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).
