Date: Thu, 24 May 2001 18:38:03 -0600 (MDT) From: tb088 Subject: Little Ricky's New Life -1- (b/b) WARNING (disclaimer): This story is fiction and not to be taken seriously. Consider this story, including it's characters, copy written by the author. It is also not intended for audiences under the age of 18, or where it is illegal to possess reading material that includes sex between consenting minors. If that is the case, move on. Authors note: I must offer my thanks and gratitude to the author of "The Castaway Hotel" for his help with this, my first attempt at writing. I also want to thank him for introducing Little Ricky as a character in his story line. Please feel free to email me at tb088@ziplip.com, with comments or suggestions, flames will be ignored Little Ricky's New Life Chapter 1 Dear Uncle Pop & Brothers, We finally made it. I made mom and dad stop at the gift store as soon as we got to the hotel so I could get this post card for you. So far we are still at the hotel (which is almost as big as your house!). We're not going to Disney until tomorrow, but tonight we are going to Planet Hollywood for dinner and I hope I see David Gallagher. The plane ride was awesome because we got to sit in first class, and the pilot let me sit in his seat and steer the plane, then I got my own pilot wings. Our seats even had tiny tv's in them and we got to watch a movie. Well, I have to get ready for dinner. Bye. Love, Little Ricky P.S. Tell Ricky I said thanks for the shoes he got me for my birthday. Bye. My name is Ricky. Ricky Becker. This time last month I would've introduced myself as Richard Aaron Calloway, resident of the 4-C Foster Care Center and ward of the state of Pennsylvania, but a lot has happened since then. First, I got adopted, which is why my name isn't Calloway anymore. Second, my birthday was last month, my 13th birthday to be more exact. Yep, I'm officially a teenager. If it wasn't for my Uncle Pop, I would have been stuck with beef-a-roni for lunch and ice cream sandwiches for desert. That's not to say that the food at the foster home is bad or anything, but it doesn't compare to the hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, ribs and barbeque chicken we had. Then for desert, I had the biggest chocolate ice cream cake I've ever seen in my life! Before that, the last party I had was when I turned 6 years old which, coincidentally, was the same day my mother died. I was born -- all 5 pounds of me - on June 17th, a full month before my actual due date, which made me a preemie. Being born a preemie had a significant drawback in that I ended up small for my age. Even now at 13 I'm only 4'7" and a whopping 85 pounds. I still have the blond hair and blue eyes that I was born with, and I'm a lefty. Three cheers for the few of us who are in our right minds. For the first few years of my life I'd grown up in Columbus Georgia. At the time, it was a convenient place for us to live, since my dad passed through there a lot. You see, my dad was a truck driver, a job he took after dropping out of high school. I guess it was a family thing, because my grandpa was a truck driver too. My grandma hated being a trucker's wife and left him shortly after my dad was born. That must have been a family thing too, because by the time I was 5 years old, my mother had had enough of being a trucker's wife and left my dad too. Well, that's what she told me anyways. I remember it a little differently though. Dad's job kept him out of town for almost two weeks at a time. But when he finally did come home, he'd be home for a week or so. Over time, my mother learned to live without my dad's company. Heck, I'm sure it even got easier for him too, as time went by. There's something strange about truckers, as most of them claim that the road will always be their first love. Anyway, my mother had somehow convinced herself that dad was cheating on her while he was on the road. Her reasoning? "There ain't no way any man can be on the road for that long without sex!" I guess that was all the justification she needed to cheat on him. You know, tit for tat. So, while my dad was working hard bringing home the bacon, my mother was home frying it up in the pan for every Tom, Dick & Harry in town. Well, my birthday was only a week away and I guess dad decided that was as good a reason as any for a surprise visit. I was on the playground at my nursery school one day and heard the familiar sound of my dad's air horn. I was the most popular kid in school that day because my dad drove a big rig. After a little begging, he gave in and let me and all my friends climb inside and sit in the drivers seat. Then, after a few minutes of letting us feel like "big kids", He signed me out of school early and off we went. He blew his horn again on the way out of the parking lot. Since his truck was so loud, he decided to park the truck down the street from our house, because he said he wanted to surprise mommy. He carried me on his shoulders the whole way home, but suddenly stopped as he reached the edge of our driveway. "Hmmmm, I wonder who's car that is?" he asked out loud, to nobody in particular. "Dat's uncle Bobby's car, daddy." I answered back, thinking he was talking to me. At least that's who my mother told me he was. I thought my dad knew all my uncles. Little