Levi 12

“Take the shot Kale.”

Soft tap, and the ball still careens across the AstroTurf, past the stubborn hole, banks off the wood and ends now what no closer to the hole. Fourteen sighs heavily. He looks toward the frosted mountains hemming in rows of land yachts. They sit on the open space, very Walmart-parking lot, bored-like. Levi’s Luxor Winnebago looks trashy-old beside the coming and going of the regatta. Five strokes on on a three-par sums up Fourteen’s situation. We should be past this place. “Your turn, Evie-Grace.”

Terrifying-troubling, they have been Albuquerque KOA marooned for three long weeks. This is so unsafe, so un-Levi. The Luxor Winnebago Thanksgiving is on hold. Why that disappoints Fourteen, he cannot explain. Sitting down with Levi would be

an obscene family burlesque. Fourteen shopped for it. He planned turkey parts with stuffing, just a Lean-Cuisine-TV-Dinner echo of what his grandparents would whip up; not his best work.

Evie-Grace Torres sinks her putt and stoops for the ball. Fourteen shakes off the blues and concentrates. The surrounding crowd holds its breath, while the soto-voiced color commentator second guesses his move. Stroke six ends the drive. The times Fourteen has done this mini golf course have blurred in his mind. A whole New Mexican world to explore, and he is Tuan-tethered to the winter world of KOA tedium. “What was your score?” Evie-Grace asks, as if she could not count.

“Six, maybe seven.” Fourteen shrugs because he has not been counting. He checks his watch-dog watch. It is troubling that Levi has paused at this busy intersection for so long. This is too much FaceTime in one spot. Constant movement promises the safe after-March ending. Three weeks rooted promises some SWAT-accessorized hostage episode where Levi Beretta Nano resolves the crisis. Two weeks waiting for some old hermit, next-on-the-list visit in Arizona to answer his email. Just fidget time between Albuquerque snow falls, and then Levi goes sick, leaving Fourteen Groundhog Day for most of the week. It is like, will he or won’t he? Till evening rolls around and the damn watch tells Fourteen absent Levi hit the reset. Nerve Wracking, if Levi’s Mỹ Sơn Temple final fantasy is a no-go, let that become apparent once Fourteen is silver-ring free. The situation is North Platte terrifying. Evie-Grace moves on to the next hole, so Fourteen follows.

“You go first.” He reminds Evie-Grace. It is terrifying because Levi is in the hospital for tests. One bite of Fourteen’s Eggplant Parmesan, and Levi is Ed-Harris, soft spoken recontour. Over dinner, Levi glosses over the gay rights rallies and Elaine Noble, the good stuff is hooking up in the 1970’s. That makes Fourteen’s eyes twinkle. Levi lived it hard, turns the cruising into a. Funny story with his soft voice. Pre-Internet groping in the meat shops, Boston-discrete, because Levi’s story was not the San Francisco scene. “What was the San Francisco scene?” Fourteen asks, unable to imagine the freedom of open community.

Such cruising is a mystery to him. It was never Cameron-quick hook-ups back in Ohio for this timid teen. Jeremy Gates would have to shove his way through a Narnia-deep closet just to reach a way out. Then like the prissy English girl, it would be all Chillicothe winter under a street lamp. No sexy King Peter types, just the talking goat-man. Fourteen pauses with a forgotten bite of eggplant, wanting details. Levi sips wine, remembering, dramatic pause, then the salacious story slips away. Levi’s face goes stroke-slack and wine glass and old bones topple to the floor.

“Are you thinking about your grandfather?” Fourteen has shared his fears, sort of. Their story is well-polished, publication-worthy now. Levi grooms the neighbors on it first thing: orphan Kale Euller, Post-Mortem PST-fragility, Levi rescuing but oh so dying. It is an American tragedy, Evie-Grace knows. “Be patient, he will be back soon.”

“I know.” Fourteen sighs. His shot, and for a wonder, he gets a hole in one. “The Carroll’s say tomorrow.” The bare bones attraction is abandoned, except for the two teenagers. Two more holes and he will tell Evie-Grace Torres he is going to run. That sort of sweat does not attract her. He can be alone. “My turn to start.”

Levi collapsed in front of Fourteen. First thought is for Ed Harris-Levi, Fourteen deserves points for that. The old man’s phone is understandably Fourteen-proof. He has Benchley Parked this Enigma with no success. Unsure if Levi is even breathing, Fourteen 911s it across the KOA to the Carroll’s Keystone Everest. The Kale panic in his voice is real. The Carrolls are young-old Buckeyes, living Freedom 55. They take charge.

Second thought is for Dr. Evil-Levi, he deserves points for that too. Flash back two weeks. Chicken Marsala (jar) simmeres, the too-smart watch vibrates its daily terminal threat and Levi’s phone pings its echo reminder. Anticipated 24-hour reprieve for Fourteen, only Dr. Evil needs to answer the phone. “Levi,” he is reading the Albuquerque Journal like the Internet does not exist. Immersed in print, Levi mumbles his distraction. “Answer the phone, God damn it!” Since North Platte, this is Fourteen’s growing nightmare.

Terrifying, Levi out for the count, twitching feebly like he wants to get up. The Carrolls are an anchor in this growing storm, but Fourteen is already living the next day of dying. One Carroll is talking slow and steady reassurance to Levi, the other Carroll has a reassuring hand on Fourteen’s back. Levi’s mumbles need a bent ear to catch.

Watching Levi fade on the floor, Fourteen grips the horrible reality of the Vietnamese silver necklace (maybe) bomb welded to his neck. The cards have sucked since John’s belt horse-whipped him on the hood of the Bronco. Next draw offers nothing. The same deadly card slips back into his hand like an evil card trick. The answer lies in the River between boy and captor. Months since the pasture pyrotechnics and Fourteen has counted cards endlessly, sure he should call Levi’s bluff. There is no fucking bomb. Call bullshit now. You have nothing left to lose. 

Call bullshit on the bomb threat, but he does not. Fourteen (bitterly) remembers that tempting moment, weeks later when he is exiled to the Arizona vastness. That Luxor Winnebago moment after Levi’s collapse, the EMTs are ushering Dr. Evil-Ed Harris-Levi away on a gurney. Ushering Fourteen’s security away. Maybe opening a door to freedom. “Wait!” Fourteen cries desperately. The Carrolls turn to comfort him, but the job goes on. Levi is getting away from him. All Fourteen can think is that life is getting away from him. In that terrifying now, the after seems obvious.

“His pills, you need his pills!” Fourteen stuffs a pharmacy into a Ziplock bag and adds Levi’s wallet. Fuck the pills, he thinks. The phone and charger are what matters. “Here, take this.”

“Good thinking son.”

For twenty hours, Fourteen waits out the clock, condemned. Carroll says, “Stay here with us. Your grandfather wants you to stay here.” Carroll is open-carry, Ayn Rand suspicious of the system. He wrongly thinks (closet) liberal-gay-Levi is on the same page. They have conversations where Carroll talks and Levi listens amused. Carroll is certain, Fourteen (soon fifteen) is well shut of the Socialist-Nanny-State nonsense of Child Services and law enforcement. Fourteen, Levi has assured the stallworth Carroll pair, has been wriggled free of that bureaucratic prison. Through a long day, Fourteen feels the countdown-warning on his wrist and shivers.

Three nights like that with Carroll’s gruff comfort. Fourteen shaking like an Addict, understandable. The well-worn story still does the trick: Mom and dad are dead, he’s near suicidal PST with only frail Levi pushing him forward back into life. Understandable, the Carrolls think, delaying their next move to help a kid. Sweet relief when Carroll’s phone connects Fourteen to Levi. Mỹ Sơn Temple is so far away. Fourteen cannot see the way forward. The March-after is a frail promise now.

Fourteen takes his last stroke (for now) on the KOA mini golf course. He thinks he spoils Evie-Grace’s Saturday by brushing her off. There is attraction her way. It is the familiar August State Fair interest and this golf game was just a Ferris Wheel ride to Fourteen. He is less Jeremy-Gates-awkward. “I’m gay.” He confessed to Evie-Grace almost in his first breath.

She is two years older, unlovely-lonely, not quite believing the tangerine boy will not not like green eggs and ham. I do not like green eggs and ham, not at a dance, not at the fair, not in the bed, not anywhere. Evie-Grace dreams on and Fourteen practices just friends.

Albuquerque winter afternoon, Fourteen strips down and starts his daily marathon through the slush of a New Mexican flurry. He would like to ask Levi about this gay-coping-in-straight-world dynamic. Fourteen, soon to be fifteen, is in a hard place with only Cameron. It is a hard place when you are short-leash lonely for one decent pickup game of hoops with boys from the Hood. Dog park butt-sniffing and yappy tail-wagging are in Fourteen’s Jeremy-Gate’s nature. He needs to slip the leash.

Mr. Carroll is packing gear into their Ford as Fourteen sweats by, so he slows his manic trek. “We’re pulling out first thing tomorrow. Your grandfather called to say he will be back in the morning. Asked how you were doing. He sounded good, anxious to be shut of damn place. Funny how that is. The worst patients are doctors.” Carroll chuckled.

“That’s good news. He told me it would be today though. I hope nothing went wrong with the new drugs.” Fourteen is shirtless and he wishes he had something to wipe his face with. “Anyway, I suppose Levi and I will be leaving pretty soon too.”

“We thought we would splurge on the Olive Garden tonight. You have not been farther than the edge of the park. Let us treat you to dinner.”

