West Otter Lake

Copyright© 2013 – Nicholas Hall


West Otter Lake – Chapter Two – "I know what I am fleeing from but not what I am in search of." – (Michel de Montaigne)


My mind was all akimbo trying to sort out all I had to do in order to open the Resort this year for the season. Grandma and Grandpa used to handle it and now both were gone, so it was up to me. Although several months away, there were a number of items that had to be taken care of before then. I had to make arrangements for a plumber to reactivate the water supplies to the cabins, a heating person to check and light water heaters and furnaces, hire seasonal help, and when load limits were lifted, have the septic service pump the tanks and check out the lines, just to name a few. When Jacob and Sara Markworth returned from their winter down south, they'd be able to help, somewhat.

Jacob and Sara lived in the caretaker's cabin during the season and helped with turn-around day, mowing grass, tending bar, and other odd jobs needing done around the Resort. Their pay wasn't a lot, but they seemed pleased with it claiming it "supplemented their retirement." In addition, they lived rent and utility payment free and had the full run of the Resorts boats, motors, and other amenities. Jacob and Sara worked for Grandma and Grandpa from the time I was about six or eight, I should think. It always seemed they were there when I was growing up so it was difficult to remember when they weren't.

The Markworth's retired from teaching in Illinois and, after many years of visiting the Resort on vacation with their family, decided, when Grandpa made the offer, to work here. It was an excellent arrangement for us and for them. It gave my grandparents the additional help they needed and the Markworths's a long, working summer vacation. The only problem was, Jacob and Sara were both in their early seventies and hinted the summer before they were looking to retire completely. I didn't know what I'd do if they left me, too!

Shaking my head, disgusted with myself for sinking into the blues, I rose, intending to return to the kitchen, but wandered to the front door of the Lodge and peered out over the snow blanketed yard and drive, at the U-Haul truck parked there. I looked carefully and then more intently, noticing something amiss, an anomaly, a thing out of place I failed to notice on my initial perusal of the vehicle. The rear cargo door of the truck was up, about two foot in fact, and I knew it wasn't that way last night when I came home.

Odd, I thought pondering the situation; I distinctly remembered, even at that late hour of my arrival, as I brought Grandma's ashes to the house, along with my overnight flight bag, checking the rear door of the truck. It was closed then, but open now. "Curiouser and curiouser, thought Alice" and I suddenly became cautious, wary, much like our native bobcat, preparing for a confrontation with a creature unknown, but close, very close.

Scratching my head for a moment, reaching a decision, I scooted up to my bedroom, retrieved my 20ga. shotgun, the one I use for grouse, slipped a shell in each of the two chambers, and padded back down the stairs. Slipping on a pair of boots, I exited the Lodge through the kitchen's back door, alert and ready for what I feared was a nasty session with some thug, an intruder on my property. Looking toward the timber edge surrounding the Lodge and other buildings, looking over the cabins in their stately rows along the lake front, and back to the truck, I could see nothing suspicious, other than two sets of foot prints in the snow leading from the back of the truck toward the outside wood furnace and the woodshed where I stored the winter's wood to feed the furnace.

If someone or, by the tracks evident, more than one, was on the property snooping in the back of the truck, the wood shed would be an ideal place to escape detection if they became suspicious of being detected, since the cut, split, chunks of wood were stacked in rows over six feet high. Odd, though, I saw no tracks leading to the truck, only from it. Perhaps, I thought, they were in there when I pulled in to the Resort. I was beginning to think whoever it was couldn't be very bright since any northern kid knows two things; never eat the yellow snow and when you walk in the snow, you leave tracks!

Stepping closer to the shed, using the stacked wood as my shield, I stopped, cocked an ear and thought I could hear water running. Odd, again I thought, there's no water in the shed, so I listened more carefully and, indeed, I could hear water splattering on the bare ground inside the shed. Accompanying the fountaining cascade were soft giggles and quiet murmuring in English and in a language I recognized, but couldn't speak and only comprehended, a few words.

Peeking cautiously and quietly around a stack of wood at the small passageway through the wood stacks, and verifying my ears did not deceive me, were two individuals with their backs to me, pissing on the dirt floor. One was about my height, but a touch taller, and weight and just as slight of frame as me and the second individual shorter still, but equally as slight, and not very heavy either. The duo was lightly dressed, too lightly for this weather, and both were definitely Latinos, if their light, brown, skin color was any indication.