did I know that neither my mother nor my father had any brothers or sisters. "Ohhh...Uncle Bobby's car, huh?" Dad lifted me off of his shoulders and told me to go play in the yard, so he could surprise mommy. I wonder who was more surprised, my mother, my father, or good ol' uncle Bobby? Within seconds after my father entered the house, all hell broke loose. Uncle Bobby came flying out the door, wearing nothing but his underwear. I yelled goodbye, but he never answered back. He headed straight for his car and peeled out of our driveway, before burning even more rubber as he tore down the street. After uncle Bobby left, things got quiet again, and then dad came out with a drink in his hand and sat on the step. "Where's uncle Bobby going, daddy?" I asked, as I sat on the step below him, nestled in between his legs. I hung my arms over his knees and lay back against his chest. "Uncle Bobby was late for work, kiddo," my dad answered. I didn't realize it, but he was amazingly calm considering what had just happened. He took a sip of the urine-colored liquid in his glass and set it on the ground beside him, next to me. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned, as I reached for the glass. "But I'm firsty!" I whined. He just smiled and let me find out for myself. I brought the glass to my lips and, instead of taking a sip, I gulped down a mouthful of Johnny Walker. I never stopped once for a breath, not until the glass was empty of anything but the ice. My father sat there, wide-eyed and open mouthed, in shock at what I'd just done. Then he took the glass from me, held it up eye level, and inspected it. "Geez, I guess you were thirsty," he said. The face he made at me was a cross between "I can't believe you actually downed the entire glass," and "Your mother has trained you well." That was Tuesday afternoon. My parents kept it pretty cool for the rest of the week, and on Saturday we celebrated my 5th birthday, inviting some friends of my parents and some of my friends from school. It was your average kids' birthday party with balloons, party hats, and noisemakers, hot dogs, pizza, and birthday cake. We played the usual "pin the tail on the donkey", which was rigged so that I'd win, and we were entertained by a mediocre magician, who made quarters pop out of our ears and pulled little white bunny rabbits out of some ridiculous black hat. By dark, everyone had gone home and my mother cleaned up, while my father sat on the couch and watched television. I sat in my usual spot, on the floor and barely 12 inches from the television, on the floor devouring an entire bag of microwave popcorn in the process. I never even noticed that they hadn't said a word to each other all day. Sunday morning we all went out to breakfast. The breakfast table was quiet, for the most part, except for me. A unique thing about being 5 years old is that there is always something to say or do, and no matter where you were, you could find something to entertain you. I did my best to involve my mom in the cool paper placemat the waitress gave me, then, when that failed, I'd bug my dad for awhile. Eventually the waitress returned with our breakfast. After breakfast my parents took me to the park. It was there, on the park bench, that my parents did their best to explain a situation that no 5 year old should be forced to understand. My father had single-handedly decided to leave my mother, and, consequently, me. I'm sure that at first it was never his intention to slowly fade out of my life, but eventually that's what happened. I never cried, not even once, as he told me he was moving out and not coming home again. He promised to visit, which is all he really did anyways. My 5 year-old brain's way of making sense out of this was to think of it as though he were just going back to work. That was the last time I ever went to the park, with or without my mom or dad. It was also the last time I saw my dad for another 12 months. I guess to make it easier on himself, he left sometime in the middle of the night, while me and mom were sleeping, although I doubt my mom slept much that night. I've never had the guts to ask why he never said goodbye to me, maybe because I was afraid of what the answer might be. I didn't want to consider the possibility that he didn't love me any more either. I don't think my mother ever considered my feelings when she packed us up and moved us to Philadelphia. I believe she was only concerned with getting back at my father for leaving her. She was determined to never let him see me again. Little did she know how much damage she'd cause for me by doing that. By saving the money my dad was sending her, and by not paying the mortgage on the house, she managed to save enough money to move us into a small, dilapidated one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of an equally dilapidated apartment building. Moving in was easy, because we didn't have anything to move. Mom had left everything except our clothes back in Georgia. With some of the money she had left over, she bought a small black and white television and some groceries. The rest had to be saved to pay rent and utilities until she could find a job, which, consequently, didn't take all that long. As luck would have it, there happened to be an opening for a cashier in a