Fourteen has risked farther on Levi’s say so. Evie-Grace took him down past her apartment to the shabby burger place. He shopped for clothes at the Salvation Army Family Store across from that. Just once, it is hard to walk not-free away from the safety of the Luxar Winnebago. This part of Albuquerque is a 7-Eleven desert of RV Centers, storage, and Evie-Grace-style apartments. It is all very spare to the eyes of this Ohio boy. His wristwatch minder does this thing when he strays too far from Levi’s Go Go Gadget signal in the RV. A timer starts its downward slide. It is a Dr. Evil shopping game that sucks the fun out of roaming free.

“Thanks for the invitation, but I think I will stick around here. The Winnebago needs sorting out before we leave too. You know, laundry to do.”

Fourteen jogs on unconscious of his growing speed and the ease with which he runs. Fifteen is a well-oiled musky machine, well rested, fed on a Levi-lean diet. He could have borrowed Carroll’s phone and talked to Levi again, get the Ed-Harris-soft reassurance first hand. Better to just wait it out. It’s okay, back on track, he reassures himself. Levi needs to get Tuan out of his system, make his exit, and I need to get home. 

It starts to snow as he runs, dropping heavy flakes that plaster his forehead. A thin white blanket covers the worn blacktop, and a low sky of dense clouds promise a lot of moisture to come throughout the evening ahead. He wonders if it will stick around, wishing it would not. North Platte was dry, and skirting Denver, Fourteen thought they were shucking off the winter blues. Storms here hit hard, then slush away, leaving dirty drifts against the shaded corners. Fourteen minds the snow, but keeps running.

He runs past the Airstream Caravel, 22 feet of brushed aluminum, fresh out of the dealership. It looks sad with the fresh snow spoiling its dry desert dreams. The KOA neighbors are just fleeting traffic on life’s journey. Fourteen pays it no mind. There is a man there, that is all Fourteen knows.

Fourteen is hardly spent, but he gives up the marathon and bobcat lopes toward the comforts of home on the road. It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood because Fourteen is on his own. The Carrolls are a just another Bull-Shoals-Guthrie moment. Lonely Evie-Grace Torres is a disappointingly-not Cameron connection to break the solitude. Solitude is not a bad thing. Jeremy Gates was all close the bedroom-bathroom door, wander the woods alone in the before. Alone is hard to find when you are fourteen waiting on tomorrow’s independence, unless it is in your mind. There is not a scrap of alone in this six-month, Fourteen now journey.

Alone time helps clear the mind. Patrick wormed his crazy-after way into Jeremy Gate’s head with his shame-closet bullshit. It was twist-the-kid from August storm to the State Park. Lost innocence, lost peace of mind, that is what Patrick traded in. Fuck the kid over like the world fucked you. Thank God Guilt orgasms were not Levi Fisher’s thing. Levi unlocked the lonely closet of Jeremy Gate’s secret sexuality. Fourteen is grateful for that.  Now he has the Beretta Nano promise that Levi won’t John-style Saturday-Night-Special-vanish the captive boy. Fourteen is beyond grateful for that.

Fourteen could hardly swing a spatula without hitting Levi for five months. Four freaking months in a Winnebago with the Tuan-haunted Vietnam Veteran. Levi doing his solitary routines. Fourteen is living the never ending visit to grandfather. Stay out of his way, do not be bouncy-chatty (impossible). Only, they share a bed and farts, so he is liking this me-time. Makayla’s iPod can come out for all the good it does. He has thumbed out five letters to his mom and dad, one to Shane, one to Cameron. Just send them, but he does not. Levi is out of the loop. Call the police.

Fourteen has doubts. Couch-surfing in the desert, Fourteen keeps playing his hand, like it is a Pick-A-Path story that insists on looping back to a Saturday-Night-Special ending. John stroked the muzzle gently against his jawline so long ago. It is just a matter of time. Time to convince the police who he is, that the Vietnamese necklace-watch-RV-phone threat is real, that is a bad idea to pressure Levi Fisher in the hospital, ready to die, just ‘cause. But it is a bluff, Fourteen jogs back around. Stupid kid, what does that say about you?

Fourteen shies away from that thought. What the hell is going through your mind? Hunter-Patrick, Fourteen would end that serial rapist’s after-sport, snap. Fourteen would give boy-killer John Cannon a head start. What does that say about you? Fourteen understands after-impulse, after-compulsion. He is too adolescent in the now to map his own future. For Levi, it is Nguyen Huu Tuan. Tuan ripped the old man’s heart out. Somehow, Fourteen cannot bring himself to carry another satchel-bomb into Levi Fisher’s life, spoil his reunion. Fourteen is not Tuan. No dead bodies to revenge. He can wait for his March-after.

Not much to do in the Luxor Winnebago. Levi’s laptop defeats him. No clever combinations of numbers, names, places, occupations, sexual positions, history… Mỹ Sơn? Try to cut and paste… he is no super-chill quantum computer, just a boy burning to break free. Fourteen cannot remember which combinations he had tried. He stopped trying when he surfaced trembling-whimpering, hunched over the laptop, pounding out meaningless strings of characters, enter, enter, enter, enter.

“Beretta Nano Field Strip - How to take a Nano apart - YouTube” He did that, peering at his iPod screen. Fourteen roll-plays brandishing the Beretta Nano at a ghostly Levi. Dirty-Harry-threats to make the old man set him free. First time Fourteen knew he was not stone-cold-killer John. He stared at the gun-grey-oiled memory of John, first-last honest fuck. That’s why he gets a head start. The Beretta Nano is no answer, not a card Fourteen could play. The muzzle runs across his jaw, memories.

Fourteen is milking out memories of Shane. Not the never-going-to-happen moment skin to skin, it is the ever-friendship thing of childhood. Cameron’s lips are a thing to remember. His heart puts the two together. Somewhere in the bright-lit after, Fourteen is hoping for an ever-friendship thing with soft lips, hard cock.

He is passed adolescent rut (mostly). Ohio to New Mexico has been a sex-education-heartache. There are still gaps to fill. Fourteen needs to backtrack to the Cameron-meeting moments, ride a few Ferris Wheels with a few someone’s. Sex-educated, self-pleasure pales. He needs another’s hands as he works out an honest fuck in his mind. It is one-way-control with Levi, but Fourteen misses the hands, the other person knowing his body. His well-oiled, musky-machine sings vibrato on the bed. Somewhere in the bright-lit after, there should be a Tuan-Levi orgasmic tangle of shared knowing for Jeremy Gates. More laundry to do now, Fourteen sighs.

Vintage black and white screams POLICE across its door. Before, Jeremy Gates waved suburban-casual to the officers. In the Fourteen-now, he is feeling fugitive-guilt. That said, Fourteen’s urban coloration is white middle class male privilege. Nobody is looking his way. That bored, Fourteen has gone the whole nine yards and stripped washable fabric from everywhere. He is tripping lightly Santa-bagged toward the KOA laundry room, squishing soggy snow beneath his heels. He thinks he looks harmless. Fourteen’s eyes slide past the parked cruiser willing it away.

The Albuquerque Police are at the office, ambushing Fourteen when he tumbles in for change. August Patrick-cyclone to Levi-lost, this is a new thing. Excuse me officers, can you help me? Fisting his pockets, Fourteen crumples the petty cash. It’s about a boy, his imagination catches, and the iron-grey woman’s eyes shift his way thoughtfully. It is a dizzy, Levi Fisher fainting sort of moment. Mom and Dad have caught up with him. His life has caught up with him. Nobody is broadcasting business in the KOA office, so Fourteen cannot catch the soft words that follow. Maybe because he has backed right up to the door and pressed hard.

“Thank you mam, have a nice day.” The officers are not all business. They are donut shop lazy as they turn away from the counter. Fourteen is on their radar. He is blocking the door, and near-fifteen. Near-fifteen male means mischief. A good looking rookie-type runs a visual search from his Salvation Army canvas to the pretty silver promise ring about his throat. There is a moment in improv when you wait for the pitch. What’s the story? Who am I supposed to be? Fourteen is back in class, waiting for a clue. He could start the roll play too. Jeremy Gates or Kale Euller, he has the choice, which should be obvious. “Excuse us,” Rookie Blue drawls.  Best poker face, Fourteen skitters right, wrong choice made.

He does not think about it. Just load the machines, plug change, and fiddle with Makayla’s iPod wrapped in solitude. There is no Bull-Shoals-style debate with mom, dad, Shane, and the others. Fourteen might be hearing Patrick Hunter’s after-manic, telling it like it is. Just low laughter gurgling in the churning water. Fourteen YouTube’s music through his buds to drown out Patrick’s smug satisfaction. There is a plan, just stick with it, don’t think about it.

The iPod is going back behind the microwave before Levi returns. This is Fourteen’s last chance to use it now. There is no telling when it is safe to try again. This Tuan-Hajj is drawing to an end. After March will happen, that is a Beretta Nano-free promise from Levi Fisher. He has three unopened emails from Cameron. Thoughtless-stupid or sly-smart, Fourteen used Cameron’s computer to leave the bottle-message on Facebook. Has he been tracked to North Platte, Nebraska? Could they track him through the iPod to Albuquerque, New Mexico? That would be a good thing, right? He cannot even look at the Jeremy-we-love-you, come-home messages left in reply on Facebook.