The smallest one and youngest I gathered from his voice, giggled again and snickered softly, "That's a big cock you got there, Leandro."

The tallest one shushed him with "Quiet, someone might hear you and call the cops!"

"Well, it is," responded the smaller one.

So intent were they on emptying their bladders, they didn't detect my presence until I coughed and said, "If you love Jesus, you'll put your hands up, really, really high!"

Four hands shot up, straight up, neglecting that tender organ the lads were chatting about and peeing through and forgetting to turn off the spigot, pissed in two different directions and altitudes. The trickles finally ceased as I announced, "Now boys, put both hands on top of your head and turn around slowly."

When they did as instructed, facing me were not two hoodlums, not gangsters, but two very frightened, young Latinos; the oldest approximately my age, and the smallest one, youngest of the two. I'd bet he couldn't be much beyond twelve or fourteen years old. The little one was correct, Leandro (since I now knew his name) did have a big cock and the length and girth of the other diminished in proportion to the age of the attached male, although he had nothing to be ashamed of or bashful concerning. The youngest was on the cusp of adolescence, with a few sprigs of pubic hair poking out of his fly, adorning his uncut penis. In fact, both were uncircumcised, unlike me.

Eyes wide, fear in his face, Leandro sputtered, "For God's sake mister, don't shoot! We were just taking a leak. We'll get our stuff and leave." While he spoke, two pairs of eyes focused on the circular ends of the barrel of the shotgun. The little one nodded rapidly in agreement. Clearly, given the lessor of two evils, they'd rather leave than be shot.

Casually I shrugged and said, "Put your peckers away before you frostbite them."

Hands quickly tucked the ponies back in the barn, and before they could return their hands to their heads, I continued, "Now, you boys are going to tell me who you are, why you're here on my property, and how you got here. Don't try to lie since the last two who did are now contained in piles of bear shit scattered throughout the forest."

You know, I really hate to threaten like that because it's so gross, so distasteful, so- effective; especially with city folks or those who have only seen bears in the zoo or movies where the wild bear gnaws and chews innocents into bloody messes. I could only imagine what grisly thoughts were rocketing through their minds as I said that; pictures of bears growling, gobbling, fighting over the lads most delicate parts and devouring the latest victims of my madness.

The youngest one's lips began to quiver and tears started forming in those dark, brown, beautiful eyes. He leaned closer to Leandro and slowly lifted one arm from his side and secured it around his companion for protection and comfort. God, I damned near cried myself! Although frightened to death, it didn't diminish the fact both of them were extremely handsome young men – especially Leandro. The little one was just cute as a bug, no two ways about it!

Before anyone could reply, by now they were shivering more from the cold than fright, I quickly added, "Never mind, for now; let's get to the Lodge where you can at least warm up, while I listen to your story and decide your fate," and pointed the shotgun toward the Lodge's front entrance, near where the truck was parked. I wish I was as tough as I sound, but I'm more of a lover than a fighter, waist size twenty-eight inches, about five foot seven inches high and a buck thirty on a good day, if you catch my drift! I wasn't very frightening to look at, so it must have been my big gun that impressed them (the shotgun, not the one I carried in my pants and used to piss through or fuck with).

I felt rather silly marching them to the Lodge, following with a shotgun. It reminded me of those old war movies or westerns when the prisoners were frog-marched to the prison camp or local jail As we entered the "Great Room" of the Lodge, I instructed the captives to remove their wet shoes and coats. They did as instructed and while doing so, their eyes swept the room, assessing and, I must say, admiring the place. The youngest lad, eyes wide and glimmering with excitement, softly said "Wow!"

This "great room," my living room in the off season, has a spectacular view through large windows east toward the lake and the room is accented by a large stone fireplace in one corner. The peaked, knotty pine tongue and grooved ceiling with the balcony surrounding three sides, adds a warm and comforting ambiance to the room, even for its large size. I wondered, as the two of them appraised the room and those parts of the Lodge they could see, what accommodations my now guests had previously in their lives.

