Date: Thu, 17 Aug 2006 00:02:45 -0400
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: HOBO TEEN - 10

HOBO TEEN - 10

Copyright 2006 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Hobo Teen" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  As
in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold gradually.  Comments on the
story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at
carl_mason@comcast.net

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.

This story is highly indebted for its inspiration and many of its details
to the book Riding the Rails; Teenagers on the Move During the Great
Depression by Errol Lincoln Uys.  New York: Routledge, 2003, and the
award-winning documentary film by Michael Uys and Lexy Lovell, Riding the
Rails, produced by WGBH Educational Foundation, Boston, 2005.


CHAPTER 10

(Revisiting Chapter 9)

After spending a quarter on a nice lunch at a diner, Cy walked around the
city founded by Spanish explorers in 1607, the oldest capital city in the
United States.  Eventually, he slumped down onto a bench near the
St. Francis Cathedral.  It had begun to snow again.  It was so cold, and he
was so tired.  He stretched out his long legs, pulling his overcoat around
him and his baseball cap down over his eyes.  Gratefully, he felt himself
falling to sleep.  He had worked so hard; he so missed Cali.  Would he find
his father?  Did it matter?  He was so very, very tired...

Suddenly, as from a great distance, he heard a voice...and felt something
tapping against his shoes.

(Continuing Our Story - The Great Rex White)

Cy felt himself being helped into a comfortable chair.  Though his vision
was still blurred, he had the impression that he was in a great old
room...something like the movie theater in Harrisburg.  There was a buzz of
conversation...and Christmas decorations.  He smelled the brandy that
someone held to his lips.  Gradually...very gradually...he realized that he
was coming to, that he was warm and probably alive.

Yes!  He was alive...and still in Santa Fe.  He sat in the lobby of a grand
old hotel...adobe, rich hangings, an older atmosphere, very artsy and very
expensive.  "Hello, young man."  Cy turned his head, trying to locate the
voice.  His eyes found an elegantly dressed man - perhaps in his very late
40s - who sat across from him at a small table.  The lad tried to speak,
but failed.  "Relax, young man.  Another ten or fifteen minutes and I
suspect you would have found yourself in the hospital, or worse."  "Who are
you?" the boy managed to rasp out.  "I'm sorry, lad.  I'm C. Ward Taylor, a
citizen of Santa Fe - a Santa Fe afficionado, in fact.  You came very close
to freezing to death, and I'm trying to help you get your head on straight.
Would you like some coffee?"  "Yes, sir, I could really use some coffee.
Thank you.

"Haven't I seen you some place before?" Cy ventured.  After he had ordered
coffee with the crook of a finger, C. Ward Taylor sat back in his chair,
relieved that the youngster wasn't too badly off, a small smile beginning
to play over his lips.  "I doubt that you've seen me in person, lad, though
you may have seen me in the silent movies.  I was a star in my day.  With
the coming of the talkies, I was cast into the outer darkness.  More
accurately, I have now retired in the desert," he responded with something
of a dramatic flourish.  (Pause.)  "May I ask who you are?"  "Cyrus
Whitman, sir, from Gloucester, Mass, working his way across America to find
his dad.  But," he added grinning, "I'm
 Cy' to my friends."  The light suddenly dawning, he exclaimed excitedly,
"But...but...you're Rex White, the famous cowboy star!  Man, oh man!  I've
seen your movies.  You're great!"  "Glad to make your acquaintance, Cy
Whitman from Gloucester.  The name is Ward,' by the way.  Rex White' was my
stage name.  Naturally, flattery will get you everything," he added,
tongue-in-cheek.  "Here...let me help you with that coffee."  Reaching
across the table, he poured Cy a cup of coffee from the heavy silver pot
and pushed it towards him.  "Drink this.  You'll feel better.  (Pause.)
May I ask you what you were doing freezing to death on a bench outside the
St. Francis Cathedral?"

"Ah, that's a real long story, sir," Cy said wearily.  Lest the great man
misunderstand, he added quickly, "But I'm glad to tell you..."  Seeing
Ward's raised hand, he halted.  "Sir?"  "Allow me to mention one
possibility first, Cy," his host interjected.  "I was about to offer you a
place to wash up, a bed, and some good food, at least until you recover
from your...trauma.  I think you would find everything to your liking,
especially the fact that you'd be treated with respect and kindness.
Absolutely nothing is expected in return.  Is that something that you could
allow me to do for you?"  Cy paused.  Ward was an "older man."  He was
pretty sure he was homosexual, but so what?  So was he.  He sensed that he
posed no danger - and what an experience it would be to get to know a real
movie star!  The lad grinned boyishly and accepted Ward's kindness.  "Do
you think you can walk three blocks?" Ward asked with concern as he helped
the boy to his feet, wrapped his coats around him, and gave him some needed
support as they walked across the lobby to the door.  Once outside, he
signaled for a cab and gently silenced Cy's protests.