Not boy-hunter Patrick’s (cock loving) pussy slave, not boy-fisher Levi’s (mercenary) hooker, just Fourteen. This whole now is a furtive four-month masturbation. This trip is a long gay-porno download. Fingers tap out www.xvideos.com, idly on the iPod. Would Levi take me to San Francisco? The growing length of him snuggles comfortably along the crease of his pelvis. Thumb slides the video back and forth, scanning for the best parts. Just being porno-watching Fourteen.

Rookie Blue surprises Fourteen. He watched the Black and White head off toward the (suspicious) emerald green, Levi-old Luxor Winnebago. It barely slowed before moving out of the KOA. Fourteen supposed it was headed off toward Kindred Hospital, though why he was ignored by the door, Fourteen cannot say. Maybe iron-grey woman’s eyes did not recognize the slim teenager camped for a mid-winter month with the usual plump snowbirds and one old chicken hawk. It is hard to imagine, though. Fourteen jogs and putts dayshift, walks Skyline Road, Zena Lona, Linn, and Figueroa. He is tangerine clean-behaved. Fourteen is Casper, the Friendly Ghost. Fourteen does not exist.

Now Fourteen exists to this Albuquerque cop, blocking the door. Staring right at him. Staring at the kidnapped-runaway (whatever) swinging his legs idly over the edge of the folding table. “So you are staying in the green Winnebago?”

It is hard not to feel Fourteen around Rookie Blue. Something, beside the sexy-service revolver riding high on his utility belt, reminds him of John Canon. They are of an age, Fourteen thinks. Rookie Blue’s brown eyes lack the stone-cold threat glazing over deep sadness. Give the young man some time with the street gangs and he will show the world-weary set of his partner out by the cruiser. Rookie Blue smiles that he still likes to be liked. Fourteen stays frozen, center stage, waiting for his cue. Best to thumb Funny ebony boy masturbates for his webcam boycall, off the iPod screen.

Fourteen clears his throat. “Yes, what’s wrong?” He has said too much, but there is more. He slides Makayla’s iPod into a pocket, chatting nervous diarrhea at John-not-John. “I’m travelling to Boston with my grandfather. Going to live with him, get back to school.”

“Okay,” Rookie Blue offers a smile. “Is your grandpa about? We stopped at your RV to talk to him.”

Salvation-Armageddon, Fourteen cannot say which. His pounding heart says jackrabbit away from this confusing now. Total hostage-give-away, he clears his throat. His voice is prepubescent-high. “Levi, grandfather is at the hospital getting his meds checked. He sort of collapsed at dinner and I had to run and get the Conners to help me.”

“I see,” Rookie Blue is pondering something worrying.

“He is fine now.” Hasty assurance. “He will be back tomorrow. I’m just doing the laundry, cleaning up, getting ready.” Things trail off at that point. Rookie Blue has to know Fourteen is running scared, pockets stuffed with Methamphetamine or the like. Fourteen is all like feet-shuffling, spray-can-gripping scared beside the fresh graffiti evidence. He is headed downtown for the phone call home.

“Maybe you can help us with this. The desk manager said you and your grandfather have been parked here for a month.”

“Levi was feeling bad. We were visiting his war buddies. Seeing the country as we go.” Fourteen knows he has got to shut up. He tries a smile, chokes back the stream. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“What’s your name?”

“Kale, Kale Euller,” Three-words safe (wrong) answer. “My parents died in an accident. I have to go live with Levi now.” Shut up Jeremy!

“Sorry to hear that, Kale.” Rookie Blue looks sad. “We are tracking down a couple in a 2010 Heartland. The KOA office said they were in the bay next to yours three nights ago. It was there for five days.”

This is good news. Tangerine rebound for frightened Fourteen. The twenty-year beat cop glued to her phone by the black and white would have caught the sudden upswing in her gimlet eye. This is a milk run worthy of the newbie. She is content to let Rookie Blue practice community relations. He likes to be liked, she likes the downtime between actual work.

“Sure,” the answer drawls out with honest puzzlement. “They had a black truck to pull it. I can’t remember their names. I think the lady was a doctor like Levi.” Fourteen shrugged.

“We need to find them. There is a family emergency, no answer from their cell phones. The family is worried.” Rookie Blue looks at the long bank of white machines. Two tumbling driers fill the silence.

 “Did you speak with them? Do you think they told your grandfather where they were going? Which hospital did your grandfather go to?”

What a bad idea, or was it? Two of Albuquerque’s finest dropping in unannounced. Would Dr. Evil end the Tuan-cemetery-trek and confess? Not likely, Fourteen figured. He was not sure Levi had it in him to blow the necklace bomb. It was a good behaviour threat. Still, there was the dead goat, and North Platte showed Levi had serious Tuan-anger issues. Fourteen has a circumcision and fine-line scars to prove it.

“They talked a lot, officer. The …” names escaped him.

“McFadden, Addison and Vicki McFadden.”

“Right, the McFadden’s invited us over for lunch, so they talked. I remember Levi was interested about their trips to Mexico. He had questions about crossing over with our Winnebago.” A dryer stopped suddenly and Fourteen and the young man glanced at it. Their eyes met when they turned back.

“You are going to Boston, right?’

“Oh sure, but Levi was just curious, I guess.” Fourteen shrugged. For all he knew, Levi was headed for Mexico. Levi never shared his plans past the next night’s stop. The Bull Shoals stop and endless boredom of Albuquerque were unexpected. Why not Mexico? Fourteen mused. He needed to end that line of questioning. “They talked about Juarez. I think that is where they were headed. They were looking for sunshine. Is it always this cold in Albuquerque in November? I was expecting hot desert.”

“You came in the wrong season.” Rookie Blue grins. “Where are you from?”

“Ohio,” It slips out.

“And you are headed to Boston?”

The consternation is written all over Fourteen’s face. It is a wet-snowflake-cloud furrowing his brow. The explanation comes out slowly as he pieces it together. “I lost mom and dad. It was hard. I did not take it well.” He pauses to check Rookie Blue’s hands. The familiar lie comes reluctant-angry, just as it should. “Levi thought I needed a break.” Kidnapped-raped-seduced, the anger flares in every direction, but Fourteen clings to the odd stability of now.

Why wouldn’t this tangerine teen resent the question? Mixed-up-trouble was in a police officer’s face every day. “Okay, thanks for the information.” Rookie Blue fishes out a card. “I’m Dean. If you think of anything else, if your grandfather knows more, give me a call. Are you staying here much longer?”

“We leave tomorrow. Like I said, Levi is fine.” Fourteen looks at the business card. It is just another moment on this odyssey he cannot explain to his parents or Shane. Something new to add to his confusion. Rookie Blue has turned away, but stops for a last word.

“Are you okay by yourself, Kale?”

Fourteen frowns fresh, then lets it roll off his back. “I don’t need a babysitter.” Fourteen near fifteen for fuck’s sake! He does not need unattended minor added to the negotiated now. “The Conners are here. They helped me with Levi and they keep an eye on me.” Fourteen reassures Rookie Blue-Dean. Dean nods with a smile. The second dryer stops and Fourteen is finally left alone. He pulls out his iPod and stares unthinking at the blank screen.

The teenage boy is out on the lane again. He has dragged a scooter with him this late afternoon. Dragged negligently, like heads he is going to ride it, tails he will whip it around and smash it against a post. Drag it like he is taking out the trash. Scott decides his neighbor is going to ride it.

Wet pavement under grey sky. Canvas shoe pushes off slow-start. No destination, just a glide on rough pavement, thinking thoughts maybe. Head buried for the now in a hoodie that rides down to the boy’s thighs. The nose pivot is a fail. Not enough speed, not enough commitment to the trick. Feet slip off the deck. The boy’s footwork is dancer-quick on the recovery. No commitment to the trick, the boy abandons it after a sleeve-swipe across his nose. He pushes off again and slaloms the deck across the flat pavement. Hips twitch with the muscle play beneath tight black slacks. Another try at the pivot, another fail, another adolescent recovery.

The boy pushes off as if he has nowhere to go, only there is a destination. No hurry, he is gliding off toward the KOA office. Lethargy, the word comes to Scott. Boredom? Another good word for the moment. Scott knows boredom, only his word is impatience or anticipation. Maybe prescient disappointment, here at this winter-quiet Albuquerque KOA. The teenager drifts out of sight, leaving Scott beside the Caravel hitch.

The teenage boy stands out, citrus-fresh, in this campground better suited to Scott’s parents. Everything moves slow for the Baby Boomers freshly freed from work. It is all leisurely walks, small bursts of determined action, more garrulous conservation. This KOA campground is a waystation to something more engaging, for the Boomers, for Scott. It is not worth the energy. Scott cannot figure out the solitary boy.

Scott absent-noticed him the first day he pulled in with the Armada towing the don’t-have-an-accident, brand new Caravel. Scott is all, why is it winter? As he expertly frees the Nissan so he can scout out Albuquerque. Then summer, citrus-fresh jogs by. Duluth to Denver, Scott has watched the Boomers pound pavement, even the lightest, heavy. The boy dances past on scuffed Skechers, throwing Rocky Balboa punches until he notices Scott watching. There is a cat-like grace Scott never had. There is jackrabbit potential in long limbs. Scott saw it when the boy breaks left, sprints off the lane, elf-graceful up onto a picnic table, then down cat-easy on the other side. Why? Because he could, Scott supposes.