Shifting the shotgun to my shoulder, with my free hand, I pointed toward the kitchen door and said, "We'll go in there and sit, so we can talk."

I leaned the shotgun up against some cabinets, got the boys all settled in chairs, and introduced myself. "I'm Wesley Conner Johnson, Jr.; people call me Conner and I'm the owner of West Otter Lake Resort and Campground, where you now are." I paused, waiting for a response and, when I received none, stated simply, "You know my name, but I don't know yours, so why we begin with you," and pointed at Leandro.

"Leandro Salazar," he replied.


"Twenty-three." O.K., I was right; he's about my age. I'll be twenty-three in two weeks.

Reaching over to the smaller lad, adding, "he's Luis Salazar and he's fourteen and my little brother." Looking closer at the two of them, next to each other, there was no doubt they were brothers and Luis looked to his older brother as his protector.

Nodding, I asked, "Leandro, now that we're acquainted, why don't you tell me why you and your brother were in the back of the rental truck and why you're here."

"We crawled in at the rest stop outside of Atlanta when you stopped there," piped up Luis.

"Conner," offered Leandro, "if you don't mind, we can just put on our coats and shoes, get our stuff from the truck, hike out to the main road, hitch a ride, and get lost. O.K?"

I sat up straighter in my chair, looked at him with incredulity, and asked, "Do you know where you are?"

Their heads waggled side to side in the negative, except Luis volunteered excitedly, "Some place cold with snow- I've only seen snow once before!"

This was going to be more than just interesting, I thought to myself, so I announced, "Why don't I fix some breakfast and I'll tell you all about the area you've landed in," and stood from my chair intending to head for the stove.

"I can cook," offered Leandro, "Luis, give me a hand."

It didn't take him long to locate what he needed for cooking utensils and ingredients for a meal, with my help, of course, and my apologies for not having the essential spices for "heating" up the meal. Leandro just laughed, responding, "That's o.k., most of my cooking was done in Anglo restaurants while in high school and my first year out. Besides, neither Luis nor I really care for real spicy foods. I think we're more American then Mexican since we like American food really, really well."

The breakfast, of eggs, bacon, toast, hash brown potatoes, coffee and juice, Leandro and Luis prepared was excellent. Since Luis didn't drink coffee, I scrambled about trying to find something hot for him to drink. I found out then he was very, very partial to hot chocolate – loved the stuff!

As we ate, I explained they were way up north, less than five hours to Canada, in the middle of the northern boreal forests in Resort country, in the middle of winter, and the nearest city of any size, other than Parsonvillbe, was about four hours away. The chances of them catching a ride to anywhere, other than the small town where I did business about twenty miles away, were slim, few and far between. Their faces fell, realizing their chances of escaping to a large city and finding comfort in crowds was a dream which wouldn't be easily fulfilled.

While the three of us cleaned up the kitchen and did the dishes, I learned what brought them north or at least out of the State of Georgia. Georgia is only one of five states, including Alabama, Indiana, South Carolina, and Utah, that passed the so called "show your papers" law allowing police to investigate a suspect's immigration status if they have any doubts about their citizenship. Georgia began enforcing this law in December. There are other states, such as Arizona, who have strict immigration laws also which, if enforced, make it really, really miserable on undocumented migrants. However, unlike Arizona's law, Georgia's law doesn't require officers to check someone's immigration status. Instead, the law authorizes them to check during the investigation of another crime if the suspect cannot produce a valid form of identification. While accusations of "racial profiling" are rampant, it's sometimes difficult to state unequivocally it's not occurring since mostly brown skinned or dark complexioned persons are checked more often than not.

There are an estimated four hundred thousand undocumented persons residing in Georgia, working at those jobs citizens eschew such as pecan harvesting, fruit harvesting, maid service, lawn care, poultry processing, farm labor in general, and for those jobs with either a shortage of workers or when the business owners wish to evade the law and increase profits in construction and other specialized jobs. Most work pays minimum wage or a bit higher and often in cash. Under the new laws, anyone who is undocumented lives in fear of being deported. However, under the new immigration program, the "Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals," young illegal immigrants who come to the United States before they turned sixteen may apply for deferred action giving them the authorization to work legally in the U.S. for two years.