thrift store up the street, within walking distance. Not only was her new job close to where we lived, but the nursery school she registered me at was also near there, halfway between our apartment and where she worked. It was now mid-September and mom had been managing to hold down the fort pretty well. In between working more than 45 hours per week and taking care of me, she had made some friends. I had also lucked out and made a friend in the building. Francisco Domingo Mastrogianni. He liked to be called Frankie, though. While mom and her friends were inside playing cards, I was either on the front stoop or on the roof playing with Frankie. On a typical day, mom would leave work early, pick me up from school then take me back to work with her until she got off. She hated doing that because it kept me out late, and I wouldn't get to eat dinner or take my bath until after 6pm sometimes. I met Frankie one day when my mom got off from work early. As we headed up the stairs to our apartment, a soccer ball came bouncing down at us. Frankie came running toward the stairs, chasing after it, hoping to stop it before it bounced all the way down to the bottom. There I was, standing on the step, holding his ball in my hands. "Oh, thank god you saved it!" Frankie said. Frankie was about 13, obviously from Spanish decent, and he barely spoke any English. His appearance was that of any one of a thousand boys you'd expect to find on any of a thousand streets in Spain. He was short, barely 5 feet tall , and had dark black hair, with bangs that fell just below his equally black eyes. "I'm sorry ma'am," he apologized sincerely to my mother. "Oh, it's no problem. I'm just glad Richie here has quick reflexes, or that ball would have bounced past us and all the way down the stairs." My mother smiled up at him. With that, I made a feeble attempt to `head' the ball up the three remaining stairs to Frankie. I managed to get it to go two steps before it hit the front of the step and bounce right back at me. I caught it again, and I made another attempt to head the ball all the way into his hands. Tossing the ball up over my head, I leaped and met the ball in mid-air, hitting it with my forehead and sending it in Frankie's direction. Unfortunately, it went over his head and down the hallway. "OH WOW! Cool!" Frankie congratulated me, his voice trailing off as he disappeared down the hall, chasing after the soccer ball. Mom and I finished climbing the last three steps and made it to the landing. Our apartment was the third one down the hall, on the right, and by the time we made it to our door, Frank had run back and asked if I could come out and play. He offered to teach me some soccer stuff, so Mom agreed, on two conditions. First, I had to change into my play clothes, and second, we couldn't leave the third floor. Frankie agreed to mom's demands, then he and I jumped for joy. Mom got my play clothes out and I was changed in a flash. Frankie and I spent the next couple of hours kicking, heading, kneeing, and rolling the ball back and forth in the hallway. When my mother finally peeked her head out the door and told me it was time for my bath, Frankie pleaded with my mom to let me come out again tomorrow after school. "I'm sorry honey, but I don't have anyone to watch Richie when he gets out of school," she told him as delicately as she could, not wishing to hurt his feelings. She could see the excitement in his face vanish as she gave him the bad news. Frankie didn't have anyone else to play with and he couldn't let this opportunity pass him by. "I will watch him!" he offered, the smile returning to his face. Just then another voice interrupted the conversation. "Francisco!" It was his mother bellowing for him, from several doors down. Her English was obviously no better than her son's. "Si, mama," Frankie answered. After exchanging a few words with her from opposite sides of the hallway, she shut the door. During their conversation I heard him say my name. "What did you say?" I asked, batting my eyes like a curious puppy. "I told my mother about you and she wants your mama to come see her, she will..." he struggled to find the correct English word for what he wanted to say. Finally he remembered what it was. "...babysit for you." He smiled at having come up with the word and at pronouncing it correctly. A little while later it was set. Frankie's bus stop was just up the street from my mom's work, and she agreed to let him pick me up from there and bring me home. After that, Frankie's mother agreed to keep an eye on us until my mom got home from work. She even offered to feed me when my mom had to work late. Seeing as how there weren't very many other children in the building, this was a great idea. Over the next several months, Frankie and I got closer and closer. Mom had also gotten closer to one of the male friends she'd met at the local pub up the street. Unfortunately, this new male friend of hers did nothing more than invite trouble into our home. She started drinking more and even started smoking marijuana. She never did it when I was around, but it was very convenient for her to do those things when I was playing with Frankie or at his apartment. Frankie knew what was going on and told his mother. Since they weren't the type to cause trouble, Frankie's