Scott retreats to the Caravel, considering supper, considering the absent boy. Fifteen, at a guess. Older than the kids I will be teaching. Hard to guess a teen’s age. Everyone going at their own pace, most desperately wanting to huddle just on the leading edge of the ridicule-safe normal curve. The boy is in some enviable sweet spot. The boy runs shirtless in the New Mexican November. Just a stiff silver hoop about his neck and a too-big watch that probably counts his carefree steps.

Scott overcomes his reluctance to use his dad’s new toys. Digs out the grill. Everything about the Black Nissan Armada and the compact Caravel is a new toy. Everything he touches first is just a little guilt-wracked. “Give us a hand, drive it down to New Mexico. Have a week with Chelsea before we join you.” Scott sets guilt-thoughts of Chelsea aside. Ignores the childish guilt he feels for being the one to soil the spotless virgin grill. Blue-flames flicker a welcome warmth over his November-fingertips. It feels that good, just standing close to the intensity. The unexpected New Mexican snow whispers Duluth.

The boy drifts back into sight. Some young woman has attached herself and stole the scooter. The blocky lady owns the machine. Mostly, she cruises possessive-close to the boy. Small pushes to keep momentum, then as Scott watches, an energetic burst down the lane ends with a Manual and a Hop. She even manages a Fakie so she can watch the boy’s reaction: not much. He is lank-walking his way, polite reply to something she calls to him. It is all almost audible across the retired KOA.

Scott cannot stop intruding on this mismatched couple. The young woman is (probably not) his age. She has (be kind) strong features that age a soul; Albuquerque summer sun, maybe. What does he know? The boy is all of fifteen. Black chinos and a screw-the-cold, white button-down, instead of the flashy hoodie trailing in one hand. The boy carries summer with him. Scott and the boy miss the young woman’s next trick as their eyes slide past each other. It is an inexplicable-inaudible across the retired, snow-patched KOA.

Time for a Tecate, Scott decides. So far, Albuquerque feels like his third year at Concordia. That loose-ends vacuum when he quite residence, was in a shiftless now, before Chelsea and the Yellowbird job just down from Chelsea’s Montessori School. Scott is in that sort of between-life now. His life reboots in January. Supper is a self conscious anticipation of that reboot; Caribbean Rice and Beans and jerked chicken. Boxed and bottled preparation for after Christmas. Not the real thing, Scott admits-anticipates. Just a little promise of the great adventure . That is not something Scott says, just a mute before acknowledgment of the awkward Antigua-impulse separation from family, from Chelsea. The meal choice is a necessary affirmation that Albuquerque, (symbolically) halfway between St Paul and Saint John, means no take backs.

First step off the Caravel and Scott’s searching out the boy. The young woman has ditched him, or the reverse. The boy is all of fifteen. He is perched on a wet picnic table, long legs propped on the bench, toe-tapping, bouncing adolescent energy. He is hunched over some iDevice, intense on screen.

Scott cannot stop intruding on the boy. Six lathered chicken skewers take the heat. Too much, Scott admits. He is still cooking for Chelsea, or maybe mom and dad, coming weeks early. It is only leftovers, he reminds himself.

The meat is fine, the rice melange is instant-ready. Scott takes a pull on his Tecate. Not island craft beer, it is waiting for him on a beach. 2SIX8 in English Harbour, Scott googles stuff like this, wants the full experience. Chelsea (in St Paul) does not like him to drink so much. Scott is just between-things twitchy. Chelsea is not here.

The boy is all of fifteen. Hair too short to fall into his face, still, it would. He is stark black and white in the grey Albuquerque. Hoodie splashes tangerine beside him. No buds, not listening, adolescent delicacy in the fingers, thumb work connecting to somewhere. The boy leans into his business, hunched over between splayed knees (only one bouncing now). It is like that, while things cook between them.

Scott’s been KOA bound three days. Tried the sights, tried skiing, kept on the move as much as he can. The (brand new) Caravel is parent-ready, he just had to get it Southwest for the winter. Using it is like sleeping in mom’s bed, not comfortable. Scott sees the boy this twilight time. The boy is all of fifteen. Scott figures he splays out, school-free through the mornings, when Scott takes the Armada out and about. That was Scott’s vacation thing. Be the nightingale, not the meadowlark, be fifteen. Maybe younger, because the manic-child, fresh-sweet radiates unselfconscious off the boy. Scott sees it in the gestures, the twitchy expressiveness of the boy’s whole body as he jogs the regular path (twice, thrice) past the Caravel.

Scott has been evening watching three days. The boy seems lonely-alone in a lumbering Luxor Winnebago. Comes and goes when the claustrophobic tiny home pressure builds. The young woman is a first appearance. Not unexpected to see him teen-connected through the digital world. Big-ass SmartWatch signals that. Unexpected when the curious boy’s solitude is broken a second time by the classic white and black that seems to be aimed at the innocuous teenager. It is hard not to intrude. Scott stoops to hide the beer bottle, not sure of New Mexico’s open carry laws.

Fourteen knows the cruiser is there behind him, the same way he knows the husky man, barbecuing by the future-retro Airstream, is measuring him. Once a day, he calls Levi at the hospital, checks to see if he is lucid, hopes the waiting will end. “Gonna call my grandfather, is that alright?” It is alright, because the bills are paid, Master Card regular. Fourteen’s urban coloration is white middle class male privilege. Nobody is looking at his not-in-school presence. Fourteen is maybe the 3.4 percent home schooling. Fourteen has a winning grin that warms the cockles, grants access.

Fourteen knows the car screaming POLICE is carrying Rookie Blue. Rookie Blue who he told four days ago that grandpa Levi was checking out (in a good way) and they were Boston bound. Fourteen glances at the adult-empty Luxor Winnebago, and then over to the Caravel Airstream. He stashes his conversation with Cameron into his pants pocket. Show time!

Scott kills the flame under his chicken, allspice and all the rest clambering for his lost attention. The boy and him exchange a look over a thread of hot pepper smoke. Scott stoops for his abandoned beer. The guy talking to the boy is friendly. No tension, the partner in the cruiser looks like she just nodded off. To be cool, the young officer offers a fist to boy, by way of greeting. It is a thing Scott might do at the classroom door. The boy obliges. Scott fiddles with the chicken, something to do, not part of the conversation.

Then Scott is, because the boy twists away from the young police officer and points at Scott, fiddling with his beer and jerked chicken. The pair look his way, the boy waves at him with a not-to-worry lazy sweep. What’s up with that? Scott wonders, compelled to wave back. The boy slithers off his perch, sleepy-relaxed. A few last words to the Neighborhood Watch. Scott and the boy stand watching the officer return to his cruiser. The conversation is not over.

Rookie Blue worries too much. Fourteen can see this. Maybe (hopefully) Rookie Blue is into a full cavity search. Maybe call me if you need me might come back brandishing the baton, spray some pepper on Fourteen’s young riot. Too much Porn, the chaste Cameron conversations, not a good idea, Fourteen scolds. The black and white is not heading to the gate. Fourteen calculates the usual sweep through the less than rowdy, more than a little sleepy winter KOA. Barbecue Man takes his eyes off the police cruiser and throws his curiosity Fourteen’s scrawny-desperate way. Rookie Blue is not stupid, Fourteen’s solitary self is a person of interest.

The boy begins Scott’s way. The sweatshirt is left on the soggy table, but he has brought the tangerine with him. Thoughtful pull on the near empty bottle, the conversation is becoming more complex. The boy is not jogging. Long strides that send his white shirt sailing back to show a simple singlet. Prep school casual, Scott thinks, Morman missionary maybe. Anyway, the boy is clearly racing the cruiser. Intent is obvious, so Scott feels free to watch. Maybe sixteen, he decides.

Fourteen beats Rookie Blue and the (dangerous) older partner to the Caravel Airstream. He smiles a tangerine greeting, pivots on one size ten, shoulder close, everything normal here. “I’m Kale. Levi, my grandfather, is stuck in the hospital.” He pauses for breath. “Kale, Levi, hospital, you are keeping an eye on me.” Serious thinking face and pursed lips like a jawbreaker just rolled to one side. “So, like, yeah. The chicken is drying out.”

Scott watches as the boy appropriates the skewers and vanishes into his parent’s camper without another word. Bemused by the audacity, Scott negotiates the drive-by. Kale is innocuous-interesting to the officers, the younger officer specifically. There is concern for a well-groomed puppy ambling down the street, unattended. Scott finds himself improvising lies for the boy, partly pleased with the small adventure. Shuttling between Duluth and St Paul is maddening. Just waiting for the next school term when his adventure starts. Live care free till then. Only, New Mexico on his own was a mistake. The boy is a welcome distraction from Chelsea.

No thanks for his help, or maybe thanks is the salad the boy is quietly assembling. Mother packed the fridge. The bagged cabbage is into a week’s wilt. Make yourself at home, Scott thinks to say. What he does, is to lean against the table and watch his interloper’s hands deftly mix some greens into a bowl he did not know his mother packed.

“I talk to Levi everyday. It’s okay.”

The boy turns to the fridge. One hand retrieves a beer. He holds it hesitantly, mapping out next steps. Thirteen, maybe only a tall thirteen, Scott decides. There is nothing black and white about this boy, but the colors suit. Scott takes the offered beer, and then sets it beside his empty.

“There is enough for two.”

Kale smiles his way. Grandfather in the hospital, Kale bears adult-weight on adolescent shoulders, straight back, legs that cannot hide their dancer’s grace. The impish face shifts from thirteen vulnerable-lost to sixteen, maybe twenty-one. Layers and layers, not a good poker face for the world at the moment, maybe never. “Sure,” the boy says. “Just sit down.”

