Friday, July 3, 2015

Roger’s Dilemma (…or, “The Cayuga Street Mud hole”) 1962

A Neighborhood Escapade

Part Three

The Cayuga Street gang was down at the mud hole. Everyone that had stepped into the water had now stepped out, that is everyone but Roger L. We had all cooled off from the hot summer’s heat. The rest of us were drinking beer along the perimeter of the mud hole.
       Roger stood in the center of the water that just barely covered his navel, naked but for a pair of undershorts, that stuck to his body like white on rice.  We had thought to pull him in by holding a stick out to him, hence, pulling him out thinking he had sunk, and was stuck few inches in the mud;   actually the mud had circled loosely around his ankles, but he said it wasn’t serious, or as serious as we had mistaken for; evidently that was not the problem, nor the reason why he would not come out: thus, it puzzled us all.
       So, he stood steadfast, scarcely thinking of us, more into thinking of something else, all of us, all several of us not having a clue to include Sandy, his girlfriend, who lived in the big house with her father, whom was the caretaker of Oakland Cemetery. She was a lovely and quite foxy looking young woman, of perhaps nineteen, and shapely with blond hair, the Icelandic type. At thirteen I kissed her, Roger allowed this as a favor for my manhood, —actually he coaxed me on to kiss her, and the gang wanting to see me have my first kiss—a show and tell thing I believe, more or less, and to await my reaction; Roger thinking all the time—I  think he was thinking—I’d not kiss her, but I did: she was the first female I had ever kissed, and she agreed to have seconds, and Roger said “No dice, she’s my gal,” and well, the first kiss, was the last kiss from Sandy, and that would have to do. Anyhow, back to Roger’s dilemma. Incidentally, my name is Chick, I’ll narrate this escapade the best I can.

       We were all drinking beer, and Roger would just not come out of the cool mud water, he was acting like a stubborn mule, as Howie the cop always said about us: “You’re all donkeys, down there in Donkeyland!” And the more we observed Roger, he didn’t seem to be in any desperation to leave.  What could it be? We all question, if not out loud, then in thought. Something that never occurred to us, that is what it could be, and that is exactly what it would be.
       So it appeared we would have to take this situation into our own hands, we wanted Roger to join the function, that being: getting drunk, partying; — we had a few cases of beer that needed to be emptied, and he was as good at drinking as any one of us: I guess we were all good at that, some having a higher tolerance as Bib Bopper, and some who could drink and quit, like Gunner, whenever he wanted to, like smoking cigarettes, I never could, I drank and liked it, and smoked and liked it (three packs of Camels or Luck Strike’s per day), there was do parting with it, John Barleycorn was my bosom, boozing buddy…
      —During those trying teenage years, I became a slave to Mr. Barleycorn. Him and I breathed the same air, suckled the same breast: Hamm’s Beer, Budweiser, Coors, Grain Belt, Schmidt, Beck’s, —the brotherhood of Donkeyland we drank free and unfree, shoulder to shoulder, like to like, same to same, we chummed, and tirelessly gave to him, life and rhythm, was sweet and sour moods, with sweat and swivel, and I did that as if on the top of a needle, as he scrabbled through my youthful years of his life, like white on rice, but I would indeed sober up somewhere down the road, and thank God it wasn’t too late when I did—     But as I was about to say:
       I think Roger understood about this time he had little choice in the matter, to come out or… and perhaps little time to make up his mind to come out to boot or a few of the boys, like Big Ace, and Doug, and Larry L, and Mike also called Gunner, and Mouse, whom was really Gary they’d come in and drag him out, —I was more the observer, we were all curious though. Actually, the better part of the gang were in the process of taking their shoes and socks off again as the girls stood back, Jackie, Nancy, Sandy, Jennie. 
       “Leave me be, don’t disturbed me,” said Roger, in a near panic.
       Well the hustle was over, Roger was in motion to come out, and so everyone took a step back. And with groans and blasphemies, slowly he walked out like a tin-soldier, as if in agony, his item, rigid as a board, firm as a pencil, with a lean to it like the Tower of Pisa, sticking out of his white muddy underwear, that per near leveled with his belly button, a smug look on his face, unrepentant, silent or cold eyes, there he was; unable to explain, or not having the correct words, he simply said: “I simple can’t help it,”  Sandy cover her face with her two palms, trying to hold back her laughter—either out of pity, shame or entertainment.
       He had an erection, so huge, we thought he put a wooden stick in the place of his item. Sandy closed her eyes then, covered her mouth, she could no longer hold back her laughter: with great pain, and a battle to hide some obvious shame, — he tried to cover it with his two palms together like a codpiece placed over his crotch. Of course we all knew Sandy was the unspoken instigator of it, I mean she had been in the mud hole like all of us with Roger, but had come out with all of us, likewise. And so the moment passed and Roger put his clothes on and we all had a good vigorous hour of teasing him. And then of course, it faded into lost history, up unto this writing (and you can thank Foxee Sangthang for having had me resurrect this lost old story, hidden in the vaults of yesteryear). And so I dedicate it to my old and passed on buddy, Roger, and the unforgettable gang of Donkeyland.

Written sometime in 2007, and rewritten 5-1-2014 (No: 1056) / Reedited again, June and July of 2015. / dedicated to: Roger Lindemoen (first time published).