The cab pulled up before the entrance to a large home built in that which
was obviously the favored architectural style of the city.  "Welcome to my
home, lad," Ward exclaimed as he helped the boy from the auto.  Continuing,
he added that in earlier days it had been the home and/or headquarters of
several Mexican officers...when Santa Fe belonged to them.  A great double
door made of heavy dark wood with Spanish-style metal trim stood at the top
of a low flight of broad stone stairs.  Passing through the entrance, Ward
asked Cy if he would like some food or would prefer cleaning up and turning
in for the night.  He replied, "Please, sir, I'm out on my feet.  Forgive
me.  I much look forward to our getting to know each other, but I fear I'm
not worth much tonight."  "I think you are priceless at any time," the man
murmured softly, "though I also think that your choice is a wise one."
Then he exclaimed more loudly, "Let me show you to your bedroom on the
second floor. There's an adjoining bathroom.  I think you will find it
quite comfortable."

The hobo teen gasped as he entered the beautiful room.  "While you shower,
Cy, I shall turn your bed down.  Here is a towel that you can use tonight."
With that, the gentleman removed his topcoat, allowing it to drape down
over a chair and turned his back on the weary traveler.  Soon he heard the
shower running.  Somewhat to his surprise, Cy walked back into the bedroom
several minutes later, his towel simply slung over his shoulder.  Ward
couldn't tear his eyes from the young god's naked body.  Noticing, Cy
grinned wryly, saying, "Well, farmin' doesn't pay much, but it sure builds
some good muscles."  "How old are you, my boy?" the older man inquired.
"Goin' on seventeen, sir."  "Magnificent..." Ward breathed reverently.  As
the youngster crawled into bed, Ward had all he could do to control
himself.  After a moment or two, he ruffled the teen's hair and said sadly,
"Good night, Cy."  "Night, Rex.  Thanks so much," the boy muttered,
obviously well on his way into the arms of Morpheus.

It was almost noon the next day when Ward's fully dressed young guest
walked down the broad staircase.  Seeing his host holding a cup of steaming
coffee aloft, he walked up to him, gave him a grateful hug, and accepted
the brew.  "I can't believe I slept this long, sir," he sighed.  "Well,"
Ward observed, "we may guess that you needed it."  The boy stood in the
morning sunlight that poured into the large room.  He also noticed the
Christmas tree and the fact that the house was completely silent.  Slipping
for a second into a more childish mode, he asked sadly, "I missed
Christmas, sir?"  Ward smiled, saying, "Not really, young knight.  Your
life was spared on Christmas Day.  I doubt that there could have been a
better present."  Under his breath he added, "'for you...or for me.'  I
always give my manservant a couple of days off at this time - Christmas and
the day after this year - but he'll be back tomorrow.  Come into the
kitchen with me, and I'll prepare breakfast for you."

After Cy had enjoyed a true holiday breakfast, he and Ward moved into his
host's library where they sat in deep conversation for some time.  As had
promised, he shared the story of his wanderings since leaving Gloucester
during the early spring.  Clad in a royal blue smoking jacket with black
velvet facings, a sparkling white buccaneer shirt that must have been given
to him by Douglas Fairbanks or another of his Hollywood friends, dark gray
slacks, and polished black shoes, Ward sat patiently, hanging on every
word.  At its close, he sighed, stood, walked over to Cy where he gently
placed his hand at the side of his face, and said, "I am so sorry about
Cali.  You are one of the bravest lads I have ever met.  You've had so much
to overcome."  With that he excused himself to go and prepare some tea.  Cy
sat silently, his fingertips on the spot where Ward had rested his hand,
his eyes watching the small dust particles that danced in the shafts of
sunlight.  Why did he feel this strange blend of peace and excitement?
Ward was probably homosexual.  Didn't he want a "normal" life?  Ward was
old.  Why didn't he feel some revulsion?  Shouldn't he continue the search
for his father?  The young man was so confused - and a relatively few hours
of sleep surely hadn't overcome his fatigue.

Returning with the tea, Cy's Santa Fe host brightly suggested that they
finish the tea and then get out to enjoy some fresh air.  "It's a sparkling
December day in God's favorite garden," he announced.  It wasn't long
before the two warmly dressed men were poking around in Ward's garage.  Cy
grinned at his collection of cars: a magnificent Packard sedan, a
Mercedes-Benz sports car (which Ward informed him had been sent with the
compliments of the Third Reich's Minster of Propaganda, and overlord of
films, Dr. Joseph Goebbels), and a spunky little 1932 Ford Roadster.  Only
later did the lad learn that the roadster was his true favorite!  For
nearly two hours, they drove around Santa Fe and even drove north on the
road towards Taos, enjoying the canyon of the upper Rio Grande.  Observing
the waters of this wild little river as they flowed south towards Texas,
Mexico, and the Gulf, he broached a thought obviously very important to
him.