“I’m seventeen, how old are you?” Kale asks as he serves two plates at his own bistro. He opens the beer, and pours off a little into a glass for Scott, then sits with water for himself. Table manners, chef de jour, Kale waits for Scott to take a sip, take first bite.

An obvious lie, Scott passes over it. Takes his sip. “I’m twenty-four. How long have you been here?” He has Kale’s attention. It is disturbing how the boy cocks his head, so solemn. Picks up a heavy shaft of meat, light fingered. He passes it over his tongue as if considering the pregnant juiciness of chicken, the violent heat of the jerk sauce. The tongue rolls around the end and Kale pulls off a thoughtful chew. The skewer returns to the plate beside the rice and cabbage. “Seventeen?” Scott fills the pause with a humoured forehead wrinkle.

“I know, I look eighteen.” Kale replies. He takes a bite of boxed-processed Jamaica. “What is this?” Not the rice and beans, of course. The boy is asking origins.

“I don’t know.” Scott shrugs-fascinated, oddly off balance. “Something Caribbean I hope.”

Kale shrugs. The whole foodie, sex-with-a-skewer thing repeats itself. Unconsciously avoiding some Tom Jones, Albert Finney, Lusty Dining moment, Scott pulls his bites off the stick. “This is some rig.” Kale glances around without quite breaking eye contact with his host.

“It’s not mine, Kale.”

Flinch-frown reply, “Don’t call me Kale. Kale is a salad.” The boy prods the wilted cabbage with the sharp end of his stick. “I don’t want to be Kale. I’ve shucked his skin off. Kale is lame. Kale is back East. People call me Fourteen.” Sex-with-a-skewer, only now white teeth draw the meat along the bamboo, thoughtfully. Scott has to smile at the performance and this revelation.

“Fourteen?”

“Only, I’m seventeen.” Fourteen assays a bite of rice and a sip of water. His only concession to the heat and a pent energy, reckless abandon, building in him. He puts the fork down. Maybe his fingers are shaking. “I’ve been Fourteen for a while now.” Punctuate this with a fatalistic shrug. “It’s not yours? What are you doing?” Dangerous question, inviting reciprocity.

“My parents,” Mirrored fatalistic shrug. Parents, it puts fourteen and twenty-four into reconciled proximity. Two young men in the Baby-Boomer-grey Albuquerque KOA retirement ghetto. Fellow travellers, sort of… “I’m on holiday.” Scott lets the story come out. Fourteen dines on the details, favouring the chicken over rice and beans.

The job search was desultory-apathetic. Summer slipped into Fall, Chelsea distracted. Chelsea distracted, but Scott wanted something more than slipping into a Minnesota school anyway. International Schools, Island Academy and sixth grade from a Canadian curriculum. “Chelsea is from Winnipeg.” As if this was relevant. “I’m going to Antigua, just before Christmas. Do you know where Antigua and Barbuda is?”

“The Caribbean.” The boy responds, biting into his last skewer. “So you are a teacher?” Not judgie, Fourteen is Jimmy Kimmel, teasing details. If he thought it would help, he would do a funny intro on how much KOA’s suck. Scott talks on until they stumble over the decade difference once too often. That segues into a music battle. Scott sets his university inspired Indie against Fourteen’s high school playlist. Scott Bluetooths tunes to the Caravel’s surround sound, while Fourteen cleans up. It is a game of War between them, cards up, with growing laughter. Then epiphanies, the game is chess: sacrificing pawns, capturing with a well played response. Maybe a game of Go as well. Fourteen is circling Scott, while giving up no stones.

“Who is Chelsea?” Fourteen asks quietly-cautiously. It hardly matters. The boy knows men. The girlfriend, of course. There are details hardly heard. He listens to the tone, recognizes mutual hunger.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Scott asks. This is the inevitable inquisition. What age, what grade, what siblings, what sport, who do you bone for? Superficialities on acquaintance. Fourteen unfolds himself from where he adolescent-hopeful-hints on the man’s parent’s bed.

“Nope,” he shrugs apologetic. “Thanks for supper, thanks for covering for me.”

Scott watches the boy retreat to the dark Luxor Winnebago, twilight-subdued ending to the unexpected, somehow incomplete conversation. It leaves Scott oddly frustrated. Only recourse, Skype Chelsea. This only picks scabs. Or maybe they are sticking bandages on an open wound. She is brave, optimistic-determined. She cannot come down, impossible idea. One of us is employed. The Montessori School is her passion, like tropical-teaching is for Scott.

He needs a beer, needs something, because her voice, familiar gestures, shared history gnaw at him. Fourteen’s (Kale’s) adolescent tenor sparked this Skype-frustration. It is in Scott’s phone, what he is giving up. The androgenous companion in the neighbouring bay disturbed the certainty Scott had. He could be strong and handle this separation. “Don’t drink too much.” Chelsea’s familiar concern. Scott drinks because he is miserable, watching her, listening to her, needing her. Not fair, to open that can of worms over the phone.

They say good night, because one of us is employed. Not her thing to say it, but it hangs out there. Soft words to paper over the months (years, maybe) that will cancar their partnering. Cut the connection-saddening-stream of words and feelings. Nothing summer about this Albuquerque KOA but a warm mystery. Scott opens yet another beer, turns off a few lights, turns on the last song his young neighbour suggested.

Rap on the door breaks his mindless skitter from Chelsea, uncertain afters, the lonely now. The boy, Kale-Fourteen, looking seventeen, but so twelve-thirteen as he stands wrapped in a tangerine hoodie. Scott only stares. Slight sway, the shattered smile on Chelsea-like-lips, liquid eyes burning in the LED glow. The boy lifts a green bottle of wine to his lips for a long pull. He is gathering it all together now. The runs, walks, the sudden sharing. “Hey Scott,” Fourteen begins, “I’m gay.” No fear here, just a fact. “I’m gonna suck your dick.” He’s a little drunk, Scott observes the obvious.

So wrong, Scott thinks, but he gives way because he has a drunk minor propositioning him in the nosy-geriatric lane. Their varied, wastrel youth would be enough to draw their gimlet eyes. They are neighbourhood curiosities ten years apart (at a guess), most amusing. The boy steps past him and turns when he reaches the table strewn with empty reminders of Scott’s frustration.

“You’re not going to suck my dick, Kale.”

“Fourteen,” The boy studies the bottle. “Montes Taita Marchique,” He frowns. “Do you want a drink?” Then Scott is transfixed by the boy’s determined-fey eyes.

Fourteen is not drunk (much). Elemental chemistries bewitch him. Uncertainty, sure, and that is something new-normal for Fourteen.  Fourteen thinks he knows men. Scott’s mouth opens for something responsible-safe. Something complicated, when the now calls for simplicity. This is not a time for words. Just a gesture with his hand, Fourteen stretches an arm towards Scott’s parted lips, fingers grasping. It stops Scott’s breath. Then fingers pinch thumb, commanding silence. The ample aromas of black berries, sweet oak spices, so well balanced, Levi appreciates. The boy is balanced, not so drunk as Scott. The red wine settles-excites his pallet.

“I’m in control.”

It is a new thing: control. The Caravel Airstream whispers well conditioned heat. Fourteen’s music ends, leaving necessary silence. The boy has to deflect an uncertain cock block. He grabs the wrist that might have muscled him out into Albuquerque night, should have muscled him into the waiting bed. Men do that, Fourteen knows. 

Scott should be bed-ready. His Chelsea Skype-sex possibilities neutered by the unilateral abandonment, Scott is sweatpants-easy access for Fourteen’s determined hand. KISS-simple-seduction, the boy’s mouth inhales Scott before the man can think to say, “I’m not gay” (Not that there's anything wrong with it). No chance to giggle at the meme, just a sharp intake of his breath and his stomach wants to hug his spine, accommodate the blood-hot, welcome mouth.

The man should be bed-ready for his mouth. It is a mouthful to roll across his tongue. Scott is dark-thick against Fourteen’s nose. Smell the tangle, feel the incidental wire creeping up Scott’s swelling shaft with a sinuous tongue. Inhale the vanilla-bark-bite of oakmoss on the man. Too late, too early to measure the look in Scott’s eyes. Progress must be made, things to discover still with his lips, tongue, fingers. The man wants to see, though. With a palm, Scott pressures Fourteen’s forehead back. Lips slide off, head upturned. Healthy hunger, that is all Scott sees. It is the I’m just pissing here, can’t you see? bathroom glance thrown your way when you push through the door.

Progress made, Fourteen stares down the lost-look of corona stretching free of the monk’s hood. Things to discover, Fourteen pinches the root, circles it covetously, cherishes the forested sack, lets one pioneer fingerprint the flesh behind the heavy balls. Testing possibilities, sensing the responsive flex of muscled (hairy) thighs framing Scott’s essentials. Fingers guide Scott’s cock across his tongue. Bend it maladroit, unaccustomed flesh-stretch just to tease the man with the memory of the lusty dining moment. Nose-nuzzle vanilla-scented man-wood, suck sack, while one tense hand backcombs the abdomen and chest. So much hair! Fourteen brushes a nipple, still testing possibilities.

“Oh God!”