"But," I pushed, "that doesn't explain why you beat a hasty exit from the Land of Magnolias and Southern Belles. All you have to do is show them your ID or birth certificate and you're home free."

As I asked the question, I knew the answer. Sitting at my kitchen table were two young, handsome, light brown, well-proportioned, lithe, Latino's; probably illegal or undocumented. I hesitate calling Luis a "young man," but he was, just fourteen, but still a young man. I raised my hand in futility, stopping any response to my question. Instead, giving a deep sigh, I said, "Tell you what guys, why don't you get your gear out of the truck, come back in, take a shower, put on some clean clothes, and we'll talk some more."

Leandro and Luis hesitated and were quiet until Luis, the inquisitive one and talker, spoke up, "Aren't you afraid we'll take off or steal you blind? I know that's what a lot of `gringos' think."

I pursed my lips, frowned, and asked, "Will you?"

Luis smiled and giggled, "No!"

"Then get cleaned up."

Luis and Leandro quickly gathered up their coats and shoes and scooted out to the truck.

I scooted upstairs to check on towels and wash clothes and I heard the front door open and shouted down over the balcony rail, "up here; use the stairs and come up." My shouted directions were followed by the rapid thumping of feet coming up the stairs to the balcony.

Out of breath, the brothers, with bags in hand, looked around as if trying to decide what to do.

"They're six bedrooms on this level and three bathrooms. The bathrooms are shared, one to two rooms. You may as well use the one here in my room rather than mess up the others. You can change in the adjoining bedroom or here, it's your choice," and walked toward the bathroom intending to show them where things were. I could hear giggling behind my back and when I turned around, Luis was already naked and Leandro was stripped to his shorts. Luis was standing there with his young teenage five inch cock pointing north.

"You're such a horn-dog," mocked Leandro.

"You're just jealous `cause you're not as big," Luis retorted and pushed down on his dick, causing it to spring back up.

Leandro continued stripping until he too was naked. He was not stiff, just a bit chubby, but a nice smooth, looking chubby; almost lickable, suckable, or fuckable, depending on what you wanted to do and if he'd let you do it. I could feel myself start to bone up, so I quickly turned, ostensibly looking out the big window overlooking the lake. Turning back to Luis and Leandro, I showed them where the towels and washcloths were and as they started by me toward the shower, that little shit Luis came closer to me and wiggled his pert, cute little butt at me, earning him a gentle swat on those soft, almost hairless mounds of delight.

"Cute little fucker, isn't he?" mused Leandro

I looked at Leandro, thinking Luis' not the only one and, as he stripped off his clothes, his own maypole of manly delight was beginning to lengthen, the lighter head slowly slipping out of the hood covering it, unveiling a nice, evenly shaped business end of a heavenly instrument. He started toward the bathroom, his firm, ass cheeks clenching as he walked, and I stammered, "I don't think there's room for two in that shower."

"Don't worry," he replied, "I have to use the toilet first so that might hurry him up," and continued through the door.

God, he was a looker, hotter than anything I'd seen in a long time. There just aren't many opportunities here up north. Fuck, there's no opportunity! I shook my head in exasperation and went down stairs. These could be some very interesting house guests, I thought.

After a half an hour or so, they came down stairs, clean, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed and sat at the kitchen table where I awaited them. Settle, I began, "Now, tell me your stories."

Leandro smiled, "You've already surmised we might be undocumented. My mother and father and older brother came across when I was about six months old. Luis is fourteen and born in the United States so he's a citizen; I'm not. We live in Arizona and worked farms, lawn care, you name it. Momma works in motels at maid service. During and for one year after high school, I worked in restaurants, until I started working construction. Luis is still in school."

Leandro began working in the construction business, going where the work was, and traveling with a group of Latino's, all undocumented. He ended up in Georgia working for a contractor rebuilding and repairing houses and developments damaged by one of the big storms that wracked the coast. It was a contractor who winked at the law and paid the crew less than union scale so he had a number of undocumented workers in his employment. The only problem was, if trouble came, he tossed them to the wolves, disavowing any knowledge of their status.

They were rebuilding a large housing complex and all was going well until about a month ago when a couple of Latinos and an Anglo got in a fight during lunch on the street corner. Someone called the cops and all hell broke loose.