mom started letting us go to the roof once in a while, so we would see as much or get involved with what was happening at my place. It was on the roof of my apartment building where I first remember paying special attention to my penis. Not just mine, though, but Frankie's too. Up till now playing with my penis was just something I did absent-mindedly. After spending time with Frankie on the roof, rubbing my penis became a very deliberate activity. It started one day when I watched him pee over the side of the building. I followed him to the ledge and watched as he pulled down the elastic of his shorts and his penis popped out. I don't think he intended to make a show of it at first, as I think he was genuinely just going pee, but after he'd caught me starring at his limp penis, he turned it into a game. That famous boy-game called "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours." It was a fun game, and it got even more interesting after he showed me the joys of rubbing it. I was amazed, this having been the very first penis I'd ever seen or touched besides mine, at how it grew. He wasn't circumcised like me, and this was also very intriguing to me, with all that extra skin. I thought it was funny how the head would keep trying to pop out of its hiding place. It only took a couple of encouraging words from him to get me to play with it, but he did have to tell me what to do. He had me wrap my hand completely around it and rub it up and down for a little while. After that, he also `let' me hold his balls, while he finished doing it to himself. After about a week of playing this game, Frankie shot his first load of watery boy-cum. It scared the crap out of both of us, until we found out that it was suppose to do that. From then on, it was our mission to see his penis shoot cum before we'd stop. In all our times playing that game, there was never any reciprocation. Not that I ever knew to expect it or not, it just never crossed my mind. I was always so eager to just watch him shoot, that my five year-old brain never figured out to ask him to do the same thing to me. Months later, after a brutal winter and a very pleasant spring, summer slowly approached. Mom was still working at the thrift store and had even become assistant manager. If not for her boss's generosity, and a little bit of stealing on my mother's part, we would not have had any winter clothes. In addition to taking advantage of her position as assistant manager of the thrift store, she had also begun to take full advantage of Frankie's mom's offers to let me spend the night. This did nothing more than give my mother the opportunity to drink more alcohol and smoke more pot, only now she didn't have to sit at home and do it. I began spending as many nights at Frankie's house as I did at my own. Mom's new boyfriend, Ron, wasn't the nicest guy either. He made me start calling him sir whenever he came over, and I never did like him. If not for my mother's interference, I'm sure he'd have successfully found a way to use his belt on me, on more than one occasion. As the days passed, Frankie would keep me updated on how long it was until my 6th birthday, which was now only two weeks away. Those two weeks before my birthday were the worst two weeks of my life, because things changed drastically. School had let out and Frankie's dad wanted him to come for a visit in Philly, nearly two hours away. He'd be back in time for my birthday, but only by a day, so for the next two weeks, I had to spend my day with my mother, where she worked. In the evening, I'd sit on the floor and watch television until bedtime, except on the nights when Ron was there. On those nights I'd keep to myself, in my bedroom, playing with whatever I could find that he wouldn't mind and that would keep me out of his hair. Frankie finally came back on Friday, the day before my birthday. That night, my mother had me spend the night at Frankie's house, so she could decorate our apartment, or so she said. I'm sure she spent more time doing a little celebrating of her own, with Ron and her other friends. Saturday morning I woke up as anxious as any little boy could be on his special day. By 7am I was bouncing up and down on Frankie's bed chanting, "It's my birfday, it's my birfday..." Finally, when I'd pestered him enough, he shoved me off the bed and tackled me. This was the first experience I'd have with the infamous "birthday whacks", as Frankie pulled my power ranger underwear down and jokingly swatted me 6 times on my bare butt. After we were dressed, we ate cereal and were warned by Frankie's mom not to go knocking on my door until later. This was a warning I heeded, especially knowing that Ron was probably still there. By noon the party was in full swing. There were all of 8 people there: Me, Frankie, Frankie's mom, my mom, Ron, mom's boss, and mom's bosses' two older kids. It didn't turn out to be much of a kid's party, as Frankie and I were sent out to play for most of the day. Frankie's mom found it difficult to enjoy herself, both because of the way I was treated and with what they were doing for fun, so she left early. By 7pm, mom's boss left with his kids, saying he had to go and close the store. Frankie and I kept ourselves entertained on the roof, peeing on every car we could as it passed