The boy withdraws back onto his haunches. Scott will not move to stop him now. Kale, no, he likes fourteen, fluid move, strips off his light hoodie to reveal his winter torso. Casual muscles play across clean flesh in the Caravel-discrete lighting. Long lashes flutter, lip-lick unconsciousness seduction, who-gives-a-fuck shock of bed-head. Scott wants him back on his arching cock. Hands splay on narrow thighs as if the boy is just surveying the damage he has done already. Scott needs him back on his cock. Bobcat prowls closer. Scott just stares now, all silent at this necessary submission, face flinches as Puck plays pranks with bobcat fangs. Midwinter Night’s Tale indeed.

So he has to think about it. Scott wants to touch a shoulder, stroke a cheek, or finger the shock of hair. Fourteen knows best. How does the kid know? No impulse to grab this kid’s ears and face fuck him silly. This kid just knows what Scott’s cock needs. It is like the Gamer Boy has grinded his way through all the orgasmic levels, leveling up to beat this game. Scott breaks free, just long enough to shift from the shaky RV table to the solid reassurance of the counter. A cupped palm welcomes the open mouth back onto his cock. Fourteen makes him think about it.

These thoughts are inarticulate-screams. Scott is lizard-braining on the monkey-leach goings on. Just a kid, but he has Scott’s number. Scott’s sweating testosterone rank is sweet-vanilla to Fourteen’s senses. The teenager is lucky-wired that way. Always a new pressure-pull-pinch to edge Scott closer. “Oh Jesus,” Scott panics, “I’m close!”

Fourteen is humming too. Fourteen is proud. A pulsing presence in his pants whining for attention. This seduction will not end with that release, and this conversation with a cock will not get Fourteen off. This is just delicious foreplay. He knows the shape of things to come. Time to finish him.  No interest in the showy deepthroat-gag, If Scott wants to feel Fourteen’s full heat, then the man can do it right. So there is just this next movement. Scott’s crown is purple, weeping salt-lick tears. It is blood-marble, practicing the pulses like a sprinter at the mark. Just watching it strain-quiver, he is endlessly fascinated by all maleness. Shift eyes to the hairy thighs. Don’t stroke them like you want to. He’s too close. Swallow with one hand on the treasure trail. Wait for the punch.

“I’m coming. Now, I’m coming!”

The kid takes it on the tongue, lips clamped hard. Strong fingers keep Scott contained, until the flood is free. Only then, he lets the cock sink deeper, milking, milking. The yeasty, ocean goodness, of the man in a haze of fresh perfume. Fourteen was almost sick as he walked across the sleeping KOA for this. For this, to say, “I’m gay. I suck dick. I….”  I could keep him hard, maybe… Scott is his fourth man, third straight guy. Maybe not…

The boy stands up, self satisfied, cocky, shirtless, excited-hard (If Scott could notice). Scott pulls up his sweats, watching Fourteen negligently stoop for the tangerine hoodie. Chelsea after sex, pleased with the result. Chelsea loves Scott, no question. Scott’s cock in her mouth, a question. Just once, Chelsea gave him a blowjob. Scott thought it sexy-frustration-embarrassing. She liked the giving, she liked his cock. Not Mini-Me Evi likes, as this boy demonstrated. She wanted Scott to feel good. Chelsea gave up in frustration. Scott rubbed one out and she gamely took the jets when he orgasmed. She turned away gagging, spit Scott out. That was not to be one of their intimacies.

Scott turns for a glass, pours some of Fourteen’s grandfather’s wine. He offers it to the boy. “Wine? A glass of water?” Fourteen pauses with his hoodie. Chest covered, he might be an athletic TomBoy.

“No,” and it is drawn out musical, as if the boy is laughing at him. Scott does not get him, that is the adolescent message. Scott takes a sip. Passion passed, he is just a boy. Black slacks, scuffed Skechers, back to thirteen-fourteen in Scott’s mind. Statutory rape, obvious-awkward, for a twenty-four year old. It never… it happened. As far as Scott is concerned, it was a happening. Fourteen blows his mind.

Fourteen tugs his hoodie one last time, zipping up the conversation’s conclusion. Fourteen knows men. The evening is done. “Goodnight?” He checks anyway. You never know, Fourteen needed this, he still needs something. He steps out with final grin, leaving Scott, glass half full, the Montes Taita Marchique not drunk to the dregs.

Scott sleeps in, thinks about the Luxor Winnebago. Something sensible tells him to go out for coffee, put some distance between them. Fill up at the Phillips 66 on Central, drift east to the Waffle House. Check out the Albuquerque Photographers Gallery. Some of that is too erotic, maybe. Back to the KOA to do something sensible like laundry, study Canadian curriculum, something sensible. Chelsea would be working, he cannot keep talking to her to fill his days.

The Island Academy is friendly, welcoming. They have given him what he needs. Scott loses himself in the familiar-unfamiliar topics and terms of the school’s north of Duluth. He has to push the forgotten bottle of Montes Taita Marchique aside to make room for papers. Have a drink, the dirty glass is an easy reach. The red Chilean wine lingers on his pallet like the memory of a boy.

Scott frowns the memory back into its corner. He is not comfortable. The Caravel has utilitarian benches. He needs to stand, stretch out his legs and back. For a moment, he ends up on the messy bed, arms stretched behind his head, ankles crossed. It is only 1:00 pm. Back to the table, only this time he sits on the other bench. Rearranging takes a minute, followed by a slurp of wine. Better, the sun glare on the screen and my back. It makes sense, and the 1995 Luxar Winnebago is now in line of sight. International School curriculum is boring. I should have worked an extra three weeks. Scott leans back, puts his feet up on the opposing bench, he lets Fourteen’s tang roll earthy-ripe around his mouth.

He swallows when he sees the boy strolling back from the KOA office. Phoned his grandfather in the hospital, Scott decides. Watch a kid walk by himself. It is a treat sometimes. Fourteen is ten-years-old in his own animated conversation. Maybe he is rapping, because he starts and stops, arms doing the gangster. There is a crotch grab and a point, before a picnic table catches his eye.

Kids do not step up onto a picnic table, the world is an obstacle course, a challenge. Fourteen shoulder rolls onto the table, finds his feet, then he is still. He is sentinel-alert hearing something Scott cannot. Hands in his pockets, follows the perimeter, eyes on toes. Another freeze, slide eyes toward the Silver Caravel. Unfinished conversations, too much inaudible, Scott is not certain. The boy… the boy….

Pensive lasts a moment. Now, Fourteen does a handstand off the edge of the table, arching gracefully to earth. Twirls once, swaggers off to his grandfather’s RV. Swaggers fists jammed in black jeans, white shirt open advertising the teen washboard underneath the singlet. They called it ‘trucking’.

Scott decides to see what the inside of a Luxor Winnebago looks like. He told the young officer he was looking out for the boy. No reason to be a liar. Fourteen-year-old on his own for days, not making the right choices, clearly. He seems like a good kid, someone you’d like around the classroom. We are both lonely. Scott steps down from the Caravel. Turns to the long, green and white RV. People are good at lying to themselves.

Fourteen answers the knock, gives ground like Scott did the night before. He retreats to the pristine kitchen, watchful waiting. The Luxor Winnebago is antique-plush, 1990’s well appointed, roomy. Scott takes it in, aware of the boy leaning at the kitchen sink. One sock foot tipped on the other.

“You phoned your grandpa?”

“Levi? Sure.”

“All good?”

“For sure,” Level tone, Fourteen considers Levi’s voice. “I think he is on some sort of hospital vacation. I mean, sounds like he could have come home days ago. I think he is just tired of it all now, the trip.”

“Time to go home.”

“Yes.” Now that is subdued. Fourteen is staring at Scott.

“You’re not ready to go home?” Scott asks. Fourteen shifts feet, sort of stretches back over the counter so his abs collapse.

“Are you here to fuck me?” Fourteen is staring at Scott. Like he said, he knows men like Scott.

“Yeah.” Scott replies as if this is a new thought. “Yeah, I think I am.”

Fourteen nods at the obvious. He turns halfway towards the waiting bed, fingers on his shirt. Sly Puck smile twitches right, eyebrow lift questioning. “You have to take your clothes off, Scott.” Enough said, Fourteen strips.

When Scott was very little, stripping at the pool was a thoughtless mimic. To be sure, there was this caution about the private parts. Scott’s father schooled him in that the first time he was told to wash himself, clean beneath the too-tight cap as best he could. Little Scott was only focussed on his father, following the alphabet shape dotted lines with his shakes crayon. Maybe the vibrating pleasure in doing what everyone else is doing.

Significance-gravity-epiphany comes Zen-like personal. Scott cannot remember the welter-thoughts fuzzing his brain at eleven or twelve, when suddenly he was curriculum-hygiene-thrust into a steamy shower with other boys. He does remember the painful-exposition of a grade seven PE. The private parts are junk-heavy-tingly there. The goddamn Normal Curve has imposed unfairness in the room. Junior High is all about making the grade. A person reconciles to their own skin, eventually.

“You have to take your clothes off, Scott.” Fourteen strips like pulling down your zipper: necessary-thoughtless motion. Scott watches this performance art. The boys in the locker room who owned the space. Some inner well of knowing shields them from anxiety, or being athlete-fit, court-field-experienced, they are hardened to it. This is so Fourteen’s space.

Scott makes a token effort to undo his jeans; gets the stiff zipper down. Fourteen’s white shirt is shaken out, then draped on the kitchen counter. Yoga-perfect on his feet, no awkward hopping, socks-pants follow. Only a small bite to his lower lip betrays truth: Something here not totally Zen-experienced by the boy. Still maybe the half-drunk determination to prove something to himself. Scott’s pants are off, less attended to. His briefs came with them, anticipating the intent.