"When I saw one cop car and then a county mounty show up, I decided it was going to get ugly, so I bailed out the backside of the project. I was staying with a bunch of the guys in cheap motel, but the guy I'd ridden to the job with, took off without me; scared shitless I guess. I just put my hands in my pockets and walked away like I was on my way home. I'm light enough so I don't stand out in a crowd so no one took notice. People were too busy looking up the street at all of the flashing lights. Three blocks away, I caught a city bus and rode it back to motel, gathered up my clothes and cash, climbed in my old pickup truck and drove back to Arizona and moved back in with Mom and Pop."

The Salazar family always had a plan if something would happen. Arizona's laws are more restrictive and some county sheriffs wouldn't hesitate to round up people and send them across the border. In the last year, things got even more tense as politicians became more polarized on the immigration issue. The right-wing conservatives now controlling the county where the Salazar family resided vowed to "clean up the county." His mother and father made the decision to ready themselves for deportation but wanted to make certain Luis could stay in the U.S. However, they were certain authorities wouldn't permit that because of his age and would send him back with his parents. Leandro's older brother left home a couple of years before and was working somewhere around Los Angeles according to the last letter they had from him a couple of months before.

His father was doing lawn care work for a fellow who worked in the county courthouse and overheard him saying to another fellow how they were getting ready to "clean up the border lice," so he called home to warn everyone. Leandro packed bags for himself and Luis, secured Luis's birth certificate, social security card in a money belt around his waist along with all of the spare cash he could gather, tossed some important papers into one of his bags, kissed his mother goodbye, climbed in his old pickup truck, and picked up Luis at school.

"How did you end up back in Georgia?" I asked, puzzled. "Why not go to California where your brother lives?"

"Yeah, tell him Mr. Navigator – the guy what can't tell one road from another," piped up Luis.

Leandro scratched his head, irritated with his little brother, but apparently more irritated with himself. "We had two options; go to California to my brother's place or to Florida where Dad had a cousin somewhere near Jacksonville. I waited for Luis to get out of school to leave, and then had him go back in and clean out his locker. He knew damned well what was happening! We gassed up the old truck and, by the time we left town, it was dusk."

"Yeah, and real cloudy so you couldn't tell east from west, right Leandro?" shot out Luis.

Leandro glared at him, but continued. "I decided on California and with the cash I had and what Dad gave me, I had about five hundred bucks, enough I thought to get us to my brother's. I pretty certain my old pickup would make it that far, so we started off, following Interstate 10. I drove all night while Luis slept. When morning came, I realized I'd fucked up."

"The sun came up in the west, right?" I asked.

Sheepishly, he nodded, saying, "Yeah, and when `dickey bird' saw that he just had to make an issue of it."

"Where were you?"

"About one hundred miles east of San Antonio."

"That's when we decided to go to Jacksonville," added Luis with a smirk.

"That mistake doesn't explain Atlanta, Georgia," I queried.

"It does if you're little brother's driving so you can sleep and he forgets to check the oil when he gasses up," explained Leandro. "The engine blew just outside of Mobile, Alabama."

"But you were driving," accused Luis.

"We were close to a rest area and I was able to limp it in. I parked it, left the keys in it, gathered up our gear, and hitched a ride with a trucker. I asked him where he was headed and he said `east' and that was the direction we wanted to go."

"By the time the `great navigator' Christopher Columbus figured out we were on Interstate 65 and 85 instead of Interstate 10, we were halfway to Atlanta," groused Luis. "The trucker stopped at the rest stop where you were parked and said he was tired, but licked his chops looking at me. I figured he wanted to play hide the sausage or suck the salami. I suddenly turned vegetarian and we bailed."

Leandro glared at him again. "Well, he was fat, ugly, and stunk," complained Luis. "I'll bet he had a week-old collection of dingle berries hanging on his butt hairs."

Leandro just shook his head and posed the question both had on their minds. "The question is, Mr. Wesley Conner Johnson; what're we going to do or what're you going to do to us?"

They silently eyed me, waiting for my answer. Would it be to call the police or let them be on their way?

It was going to be neither one!

To be continued


Thank you for reading "West Otter Lake – Chapter Two – "I know what I am fleeing from but not what I am in search of." – (Michel de Montaigne


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