"I am wondering, dear lad," Ward offered quietly, "if I might convince you
to accept my hospitality for a somewhat longer period of time than I had
first envisioned.  Beyond the fact that you need to recover fully from your
ordeal, there is much going on here that I believe would be of interest to
you.  I would much enjoy your company in a life that is simultaneously busy
and empty. You need not fear discomfort...of any kind," he concluded.  Cy
looked at him kindly and said that he would very much enjoy getting to know
the noted actor.  Could he give him some examples of activities in which he
might be included?  Ward cleared his throat and suggested that he had
developed some "reasonably positive" contacts with the Pueblo peoples,
contacts that needed cultivation.  Also, in the short period he had been in
northern New Mexico, he had gathered the "artists" around him - the
authors, the painters, the photographers, the sculptors, the jewelry
designers, the troubadours - the creative people of every ilk.  Once a
month they met in the "Literati Society."  Cy was a most promising human
being, but he was young and he needed to broaden and deepen his
understanding of his own culture.  Finally, the young people of the area
had their own, highly developed cultural and social life.  He felt that Cy
would much enjoy taking part - and he would gladly provide the necessary
introductions.  In two weeks, for instance, the January meeting of the
Literati Society would be held.  The main guests would be an important
shaman (i.e., a Medicine Man...often a Chief) of the Rio Grande Pueblo
peoples and a man who was becoming known as a writer and singer of songs
about the Great Depression.  Would Cy be interested?  Cy reiterated that he
would eventually have to resume the quest for his father, but, for the time
being, he was honored and pleased to accept the invitation.

Cy and Ward's liking and respect for each other grew appreciably over the
next two weeks.  They spent a great deal of time together, including seeing
more of northern New Mexico, e.g., the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Taos,
watching several of the former star's films, and sampling the local cuisine
which the older man realized that the youngster much enjoyed.  Ward
continued to see him as a delightful young man with tremendous potential
both intellectually and, more generally, as a human being.  He would do
everything he could to rekindle his desire to learn about wide swaths of
life.  He was also highly attracted to him physically, though he respected
his promise and insured that no untoward moment ever occurred.

(The Literati Society)

Although he had discussed the January (1935) meeting of the Literati
Society with Ward on several occasions, Cy was still nervous as the hour
for the meeting approached.  When well dressed men began arriving, he was
even more nervous.  A sixteen year-old hobo, a kid from a depressed fishing
town back East, was joining authors and sculptors and painters and more?
It didn't matter that he now had a few decent clothes!  Keeping an eye on
him, Ward realized how unsure of himself he was and rather quickly took him
under his wing.  From that point on, the evening went gloriously for the
younger man.  Introduced by Ward to his nearly twenty-five guests, he
charmed them with his naturalness, his intelligence, his freshness and,
yes, his beauty.  They responded positively, in part because he was
charming and, in part, because he was their host's protege.  Suddenly, Cy
looked around and gasped as he realized that three of the waiters who were
providing drinks - young men probably in their late teens or early 20s,
handsome, tanned, well built and, obviously, well hung - were stark naked!
Not one looked self-conscious.  Not wanting to appear naive (again!) to
Ward, he waited until the time for the evening's program approached and he
was able to corner one of the waiters for a few moment's conversation.

Peter Cornish, a wondrously handsome strawberry blond, told Cy quite
forcefully that he hadn't been forced to be there either by money or any
other reason.  "Rather," he said, "these meetings celebrate beauty - and,
as the Greeks have taught us, the human form is the epitome of pure
beauty."  At this point in his life, he was unable to add anything written
or sculpted or sung.  He would in time, he maintained, because he intended
to be a great photographer of the western mountains.  Photography was his
college major; gymnastics was his sport.  The work of the Society, he
maintained, was especially important during the Depression when so many
human values were being ignored.  At this time, he COULD contribute his
youthful beauty and, with Ward's permission, he had.  In answer to one of
Cy's whispered queries, the youth argued that he was in no danger, for
these were evenings to celebrate the mind and the soul rather than the
body.  "Plenty of time for that," he smirked.

Cy accepted a beer and wandered back towards Ward who was about ready to
begin the formal program.  He was deep in thought until he realized that
the first guest, the shaman, was the father of Alex who had given him a
ride on his way to Santa Fe!  For approximately fifty minutes, the Pueblo's
Medicine Man spoke movingly of the ways of the Great Spirit and the ways in
which the people tried to reflect spiritual beauty in their turquoise and
silver art.  When he finished, there was dead silence and, then, a roar of
applause.  The second guest was a noted folk singer who had himself ridden
the rails and worked in the fields.  For over an hour, he sang of the pain
of a cotton picker after eight hours in the field, the tragedy of
youngsters separated from familial support and educational opportunity, and
the wail of the steam engine's whistle and the clickety- clack of the
wheels that would forever be engraved on his soul.

By now, many in the gathering realized that Cy had shared some of the
experiences about which the troubadour had sung.  He enjoyed the evening
even more as they crowded around him, asking mature questions and expecting
thoughtful answers.  He withdrew only when he saw (a clothed) Pete Cornish
signaling that he was about to leave and wanted to speak for a moment.

"I'm having a little party over at my house Friday night...nothing
special," Peter announced.  "My friends and I would very much enjoy your
coming."  "Well, yeah, that'd be great.  Thanks a lot Pete!" bubbled an
exultant Gloucester teen.  "One of us will pick you up outside around 8:00
and take you home...whenever," Pete added, grinning.  "Real happy you can
come!"


To Be Continued