Fourteen reveals his torso next in a practiced motion. The undershirt is ribbed white, something of an antique curiosity, old-man conventional. It should be a bright accent statement T-shirt to the boy’s ensemble, not a sweat-catcher. It clings tight though. The skin clings tight. Patent-leather adolescent, nature-shaved to a down, maybe never going to be Scott’s shaded boreal forest. Not a Ken Doll, not a G.I. Joe, a between beauty. The reveal twists Fourteen’s body away, hiding his flat chest behind a shoulder, bringing the curve of one firm-shaped hip-thigh-buttock into view: Venus rising.

“Are you here to fuck me?” Fourteen asks the obvious, maybe understanding all too well. Maybe exploiting a weakness. Be the dirty sock, be the pussy-boy receptacle for this man’s hunger. Fourteen knows (straight) men, but this is not even a thought. It is a given. He is a teenager, primed. He is Fourteen, with his own needs. The boxer briefs come next. He is half hard ready, sack tensing anticipation.

“Yeah, I think I am.” Know I am. Fuck the girly-boy, but that is a formless thought. Scott is not straight-curious. Scott is not callous cum-in-the-sock indifferent. Big eyes, big hands, big feet, the usual adolescent misproportions. Big (erect) cock demands notice. Elegant-tailored man-carpet spreads across the span above. Fourteen’s man-sized boyhood is not lost in years of bulking up. Fourteen’s manhood is not lost on Scott. Fuck you, yeah. Fuck a boy, sort of. It is not a thought, but boys are boys. Sort of girly, so sort of pussy in their adolescent now architecture.

The boy’s cock points toward the bed, and with a backward grin dances off to the end of the Luxor Winnebago. What a beautiful ass! Scott wants the skin-connection-delving. Scott wants the Chelsea-absent release. Fourteen is prettier than Chelsea. Scott will not think that. The too narrow hips, wide shoulders, hidden cock, Scott won’t think that. Fourteen turns, even harder, with a bandolero of condoms. So confident, the boy expects a semi automatic response from Scott. He drops them ready-hand-reach on the bed, a gay-friendly body-glid bottle. Fourteen points at the bed-ready holiday destination. Broad grin shifts to the pursed lip, kissable frown-pout. He’s a killer, Scott’s body warns. “You’re not ready!”

Scott’s melancholy evaporates, the boy breathes out newness, freshness radiates a potential for joy unlike anything Scott had ever experienced. Fourteen’s glamour has its own adaptive properties, no doubt, but Scott realizes he will never understand what shapes the boy. He just wants to fuck him. Fuck Chelsea through him, if the evil little cock sucker will let me. Fourteen is dangerous. The tip of Scott’s cock learned that the hard way.

Fourteen has bridged the distance during this adjustment. He meets-challenges Scott’s gaze. The smile is inviting. The fingers speak louder. They roam, as Fourteen has learned fingers ought to roam. Perhaps the teenager is a tailor measuring Scott for a bespoke suit. Fingers pick up last night’s task of Brailling out Scott’s secret needs. Lines here, lines stretched, trespasses regretted. The smile is boyish, the fingers eager, almost virgin as Fourteen discovers the geography of young adults.

Husky-soft in lazy places. Soft-not-soft, a man’s lived body at its best. Stroke the legs the solid enviable thighs so pelted by hair. Forearms tickle the splayed palms, chest hair to dig into. Back comb the short black beard. That prompts a smile from Scott. Really, just a big boy’s body, but Fourteen hardly sees it that way. Fourteen runs a finger over Scott’s treasure trail. “When?”

“Sixteen, seventeen,” Scott replies, “Your age.” He reminds the boy.

“Late bloomer,” Fourteen explains. He grasps a rampant cock, thumbing the dewy head. “Fuck me now.”

Missionary Position for men, Fourteen lies sexy-submissive on the ample bed. Let Scott roll a condom, add some body glide. Scott plays it cool, but Fourteen knows the man is at the Rubicon. He crossed it in the night when Fourteen dropped to his knees. The boy twists pretty on the sheets, curious to see how Scott is doing. “You’re beautiful.” That brings a ghost smile to Fourteen’s lips. Acknowledgement and hard won understanding.

The boy is Chelsea’s height, Chelsea smooth (if she didn’t shave). Curves lure Scott on. Naked flesh whispers, I’m hot, I’ll burn. The spinal highway curves to a cleft as seductive as any woman’s. Bare flesh swells, pubescent-perfect. Fourteen has the Lululemon-appeal Scott cannot help noticing-wanting. He covers the boy, who brings a hand around to guide him in.

Unexpectedly inviting, Scott glides one-smooth-motion through an expanding ring into a yielding warmth beyond the latex envelope. He nds cushioned against the living, full flesh of his partner. Fourteen is resting his face on his arms. Long habit, Scott’s knees coax access, parting the boy’s legs, suggesting deeper access. Flesh clings, he’s hot. Long habit, Scott is grinding into the connection, holding back his weight on knees and strong arms. His fists connect with boy’s steady inhalations. He craves this release. Futile phone flirts with Chelsea, the emotional distance only getting wider. Scott needs his cock in something now. He needs someone to respond-respect his cock now. The smooth back, articulate shoulder blades like angel wings, light biceps bunched to bend bare forearms beneath the face. Fourteen dazzles. “You’re so pretty.”

“Go slow,” Fourteen warns.

“Am I hurting you?” Scott pauses on the third hard thrust.

“You’ll cum too fast. First time, go slow.”

First time, it is not Scott’s first time. First time was Fleur Harmon, Sophomore year. His dorm room smelled of stale beer and sex in the proud after. Some others, then Chelsea, not the same, but good, real good, Scott decides. He clamps a hand on his partner’s shoulder, slams in three times. The beautiful back bows, the narrow pelvis lifts to welcome him. A single long-drawn, “Ahhh” from beneath him. The Luxor Winnebago already smells of sex now.

Fourteen came at the third hard thrust, imagined the man’s trapped fluids flowing into his cavities, bathing them. He needed this too much. Cum soaks the sheets. His cock has already forgotten the ejaculation, the inexpert Scott-thrusts friction toward the next hands-free masturbation. Go slow, it’s not a race. 

Scott changes pace, Fourteen’s anus-grip tightens. The man is back to planking on his back. That is sort of hot, sort of not. Fourteen knows straight men. There will be no wrap-around hug, no Cameron-hungry kiss. But he feels the thick man-cock. Inner space, his void, but more the thick man-cock on his lips, carelessly caressing that secret tongue within, making him pant for more. Just this void-filling for now... Fourteen’s pelvis reaches for the man’s cock, gropes for another orgasm.

Scott slowed as the boy suggested. The boy, beautiful-bewitching, open to him. “Good,” Scott’s partner murmurs alto, “Good.” again, a cracked-throat, need-naked voice. Scott balances to stroke a hand down the boy’s back, grasp a boney hip. Feel the softness so like a woman’s flesh. Feel the shifting pelvis, muscle spasms sympathetic to each deliberate cycle of his burning cock. The molecular Durex is a second skin, forgotten. Colon-cunt, the boy is hot pussy. The hand moves up across the back, slides across a smooth cheek to wet lips, hot breath. These lips, this breath on his cock, drawing him out in the night. The memory serves him well. Scott’s fingers find the back of his partner’s neck. Push down, push in, finish this. So he does, grinding Fourteen into the bed. Wanting his blossoming cock to flower somewhere beyond the boy’s navel. Oh fuck, oh God, oh, oh, oh….

The boy rolls over as soon as Scott withdraws. Scott lies beside him on the bed, examining the ceiling. His chest heaves from the effort. His tense arms relax. He has drained his energy into the boy. The boy, because Fourteen is propped up on an elbow, knee bent, so the boy is nestled comfortably on a smooth thigh. Scott turns his tired head towards the delighted grin, the dancing eyes.

The boy reaches over and scratches Scott’s chest, lets his finger trail down Scott’s belly to the half-hearted erection with its reservoir of intention. Cat’s-cream satisfaction, Fourteen smiles. Sudden motion, he shifts so he can hover over Scott’s groin. Fingers coax the condom off, then cake-decorate cum about Scott’s cock and balls. Scott has to watch Fourteen’s efforts after that.

The boy is on his knees, boy-junk dangling-distraction between the tendon tension of his inner thighs. Scott could reach out and grab the low-hung fruit. Fourteen would want him to rub his fingers along the muscular root swelling to the just-ravaged secret lips. Instead, Scott strokes a thigh, trails his hand over the boy’s bent back, feels the lips and tongue. Fourteen is his girl for the moment.

Fourteen stops the fun fellatio when all he can taste is warm flesh, all he can feel is another hard cock. Scott is a playground of opportunities. Like a six-year-old, his mind darts squirrel-like from one possibility to another. Scott’s nipples, a ticklish-sweaty armpit, the bristly beard hairs. Fourteen tries a kiss and gets no response, sits back on his heels, Yoga cock-repose.

“First fuck?” Fourteen asks.

“What, this?”

“No, silly.” Fourteen’s fingers still roam. The heavy hair is endlessly fascinating. John’s hair, he made that connection long ago. The heavy cock he cannot stop teasing, wanting to suck. “I don’t know, everything about it.”