by. We discovered that there were people watching us from the building up the street, so Frankie stopped the "penis rubbing" game. After we had play up on the roof for god knows how long, probably for hours, we heard sirens coming down the street. We watched what was going on by looking over the raised ledge that ran around the roof, excited as a fire truck, ambulance, and two police cars pulled up in front of our building. We looked at each other, extremely excited without even knowing why. After we'd seen the firemen and police run into our building, with the paramedics close behind, we decided to find out what was going on. We flew through the roof access door and ran down 3 flights of steps to the third floor. Frankie was the first to hit the landing, while I bounced into his backside, knocking myself to the floor. He looked through the door, but he never went in. I could see him looking through the small window, which was too high for me to see through. Suddenly he took two steps back and the door flew open, followed by the arm of a police officer. "What are you kids doing here?" he asked. He was short for a policeman, and stocky. "We were on the roof, sir," Frankie answered. I was still sitting on the floor, but I could see through the crack in the door that the group of policemen, firemen, and paramedics were gathered outside my apartment. "They're at my house." I whined, pointing down the hallway. The officer looked back over his shoulder and realized who I was. "Hey, Sarge, here's the kid," he shouted. A few seconds later, the first officer was replaced by another, much larger one. This one was so tall that he had to duck his head to get through the doorway. "Who are you?" he asked, as he pointed to Frankie. "Francisco Mastrogianni," he answered. "I live over there," he said, pointing in the direction of his own apartment. Frankie was a literal dwarf compared to this man, never mind how small I looked. "Hi, Francisco, I'm officer LeBaue." the uniformed man said. "He likes to be called Frankie," I interrupted, innocently. "Oh, yeah, and what's your name little guy?" "Richard Aaron Calloway," I said, nodding my head matter-of-factly. "Well, Richard, we're gonna have you go with Frankie here, to his place for a little while, okay?" he asked. "Yes, sir," Frankie answered for me. The officer escorted us down the hall to Frankie's apartment and knocked on the door. Frankie's mom ushered us inside, closing the door behind us, but she stayed outside to talk to the police officer. He explained to her that while my mother was heading down the stairs, she slipped and fell, but she didn't survive the fall. She'd broken her neck as she bounced and rolled down the entire flight. He also explained that the other people found in the apartment were all drunk and had been smoking marijuana pretty heavily, and they would be spending the night, if not the next year or two, in jail. Ron was among them. He asked her not to tell me what had happened, as that would be handled by social services, and even then they would only tell me as much as I needed to know. He instructed her to wait until I was asleep, then go to my apartment and gather some clothes in a bag, enough to last for a few days. After that he explained that he would be by to pick me up, sometime in the morning. When Frankie's mom had come back inside, after talking to Sgt. LeBaue, she had no trouble hiding her tears, because Frankie had intuitively kept me busy with video games in his room. He managed to sneak out of the room to ask his mother what had really happened and, after she'd told him the story, he was also brought to tears, but not for the same reason as his mother. He'd suddenly realized that my life would drastically change in a very short time, and that his time with me was also short. Frankie re-entered the room and went straight for his top dresser drawer. From beneath a pile of unfolded socks and underwear, he pulled out a handmade necklace with a small stone cross on it. "Pequenito ?" he called. That was his little nickname for me. In Spanish it would translate into something like "very little". "Que Pasa!" I answered. It was my usual reply to his calling me by my nickname. When I swiveled in his direction, he leaned down and brought the two ends of the necklace around my small neck and fastened the clasp. "Happy Birthday, amigo," he told me, with a smile. I noticed his eyes were red, but it never occurred to me why. "This is for you, for your birthday." "Gra-ci-as amigos!" I chirped, pronouncing each syllable in the word gracias slowly. Little did I know then, but his gift wasn't just a birthday present, it was also a going away present. He knew that when the policeman came back in the morning, we might never see each other again. Had my mother not organized the singing and cutting of the birthday cake earlier, I might have wanted to go back to my apartment, but that wasn't necessary now. Since all the necessary birthday-stuff had already been finished, I never even considered going back there, not right away. As far as I knew, I was just spending the night with Frankie again. We spent a couple of hours playing video games, and he let me win every one. After we finished playing, he hopped into his twin bed and settled in to watching `Liar, Liar', until I fell asleep.