we ride back to his house, where I light another cigarette, trying to think of something that will make Richie feel good. He's not pouting now... hell, he looks happy. I've never met anyone like him, not even close. He looks so clean and new and friendly and, well... he's special. Still, I'm unable to say anything remotely appropriate for this situation. Anything remotely appropriate would include a further heartfelt apology admitting I've been horrible in how I've been treating him. I should admit my tough guy act is a phony bunch of bullshit, but I can't do that, so I don't say anything; I just leave. He calls out, "See ya, Mike. Thank you!" Omigod, he thanks me... for what?
As I ride home, I make a promise to myself to somehow make it up to him. I'll make this all up to him if it's the last thing I do.
Part four of nine next week.
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