“University,” Scott concedes. “I was nineteen, maybe twenty.”

So old, Fourteen thinks. “Roll over.”

“Why?” Cautious question, maybe just post-coital lassitude. Fourteen’s manic chatter staves off the trough of regret, maybe anger, that Scott is susceptible to. The boy, the underage boy, not a consequence free conundrum.

“I’ll give you a back massage!”

“I don’t need a back massage.” The boy is funny. He is no whipped puppy, no angry rebellious teen. This is a game to him. Breastless, the casual dangle of half-hard junk, it is a little conflicting. When Fourteen gives his side a shove, Scott rolls over. “Pest!”

The arrangement is not an improvement. The boy sits straddled across Scott’s thighs, junk brushing homosexual-close to his butt. Massage is full body, and surprisingly good, surprisingly considerate. The only tension Scott is feeling is the boy’s hard cock. It is a light touch caressing his cleft each time the boy’s hands move up his back. Fingers probe for knots, praise the muscles. Scott feels a tropical-breath, soft lip kiss on his back. He imagines Chelsea or a sweet-sixteen.

“Can I fuck you?” Forlorn hope, break curfew sort of question.

“Nope.” Scott is adamant, but he smiles. “You’d like that?”

The massage continues. “I think I would. Yeah sure.”

“You’re a virgin?”

“Not hardly!” The tone is hard to read, something there beyond Scott’s reach.

“I mean girls or maybe having a boy. I guess you like being, being…” The boy keeps being a boy, very inconvenient.

“A bottom?” Fourteen supplies. “Sure.”

“You like men to…” satiated, Scott cannot be callous about it.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.” Fourteen intones gravely. “I’ve kissed girls, fucked.”

“Really?”

“Really, didn’t make me straight though.” Fourteen is still massaging and Scott ignores the compulsive humping on his ass.

“How old, first time?”

“Fourteen, in a hotel room, a girl I mean.” Matter of fact response.

“Your fourteen now.” Scott points out as if to say, you’re moving very fast.

The boy slaps his back for emphasis. “I’m seventeen, remember?”

“Why the hell Fourteen then?” No answer to that question. Fourteen reaches for Scott’s sides, begins to tickle. Talking ends and it’s a giggling wrestling match. Scott is horribly ticklish and Fourteen just loves to have the man’s hands thoughtless-spontaneous all about his body. Scott has wrestling moves that dominate-delight the boy. Fourteen could cum in a pin. Finally, exhausted, Scott lets him collapse back on his chest. Two cocks making less than casual acquaintance for the first time.

Fourteen shifts off Scott’s body, sits legs crossed. Scott rolls on his side.

“Favorite color?” Fourteen is stroking his erection absently.

“Blue I guess. Yours is bright orange.”

“You think so?”

“The sweatshirt.” Scott points out. “Maybe black.”

“Tangerine.” Fourteen explains. “Grade two? First day, this kid and I had the same shirts on. Mom’s shopping Target or something. Anyway, we became best friends.” Sad thought, apparently. “It’s a thing with me, not him so much. Maybe he remembers.”

“I’m sorry.” Scott offers. The boy sits there adolescent hard, absently feeding the fire of his erection. A boy just used by a man. “First man?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” A shimmer in the citrus-fresh, The ever-present tangerine of the boy. “First orgasm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? I’m Fourteen.” Inexplicable, But the boy seems to think it explains everything. The melancholy breaks, as if it could ever conquer this boy. Fourteen grins crooked at Scott. “Who do you think about when you have sex? Were you fucking someone else just now?”

“Chelsea, my girlfriend, a little.” Too disloyal to explain he was thinking of underage girls as he was fornicating with a boy. Scott shrugs a meaningless apology. The twitchy boy shifts his man-sized erection onto Scott’s thighs. It stands there brushing his navel as he hunches over Scott’s interested cock.

“That’s okay. People are usually fucking someone else.” The boy wants Scott hard.

“That’s a sad thought.” Scott replies softly. Fourteen shrugs it off.

“Fuck me with this big cock.” The boy says fiercely. “Fuck me, fuck Chelsea, make me scream.”

Fourteen gets up and walks on cat feet about the narrow bedroom. At the side table, he plants a foot on the bed, watching Scott sit up. Sultry-stare, he massages between his cheeks, fingers slick with lube. Twice. Second time, his hand comes around two fingers joined, no misunderstanding. And he is hard with anticipation. Adolescent large, and curved, and wet, and wetter still with a lazy-sensuous-loving masterbation. No question, this time Scott will fuck a boy.

Fourteen sits reminding Scott of what he can do with his face. He brings Scott back to the edge, rolls a fresh condom on, and then falls back onto the bed. Sultry-hunger, a nineteen-year-old’s eyes call him on. When Scott falls on him, The boy flings his legs back. Scott has to see the pucker-halo invitation. One glance, then Scott focuses on Fourteen’s parted lips.

It is an angry fuck. At one point, Fourteen pinches Scott’s sensitive nipple, tries to bite it. Scott Cuff’s him lightly on the ear. He folds the boy like a letter, breath squeezed out, one hand trapping wrists above his head. The other hand pushes at legs, fingers over and under the silver loop about the boy’s neck. Sweat, and the steady sound of yet more air huffing free from the pussy. This engaging little fuck he stumbled into on the way to his own after.

Scott has done Chelsea like this, gentler, but like this, passionate. This little fuck is asking for it, just like Chelsea. Scott cannot understand that. Take it kid, take me, find another inch in there somewhere. Scott shakes and squeezes the clamped wrists, just to say, take it. He rubs a thumb over Fourteen’s lower lip, feels the bobcat fangs. Fourteen bites down. Scott cuff’s him harder with an extra slam into the boy’s cunt-like orifice. The thumb goes back to the mouth. Fourteen bites down, Scott lets him.

Albuquerque afternoon, shaded Luxor Winnebago, Fourteen is fucked. So, in a way, is Scott. Hard not to carry this away to Antigua and Barbuda. Scott has met Fourteen. Fourteen frees his hands, rests his calves on Scott’s shoulders. Other partners, he thinks of John. There is a convulsive cramp that leaves him open mouthed, eyes staring. He encourages Scott with fingers fluttering through the tangle chest hair, the sweat-slick, orgasm-inducing man-drench he needs so much. Maybe the anger sometimes, maybe a punishment, because he is Fourteen, never as confident as he seems. It is all, at this point, fucked up. 

Scott lets him know when the orgasm rolls over him like he went twelve rounds. “Oh you little cunt, you fucking cunt.” Not much appreciated by Fourteen, not unexpected, not something Chelsea would likely hear. The boy takes it as his due. Maybe he does not hear it. Scott sways aftershocks-dazed, memorable, very memorable. The violence of the collision comes to him, cathartic-remorseful. “Sorry kid.”

Scott’s eyes survey the damage. Fourteen lies resting on his elbows, legs loose, still splayed as if he is open for a thirteenth round. His cock is still erect. The boy’s bare torso is spit-spattered with semen. A spider web connects the fading cock to a final destination. Fourteen snorts silent at the apology, Jon Snow knows nothing. He gives the man a reassuring smile, almost his best. He parcels out the other carefully. He is Fourteen, and another name that matters.

This John, not-John has filled a void, given him control. It is a new thing for Fourteen, this control. Fourteen smiles at that. Rebound, and Fourteen is delighted by than. He smears the cum about his body, wanting someone to taste it. Scott does not understand. It is written on his face. Fourteen is gay. He is Fourteen. Too straight to comprehend that. But not too straight to fuck him silly.

There is more. There is always more. The boy takes his due from the condom. Takes delight in an empty cock. Domestic things, like something shared, a lathery-crowded shower, some food. The question game continues. The sameness of most lives, but the boy says little besides the artifice of his manufactured life. Kale Euller fills the spaces Fourteen cannot-will-not share. They fill the loneliness together, some temporary purpose, and on a brisk Albuquerque afternoon, there is always more.

It was, memorable, Scott reflects. Fourteen does laundry. Scott smiles at that. The boy jogs, apparently not shagged out by the sex. Apparently not needing to Skype through the evening with a girlfriend. The just-a-friend came by on her shabby scooter. Scott watched amazed at this fuck toy boy’s ability to play the antic-innocent about the KOA. They sat at a table with some fresh (not so fresh) elder pair, showing interest. Scott watched all this from the Caravel window. The young police officer appeared at dusk, off duty, it would seem. Fourteen invited him in. Scott thought the man stayed a long time.

In the morning, Scott paused at the Luxor Winnebago to knock. The boy might like some breakfast, see the sights. An altruistic thought, they might stop by the hospital to visit grandpa Levi. Scott is bold enough to try the door. Lounge, dining, bathroom, bed, empty. Scott shrugged off his disappointment and went his way. The Nissan is parked before the Caravel Airstream before Scott notices. The old Luxor Winnebago has departed.

Scott walks about the empty bay, then retreats into his parents camper. Midwinter Dreams, well hardly winter as he knows Duluth. He checks his watch, knowing no way is Chelsea free from her beloved Montessori School. The boy’s bottle of Montes Taita Marchique still sits on the table, where he left it beside the dirty glass. Scott pours a glass. Scott likes craft beer. He is not into wine. The Chilean Red is rich and earthy on his tongue. There are subtle notes his pallet cannot appreciate, tangs and tones he cannot articulate-deconstruct. The boy and he drank most of a bottle. There is just enough to linger memory-heavy on his dry tongue.